1 err, 2 err, sorry WWE I submit

This week WWE were in Brighton. I rather suspect that this momentous event may have passed the more cosmopolitan elements of our wonderful town city by.
Nevertheless the American wrestlers were besieged by fans outside the Metropole Hotel, and then performed fought before a capacity crowd at the Brighton Centre.
Part of me can understand why most of the citizens of our diverse city may have little interest in the 'sport' of American wrestling.  
And yet, and yet .... yes I may even have to suggest that WWE Raw has an appeal which even us slightly smug middle-class English progressives might do well to ponder. Clearly the fights are all choreographed, the wrestlers themselves are absurdly steroidly enhanced and there is an underlying sexism (even when it's the women who are 'wrestling'). 
But there is also something of the ancient morality play about the whole event. It's good v evil, heroes v villains, a soap opera for the masses where in the end right (as in not wrong - and also I concede possibly a bit rightish of centre in political terms) triumphs.
Ok that's my effort to defend the indefensible and understand the appeal of Amercan wrestling. Having done that it still has nothing on the old British wrestling of my childhood.
Greg Dyke is a great man - he invented Roland Rat, was Director General of the BBC and now runs the Football Association (the odd FIFA watch not withstanding) with distinction. But for many people of my generation he can never be forgiven for ending wrestling on ITV.
"Welcome grapple fans to the Empire Baths, Southend/Blackpool/Skegness/Clacton", are the words of Kent Walton which are seared in our memory. In the wonderful 45 minutes on World of Sport, after Dickie Davis gave the half times, and before the full-time football results came in, we were taken to another world on Saturday afternoons.
It involved goodies and baddies, old ladies in the audience hitting fat blokes in leotards with their handbags and my nan telling me that Mick McManus was a 'coward.' 
The tag matches were great. McManus (apparently a quiet man away from the ring who collected porcelain) teamed up with Steve Logan. The latter had greasy hair which he would rub in the eyes of the clean cut opponents he and Mick were fighting.
In contrast to McManus and Logan, there were the Royal 'Brothers'. Bert Royal was a balding middle aged bloke who fought alongside his glamorous 'brother' Vic Faulkner. They would often be losing to some nasty villainous adversaries, with Vic injured having mistimed a drop-kick, before turning the tables and gaining a much appreciated (by the old ladies in the audience anyway) last-second win.
I concede it's true that the wrestling in those days would not pass a modern diversity test. My favourites were Honey Boy Zimba (a kind of African chief), Johnny Kwango (who had a very hard head), Adrian Street (a gay caricature) and Tibor Szakacs (who I think was Hungarian and specialised in the karate chop).
Les Kellett was the great comedian. He ran a cafe in Bradford and was in real life as hard as nails. One villain even converted. Alan Dennison was a sneaky cheat, who wore black wristbands and gave the 'goodies' Chinese burns behind the referee's back. He then experienced some kind of epiphany and tried to behave himself but the audience - egged on by Kent Walton - just refused to believe him.
British wrestling started to go downhill when the Sun exposed the masked wrestler Kendo Nagasaki. Even Gorgeous George his manager, and one time tag team partner, was unable to explain how Kendo could wrestle in 6 different towns at exactly the same time on the same night. After that came the now, with hindsight, rather sinister Big Daddy and Giant Haystacks - a prelude to the Amercian stuff which eventually took over and gave us the WWE which was here this week.
There is a great book on the golden age of British wrestling called (appropriately) 'The Wrestling' by Simon Garfield . I have a copy in the loft and must dig it out.
In the meantime, as the ref used to say,"'1err, 2err......" I submit.

Scrabbling in the bins at Lingfield Park

It was only in the morning that I noticed the racing at Lingfield Park was over the jumps. Known for years as Leafy Lingfield, maybe it should be renamed 'Lucky for some Lingfield' for reasons which will become clear later.
Making it to the track with only 3 minutes before the first race cost me the chance to back the winner. Galling in itself, but when you are late because you are fulfilling a commitment to go to Haskins Retirement Home Garden Centre (to be subject of a whole separate report) then it is more like despair.
There are meetings at Lingfield over 60 times a year, making a season ticket very good value. The problem is that most of the meetings consist of poor quality horses running on the all-weather track to provide betting shop fodder. Most serious punters gave up wagering there some years ago, when it was suggested (falsely obviously*) that the senior jockeys decided who was going to win in turn.
Jumps meetings at Lingfield are now a rarity, and with these often called off because of water logging, the chance to take one in was too good an opportunity to miss.
The high number of race days has had a noticeable effect. Entry is slick, the gate staff know what they are doing, and there are those bloody fixed odds betting terminals in the on course Ladbrokes. These machines are mini casinos, and it was so dispiriting to see Tobys** sat playing them even during a race.
There is also a certain complacency about the place for what was to ARC (the company which runs Lingfield) presumably a low profile midweek meeting.The bars were understaffed, and most of the food outlets were shut. A small coffee stall sold 6inch greasy sausage rolls (not of the type The New York Times has discovered were made by the aristocracy). The one lonely 'Cornish' pasty was quickly snapped up. My hunger pangs were bad enough to lead me to buy a vegetarian pie. Does all veggie food taste of cardboard? The corporate customers and restaurant diners are obviously preferred by ARC to the ordinary racing enthusiast.
Halfway through proceedings a group of children appeared covered in sheets and (presumably) fake blood and engaged in a 'zombie walk.' It was all for Children in Need, so that's alright then.
The quality of the racing was actually pretty good. I reckon there will be a few future winners coming out of the novice hurdle.
Gary Moore had 3 winners at Sandown on Sunday, although suggestions his horses run at their best when he is in hospital are perhaps unfair. With the stable in such good form I backed his Mr Fickle in the 4th race. Mr Fickle duly lived up to his name by finishing second.

The highlight on the card for many was a hurdle race in which all the horse had to be ridden by flat jockeys. The paddock was a picture beforehand. Lots of jockeys, smaller than normal, smiling (having been able to eat rather than skip breakfast before a race) but now nervously contemplating going over the obstacles at 30mph plus. Since most of them  can do 8 stone 3lb or less, riding a horse carrying 11st 5lb meant the saddles were heavy with lead. 
The flat jockeys hurdle race was won by a punted horse ridden by Tom Queally,

Frankel's jockey. I could not back him at the price (6/4 on) and Tom's win may not not be seared in my  memory as was Frankel's irresistible triumph in the 2000 Guineas . He had been helped (understandably in the circumstances) by a number of normally brave jockey colleagues, who on this occasion 'did not give up the outside the anyone.'  Still at least I can truthfully say this time 'I was there Tom.'
To be honest I would have struggled to report much else from a routine day's racing except for Queally's triumph. The dull day  though was transformed by the drama provided by the little known Clerk of the Scales.
The 6th race was a poorish novice chase contested by 5 runners. The outsider bucked and broncoed on the way to start, threw his jockey off, did 3 circuits of the all weather track and was withdrawn. Already we were therefore down to 4 runners, had a 'rule 4' and no each way betting.
The race itself was nothing special. Arthamint, ridden by David England, crossed the line first and was well backed. Eaton Rock shouldered the burden of my funds and came second, never really looking like winning.
This gave me enough time to study the last in order to save wreck the day, when 'ding-dong' and the klaxon sounded for a 'steward's'. 
The PA announcer said, "Stewards' Enquiry, Stewards' Enquiry. There has been an objection to the winner by ......... (a dramatic pause?)  ..... the Clerk to the Scales.''  This was a  knowledgeable crowd. They knew immediately that the rider of winner had weighed in light. Jockeys are allowed a bit of wriggle room. They can lose up to 1 pound in weight during a race, but jockey David England must have lost more.
There was only one possible  conclusion - disqualification for the horse first past the post and Eaton Rock to be declared the winner..
By pure luck I still had my losing betting slip which was now a winning one. Judging by the  scrum round the bins across the course a lot of other people had already disposed of theirs.
It took a while but Eaton Rock was eventually officially declared the winner. I collected (thank you Bartholomew Barry), 

and then contentedly listened to the conspiracy theories as  to what had happened. The minority view was that the disqualified jockey had dropped a bit of equipment. The cynics suggested a deliberately lost weight cloth. The official explanation was that there no explanation. No equipment was missing. The jockey was fined £300, and said he must have sweated while waiting for the loose horse to be caught. 
Who knows? But what fun and an enjoyable postscript as well. As is normal for what had looked a straight forward race the on track bookies had been paying out out before weighed in was declared. In this case of course to people who had punted on a horse which was not the actual winner. It took someone with a heart of  stone (well most of us punters actually) to not feel a little bit sorry for the well known bookmaker Barry Dennis who shouted, 
"Can all those people who I paid out in error please form an orderly queue to pay me back''
Shockingly for the Romford Foghorn there were no takers.

Lingfield Park marks (out of 10)
Welcome/friendliness 4
Atmosphere 5
Betting ring (size, competitiveness) 5
Racecard (cost, quality) 4
Queues for bar 2
Viewing 7
Standard of racing 5

Total (out of 70) 32
Punting success - small loss (but could have been so much worse)

*libel lawyers please note
** Toby jugs - mugs

Two hours of foodie hokem made worthwhile by Emma Thompson in a tent

It seems from Burnt that cooking movies have to have a chef hero modelled on all the detective heroes from cop movies; maverick, failed relationships, dysfunctional childhood, alcohol and/or drug problem/s, in-hock to mobsters, effortlessly good looking, apt to swear even mid-syllable, attractive to the opposite and (being a modern British movie) the same sex, and obviously a rule breaker.
British TV is now largely made up of cooking programmes, so it was only a matter of time before a British film was made to delight the modern foodie (for the record I don't think Peter Greenaway's bizarre movie The Cook, the Thief, His Wife and Her Lover counts as a cooking film).
Somehow director John Wells managed to make Burnt last over 2 hours, as we followed the attempt by the washed up chef Adam Wells to earn an elusive 3rd Michelin star in his new restaurant in central London. Adam 'Yes Chef' Wells rejected serving seared tuna (you foodies will know why presumably) but it nearly went wrong when a dastardly, typically sneaky French enemy put pepper in the turbot with truffle. Thankfully the Michelin inspectors had been misidentified and were actually two IT salesmen from Birmingham (an easy mistake to make I guess).
Obviously you will have to go yourself to see if our hero Johnny Maverick-Chef gets his 3rd star, the girl/s  and the man. For me it was worth enduring 2 hours of turbot drizzled in whatever they drizzle it in, just to see the politically bonkers but utterly gorgeous Emma Thompson make a series of  cameo appearences wearing an attractive selection of tents.

Verdict - 2 stars (out of 5)

NB - I asked in Wetherspoons afterwards but sadly turbot was not on the menu

Declared a non-runner for the best dressed gentleman

It was back to the gaffs today for my odyssey round Britain's racetracks. A dark, dank, wet Friday afternoon in November is probably not the best time to visit Fontwell, but nevertheless this unique track still has certain appeal.
Since the sad demise of jumping at Windsor some 15 years ago, Fontwell is now the only figure of eight course in the country.
The hurdlers go round a normal circuit, but the jumpers have to negotiate the switchbacks. I do not entirely hold with the trend to create new nationals - we have had the Sussex, Northern and the Midlands National added to the Grand, Scottish and Welsh versions in recent years - but the marathon 'Sussex National' round Fontwell takes some jumping, especially as the horses must be sent dizzy. For each circuit of the course a horse runs alternatively on the inside and the outside, and right handed and left handed.
A popular place to view the action here is at the intersection - ie in the middle of the '8'. Racegoers can see a novice chaser close up jumping a downhill fence in one direction, followed by a uphill fence the other way.

I can still recall standing here and seeing the granite man jockey Gary Moore fall off one of his father's horses at the downhill fence. Poor old Gary was already at the back of the field, pushing away for all his worth (a fairly typical experience in those days on Charlie Moore's nags)  when he was hurtled into the Fontwell turf. He understandably used some fairly industrial language, before curling up in a ball and staying there motionless for 5 minutes. He eventually struggled to his feet, dragged himself into  the ambulance with what looked like a broken collar bone and was carted off back to what were then rather primitive facilities in the medical room. Rumour had it that Gary then tried to weigh out for the next race!
It was ironic therefore that the racing news on the morning of this meeting was dominated with news of Gary Moore (now of course a decent trainer and sire of top jockeys) being retained in the intensive care unit of Redhill hospital having been kicked several times by one of the horses in his care. Fortunately the later updates suggested Gary 'only' had 3 broken ribs, fluid on the lungs and a damaged spleen and should be home in a few days.
Visibility was poor in the mist today, with even the big screen fogged up. This gave me the opportunity to use my new binoculars, courtesy of the National Trust. With these bins round my neck, this made me look very much the part of the racing gent. A happy coincidence as it turned out because the Fontwell authorities had designated this meeting Country Gentleman's Day.
There was even a prize for the best dressed gent. Readers will be pleased to know that I declared myself a non-runner for this contest, thereby giving some of the lessor dressed menfolk the chance to win the Moss Boss voucher.
There was steady rain all morning. With going already soft 

it was probably really heavy by the off. As ever though with this sort of going at least one jockey uttered the phrase 'they'll go through it ok.' After 40 years following racing I have still no idea what it means but you hear it every meeting on Channel 4/ATR/Racing UK from Chepstow, Haydock, Uttoxeter and Newcastle whenever it has been raining.
Post-race interviewer to winning pilot, 'How's the going?'
Mud-spattered jockey, 'It is soft but they're going through it ok.'
The punting gods were, sort of anyway, on my side in the first. I fortuitously backed the winner of the first after the leader at the last was all but taken out by a loose horse. The gloss was taken off this luck by a mistake I had made before. I'd spotted my fancy at 7/1 on the nanny*, whilst the bookies were showing 9/4. Of course when the prices were declared the S/P was 5/2, while the dividend on the nanny was down to 7/4. Still a winner's a winner.
There was some good money on offer for the mares races (over £5k to the winning owners) but Fontwell are not exactly generous with their 'trophy'. The presentation ceremony consists of the sponsors handing over a piece of printed paper in a cheap frame, reading 'Winner of a Race at Fontwell.' Can't imagine Sheikh Mohammed displaying one of them on his sideboard.
The weather no doubt contributed to the small crowd so Fontwell's new airport check in queuing system for the bar was not really tested. Augers well though for the next family fun day.

There were also only 6 races on the card, including a 'bumper' for the last. This is a flat race for jump horses. I know, I know confusing to say the least. Basically a horse which has run in a flat race on the flat cannot run in a flat race over the jumps - and you thought cricket was complicated. 
These races are a nightmare to punt on. There is often no form, and then they are run at a crawl. I recall one race where basically the horses walked round for the first mile and half, turning a 'jumps' race into a 3 furlong sprint. Needless to say my punt on a Victor Dartnell (for reasons I cannot entirely explain I follow him because his brother trains greyhounds) horse with a smidgeon of form flattered to deceive at the front before slowing down abruptly when the race began in earnest. 
Biggest cheer of the day - a win for Flute Bowl, ridden by Joshua Moore for his dad. Get well soon Gary.

Fontwell marks (out of 10)
Welcome/friendliness 6
Atmosphere 6
Betting ring (size, competitiveness) 6
Racecard (cost, quality) 4
Queues for bar 9
Viewing 9
Standard of racing 6

Total (out of 70) 46
Punting success - loss (I blame the Nanny)

*Nanny goat - Tote

November 5th in Lewes - where Museli Munching and 'No Popery' come together

'Remember, remember the 5th of November,
Gunpowder treason and plot,
I see no reason why gunpowder treason,
Should e'er be forgot.'
For 364 days a year Lewes is a quiet market town. There is still the prison, Harveys brewery and the Police HQ, and a huge number of good pubs for a place of its size. Although there has always been a radical political tradition - Tom Paine and CND -  there, Lewes has increasingly become a place where the middle class museli munching, knit your own socks from lentils brigade have decided to live.
Today is the day where we see that slightly smug bunch of wealthy liberals usurped by old Lewes in the form of Bonfire. It is the place which has the longest memory when it comes to Bonfire, and 'celebrates' what Guy Fawkes Night is really about. 
When the 'Archbishop' of Bonfire shouts,
'What shall we do with him?'
and the crowd replies,
'Burn him, burn him,'
they are referring to the Pope - alright the 16th century one - but yes it is an effigy of the Pope which gets burnt. Indeed the first Lewes bonfire I ever policed saw the local priest burnt. Father Hayes had delivered an anti-bonfire sermon, but the Bonfire Society claimed they only set fire to him because he had been arrested for drink driving. In fairness the effigy was drinking a glass of champagne and blowing into a breathalyser.
The 5th of November is not like the Lions Club or scouts bonfire held in the rest of the country. It is instead a celebration which has its roots in sectarian anti-catholicism. That's why the Rev'd Ian Paisley turned up in the early 80's, long before the 'Big Man' formed his Chuckle Brothers tribute act with Martin McGuinness. The Rev'd stood outside the Jireh Chapel and handed out 'no popery' pamphlets. 
The bonfire boys and girls probably appreciated this attention, but it did not stop them burning him the next year as an effigy marked 'Leafleteer.'
Lewes Town Council is now run by the Green Party but they have been silent (perhaps wisely) as far as I can gather about this anti-Catholic tradition. Maybe they are worried about going up in flames themselves?
Fortunately rain is forecast tonight so hopefully tonight's celebrations will pass off safely. The celebrations would be unlikely to survive a full health and safety inspection. Wheeling burning tar barrels down the steep streets, and chucking bangers into the crowd, does not exactly seem wise in a town full of ancient tudor buildings.
I fear that one year we will wake up on 6th November to news of a major disaster in Lewes. Hopefully that never comes to pass as I cannot see Bonfire Night in the county town of Sussex changing any time soon.

Communist Racing Tips

'Why Farringdon?' was the question asked of me by a fellow racegoer at Plumpton yesterday. The answer can be found in Jeremy Corbyn's favourite newspaper.

It may no longer be funded by the KGB but the Morning Star still preaches class war and can be bought every day for £1 from the Co-Op. This represents excellent value for money, not for the news or the reports of the meetings of the Southern and Eastern trades council, but for the racing tips provided by Farringdon on the back page of the paper.*
The communist racing tipster has always had a place in my heart since he napped Beech Road to win the Champion Hurdle in 1989. I had seen Beech Road win unexpectedly at Fontwell a month earlier, turning over the locally trained Champion Hurdle prospect Vagador. It was an impressive performance but I had not believed the form. In a superb piece of judgement Farringdon had got it right. Beech Road romped home (see it on youtube) at Cheltenham priced 50/1, clinching the hurdle championship and Farringdon another Sporting Life naps competition. 
Ever since then I have followed Farringdon's tips over the jumps (he seems to have a better record in the winter), chalking up every successful nap as a blow for (or maybe against?) capitalism.
I have already reviewed Plumpton on here but I need no excuse to visit my favourite local track. This time I joined the regulars who catch the direct coach service from the back of Brighton station to the course.
The weather forecast predicted fog. This prompted a rerun of the almost certainly apocryphal stories of various old lag jockeys in the novice chases taking advantage of the zero visibility to swerve all the tricky fences in the back straight, and only jumping the obstacles still visible to the stewards in front of the stands.
Actually the sun came out and it must have been the most glorious November day ever seen at Plumpton. Men wearing shorts (standards are slipping - only postmen should wear shorts anywhere other than the beech) were buzzed by wasps, and the horses received cooling wash downs from buckets of water after each race. 
Punters were not convinced by the description 'in form' (yes really, 3 winners form his last 6 runners) for Paddy Butler as his horse in the second race went off at 50/1. Normal service was indeed resumed as poor old Generous June received what the commentator quaintly and euphemistically called 'reminders' (i.e. a hit from the whip) after the second and finished tailed off.
My betting went rather well as it happens. I did not think the race won by the Paddy Butler (that man again) trained Killabraher Cross at the last meeting was up to much. This allowed me to put a line through him and Dancing Dik (the horse he beat), and therefore back the third favourite Ball Hopper. It was great to see this Devon trained veteran, in the words of the Racing post reporter, 'cruising to the front round the final bend and pull further and further clear.'
I wisely avoided the last which looked and was impossible. Conditional jockeys with a mixture of weight concessions, and 5 9/2 co-favourites in a field of only 9. The winner was one of those co-favourites and had no form. Obviously he was fancied a bit but only won because one of the other co-favorites dodged out when coming to take the lead at the last.
The icing on the cake punting wise was provided by Smad Place at the away meeting at Kempton. The classy Smad Place was available at a generous 6/4 and duly obliged - and yes he was napped by Farringdon that morning.
See previous post for Plumpton review score.
Punting success - profit!


*I have been asked to request that you pay for the paper, and do not pop into Smiths and look at Farringdon's double while pretending to browse. 

Only trying to be helpful

Having been away in Devon surfing (yes proof will follow for those who disbelieve) I took the opportunity to catch up on local news from Brighton by reading my piled up copies of the Argus.

I am not one of those who delight in knocking the local rag. The reporters do a good job with limited resources, and it would be greatly missed if it were ever to close.

Distance does allow reflection though, and the letters page can be really depressing.

I do recall an old Argus editor (no name I'm afraid) telling me once at a social event that 'only nutcases write to local newspapers.' I laughed hesitantly, and declined to tell him that I had actually written a brilliantly prescient and well-argued letter only 2 weeks previously.

It seems to me that now however only political activists, councillors and budding candidates appear on the letters page.

Having looked at many of the recent missives I thought I could help my previous colleagues by producing a template for them to use when writing to the editor. This way they could save themselves time and send even more in. There is no copyright and it's available to all the Parties-

Dear Editor

The (insert subject of latest local controversy) is all the fault of the  Conservative Government/the previous coalition Government/ the last Labour Government/ the Green Council/ the Labour Council (delete as appropriate).
The facts (at this point it is useful to insert an irrelevant statistic*) clearly show that (delete as appropriate) the Conservatives/Labour/Greens/(if UKIP)the EU are to blame.

We intend to bicker snipe complain sneer campaign about this Conservative/Labour/Green (delete as appropriate) debacle without offering any practical alternative ourselves.

Yours sincerely

Insert name

(Delete as Appropriate) Conservative/Labour/Green Spokesperson on (insert subject of squabble)

*thank you to Shaun Gunner for this useful additional tip.