Back when Cheltenham was cancelled because of the Foot and Mouth disease, I was near the start of my journey as a full-time gambler. I had been due to attend on the Wednesday and had my ducks lined up in one beautiful row for the shooting.
Instead I sat at home doing nothing. So, I started fantasising and before I knew it had written a vaguely amusing two thousand-word pastiche which talked of the Wednesday as though it had actually happened, and I had actually been there and all of my fantasies had actually come true.
I can’t remember the horses, nor the trainers, nor the jockeys, but I do remember that they were glorious. Every bet ran true, every exacta, every double clove clean to the marrow. To put it as clearly as I can, I even mentioned being pleasured in the car park post-racing by the lovely Keeley Hawes. And you can’t just make that stuff up. Oh…
Anyway, my point is, Daryl, my gambling buddy, e-mailed me back to say “Wow – sounds like you had a good day.”
And then, the next day, “Hang on, I’ve just remembered, Cheltenham’s been cancelled.”