1. Holistic solutions
2. Street food
3. Anything with 'artisan' in its title
4. American 'traditions', including halloween, basketball and cup cakes
5. 'Locally sourced' (thanks to a regular correspondent for this one)
6. Dogs on all the beaches
7. Goatee beards
8. Men wearing shorts in the winter (except postmen obviously)
9. 'Craft' beer
10. Drumming
11. Jogging
12. Pushchairs in coffee shops
13. Children in pubs
14. Letters in the Argus from regular correspondents (especially that bloke from Lancing)
15. Any reference to 'they' - as in 'they' need to do something about..... (for obvious examples see 14. above)
16. Petitions
17. Anything described as 'edgy'
18. Mime
19. Chewing gum
20. Grumpy people like me who make lists of things to ban
NB Ken from Battle has asked me to include 'workshops' in the banned list. Alexei Sayle memorably said, "Anyone who uses the term 'workshop', other than in the context of light engineering, is a wanker." Tempting Ken from Battle but in my professional and political career I attended workshops on a daily basis. and there was never a lathe in sight. It would therefore be hypocritical for me to ban workshops, and as you know politicians are never hypocrites.
Thursday, 10 December 2015
Was London Spy based on a real case?
I need to put some heavy caveats on this post so will get them out of the way at the start. I may have got the wrong end of the stick, I may have completely misunderstood, there may have been a message explaining all which I have missed, and I may just be completely mistaken.
The subject is the 5-part BBC spy thriller, London Spy, which finished this week. To start with it was really good, gripping, exciting and an intriguing plot line with interesting twists. It included my favourite actor, Jim Broadbent, excellently cast as an elderly 'queen' Scottie, and Charlotte Rampling, who is not exactly bad either.
By the end though I was laughing, and then on reflection also somewhat disturbed. MI5, when not blackmailing various innocent relatives of the main protagonists, were murdering and torturing their own spies and former spies. For the second time in his life poor old Scottie was subject of a fake hanging at the hands of MI5, this time successfully, having been kidnapped by a fake taxi driver (presumably also in the employ of MI5). Oh and MI5 also ran an escort agency set up solely to seduce and blackmail both their own staff, rival spies and basically anyone else they fancied getting a hold over.
Needless to say various shadowy and not so shadowy members of the Establishment all thought this was a thoroughly good thing - 'needs must old chap.' A series of conspiracy theories even beyond Norman Baker's wildest imaginations.
The Times TV critic, Alex Hardy, got it right in his review on Tuesday; 'Perhaps the biggest lie told in London Spy was at the start, when it pretended to be really good.'
All this of course is fair enough. If the BBC want to commission a thriller as fanciful and ultimately dud as this turned out to be, then it is up to us viewers to suspend belief and enjoy it or give up and watch 'Escape to the Country' instead.
My problem is not with the absurd storyline. No, and this is where I must remind you of the caveats I began with, my difficulty is that the story - to start with at least - was obviously inspired by the real life 'body in the bag' case.
In London Spy, Alex (the MI5 spy of the title) was living in a flat in London whilst working at Thames House. He kept this secret from his boyfriend, Danny, the hero of the story. He also kept his sexuality secret from his employers.
After he went missing for a few days Danny discovered Alex's naked body trapped in a small box in the attic of Alex's flat, apparently having suffocated to death. The attic itself had been, unbeknown to Danny, converted into some kind of sado-masochistic room-in-the-roof.
In Monday's last episode we learnt that Alex was so clever that he had invented a secret formula which could discover by analysing the way a person spoke, whether they were lying or not. This of course was a terrible threat to the Establishment. As we all know all politicians are liars, and with this new tool it could be proved. A subtle dig at Tony Blair no doubt.
Fearing the consequences of his new discovery MI5 kidnapped poor old Alex and put him in a tiny wooden box. They tortured him and eventually persuaded his mum (Charlotte Rampling) to come along to his attic and speak with him through a small opening in the top of the box. This was all supervised and filmed by MI5 staff dressed in full forensic protective equipment, and watched over by senior MI5 bosses. In response to the pleas by his mum through the little hole in the box (watch it on iPlayer if you do not believe me) Alex agreed to give up his research, move to Canada and never say anything about all this again.
Unfortunately for Alex (and his mum) MI5 tested these pledges against his newly invented truth machine, proving he was lying. Indeed he didn't even (cruel twist this) really love his mum (although actually she was not really his mum but things are complicated enough so probably best not to go there).
Anyway the upshot was that MI5 knew they could not trust Alex. They therefore left him in the box (Box* leaves in him the box so to speak) to suffocate and die. His body was duly discovered by his boyfriend. MI5's plan was that the dim CID officers (a role ideally suited for me!) would then pin the blame on Danny. MI5 would cover up their dastardly deeds, leaving the nasty politicians free to carry on lying to us.
The ending came with Danny and Alex's mum getting together to carry on his investigations - perhaps setting up a second series where MI5 will try to bump them off in some bizarre way as well?
My concern with all this comes back to the point that the 'fictional' story was clearly in part based on a genuine true and tragic sudden death. In the real life 'body in a bag' the MI6 (in this case) IT expert (as opposed to spy) Gareth Williams's naked body was found zipped up inside a sports holdall in his bathroom. It seems Gareth was also secretly gay. The actor who played Alex, Edward Holcroft, even bears an uncanny resemblance to Mr Williams. Did Gareth's family approve of all of this nonsense? Were the BBC trying to suggest that MI5 may have murdered one of their own spies in this bizarre fashion?
I end by repeating the caveats again. I may have got this completely wrong. Maybe it is only me. But if I haven't, and it's not, then it all seems to be a bit insensitive and distasteful, and also absurd.
*Box, a term used by Special Branch officers, when referring to MI5
The subject is the 5-part BBC spy thriller, London Spy, which finished this week. To start with it was really good, gripping, exciting and an intriguing plot line with interesting twists. It included my favourite actor, Jim Broadbent, excellently cast as an elderly 'queen' Scottie, and Charlotte Rampling, who is not exactly bad either.
By the end though I was laughing, and then on reflection also somewhat disturbed. MI5, when not blackmailing various innocent relatives of the main protagonists, were murdering and torturing their own spies and former spies. For the second time in his life poor old Scottie was subject of a fake hanging at the hands of MI5, this time successfully, having been kidnapped by a fake taxi driver (presumably also in the employ of MI5). Oh and MI5 also ran an escort agency set up solely to seduce and blackmail both their own staff, rival spies and basically anyone else they fancied getting a hold over.
Needless to say various shadowy and not so shadowy members of the Establishment all thought this was a thoroughly good thing - 'needs must old chap.' A series of conspiracy theories even beyond Norman Baker's wildest imaginations.
The Times TV critic, Alex Hardy, got it right in his review on Tuesday; 'Perhaps the biggest lie told in London Spy was at the start, when it pretended to be really good.'
All this of course is fair enough. If the BBC want to commission a thriller as fanciful and ultimately dud as this turned out to be, then it is up to us viewers to suspend belief and enjoy it or give up and watch 'Escape to the Country' instead.
My problem is not with the absurd storyline. No, and this is where I must remind you of the caveats I began with, my difficulty is that the story - to start with at least - was obviously inspired by the real life 'body in the bag' case.
In London Spy, Alex (the MI5 spy of the title) was living in a flat in London whilst working at Thames House. He kept this secret from his boyfriend, Danny, the hero of the story. He also kept his sexuality secret from his employers.
After he went missing for a few days Danny discovered Alex's naked body trapped in a small box in the attic of Alex's flat, apparently having suffocated to death. The attic itself had been, unbeknown to Danny, converted into some kind of sado-masochistic room-in-the-roof.
In Monday's last episode we learnt that Alex was so clever that he had invented a secret formula which could discover by analysing the way a person spoke, whether they were lying or not. This of course was a terrible threat to the Establishment. As we all know all politicians are liars, and with this new tool it could be proved. A subtle dig at Tony Blair no doubt.
Fearing the consequences of his new discovery MI5 kidnapped poor old Alex and put him in a tiny wooden box. They tortured him and eventually persuaded his mum (Charlotte Rampling) to come along to his attic and speak with him through a small opening in the top of the box. This was all supervised and filmed by MI5 staff dressed in full forensic protective equipment, and watched over by senior MI5 bosses. In response to the pleas by his mum through the little hole in the box (watch it on iPlayer if you do not believe me) Alex agreed to give up his research, move to Canada and never say anything about all this again.
Unfortunately for Alex (and his mum) MI5 tested these pledges against his newly invented truth machine, proving he was lying. Indeed he didn't even (cruel twist this) really love his mum (although actually she was not really his mum but things are complicated enough so probably best not to go there).
Anyway the upshot was that MI5 knew they could not trust Alex. They therefore left him in the box (Box* leaves in him the box so to speak) to suffocate and die. His body was duly discovered by his boyfriend. MI5's plan was that the dim CID officers (a role ideally suited for me!) would then pin the blame on Danny. MI5 would cover up their dastardly deeds, leaving the nasty politicians free to carry on lying to us.
The ending came with Danny and Alex's mum getting together to carry on his investigations - perhaps setting up a second series where MI5 will try to bump them off in some bizarre way as well?
My concern with all this comes back to the point that the 'fictional' story was clearly in part based on a genuine true and tragic sudden death. In the real life 'body in a bag' the MI6 (in this case) IT expert (as opposed to spy) Gareth Williams's naked body was found zipped up inside a sports holdall in his bathroom. It seems Gareth was also secretly gay. The actor who played Alex, Edward Holcroft, even bears an uncanny resemblance to Mr Williams. Did Gareth's family approve of all of this nonsense? Were the BBC trying to suggest that MI5 may have murdered one of their own spies in this bizarre fashion?
I end by repeating the caveats again. I may have got this completely wrong. Maybe it is only me. But if I haven't, and it's not, then it all seems to be a bit insensitive and distasteful, and also absurd.
*Box, a term used by Special Branch officers, when referring to MI5
Wednesday, 9 December 2015
Shocked, disturbed and (almost) moved to tears by Hen and Terry's true life love story
Unbelievable as it may seem to my follower on here but I have just read a modern love story.
The book concerned is the quaintly titled 'Not Enough Time', written by the horse race trainer Henrietta Knight. It is her account of her relationship with the retired jockey, partially reformed alcoholic, notorious (in his day) womaniser and general all round larrikin, Terry Biddlecombe.
Known within racing as the 'odd couple', these two were devoted to each other for 20 years until Biddlecombe's death last year. In that time they trained some good racehorses, and one great one in Best Mate, 3 times successful in the Cheltenham Gold Cup.
My expectations were not great for this but once I started the introduction I was hooked, reading it in one go in an 'I cannot put this down' 2 hours.I was shocked, disturbed, made to laugh out loud and almost moved to tears (I am a man so will never admit to crying).
Knight is breathtakingly honest in her description of their lives together. She had a privileged upbringing, was personal friends with the Queen Mother and is related to other members of the Royal Family. Her brother-in-law is Lord Vestey.
She had no interest in having children, and by her mid-40's relished the prospect of being a spinster, devoted to her horses, ponies and other animals. Yet for reasons she is quite unable to explain she had always 'fancied' (ok she does not quite put it like that) Terry Biddlecombe.
In his day Biddlecombe was the playboy of the racing world. Tall (for a jockey), blond, unfeasibly good looking (when young), talented and irresistible to women - once famously 'riding a treble' at Ludlow which included winning horses in the first and last race and an additional 'mount' of a farmer's daughter he met near the weighing room in between.
Inevitably, for a man of his height, Biddlecombe struggled with his weight. He kept this in check by crash dieting, sometimes losing a stone in 2 hours on the morning of a race, through a combination of Turkish baths, a heath-robinson sweat box device (you can view it on yputube) and diuretics. His only carbs were Guinness mixed with port, and washed down with champagne (kept cool in the plunge pool next to the Turkish bath).
Unsurprisingly this had a negative effect on his health, and like many top sportsmen he struggled to cope with retirement. Both his marriages ended in divorce, he saw little of his 5 children as they grew up, and his life seemed destined to end with him being a washed up alcoholic in Australia.
Biddlecombe's brother came to his rescue, helping him into rehab. Terry returned to England and was given a job with an auctioneer in the south-west of England.
It was in this capacity that Knight met him in person for only the second time, and in her words 'he took my breath away.'
She gives a frank report of the first night she slept with him. The damp horsehair mattress on his mother's bed and and the mildewed room (read it yourself if you want more detail) did not put her off him, because within weeks he had moved in with her at West Isley.
They planned to get married but this had to be postponed because Biddlecombe could not find his divorce certificate. They went ahead with an unofficial ceremony anyway, and did eventually marry 15 years later once she had tracked the divorce record down and obtained a copy of the original.
Knight has clearly used the writing of the book as part of the process of grieving, which made me feel at times as I read it that I was intruding. She does not hold back about Biddlecombe's 'difficult side'. He was jealous, possessive, swore gratuitously in all company and bought and read the Daily Sport every day (his 'porn newspaper' as Henrietta referred to it). One day when she was at the dentist he sacked all the stable staff on the spot.
She also includes searingly honest quotes from his daughters.
There are some interesting insights into their joint training methods. Knight read Seb and Peter Coe's book, 'Running for Fitness', and applied some of those successful methods to her equine athletes. Biddlecombe relied more on flair, touch and feel. Whatever it was they did together it certainly worked, and the combination attracted a host of owners from across the social spectrum at the height of their success. They included Chris Brasher, the Olympic runner, and his wife Shirley, the French open tennis champion. Most interesting of all was the Jamaican, Val McCalla, founder of the Voice newspaper. He answered an advert for owners and enjoyed considerable success with the horses that the Odd Couple trained for him.
Obviously it was my interest in horse racing that drew me to this book. I guess most of the readers up till now will come to Henrietta Knight's musings for similar reasons. But it would be a shame if it is simply seen as just another racing, or even sporting, read.
There are parts of this book which are genuinely unsettling - and not just the inclusion of a photo of a topless Henrietta posing for Terry in a poppy field! At its heart though is a wonderful love story. He obviously made her very happy, and her devoted caring for Biddlecombe in the final couple of years of his life, when he was largely incapacitated, showed how very lucky he was that she found him.
This book deserves a wider audience than just us members of the racing crowd.
The book concerned is the quaintly titled 'Not Enough Time', written by the horse race trainer Henrietta Knight. It is her account of her relationship with the retired jockey, partially reformed alcoholic, notorious (in his day) womaniser and general all round larrikin, Terry Biddlecombe.
Known within racing as the 'odd couple', these two were devoted to each other for 20 years until Biddlecombe's death last year. In that time they trained some good racehorses, and one great one in Best Mate, 3 times successful in the Cheltenham Gold Cup.
My expectations were not great for this but once I started the introduction I was hooked, reading it in one go in an 'I cannot put this down' 2 hours.I was shocked, disturbed, made to laugh out loud and almost moved to tears (I am a man so will never admit to crying).
Knight is breathtakingly honest in her description of their lives together. She had a privileged upbringing, was personal friends with the Queen Mother and is related to other members of the Royal Family. Her brother-in-law is Lord Vestey.
She had no interest in having children, and by her mid-40's relished the prospect of being a spinster, devoted to her horses, ponies and other animals. Yet for reasons she is quite unable to explain she had always 'fancied' (ok she does not quite put it like that) Terry Biddlecombe.
In his day Biddlecombe was the playboy of the racing world. Tall (for a jockey), blond, unfeasibly good looking (when young), talented and irresistible to women - once famously 'riding a treble' at Ludlow which included winning horses in the first and last race and an additional 'mount' of a farmer's daughter he met near the weighing room in between.
Inevitably, for a man of his height, Biddlecombe struggled with his weight. He kept this in check by crash dieting, sometimes losing a stone in 2 hours on the morning of a race, through a combination of Turkish baths, a heath-robinson sweat box device (you can view it on yputube) and diuretics. His only carbs were Guinness mixed with port, and washed down with champagne (kept cool in the plunge pool next to the Turkish bath).
Unsurprisingly this had a negative effect on his health, and like many top sportsmen he struggled to cope with retirement. Both his marriages ended in divorce, he saw little of his 5 children as they grew up, and his life seemed destined to end with him being a washed up alcoholic in Australia.
Biddlecombe's brother came to his rescue, helping him into rehab. Terry returned to England and was given a job with an auctioneer in the south-west of England.
It was in this capacity that Knight met him in person for only the second time, and in her words 'he took my breath away.'
She gives a frank report of the first night she slept with him. The damp horsehair mattress on his mother's bed and and the mildewed room (read it yourself if you want more detail) did not put her off him, because within weeks he had moved in with her at West Isley.
They planned to get married but this had to be postponed because Biddlecombe could not find his divorce certificate. They went ahead with an unofficial ceremony anyway, and did eventually marry 15 years later once she had tracked the divorce record down and obtained a copy of the original.
Knight has clearly used the writing of the book as part of the process of grieving, which made me feel at times as I read it that I was intruding. She does not hold back about Biddlecombe's 'difficult side'. He was jealous, possessive, swore gratuitously in all company and bought and read the Daily Sport every day (his 'porn newspaper' as Henrietta referred to it). One day when she was at the dentist he sacked all the stable staff on the spot.
She also includes searingly honest quotes from his daughters.
There are some interesting insights into their joint training methods. Knight read Seb and Peter Coe's book, 'Running for Fitness', and applied some of those successful methods to her equine athletes. Biddlecombe relied more on flair, touch and feel. Whatever it was they did together it certainly worked, and the combination attracted a host of owners from across the social spectrum at the height of their success. They included Chris Brasher, the Olympic runner, and his wife Shirley, the French open tennis champion. Most interesting of all was the Jamaican, Val McCalla, founder of the Voice newspaper. He answered an advert for owners and enjoyed considerable success with the horses that the Odd Couple trained for him.
Obviously it was my interest in horse racing that drew me to this book. I guess most of the readers up till now will come to Henrietta Knight's musings for similar reasons. But it would be a shame if it is simply seen as just another racing, or even sporting, read.
There are parts of this book which are genuinely unsettling - and not just the inclusion of a photo of a topless Henrietta posing for Terry in a poppy field! At its heart though is a wonderful love story. He obviously made her very happy, and her devoted caring for Biddlecombe in the final couple of years of his life, when he was largely incapacitated, showed how very lucky he was that she found him.
This book deserves a wider audience than just us members of the racing crowd.
Saturday, 5 December 2015
Down memory lane for this one on Catch Up
It's fair to say that the sit-com (Whatever Happened to) The Likely Lads is not considered by the ever so knowing critics as exactly legendary.
Fair enough, but it will always have a special place in my heart. I loved Terry's down troddeness and (as a Conservative obviously) I admired Bob's aspiration. I confess I can even think of someone who reminds me very much of Thelma!
And there is one episode which in my memory still amuses me to this day. I have never watched it again so it may be - how can I politely put this - crap. But I was reminded today by the one where Terry and Bob were desperate to avoid the result of 'the match'. The whole premise of the plot would be impossible today with social media, Vplus, Skyplus, the pause button and so on but back in the day (please bear with me here you young people) none of that existed and even England football matches really mattered!
International games were of course not covered live in those days, but in midweek they were shown late at night on Sportsnight, presented by David Coleman or - even better - David Vine.
In the episode I have in mind Terry and Bob were determined to ensure that their enjoyment of 'the match' was not spoilt by knowing the result. They spent the whole day dodging various scenarios where they might find out who had won.
This bit may have my memory failing me but I have in my head that the ex-wrestler Brian Glover played some character who was determined to spoil it for them. He popped up everywhere trying to tell them them what happened.
Somehow Terry and Bob avoided him and eventually Bob invited Terry round to his new Wimpy home on the outskirts of Newcastle to watch the match. They opened a couple of tins and settled down.... only to find that the match had been called off. Instead Sportsnight was putting on ice skating. Of course today all us modern-men Terry and Bobs would be very happy with an hour's ice skating instead of the football but in those days we were allowed to suggest it was perhaps not exactly our cup of tea (so to speak).
With that in mind I was so relieved that I was able today to do a Terry and Bob in reverse. Not only did I watch Brighton beat Charlton 3-2 today but I was able to walk home (humming all the way just in case someone told me what had happened) and then watch my favourite current horse in training, Sire de Grugy, win the Tingle Creek at Sandown on catch up.
Take that Leon Arras, the Man from Paris.
Fair enough, but it will always have a special place in my heart. I loved Terry's down troddeness and (as a Conservative obviously) I admired Bob's aspiration. I confess I can even think of someone who reminds me very much of Thelma!
And there is one episode which in my memory still amuses me to this day. I have never watched it again so it may be - how can I politely put this - crap. But I was reminded today by the one where Terry and Bob were desperate to avoid the result of 'the match'. The whole premise of the plot would be impossible today with social media, Vplus, Skyplus, the pause button and so on but back in the day (please bear with me here you young people) none of that existed and even England football matches really mattered!
International games were of course not covered live in those days, but in midweek they were shown late at night on Sportsnight, presented by David Coleman or - even better - David Vine.
In the episode I have in mind Terry and Bob were determined to ensure that their enjoyment of 'the match' was not spoilt by knowing the result. They spent the whole day dodging various scenarios where they might find out who had won.
This bit may have my memory failing me but I have in my head that the ex-wrestler Brian Glover played some character who was determined to spoil it for them. He popped up everywhere trying to tell them them what happened.
Somehow Terry and Bob avoided him and eventually Bob invited Terry round to his new Wimpy home on the outskirts of Newcastle to watch the match. They opened a couple of tins and settled down.... only to find that the match had been called off. Instead Sportsnight was putting on ice skating. Of course today all us modern-men Terry and Bobs would be very happy with an hour's ice skating instead of the football but in those days we were allowed to suggest it was perhaps not exactly our cup of tea (so to speak).
With that in mind I was so relieved that I was able today to do a Terry and Bob in reverse. Not only did I watch Brighton beat Charlton 3-2 today but I was able to walk home (humming all the way just in case someone told me what had happened) and then watch my favourite current horse in training, Sire de Grugy, win the Tingle Creek at Sandown on catch up.
Take that Leon Arras, the Man from Paris.
Tingle Creek, John Rickman, and Queen Mum memories at Sandown Park
This week on my Road Trip 2015 (might have to change that title in view of recent events) saw me go to Sandown Park for the first day of the 'Tingle Creek' meeting.Tingle Creek was probably the most visually exciting steeplechaser to run since the war. Many a winter Saturday afternoon in the 1970's was livened up by the ITV 7, introduced by John Rickman raising his trilby, declaring "A good afternoon from Sandown Park", tipping the favourite in all seven races and climaxing in Tingle Creek running (and normally winning) the final race. He (Tingle Creek that is, not John Rickman)was distinctive looking, a lovely brown colour, set off by a sheepskin nose band and white socks on his front feet which accentuated his dramatic leaps. Tingle dashed off in front and probably only really stayed 1.7 miles, which could be a problem when the minimum distance for a steeplechase in Britain is 2 miles. But on good going he would run and jump his rivals into the ground long before the final furlong, without the jockey ever using the 'persuader' (in days when they were much more whip happy than they are today)
Nowhere was Tingle Creek better than at Sandown, hence his name being given to this meeting. His jumping skills were shown at their best as he tackled the railway fences (so called because they are next to the railway!).
On the day, like the jockeys later in the afternoon, I was worried about low sun and therefore I ignored the official Jockey Club website travel directions advising on which helipad I could land my helicopter and instead travelled by South WestTrains. Arriving at the Tony Hancock like suburban paradise which is Esher station it is a ten minute walk across the course to the main entrance. The busker - same one as at Ascot - was belting out the Lonnie Donegan hit 'My old man's a dustman'. In view of my Ascot experience I was generous to see if it led to a change in fortune*.More importantly it gave a chance to inspect the famous railway fences close up, and it was immediately noticeable how close together they are. The only way to successfully jump them is to be in a rhythm and do what jockeys and commentators call jump 'from fence to fence'. This is another impenetrable racing term only understandable to the in-crowd, but for Sandown's railway fences it is possible for an armchair jockey (me?) to understand what this cliche really means.
The trek also takes in the Sandown sprint course. Like Longchamp in France it runs up the centre of the track but it is also notorious for its outrageous draw bias. Basically if a horse is drawn in a stall near to the stands it has no chance. Maybe this has something to do with the go cart track alongside it? That is only visible on foot for when Sandown is on TV it is carefully hidden behind a hedge of fast growing leylandii plants. Sadly the same cannot be said for the golf course which is also in the centre of the track and all too visible. Yes I know racecourses have to maximise revenue on non-racedays but do they really have to do so with the game which us non Larrys in my police days referred to as 'Masons with sticks'?Twenty years ago Sandown routinely won racecourse of the year. It hosted the 'noble Lord' John Oaksey's favourite meeting, Whitbread day. Taking place in April it included the famous final big handicap steeplechase of the jumps season, together with a series of flat race classic trails.
In recent years though the course has by most accounts declined. The Whitbread (as us traditionalists insist on calling it) is now sadly and inevitably sponsored by yet another on-line bookmaker, and no longer has the prestige it once had. Bizarrely the classic trials no longer even take place on the same day. Crowds have fallen - despite Sandown's proximity to central London - and by all accounts the Jockey Club (owners of the course) have prioritised investment elsewhere.
It still also hosts a 'military' meeting, with old fashioned race titles such as the Grand Artillery. In contrast to the Whitbread this is thriving, partly out of an understandable wish to show public support for our servicemen and women. In the old days there used to be a profitable angle to these military races. The jockeys have to be in the Army, Navy or Air Force, and they tended to be corinthian upper class types. Brave but useless, with a riding style that looked as if they were sat on the toilet seat rather than a horse. Often there would be only one half decent jockey in the race, giving its horse a considerable advantage over the others. Obviously it's a good thing that more women now serve in the military, but trainers have noticed as well and they now put up many junior ranking servicewomen on their horses in these races. These women tend to be excellent riders - a positive blow for equality but a costly development for shrewd punters around February time.
From a distance the stands at Sandown are impressive. One way there are terrific views across the course towards London, taking in the Wembley arch, Canary Wharf and the Shard. Behind the stands you can look down on the huge paddock, separate winner's enclosure and old fashioned weighing room. The horse walk to/from the paddock/course/winniner's enclosure enables punters to view the horses and jockeys up close. Viewing for disabled customers has to be the best in the country.
Sandown is also unusual in having different finishing lines for the hurdle and chase races, just 3 yards or so apart. Over the years many jockeys would mistake the finishing line and ease up early, occasionally in a very close finish thereby costing his mount the race. Without a punting interest this can be amusing. It's up there with jockeys riding a finish one circuit early or falling off between the last fence and the line (of which more later). It was noticeable that most jockeys today now ride to the second finishing line just in case, even when the earlier one applies. The brutal concrete of the main stand has discoloured and leaks but at least they have a designated no drinking or smoking zone. One of the peculiarities of modern British racecourses is that - with the honourable exception of Sandown - is that they have notices saying 'No drinks outside' and they all allow you to take drinks outside. Sandown's notice is subtly different - 'No glass outside.'
On that note it was great to see a bar named after Diamond Edge. This horse was owned by one of Sandown's most enthusiastic supporters, the Queen Mum.
Better was the nearby appropriately named Oasis bar with its racing themed real ales; Tipster, Punter, Stakes and Winter's T'Ale (yes that was where the apostrophe appeared).
Food wise there is the usual stuff (burgers, pies, brasserie, soup and a roll etc) but with the added addition of a 'Street Food Stall.' For those not from Brighton who are unaware of street food, it is like 'artisan' bread i.e same as normal food but with an eco-image and therefore costing more. I went for the 'pulled pork'. Again foodie types will no doubt correct me but as I understand it pulled pork is pork which has been cooked for ages thereby allowing it to be torn apart rather than carved. In this street food case, judging by the gristle, they had not given it long enough in the oven before doing the ripping.
Sandown also have young women selling cigarettes from trays. All a bit old fashioned really and judging by the thoroughly bored expression of these latter day match girls as they walked round talking to each other, thankfully not terribly profitable.
As for the racing, Gary Moore had another treble, inevitably including Mr Fickle who lived up to his name by winning easily when I had not backed him.
Polarisation, winner of the Melrose at the prestigious York meeting in August, ran in a hurdle race. John Ferguson combines his job as Sheiki Mohammed's bloodstock advisor, with training such classy ex-flat horses over the jumps. Normally this is because they have been gelded. This can make a horse run faster and behave better (Grand National winning trainer Jenny Pitman once suggested that this measure would work equally for some men she knew).
It is difficult to get anybody on record saying it, but it is definitely possible to pick up a mild disapproval at this approach by Ferguson. There an undercurrent amongst the jumps establishment that the tactic of running the Sheiki's horses on the flat is just a bit sneaky, 'not quite the done thing you know'. Observing these classy ex-flat horses was a bit like seeing a talented Brazilian footballer who takes all before him when first playing in the Premiership for Newcastle in August, but proves less keen (and wears gloves) when having to turn out at St James Park in a howling gale in January (just after the shed in the garden of his executive home in Gosforth has been blown away). The defeat of Polarisation and Ferguson's other ex flat hotpot on the day, was therefore quietly, but widely, appreciated.
Biggest cheer of the day was reserved for the amateur riders handicap hurdle. The hot favourite, ridden by just about the best amateur in Ireland (Katie Walsh), looked to be heading for second place. But the jockey (yes a man as it happens) managed to fall off his horse within 20 years of the finishing line. Obviously punters are not a sentimental lot when the money is down, but it was difficult to not feel some sympathy as it was obvious that somehow the saddle had broken. I still think that in the same circumstances Katie Walsh would have managed to stay on board though, proving again that the best jockey theory in any kind of race for non-professionals can be lucrative.
The betting ring at Sandown on Friday was robust (my count revealed at least 31 bookies), the sun shone (so much so that the horses did not jump the pond fence in two races because it was in their eyes) and Alan King (rapidly becoming my favourite steady, reliable trainer) won the big race with a proper future ex-French steeplechaser who will only run when its soft.
Overall verdict then - Sandown Park looks a bit shabby these days but with some tender loving care past glories could be revived. Come on the Jockey Club - do your bit for this old gentleman of a track (oh and ditch the golf course)
And after racing there was a bonus. It was even possible to watch in the racecourse betting shop my greyhound - the appropriately named Expect Nothing - run.
Yes, there will be a post on her soon.
Sandown marks (out of 10)
Welcome/friendliness 7
Atmosphere 8
Betting ring (size, competitiveness) 8
Racecard (cost, quality) 6
Queues for bar 7
Viewing 10
Standard of racing 8
Total (out of 70) 54
Punting success Lost
*It didn't
Thursday, 3 December 2015
A non-review of Carol
Me, "I'm thinking of going to see Carol. It's got Cate Blanchett in it."
Wise one, "She plays the same character in every film. She was in Blue Jasmine which I didn't really get and she spoilt Charlotte Gray. Great book but the film didn't do it any favours because of her"
Me, "Oh right. You don't like her acting then?"
Wise one, "Not really. She doesn't enhance the characters she plays. It's just this funny stare all the time. It's supposed to infer things but it never infers anything other than there's that Cate staring again".
Me, desperately struggling for a coherent response being an admirer of said Cate, "But in Carol she plays a lesbian in the 1950's." (I know I'm sorry feeble beyond belief).
Wise one, "Oh, right, mhmm. Presumably a lesbian in the 1950's who stares a lot."
Sadly I never got to find out the merits of Carol starring the lovely/staring (take your pick) Cate Blanchett as I was diverted by LatestTV in order to talk about bombing ISAL/IS/ IZAL/Daesh (again take your pick).
Wise one, "She plays the same character in every film. She was in Blue Jasmine which I didn't really get and she spoilt Charlotte Gray. Great book but the film didn't do it any favours because of her"
Me, "Oh right. You don't like her acting then?"
Wise one, "Not really. She doesn't enhance the characters she plays. It's just this funny stare all the time. It's supposed to infer things but it never infers anything other than there's that Cate staring again".
Me, desperately struggling for a coherent response being an admirer of said Cate, "But in Carol she plays a lesbian in the 1950's." (I know I'm sorry feeble beyond belief).
Wise one, "Oh, right, mhmm. Presumably a lesbian in the 1950's who stares a lot."
Sadly I never got to find out the merits of Carol starring the lovely/staring (take your pick) Cate Blanchett as I was diverted by LatestTV in order to talk about bombing ISAL/IS/ IZAL/Daesh (again take your pick).
Tuesday, 1 December 2015
Tyson v Joshua - now I'd pay to view that
As a kid I loved boxing. After racing (blame Snow Knight and Red Rum) it was my favourite sport. Muhammad Ali remains my all time greatest sportsman, but I also hero worshipped (in a childlike way obviously) Smokin' Joe Frazier, 'enry Cooper and Ken Norton. I really did listen to (sorry mum) both the Thrilla in Manilla and the Rumble in The Jungle on my Christmas present (thanks mum) transistor radio under the bedcovers at night.
"Oh my God he's won it back at 32" by Harry Carpenter means more to me than even "they think it's all over.. it is now"
As I got older I still paid attention to boxing - Joe Bugner, Alan Minter, Marvellous Marvin Hagler, Dave 'Boy' Green and even dear old Richard Dunn.
I confess that I abused my position as a police officer on night shift to watch Frank Bruno'sfight with demolition by Mike Tyson in the earliest days of satellite TV in an electrical showroom in Crawley.
The most brutal fight I ever saw - Brighton's Chris Eubank v Michael Watson - remains etched in my memory. I even got Chris to sign a poster for one of his fights (I don't think it was that one) and it was raffled in the Hove Police Station Christmas Draw (earning much less money than it should have as I recall.)
After that my attention turned away from pugilism to cricket. Boxing - always a bit dodgy - became ever more ridiculous. Whereas there were once just 7 world champions, we soon had over a 100. Trash talk was the norm, and at times it aped WWE. Even Herbie Hyde was a, sort of, world champ for goodness sake.
But over the last couple of years I have sensed a change. The world titles are being consolidated and I notice that my boys and their friends prefer proper boxing to the ridiculous cage fighting, kick box, all in wrestling nonsense that they used to look at. So much so that my satellite telly bill was £15 heavier this weekend for having funded pay-for-view access to Saturday's world heavyweight fight between Tyson Fury and Wladimir Klitschko.
Klitschko has been underrated, probably because he comes from Ukraine, is white and has fought in something less than a golden era.
I fully expected him to trounce Fury in a repeat of the Ali-Richard Dunnfight humane slaughter. Of course we now know that Fury won - outboxing an unmotivated and getting on a bit (he's 39 - see earlier Ali point) Klitchsko.
Fury is a tricky chap for us liberal, cosmopolitan types to evaluate. He comes from a Gypsy Irish Traveller background so that's good for the diversity check list. He weighed 1lb when born (which is also good I guess). He was christened Tyson (yes after Mike, the most fearsomely hard boxer I have ever seen, but also an ear-biting rapist). Tyson's (Fury's, not Mike's) old man even did some lengthy bird for gouging someones eye out. Tyson (Fury) himself has also had his problems with the law, but instead of going down the bare knuckle unregulated fighting route he embraced the Queensbury rules. He found God, and speaks of Jesus as his saviour in the same way Pakistani cricket captains refer to Allah after a win in a test match. We English liberal types are not comfortable with this, or indeed with the associated comments Fury is reputed to have made on homosexuality.
And yet he celebrated his win by serenading his wife (who he clearly adores) in a way which I found strangely moving, and spoke eloquently about both his background and family.
So for me I cannot make my mind up about Tyson Fury. I suspect he is not a great boxer and got a bit lucky in terms of the timing for his fight with Klitschko (a latter day version of Leon Spinks). But fair play to him he did it, no one can ever take it away from him, and actually it is great to read a by and large positive news story emanating from the Traveller community.
Today the BBC bottled it (surprise, surprise) on their nominations for Sports Personality of the Year. They should have dropped one of their original nominees (even as a sports nut I had never heard of 3 of them) but instead they added Tyson Fury on as a late runner (together with Andy Murray).
Boxing, in spite of the difficulties I have described, still has a good following and Tyson Fury (whatever your views on him) is certainly a personality. The boxing and Traveller community could get their act together and mount a massive 'get out the vote' (I could help guys - or put you in touch with Lynton) campaign for Tyson. I'm pretty sure the BBC bigwigs hope he does not win so that in itself is a good reason to support him in (and please whatever happens do not let it be Lewis Hamilton again).
As for the future of boxing, I suspect Tyson could win his contracted rematch with Klitschko. The other world champ - the American Deontay Wilder - is not exactly an all-time great either.
Therefore how about an all-British fight to unify the heavyweight world (and British, and European, and Commonwealth ) championships at Wembley Statdium in late 2016? Tyson Fury v Anthony Joshua. I'd certainly pay to view - and I'd back Joshua to win by a knock-out.
"Oh my God he's won it back at 32" by Harry Carpenter means more to me than even "they think it's all over.. it is now"
As I got older I still paid attention to boxing - Joe Bugner, Alan Minter, Marvellous Marvin Hagler, Dave 'Boy' Green and even dear old Richard Dunn.
I confess that I abused my position as a police officer on night shift to watch Frank Bruno's
The most brutal fight I ever saw - Brighton's Chris Eubank v Michael Watson - remains etched in my memory. I even got Chris to sign a poster for one of his fights (I don't think it was that one) and it was raffled in the Hove Police Station Christmas Draw (earning much less money than it should have as I recall.)
After that my attention turned away from pugilism to cricket. Boxing - always a bit dodgy - became ever more ridiculous. Whereas there were once just 7 world champions, we soon had over a 100. Trash talk was the norm, and at times it aped WWE. Even Herbie Hyde was a, sort of, world champ for goodness sake.
But over the last couple of years I have sensed a change. The world titles are being consolidated and I notice that my boys and their friends prefer proper boxing to the ridiculous cage fighting, kick box, all in wrestling nonsense that they used to look at. So much so that my satellite telly bill was £15 heavier this weekend for having funded pay-for-view access to Saturday's world heavyweight fight between Tyson Fury and Wladimir Klitschko.
Klitschko has been underrated, probably because he comes from Ukraine, is white and has fought in something less than a golden era.
I fully expected him to trounce Fury in a repeat of the Ali-Richard Dunn
Fury is a tricky chap for us liberal, cosmopolitan types to evaluate. He comes from a Gypsy Irish Traveller background so that's good for the diversity check list. He weighed 1lb when born (which is also good I guess). He was christened Tyson (yes after Mike, the most fearsomely hard boxer I have ever seen, but also an ear-biting rapist). Tyson's (Fury's, not Mike's) old man even did some lengthy bird for gouging someones eye out. Tyson (Fury) himself has also had his problems with the law, but instead of going down the bare knuckle unregulated fighting route he embraced the Queensbury rules. He found God, and speaks of Jesus as his saviour in the same way Pakistani cricket captains refer to Allah after a win in a test match. We English liberal types are not comfortable with this, or indeed with the associated comments Fury is reputed to have made on homosexuality.
And yet he celebrated his win by serenading his wife (who he clearly adores) in a way which I found strangely moving, and spoke eloquently about both his background and family.
So for me I cannot make my mind up about Tyson Fury. I suspect he is not a great boxer and got a bit lucky in terms of the timing for his fight with Klitschko (a latter day version of Leon Spinks). But fair play to him he did it, no one can ever take it away from him, and actually it is great to read a by and large positive news story emanating from the Traveller community.
Today the BBC bottled it (surprise, surprise) on their nominations for Sports Personality of the Year. They should have dropped one of their original nominees (even as a sports nut I had never heard of 3 of them) but instead they added Tyson Fury on as a late runner (together with Andy Murray).
Boxing, in spite of the difficulties I have described, still has a good following and Tyson Fury (whatever your views on him) is certainly a personality. The boxing and Traveller community could get their act together and mount a massive 'get out the vote' (I could help guys - or put you in touch with Lynton) campaign for Tyson. I'm pretty sure the BBC bigwigs hope he does not win so that in itself is a good reason to support him in (and please whatever happens do not let it be Lewis Hamilton again).
As for the future of boxing, I suspect Tyson could win his contracted rematch with Klitschko. The other world champ - the American Deontay Wilder - is not exactly an all-time great either.
Therefore how about an all-British fight to unify the heavyweight world (and British, and European, and Commonwealth ) championships at Wembley Statdium in late 2016? Tyson Fury v Anthony Joshua. I'd certainly pay to view - and I'd back Joshua to win by a knock-out.
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