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.

Stepping up in class at Cheltenham, including a new stand, broken false teeth, earwig corner and a bar dedicated to Himself and my arrival as a shrewdie

After visiting the gaffs it was time for me to take a big step up in class and visit the jewel in the jumping crown, Cheltenham.

Walking to the course wearing trilby, corduroy strides (not red I promise) and green tweed coat I could have easily been mistaken for Rich Ricci (although I suspect dear old Rich would not be walking to the course).

I wanted to get there early as Cheltenham has been subject to £50million investment over the past 18 months. I had been to a meeting once before, years ago, when Alderbrook won the champion hurdle.

Even then at the famous 'festival' it had become impossible to do more than one thing. If you visited the paddock before a race it was difficult to then find a position to view the actual action from. Getting a bet on as well as having a drink was completely impossible (although I concede that was possibly not an altogether bad thing).

On my previous visit I had decided to prioritise viewing the races, so had positioned myself in the stand prior to action. Once in there you cannot move, nor can the person next to you. Normally this would not be such a problem but on that occasion I struck unlucky. The man next to me had obviously had a number of quite large bets that morning, and as the races unfolded it was obvious his staking plan was somewhat less than successful. At least I presume that was the case as he loudly declared after each race that the one of the unplaced horses (I assume the one burdened with his cash) were 'dogmeat, dogmeat, that's what you are, dogmeat.'

Walking from Cheltenham station to the course it was possible to take in the faded elegance of this once genteel spa resort. Beautiful Victorian terraces, some turned into what council planners delight in calling HMO's (homes in multiple occupation) and apparantly engaged in some kind of wheelie bin fertility programme in the front gardens, nestled alongside villas ever so tastefully (and expensively) restored to their Edwardian grandeur.

For a myopic racing enthusiast like me the town of Cheltenham is just about the one thing. The park though was full of young mums out jogging with their all terrain pusg charirs, aparently oblivious to the marvellous sport about to take place on their doorstep. But of course the town is not just about racing. It is also the birthplace of Gustav Holst (was I the only person who thought he must have been born in Germany?) and the host for government eavesdropping. Yes Cheltenham is the somewhat unlikely home of GCHQ, the Beltchley Park of the internet age. Spooks keeping us safe and scaring us in equal measure. At the races I have often positioned myself at 'earwig corner' (i.e. between the paddock and the weighing room trying to pick up gossip snippets from talkative connections)  but I could still learn GCHQ.

On entering and viewing the racecourse itself I was struck again by just how complicated the actual track is. Taking the right course must be tricky for an inexperienced jockey, and I gather even after 20 years as champion that Tony McCoy refused to take part in the cross country race for fear of incurring a ban for going the wrong way.

There is certainly no shortage of places to eat and drink at Cheltenham. Competition is good for the customer so as a good Conservative I sad to find my faith undermined - the price of a cup of tea was £2.20 at all of the 20 outlets I checked.

After further diligent research I concluded the best bar by far was one dedicated to 'himself'. The Arkle Bar is a shrine to what for many of us remains the greatest horse who ever set foot on a racecourse. There are numerous press cuttings and momentoes of Arkle's career, and an even an Ankle ale which for a novelty beer was not all bad.

Reading the old press cuttings it was also interesting to see the reports alongside the article about Arkle's derring-do. The Sporting Life of Monday 9 March 1964 told us that jockey Johnny Blair 'broke his false teeth' and was (perhaps understandably) 'badly shaken' in a fall at one of the minor meetings on the same day as the Gold Cup.

Strangely another bar I was forced to check included a large picture of Martin Luther King (I can't believe he ever dreamed of backing a winner here) and possibly just to make me feel at home, an honourable mention of Sussex's victory in the first Gillette Cup.

Even stranger is The Centaur. It is an indoor viewing come conference area which reminds me of visits to the Great British Beer Festival at Earl's Court. There are various real ale stalls in a cavernous conference centre with a big screen which intermittently shows the racing action. It lacks a certain atmosphere but does get louder as the day goes on (for obvious reasons). There are bookies and the tote, and some people spend all day inside without ever venturing out to the track. I saw one lady in the seats on the first floor doing her knitting - and perfectly content she seemed too.

The first race received the additional boost of Ronnie Wood in the paddock to see his well backed (but ultimately unsuccessful) horse, Sandymount Duke, run. The old Rolling Stome was unmistakable, with his 'teenager just got of bed' hairstyle. In noting that quite a lot of 'product' might have gone into Ronnie's jet black look I concede there may have been an elemant of jealousy on my part.

Halfway through the day and my betting plan looked disastrous. One horse brought down when going well, another falling when in the lead and two unplaced favourites (thank you Ronnie) and it was beginning to be an expensive day.

It was increasingly looking like I was going to have rely on the 'lucky' last race, known by some also as 'the getting out stakes' (or more accurately in my case the getting in deeper stakes.'

But rescue from punting oblivion came in the form the new kid on the block, Dan Skelton. This former assistant to Paul Nicholls (and son of Olympic gold medal winner, Nick) has learnt a reputation for improving runners previously with other stables. 

In the fifth race Skelton had entered Mister Miyagi, previously trained by Emma Lavelle. Emma had a luckless time of it last season, not as she was a young admirer of Margaret Thatcher my socialist friends, but  because of a virus. Therefore not only was the horse likely to improve because of the Dan Skelton effect, it could doubly improve now it was virus free.

I lumped on (alright staked £20) at what I thought were generous odds of 13/2. Unbelievably the price then plummeted as a sustained gamble took the price down to 7/2 at the off. For once a gamble I was (admittedly accidentally) involved with paid off as Mister Miyagi was always going well before powering away up the Cheltenham hill for a comfortable win.

Obviously I cooly waited an appropriate time before collecting, hoping to hear whispers from punters on the next race about the 'shrewdie' who had been on at top price - maybe even a louder 'call the coppers' as I took hold of my new wedge. No harm in dreaming!

As for the new stand, to be officially opened before next month by the Princess Royal (it will bear her name), it looks impressive. 

Even better is the associated work which enables a panoramic view of the paddock. This will all be much better for the big crowds flocking next which to what we are supposed to call the Open Meeting, but many of us still know as the Mackeson (every nan's favourite drink).

My visit confirmed Cheltenham is in rude health, with the only downside that the Festival will dominate talk and all lazy TV pundit chat even more from now until March.

Cheltenham marks (out of 10)
Welcome/friendliness 6
Atmosphere 9
Betting ring (size, competitiveness) 9
Racecard (cost, quality) 6
Queues for bar 8
Viewing 9
Standard of racing 9

Total (out of 70) 56
Punting success - profit!

Seven Deadly Sins is another reminder of the value of a free press

Back in the early '80's Channel 4 was fresh and ground-breaking - no really it was. It may actually have paid its part in Britain's recent excellence at competitive cycling, for it was this new Channel which introduced the wider public in this country to the Tour de France.
There was 30 minutes coverage of the tour shown in a prime time early evening slot (the one now occupied by Hollyoaks).
I remember watching staggered at the feats of these cyclists, riding up mountains without seemingly pausing for breath, and the enthusiasm of the crowds.
Riders from the British Isles began to be competitive, with the eccentric Scot Robert (where is he now) Millar winning the King of the Mountains and the Irishman Sean Kelly winning the impressive sounding, if largely incomprehensible, points competition for the Green Jersey. Stephen Roche even won the tour in 1987.
Over the years my enthusiasm waned as it became more and more obvious that the prodigious feats of many of these seemingly super-human riders were actually frauds. The Tour de France became a competition between chemists, with clean riders the exception to the rule.
Obviously the most super-human feat of all was achieved by Lance Armstrong, recovering from stage 3 testicular cancer to win seven consecutive Tours. He was feted across the world in the highest places, and raised $millions for his cancer charity.
We now know he was fraud and it all seems so obvious. How could a man who prior to his cancer was a goodish professional cyclist, but not a particularly great climber, come back after gruelling treatment and be far and away the best rider the world had ever seen?
Using his cancer story as a shield, he fooled a gullible public and a compliant media for many years.
It took one brave man, the Sunday Times journalist David Walsh, to expose Armstrong as a cheat. Although it was 'only' sport, Walsh's reporting has to be up there with Woodward and Bernstein.
Walsh's  book Seven Deadly Sins has been made into a recently released film, The Program.
As with all movies this one struggles to capture the sporting scenes all that convincingly, although in fairness it is better than Escape to Victory! The story though is fascinating, and as a piece of film drama it works well.
For me it highlights how brave Walsh was, not so much in taking on the cycling establishment, but also in standing out amongst his press colleagues. Many of them were happy to continue cheerleading for a sport they must have known was basically bent, in return for access to the stars and being able to report the Tour for their papers and TV stations from the inside.
Walsh was ostracised not just by the cycling community (which he probably expected) but also by the rest of the media for challenging his own profession.
The film left me wanting to know more about Armstrong's closest team colleague, Floyd Landis. He was also American, but came from a strict Pennsylvania Calvinist background where riding a bike for pleasure or sport was considered a sin. Landis was so talented that he went on to win the Tour the year after Armstrong retired, but immediately tested positive for banned drugs. Landis reminded me of Hansie Cronje, the cricketer with a similar religious heritage, who ended up taking money for match-fixing. 
If you are interested in sport the film is well worth seeing - and it serves as a timely reminder of the need for a free press and what a public service sceptical, cynical grumpy old journalists can perform.
Oh and there is a enjoyable cameo by Dustin Hoffman.