Tales From The Betting Ring – Wincanton 12/04/13

One of the things about travelling the turf that isn’t often what it’s cracked up to be is staying away. Sometimes of course it is fantastic, generally big meetings where a group of you get together and socialise. That’s when you get to see people you only know by their racecourse persona in a totally different light. Very rarely in a worse one, once the pressures of racecourse goings-on are off sometimes amazing things happen. For example, nobody who was at that meal in Arundel a couple of Goodwoods ago will ever forget the delight and surprise to discover that a well-loved bookmaking family can transform into the singling  Von Trapps after a vino or two.

Staying over after Ascot was not one of those evenings. I had a fairly miserable night at the Sunbury Premier Inn, well not miserable exactly because it’s nice enough there. The problem was I had a  bit of a shock, I used the automated machine for checking in and  lugged my weary bones up the stairs to room 303 I had been allocated. By the way, the lift wasn’t broken but I’m on a fitness campaign to fight off middle-age, get me. My abode easily found, I slid in my key-card, the light went green and I tumbled into the room. Only to find somebody was already in it. I didn’t catch a glimpse of the incumbent but did hear the TV and see a suitcase with what looked like a builders hard hat on it. It flashed through my mind that I might well need that for protection should I be mistaken for an intruder up to no good. I made a hasty retreat back downstairs, but this time in the sanctuary of the lift. Lenny Henry never mentioned this scenario in the advert with tales of comfy beds and nice hot baths.

Luckily I wasn’t perused by an angry brickie and was apologised to  profusely by the bemused receptionist and given another room. The rest of the evening was spent having a meal for one in the bar. The only other customers were some quite loud Scottish lads all drinking beer and having fun. They did give me disapproving when I ordered a diet coke but apart from that just ignored me. Whilst sitting there a bit bored I checked through coming month’s schedule and decided I’d try and get some staying away mates for the next few nights away. I spotted the Saturday and Sunday Goodwood and Salisbury double, there is usually at least one firm who are up for staying up for that one so gave the bookie a call. Sadly he informed me that while they would normally would be up for it his main man’s father wasn’t too well so they would probably go home and back rather than stay en-route. He did add that he’d like to know where I was going to stay in because if the old boy got better they would join me.

I booked somewhere  on-line before heading to Wincanton so decided to search out the firm, established in 1897, on arrival. I marched into the ring and informed the boss where I had booked and then breezy as you like turned to the guy who’s father was poorly and wished him a speedy recovery. You know those moments when you immediately know that you have made a rick, the world stands still and everyone in earshot looks horrified? Yes, this was one of them. His father had since died. Doh. Where’s the ground to swallow you up when you need it. Maybe I shouldn’t have added that at least we’d be able to have that drink after racing at Goodwood now. Never start to dig deeper when you are already in trouble.

There was a really decent crowd at Wincanton, though sadly for the bookies most of them seemed to have backed the runaway winner of the opener from 13/8 all rates down to 11/8. Not a great start for the ring. The second race on the card was a 17-runner handicap, only two bookies appeared to be betting 1/4 the odds a place. I shall say no more, but on the bright side, the winner, Midnight Prayer landed a bit of a touch from 12/1 into 8/1.

Things went the way of the layers in the fourth race. The favourite, Addiction, had been a bit weak in the market but was a popular choice on course. There were a few rumblings around me that the drift was a bit fishy but those soon vanished when the jolly appeared to be going by far the best and looked the likely winner. Then he stumbled and unshipped jockey Nick Scholfield. ‘He jumped off’ screamed one slightly refreshed punter. There is no accounting for the way punters handle losing but it was probably a mercy that the poor jockey was out of earshot as he hobbled into the waiting ambulance.

The first real market move of the day didn’t come until the 7th race, the first division of the bumper. Despite there being solid support for the favourite Vodka ‘N Tonic, including a £700-£400, it was Spring Steel that was the big mover. The early 18/1 had collapsed into 13/2 at the off, nobody had stories of untold bundles of cash being spread around the ring for it, sadly those days have gone. Wherever the money had come from and how and where it was placed those involved could have been forgiven for thinking they’d copped when the gamble took up the lead at the furlong pole heading leader Tea For Two. It must have been a nasty feeling watching 18/1 shot  fight back and forge clear foiling the gamble by just over a length.

The winner was trained by Nick Williams, the Genius of George Nympton, owned by his wife Jane and ridden by her daughter Lizzy and apparently a surprise winner. Well that is how it looked for a while until a gangling figure, so far conspicuous by his absence, made his appearance. Beaming from ear to ear and gesticulating wildly, ‘Armaloft’ Alex. He’d evidently managed to keep his arm down for long enough for Lizzy and Tea For Two do their stuff, the result of which he’d had it spark off. Being a pal of the yard he often gets to know, and it appears he got to know today. Nobody had to say anything, the little gathering around him while he regaled all who would listen how exactly spark off he’d had it, had it written all over their faces, ‘Yes thanks Armaloft, no bloody good telling us now’. At least one of them must have started to look thirsty, so maybe fearing a costly round our victorious, non-tipping, hero quickly added that he hadn’t backed it on course.

He’s probably collected by now though, so Lizzy, if you are reading this, you can no doubt expect a very generous present next birthday or Christmas from our extremely grateful, loaded but secretive mate because that Axminster each-way he’d had on would have come to a nice few quid!

(c) Simon Nott

Tales From The Betting Ring – Ascot 07/04/2013

I backed my first winner before I even got into the course proper. How I wasn’t wiped out by the guy in the estate that came hurtling toward to me as I was getting directed into the press carpark I’ll never know. Getting the car written off on day one of a two-day stint would have been a right pain. My guess is he (with a car full of people) was charging in to watch the charity race, he was definitely wearing metaphorical blinkers. The near miss gave me the collywobbles for a bit that’s for sure. I was more interested in a strong coffee than watching the  race I assume he thought was dicing with death in  the rush to see. It seemed a bit weird to have it at 12.30, almost two hours before the first race proper so I doubt there was any betting on it or that many people there to enjoy it.

The bookies were probably too busy still counting their winnings from their jaunts up to Liverpool to worry about pricing up a charity race anyhow. One front row layer did try to play down how much they must have copped by telling me how much he had paid out over one of the other ‘results’ of the meeting. He must have clocked the incredulous look on my face. He gave up but just stopped short of  conceding  that they had had it spark off. Believe it or not the same bookie, almost, and I say almost, looked guilty when it transpired that 40/1 shot Forresters Folly had won the opener. Another skinner for their books despite virtually all observers, including the usually spot-on cameraman, thinking Warden Hill had won. They were only a nose out.

Of course, as these are bookmakers that we are talking about, there were moans that business was a bit thin in the first despite the good crowd. Things picked up in the next with the help of one firm getting involved in a small way. Not on the winner though. Victor Leudorum was  another result for the ring, at least on paper at 16/1 but had been a pony so wasn’t a total surprise in some quarters.

Race three was a 16-runner handicap. Now I don’t want to bore people to death banging on and on about the place terms that books in the ring bet to. The vast majority went 1/5 the odds a place which is fast becoming the norm though the hardcore few on the rails are keeping the flag flying betting 1/4. Yes the punters do have the edge in these races, as opposed to the bookies having it the bulk of the time. Many businesses have a loss-leader that they absorb for the better good so fair play to those that take the same approach continue to offer the punters value. One of these bookmakers was incandescent with rage that another rails firm was betting to 1/6th, yes on the rails at Ascot, surely there’s little to justify it.  Aptly named 4/1 shot Calculated Risk won the race, you’d have to hope that at least one firm stood it for their maximum.

Well -fancied horses winning didn’t last for long, 11/1 shot Fairy Rath took the next, though it had been 14/1 so someone somewhere had a tickle. Not with one layer you’d assume who was later reported to have been celebrating with the winning connections, who happened to include Mrs Jeremy Kyle.  There didn’t seem to be many others in the ring that had laid it either mind. A cheerful bookmaker volunteered the information  that they had now got a few quid in front and were now ‘snapping the elastic bands around the winnings’. Maybe a race too soon because the next winner went in a 10/1.

The penultimate had the ring in a bit of a spin. There appeared to be a right old touch going down on Tim Vaughan’s Ballyrock whose price collapsed from 12/1 into 4/1. Appearances can be deceptive these days though, it looks as if it was an increasingly common case of the exchange tail wagging the on-course dog. Those sorts of gambles can be self-perpetuating though and there was a rumour that one firm had laid a £4000- £1000. Those who followed the money knew their fate a long way out when a blunder and a stirrupless jockey put paid to what ever might have been plotted. Not only did the books get that one beaten but were handed another near skinner with 33/1 winner Regal Presence.

Judging by their long faces the firm that had pretty much shut up shop by snapping their elastic  realised that they had done it wrong even though they’d got it right. No surprise then that they decided to call it a day and pack up and head for home before the concluding Hunters’ Chase. The jolly won that one. Not bad judges after all.

One happy footnote, at least for me personally. Anyone who read my blog over Cheltenham will know that I had set my heart on buying a tweed jacket and waistcoat from the profits of an ante-post punt when Reve de Sivola won the World Hurdle. As we all know, Reve didn’t quite make the frame and Geoff Banks kept my money. But Timothy Foxx got a sale anyway.  Well that nice Geoff was offering a free £5 each-way bet on the Grand National to existing clients, I followed my mate Andrew Mount’s advice and had it on Aurora’s Encore. Geoff laid me 80/1. What a gentleman, you paid for it in the end, thanks very much. Aye Aye!

(c) Simon Nott

Tales From The Betting Ring Cheltenham Tuesday

I had no idea that Cheltenham were inspecting when I set off from Devon first thing. I was pretty shocked to discover that the meeting had been as short as 6/4 to be off. Thanks to the foresight and hard work of the racecourse anyone that jumped in at ‘half-arm’ backed their first loser of the day, which of course was a relief for all concerned.

As always with the first day of the festival hope springs eternal on both sides of the punting fence. The bookies are flexing their shoulders ready to open them to all-comers while the punters are lumping big-priced fancies together for life-changing Yankees. One fellow that features on a regular basis in my literary meanderings is ‘Armaloft’ Alex. He backed his first winner without even dipping into his betting bank. He turned up for a day out but ended up being pursued by no less than four bookmaking firms looking for staff. He chose a rails outfit and was soon tapping away with them, exes for the day and wages to come, “Ei Ei” as he would put it, but of course everyone else would say “Aye Aye” and keep their arm down until after the line.

One of the first layers I saw was one I mentioned in a previous ‘Tales’. He’s the veteran  looking forward to one last Cheltenham before settling into retirement, he gave me a warm shake of the hand, I wished him luck and meant it. With a grin he was back to enthusiastically setting up his kit belying his years in the process.

It has to be said it was pretty nippy with the wind-chill up at the ‘wrong’ end of  Tatts. “Don’t talk to us about the bloody weather” was the reaction I got from two usually amiable members of staff. They work for a firm based in Torquay who have been around since the late 1800’s. The boss recently bought a pitch at Plumpton. Pulling rank with some aplomb, on Monday he stood for the firm at Taunton, which is a fair bit closer to Torquay.  Meanwhile the  intrepid duo were packed off to the aforementioned. Anyone who saw the morning news would have noticed that the weather in the Plumpton area had been fairly inclement resulting in the pair spending the night in the car. They eventually reached the comfort of their hotel at 7.30am, it wasn’t all bad though, they were just in time for breakfast.

One punter who wasn’t going to feel the cold was Stephen Little, ex-king of the rails. He was resplendent in a long fur coat. A similar item was always his unofficial trademark when fearlessly fielding  telephone number sized bets in his heyday though the jury was out as to if it was the same garment. There was a still active layer who wasn’t going  to feel the cold either. The flambouyent troubador of the ring was betting in the Centaur enclosure. His joint was staffed, as always, by a bevy of beauties as opposed the archetypal grumpy clerk still favoured by many. It was shirt-sleeve order, lovely and warm as well as packed in there long before the first so one would imagine business would have been brisk, if he could be prised from the Champagne Bar

It was a bit sad to visit Lower-Tatts and see that so many old faces that I used to work with and near are no longer in attendance. Time marches on but it’s a little depressing to see so many characters on the missing,  presumed sold up, and bailed out list

The last port of call before the day’s racing begins is always to check in with the shrewd Westcountry firm who know their onions when it comes to jumping form. They were buoyant and looking forward to the racing as always but slightly apprehensive too. Their magic figures obtained from hours of hard work and study told them the good things were exactly that, good things. “We fear the worst” was their ominous message.

Most of the books set to work on the opener a good hour before racing. There is one layer on the rails who is the epitome of laid-back. You can almost set your watch by him as he sparks up his pipe and sets to work, rarely more than 15 minutes before the race. Once has does however he means business taking on all-comers before the legendary roar that lifts from the course as the horses are off. Going up late would have probably meant that he did the right prices on the winner of the first, Champagne Fever. It had been the morning plunge but returned 5/1.

There were comical scenes reminiscent of a Benny Hill sketch as a posse of limelight-hungry punters followed the Channel 4 team around the ring. The caravan of  those seeking their 15 seconds of grinning in the camera fame eventually came to a halt behind a major rails layer. He was asked if he minded them broadcasting from behind his joint, he replied that he didn’t object but was a bit camera-shy. He was certainly in the minority in that immediate vicinity.

The Arkle played host to the first of the day’s bankers in the shape of Simonsig. One firm reported that they had laid a bet of £20,000 – £35,000. That but was dwarfed by rumours circulating of a monster £80,000 – £140,000. The latter wasn’t confirmed so you have to hope, at least for the sake of the bookie, that it was just a rumour as the banker proved to be just that.

Golden Chieftain  won  the next springing a 28/1 surprise and provided the ring respite. It  didn’t last long though with Hurricane Fly landing the Champion Hurdle at 13/8.  With the Cross Country race postponed until Thursday the layers had another banker to deal with in the shape of Quevega in the next. Those that decided to fill their hods and take on the punters must have thought they had done it right when the jolly hit a high of 4/1 in-running only to see the cup snatched from their lips as the mare made history by storming to victory on the run-in. It is safe to say most of the ring had suffered a terrible day. One a lighter note, one eagle-eyed person did spot the Genius of George Nympton, Nick Williams, in the vicinity of the rails shortly before the off. It’s not known if he was investing in his 40/1 charge Swincombe Flame but supported or not she ran a great race to finish 3rd. That run can only bolster hope for the well-being of our 33/1 ante-post punt on Reve de Sivola in the World Hurdle.

Talking of which, and as a footnote, I did a bit of window shopping down at the Tented Village before racing. I was quite taken by the plethora of tweed suits on show at Sandown and even more so by some on display for sale today. So I have decided,  if Reve wins I’m going to get straight up to the Centaur, relieve Geoff Banks of some readies and invest in one of those country-styled beauties.

Watch this space tweed suit sellers!

Simon Nott

The Wager and Weediniron. (Tiverton Races)

My work as a bookmaker’s floorman had been drastically put on hold by the cold snap. I can’t exactly remember why I wandered into the Tiverton library that bitter afternoon. It was hardly my normal preferred hangout, though I suppose no wages since before Christmas had made free entertainment for an afternoon a necessity. I quickly browsed the racing section for something interesting then opted to sit at the reference table and have a cheapskate glance through the day’s papers.

The Chronicles of Twyford was sitting neglected next to the Telegraph. Something about its aged cover and yellow pages drew me to it. I had a cursory skim through its pages, a history of my much maligned home town of  Tiverton, from the Doomsday book to modern day, though as published in the late 1800s ‘Modern Day’ was also pretty historic. As I was flicking through the index the word ‘Races’ caught my eye, as it generally did. I turned to page 281 and read halfway down to the bottom of the page and was surprised to learn that our rather dowdy, definitely non-equestrian little town had once played host to ‘One of the most attractive and best attended race meetings in the west of England’.

As I continued to read I was transported from the bitter winter to the last Thursday and Friday of August back in the 1800s. The Townspeople of Tiverton had been looking forward to the races for some weeks, the last Thursday and Friday in August were race days and also a general holiday for as long as anyone could remember. Visitors had been converging on the town since the weekend. The inns were already pretty full and getting fuller by the time the racehorses started to arrive from the nearest railway station of Bristol. Some were led by their trainers and ridden by their jockeys, other more valued animals were transported in large horseboxes drawn by four Post Horses, which were ridden by postillions. By the eve of racing the Town was overflowing with carriages and visitors, the inns were so congested the horses were removed from their shafts and put into what remaining stable space there was. The vehicles spread the length and breadth of the town, many acting as makeshift board and lodgings for their owners.

The morning of the races brought even more and colour and life to the town,more carriages arrived, many contained officers and their ladies from the nearby Exeter  barracks. They carried on the general tradition by entering the town with buglers sitting aloft playing the popular tunes of the day. These competed for the town’s peoples’ attention with the arrival of the many ‘Sporty buggies’ driven by ‘Toffs’ donning their ‘Fashionable driving coats with pearl buttons as large as small cheese plates’. I went on to read of the half-mile double line of carriages at the course, the stands and the gallery that sat along the river. Tivertonians on foot were allowed into the races for nothing while carriage drivers were charged depending on the number of wheels on their vehicles. Local public houses had their own booths where patrons could buy food and drink and if they wished pay sixpence to sit on the covered viewing area positioned above.

The course itself was sat alongside the River Exe, the atmosphere was of a picnic and funfair all rolled into one, the town band played, to which the more adventurous (and drunk) danced al fresco. Caravans containing exotic animals and freaks enthralled and shocked the crowd, swing boats and roundabouts excited them, boxing booths and shooting galleries brought out their competitive edge, ‘Negro minstrels, itinerant musicians and ballad singers’ entertained them, while ‘Three card trick men, pea-and-thimble sharpers and gypsies’, tried to fleece them! It sounded a wonderful place. The well-heeled were also catered for in the way of Roulette tents that were ‘Guarded by a brace of powerful bullies, whose office it was to prevent any attempt at robbery, to which the heaps of gold pieces presented an exceptional inducement’.

There was of course betting on the races themselves, top class they were too, Lord Palmerstons’ Iliona, winner of the 1841 Cesarewich, won the Tiverton Stakes the following year and collected the 120 sovereign prize. Palmerston donated the purse to the race committee to help fund the prizes for the next years racing. There was a story in the latter section on the races that particularly captured my imagination, the tale of a gentleman gambler who had a favourite horse who rather aptly went by the name of ‘Grimace’, the details were that the animal was ‘Trained by a man name Harris and ridden by a jockey who bore the singular name Weediniron’. The intrepid gentleman in question had wagered heavily on the colt and by all accounts his investment looked a wise one for most of the race until in sight of the finish Grimace and Weediniron collided with a distance marker. The author did not relate if the combination fell but the race certainly went to a rival. The Gentleman lost his entire estate that had been in his family since the conquests.

The man’s name was not mentioned though it was hinted to be common knowledge at the time of writing. I was enthralled by the story. Over the next few days I could think of nothing else but Tiverton races and more precisely the unhappy punter that was ruined by Grimace and Weediniron. Rather unfairly I had already condemned the jockey. Of course he was in cahoots with people unknown to relieve the hapless (and now potless) gentleman of his money. I even had a mental image of the man, small and knarled in his late 40’s of dubious origins, he no doubt had a hooked nose and a squint with a hunched posture and hands like claws. I visited the riverbank one mile outside of Tiverton on the Bampton Road where the races would have been held as described in Chronicles of Twyford roughly where Tiverton High now resides. I stood there and tried to visualise the hustle and bustle, the music and the horses. I also tried to imagine ‘that’ race, the presumed skulduggery and the fortune that was lost.

Soon after I took pen to paper and wrote to The Racing Post’s breeding expert Tony Morris. I provided him with as many names as possible and asked if he had any record of the horse or characters mentioned. His reply was swift and positive. He had indeed tracked down Illiona in his records but had not managed to trace Grimace or Harris or any mention of the by now demonised Weediniron. He did confess to not having the time to scour his collection of Racing Calendars that covered those dates but I was welcome to visit his Newmarket home and do so myself. I was excited and sure that I was well on the way to solving the identity of the hapless punter. The next thing was to book time at the Devon records office in Exeter, they had old papers, maps and contemporary accounts of most things there. The voice on the other end of the phone suggested that if I looked hard enough I would unravel the 150 odd year old mystery. I had decided that would be my mission when not racing. The weather broke and racing resumed.

The days prior to my appointment at the records office were taken up by work. The cold snap was forgotten and I soon got back into the swing of the job I love, scrambling around in the livewire atmosphere of the betting ring. The day before I was booked in, I was at Taunton Races, a group of bookmakers were in measured discussion of the old argument about gambling debts being recoverable by law. The younger element seemed to be in favour and the conversation appeared that to be swinging in agreement that they should. At an opportune moment an old sage of the ring broke his long silence and made a point that stopped me in my tracks. He looked up, paused for breath and then spoke in the wise and deadpan manner that was his way, ‘If a man has bet with you and paid until he has lost everything what kind of person would want more, why would you want to pursue and  shame him to boot?’ He paused and then added ‘He should be let be’.

In an instant all my thoughts of finding the identity of the Gentleman gambler, the fateful race and even the still convicted in my mind Weediniron disappeared. I could only imagine the pain hurt and anguish that must have filled that man’s days for the rest of his life. The fact that he sold his estate proved he did the honourable thing and paid his debts regardless that he and his family would be ruined. The story of his loss would have been Tiverton Races folklore far beyond his death and he was no-doubt haunted by that afternoon every day until his last.

The passage of time and the passing of living memory had finally put paid to tales of his wager and misery. He could rest in peace wherever he lay. Who was I to dredge it all up for no other reason that to amuse myself and to give anyone who was interested the chance to gloat at a long dead man’s misfortune? The very next day instead of keeping my appointment with centuries-old documents I returned to Tiverton Library and asked for The Chronicles Of Twyford. I opened it at page 285 to the account of the bet and then symbolically closed the book. The librarian returned the book to the glass cabinet where it belonged and as she turned the key to lock it, closed the mystery forever.

Hopefully. © Simon Nott

My book ‘Skint Mob – Tales From The Betting Ring’ is available now, please follow this link for details http://wp.me/p1dLbd-9n

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The strange tale of Colonel Gazimes

Here is one of my favourites, I had half forgotten it but it is true, the bookmaker in question is sadly no longer with us. He was very proud of being a third generation bookie and the heritage that went with it. This is in tribute to him. Please feel free to comment. There are loads more where this came from, let me know if you’d be interested in reading them. Thanks. Si

Newton Abbot

28/05/02

Considering the results, Martin Pipe and Tony McCoy on target with hotshot favourite Golden Alpha in the first and Ron Hodges with 7/4f favourite in the next the local Newton Abbot bookies were in fine fettle on Tuesday. The crowds were nowhere near the size of Saturday but still respectable and it seemed there was one special man in their number. A mysterious man, a very shrewd, feared by the layers rarely seen ex military gent who apparently only appears on quiet punting days, the Colonel.

The third race was a typical example of this stealthy man’s shadowy punting power. Epsilo de la Ronce was the short priced favourite in the hunter, many of the books fancied getting him beaten but the punters were slow in coming forward to back him.

The ring was relatively calm until the alarm went up in the shape of  a bellow from one of the prominent front row bookies ‘Yes you’ve got that’. he hollered ‘£1250-£1000, down to Colonel Gazimes’, the ring was suddenly in a fluster, floormen were scampering around the ring and prices were shortening in a flash. The bookmaker who laid ‘the Colonel’ was good enough to accommodate the punters who had been waiting in front of his joint before slashing the odds after laying the big bet. Those who had been waiting for bigger prices were happy to take the 5/4 before it disappeared, especially after such an astute man had placed such a large bet.

The Colonel was wrong in that race, but his bet finished second behind Justin Mac at 7/1. The favourite went off at evens.

The Colonel was not in evidence in the next though those hardy odds-on punters were but had their fingers seriously burnt when 30/100f Old Marsh could only finish third behind the Pipe duo of winner Epicure and Delaware, the bookies were the only winners though as Gerry Supple rode the winner at 14/1 with stable jockey AP McCoy on the supposedly better fancied second. Pipe on a double.

McCoy quickly made up for his lapse by providing Ron Hodges with a double too On Morstock at 3/1f in the Handicap Chase.

The betting on the second hunter chase of the day was a bit slow, or at least was until the Colonel made his second appearance, at least some claimed to have seen him, this time he had a ‘monkey’ on a middle pin, the same bookmaker called the bet loud enough for it to have been heard in Torquay, ‘Ye Colonel Gazimes four monkeys you have got!’, once again the odds tumbled and punters rushed to get on after standing back waiting for bigger prices. Not all those wanting a bet were following the astute old gentleman though, Blazing Miracle was quietly nibbled in the ring from 14/1 into 10/1. Brown Chieftan was sent off at 2/1f but was pulled up after 4 out. The finish looked to be between Bomba Charger and O So Bossy but Richard Woollacott came from a long way back on the gamble to foil the pair of them in the shadow of the post.

The last race looked a tricky one, Lakefield Leader and Granny Rich were sent off the 4/1 joint favourites in a field of only eight. Being the last race there was some spirited betting. I kept an eye out for the Colonel, I was interested to see how this venerable old gent looked but he was nowhere to be seen, no doubt enjoying a cognac with one of his trainer friends. Kippanour won the slog through the mud under Roddy Greene at 11/2.

Curiosity got the better of me on the way to the car park. I happened to pass the bookmaker who had laid the Colonel his large bets over the heads of the cash punters. I enquired into the identity of ‘Gazimes’, the layer stopped, mopped his brow and looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Ahh Colonel Gazimes, well I’m not too sure, he has appeared during quiet betting heats ever since my Grandfather’s day’, he grinned and went on, ‘It’s funny he always seems to get the punters interested after he’s had his punt!’ With a wink he was on his way smiling from ear to ear.

© Simon Nott