Author: fatfred

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Fat Fred

Two down, two to go

Howya
It’s day three and I’m sitting here with a smile the size of Cork on me bake. Jaysus but it’s been deadly so far.
Tuesday was brand new and I was laughing me cacks off at the faces of the English eejits who thought they were all in on this steamer for Sweet Wake to romp the first. You’d have thought their Queen had found crap in her cornflakes.
Serves them bleedin right. They were jumping on a bandwagon that wasn’t theirs only to find that the poor thick Paddies had pulled the wheels from under them and had all piled on to Nicholl’s nag instead. Lovely so it was.
Then didn’t Brave Inca go and win as well and we started the hooley of all hoolies.
I was circling over Shannon before me afternoon snack, off me face by the start of the last race, futhered by the end of it and absolutely stocious by dinnertime. Joe Mangled so I was.
Man but I was gumming for some scran to soak the black stuff up. In the end I lost count at two steak pies, a bit of beef, a gansey of mash, ten pints of plain, two plates of ice cream and a wafer thin mint.
Jaysus I was so full that I could only manage half a pack of Jaffas and a couple of Bushmills for dessert then a Bill Murray before I hit the hay. To be fair the Peggy Dell in the room was atrocious but I was so ossified that I couldn’t have cared less.
I had a head on me alright the next morning but a quick dump, a shave and a Paddy Power and I was right as rain. Well I was till I got a dose of the scutters and left the bog looking like the Somme and smelling like Best Mate. It was Guinness apple tarts all the way to the course I tell you.
Another fine day Wednesday was too though. I did Newmill and Star de Mohaison and me pockets were heavier than a priest’s conscience. Of course cousin Donal and the Buncrana boys did the last of their euros on Moscow Flyer and the sentimental gobshites were last seen heading for the easyJet standby desk, their wallets as empty as Tony Dobbin’s ballbag. As useless as tits on a bull the lot of them.
Ah Cheltenham is deadly so it is. Even the bleedin bookie’s benefit stealing home at 33s in the last couldn’t take the shine off it.
I spent the night with Barry Geraghty who was buying black and burgers for every bucko he knew. He scooped his share as well so if you are after backing Ambobo in the stayer’s hurdle then you’d better be hoping that either he had a right good dose of the diuretics or had brekkie at Eddie Rockets.
Ah Jaysus there I go talking about food again. I had half a pig between a few baps a good hour ago but I’m fair gummin for some more. There’s a grand carvery next to the champagne tent and I could do some proper damage over there.
Hungry? I could eat a bus driver’s arse through a security grill.
See youse at the track.

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Fat Fred

Sweets for me sweet, Noland for me honey

Howya
Jayus I love the smell of a scam in the morning. First Tuesday of Cheltenham and there’s already a whisper for a hit on the sods with the satchels. A whisper? It’s a bleeding roar.
You’ll know that every Paddy is supposed to be on Sweet Wake in the opener, convinced that he’ll rattle up like a good thing. Ah sure and Mr Meade is supposed to be setting us up for a week of black stuff and dancing. Or at least that’s what we want the Jammy clients who aren’t on God’s side of the sea to think.
Sweet Wake is a decent nag all right but sure she might just be terrible unlucky. Oh it will break our poor oul Irish hearts if she is, so it will. Me arse and Katty Barry!
Sweet Wake has as much chance of winning as I have of being named anorexic of the year. It’s not got a baldie.
A scam? Does the Holy Father himself wear a big hat with a swastika on it? Youse better believe it.
Or maybe this is all just a bit of craic to put the plastic Paddies off Sweet Wake so the real things can clean up and we’re not backing Paul Nicholl’s nag at all? Ah work it out for yoursels. You’ll know by a quarter after two anyways.
The craic was deadly down here last night, every last man talking fluent Guinness. Jaysus but the place is black with Irish. It’s busier than a priest’s trousers at first communion.
Me cousin Donal and the Buncrana mafia were the biggest gobshites in town as per usual, knowing every winner of every race and promising to buy up every hoor in London if Missed That wins the second. Dense as bottled shite the lot of them.
If Ruby can’t bring Mr Mullin’s nag home with every other horse looking at its arse then they will be home long before St Paddy’s and not have the price of a doxie between them. Feckin eejits
For meself I liked the look of Monet’s Garden in the same race but I’ve been put off a bit by the fact that Tony Dobbin is riding the thing. Dobbo’s had a few jumps too many recently if youse catch me drift. Never out the bleedin saddle that one. Nah the ape is too used to coming second these days. Monet’s Garden, Rose Garden… Dobbo will trim any bush as soon as look at it.
And have youse heard about JP McManus? Word is the big man is going to be laying a million English pounds on Brave Inca to win the Champion. Beef news begorrah, steal me custard creams and call me peckish. A million smackeroos? Respect to the big fella but me Gary Glitter would be would be going like a threepenny sponge if I had that kind of money on a nag. Mrs O’Farrell would also be after me mickey with a cutty knife but that’s another matter.
Anyways, I’ll need to be going on account of how it’s nearly lunchtime and me stomach thinks me throat’s a Protestant and starving it out of spite. I’ve had nothing but a packet of Jaffas and a package of tatos since breakfast and I’m as weak as a salmon in a sandpit.
Hungry? I could eat the lamb o’ Jaysus through the rungs of a chair.
See youse at the track.

Categories
Fat Fred

The stinky has hit the fan

Howya

Me typing might not be all that great today on account of how I’m writing this from under me bed. I figure it’s the only place to be in case there’s a Paddy Wagon at me front door and a bunch of plods offering me a lift to the cop shop to help with their enquiries.

Jaysus I couldn’t believe it. The dog and bone went off before the bleedin cockrel and I thought it was someone phoning to say me old ma had finally bought the potato farm. Sure and if it wasn’t worse than that. It was only after being Jamie Spencer, better call him Jamie X, telling me that the bleedin rozzers had been arresting every jockey that they could lay their dirty hands on. Keep your Alan Whickers on I told him, the plods are as much use as tits on a bull, they’ll not be knowing who they’re after.

Sure and didn’t he then tell me that they had nicked Keiren. Fergal Lynch too and that useless fekker Darren Williams. Beef news begorrah, steal me Jaffas and call me skinny. The stinky has hit the fan right enough. I told them we couldn’t get away with fixing races forever. Not with shaggin eejits like Williams who doesn’t know the end that eats from the end that browns the stuff. His idea of “making it look good” is to fall off the fekker. He’d be as well holding up a big bleedin sign saying “not trying”.

Anyways, Jamie X tells me that the rozzers are banging down doors like nuns at the greengrocers when there’s a banana sale on. Poor Keiren was dragged out still wearing his Postman Pat jammies and thrown in the Paddy wagon with barely a chance to scratch his bitch-bag. Terrible so it is, treating a champion jockey like he’s some sort of bleedin criminal. Which he is I suppose but it’s its still pure diabolical.

As for me self I was so shocked it fair put me off me scran. It was a full 15 minutes before I could pull meself together enough to rustle up half a pig between a few rolls. I tell youse it took all me resolve to force meself to take a few sausages to keep the bacon company. Me aul fella always said you needed to eat when you find yourself in times of trouble. Or maybe that was Simon and Garfunkel. Anyways it explains how me aul fella had an arse on him the size of Cork, always in bleedin trouble he was.

Jamie X says they’ve lifted Mr Burke and that was a teeny bit of a worry on account of how I rode a couple of ‘tactical’ races for him. Ah come on, the little O’Farrells have as much right to Crimbo presents as the next brat. If I remember rightly, a favourite helped itself to two packets of bourbons and a couple of cans of Guinness half an hour before the off and it didn’t seem to quite agree with the nag. Had the absolute scutters after the finish so it did. Some of Mr Burke’s acquaintances had a bundle on the second favourite so they were happy enough despite the fact that the nag shat all over their Armani loafers.

I’ve been telling Keiren for years that he had to get better at the cheating or he’d be caught like Wayne Rooney in an aul folk’s home. Sure and I’ve passed on a few of the finer tricks of the trade but sometimes that caffler Keiren is as obvious as a priest with a tub of Vaseline. He may be the puppy’s privates when he’s trying to win but he can be a feckin eejit when he’s being ‘unlucky’.

So that’s why I’m lying here under me bed with the bleedin Z Cars tune going through me head. I’ve got an economy-sized box of Jaffas for company but I’ll need to send out for reinforcements before the evening news. Sure and I’d be eating anyways but I’ve got the fear they will drag me off to the nick and try and starve me till I spill me bleedin guts. Half an hour and I’d even be telling them about Coole Abbey and that little doxie from Kelso. Jaysus.

Feck, the fear is sure putting an appetite on me. Hungry? I could eat an Arab’s arse through a hail of missiles.

See youse at the track (or in the jail).

Fred O’Farrell.

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Fat Fred

Royal Bleedin Ascot

Howya

Here I am at Ascot and I have to tell youse it’s bleeding deadly. Sure and I know it says Royal Ascot in the papers but she’s no queen of mine sure she’s not. She’s a nice enough old cow but as far as I’m concerned she sits down to do her business like the rest of us so I’ll be leaving the curtseys to the English. Bleedin eejits.

I got down here yesterday and Jaysus you should see the nick of some of the motts. There’s nothing like a bunch of posh doxies with their drawers on show to make me cacks jump to attention. Sure and they go on about the hats they’re wearing but what the hell are they bothering with that bollix for when there’s diddies on display everywhere? I tell youse there are some right qweer bits o skirt among these rich birds but the apes that are with them are too busy looking for their chins to notice. Feckin eejits.

I just had the one ride yesterday. Horses that is. A nag for Mr Dods in the big sprint. It’s a nice type but yesterday wasn’t one of its days for winning if youse know what I mean. Keep it thereabouts and then be a bit one-paced in the last furlong, don’ t make it too bleedin obvious says the guvnor. Only trouble was there was about 100 bleedin nags in the race and my one was scared shitless. His Gary Glitter was shaking so much it felt liking being on a washing machine on full spin cycle. Sure and does he not bolt off like a Boy Scout being chased by Michael Jackson? I nearly had me bleedin arms pulled out trying to stop the beggar from winning so I did. Still it was worth it and all, Mr Dods gave me a nice little bonus — £500 and a nice homemade steak pie. Lovely.

I tell youse there’s nothing like a runaway horse under your arse to give you an appetite. I went through that steak pie like John Leslie through a virgin then washed them down with a pack of Jaffas and a couple of jars of black. I felt more lardy than Vanessa Felz’s arse but it was nothing that maxi strength diurectics couldn’t cope with. I’d give the bog ten minutes if I was youse.

I got a little whisper for the big race today from the stable lad that gets Frankie his “special protein diet” — expensive stuff it is too on account of how it comes all the way from Colombia. Anyways, this feller tells me that Frankie’s nag doesn’t have a baldy and that all the Sheiks are putting their gold bars on Rakti. Sure and if it’s good enough for Sheik Yermani then it’s bleeding deadly enough for Freddie O’Farrell. Lovely biscuits.

It’ll be a grand dinner for me tonight James and don’t spare the courses. Keep the scran coming till the sauna is ready.

Hungry? I could eat chips from a beggar’s hankie.

See youse at the track.

Fred O’Farrell

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Fat Fred

Magnier’s the real cowboy

Howya

Jaysus was I not after telling you that eejit JP Magnier was as much use as a condom on a fish? He had a double handful coming to the last on Rhinestone Cowboy but didn’t make a move until the winner was home and hosed. If the ape had made his move any later it would have been dark. I told Jonjo the boy could ride none and right I was too. If there’s an arseways of riding a nag then that eejit will find it.

Now youse may be thinking I’m a bit biased on account of how I lost a bundle on the Cowboy and youse wouldn’t be entirely wrong. I would gladly have drop-kicked the little gobshite over Cleve Hill if I could have got me boot on him. Jaysus. But there’s no getting away from the fact that he’d never have gotten his arse within farting distance of that horse if his ould fella wasn’t who he is. Little bollocks that he is.

Sure and it was another brutal day. When Moscow Flyer fell I could have sworn the Pope was a Protestant. How could they do that us what with it being St Paddy’s an all? Next time I see Barry Geraghty I’ll be after asking him for the money he owes me on account of him not being able to keep his arse on a horse. That’s one less present the O’Farrell chisellers will be getting this Christmas.

Our Vic? Inglis Drever? Jaysus. This betting malarkey is sure a pain in the jacksie. I can’t bring meself to tell youse how much I was losing before the last. Let’s just say I had a right does of the scutters at the thought of what Mrs F would do to me if she was after finding out. I’m sure it woould be involving a cutty knife and me poor old mickey. Jaysus.

Ah but wait. Total Enjoyment it was at the end of the day. I had even put me dinner money on the beast that’s how bad it was getting. Oh to see the nag come up that hill with every other nag viewing it’s arse. Deadly so it was. The thought of no scran last night was more than a working man should have to bear.

Sure and we had a couple of jars of the black stuff by way of celebration and a toast to St Paddy and Jimmy Culloty. The man’s a proper saint so he is. Mind you if he doesn’t bring Best Mate home in front today then he needn’t bother coming round my house looking for a bed the next time his missus gets the hump.

Last day lads and I’m feeling lucky. I might even go and nibble the ear of that little French dote that looks after Baracouda. Jaysus, if only she didn’t look quite so much like Baracouda. Still first I’m off for a spot of lunch.

Hungry? I could eat a traffic warden’s arse through a parking ticket.

See youse at the track.

Categories
Fat Fred

St Paddy’s Day. Please!!!

Happy St Paddy’s to youse all but jayus lads, how bad was that yesterday?

The drink link has taken a bigger battering than Lisa Jones gives her gee gees. If Mrs O’Farrell knew how much cash I lost to those thieves on the rails then she’d have me large lad in her handbag and be taking it down the pawn shop.

Sure and it was a grand start too. Brave Inca nosed it and we thought it was going to be black stuff all the way. Me gobshite cousin Donal had been trying to tell me how Garde Champetre couldn’t lose but I’d had the whisper from Timmy Murphy that it hadn’t a baldy so I nipped on the favourite. Course and I could have told Donal but I never liked the ape anyways.

He and his crew had to haul ass out of town on account of being all out of chicken’s hash. After the first! Feckin eejits.

Mind you, maybe I should have joined them. Jaysus there were more outsiders than a loaf of bread. It’s me own fault after Conor O’Dwyer was telling me about a nag the night before but I couldn’t hear him right through the Guinness. Hardly useless I thought he said. Jaysus.

I’d fired a rake of money on good thing after good thing but the bookies satchels just kept getting fuller than McCririck’s knickers. Ah we’ll get it back in the last two I told the lads. Me arse and Katy Barry. Forties and fifties! Jaysus, is this game rigged?

Ah but we’re still fighting lads. I’ve managed to come up with a stake for another little bash at the books today. Rhinestone Cowboy in the Coral and we are flying again. I think I might have been a little fluthered last night on account of how I told Jonjo that he’d be better off with a trained monkey on the Cowboy’s back than that eejit Magnier. Jonjo said how he’d be better off not running it at all than have a fat beggar like me break his back. Cheeky gobshite.

Right lads, up and at em again. It’s St Paddy’s and there’s no way we can lose. I’m just off down the chipper to get me strength up for the day ahead.

Hungry? I could eat a clown’s arse through a circus tent.

Categories
Fat Fred

Paradise found

Howya

Jaysus it’s bleedin deadly here at Cheltenham, so it is. There’s always something special in the air down here — probably the farts of ten thousand paddies after a night on the black stuff but who’s caring.

Sure and I had the chance to be riding for Jamie Osbourne at Southwell today but what’s the point of having me bleedin arms pulled out trying to stop some beggar from winning when I could be down here with the lads? Told the eejit that I couldn’t make it, said it was something I ate.

Ah and it’s roaring here. The craic is deadly, the Guinness tent is jammers and the drink links are busier than a hoor on St Stephen’s Green on St Paddy’s Day.

But if it’s tips youse are wanting then youse have to realise that I can’t be taking money for them. And don’t bother pretending to be them Arabian shieks an taking me off to Dubai and plying me with hoors either, I’m not as thick as that ape Keiren.

Mind I do hear some of the lads are sweet on Shardam in the Bill Hill and me cousin Donal says it’s full steam ahead on Garde Champetre in the first. Donal says he and the lads will be on the bus home Tuesday night if the Champetre loses. Bus? Shank’s bleedin pony more likely. I tell youse, if our Donal’s missus finds out how much the gobshite stands to lose then he’d be better off doing the Riverdance afore she gets her hands on him.

One of the Cork lads asked me last night if I fancied Beef or Salmon. Jaysus, I said, I’m so hungry I could eat them both.

If it’s a tip you’re wanting then youse could do worse than Rhinestone Cowboy in the Coral. Sure it’s a fine beast and it’ll take the beating but jayus it would be home and hosed if it didn’t have that ape JP Magnier on it. He may be the big man’s boy but he’s about as much use as tits on a bull. Dense as bottled shite too. If I was riding the Rhinestone then they wouldn’t see it’s arse for dust as we roared up that hill.

See, one of the advantages of being a fat beggar like me is that I can pick up the odd ride down here and I’m still hoping to get on something in the Bumper. In fact there’s a couple of stable of stable lasses I’m hoping to get on as well but don’t be going telling Mrs F. Sure the flat’s all very well but you can’t beat a good jump for a change.

Anyways all this talk of food is putting a right mouth on me and I’m off to look for some scran. Hungry? I could eat a teacher’s arse through a blackboard.

See youse on the rails.

Categories
Fat Fred

Crazy like a Fox

Howya

Jaysus it’s a terrible time to be a jockey and it’s all the fault of that feckin eejit Fallon. I’ve been telling him for years that he’d get caught eventually but did he listen? Did he feck as like.

That’s the trouble wi these top jocks, they look up at a fat git like me and think I know nowt about riding. Me arse and Katty Barry. How do they think I keep getting rides when I’ve an arse the size of Lansdowne Road? Cos I use me head.

See, when it comes to cheating I’m the puppy’s privates. I might not weigh half a bag of sugar when wet but I sure as feck wouldn’t get a nag a mile in front of the bleedin field when it wasn’t supposed to win. Jaysus, if you are gonna do it, do it right. Give the fecker a wee shot of vodka or a packet of jaffas, twist its feckin bollocks before the off or just hold on to the reins until yer bleeding arms are near popping out. There are more ways of stopping a horse than Fallon’s had trainer’s wives. Learn some of them ya caffler Keiren.

And as for that eejit Sean Fox jumping off his nag at Fontwell, what a header. Dry your arse, Foxie ya dope. I could have fallen off a horse better than that in me sleep when I was a youngfella. By the time I was ten I could do the apache roll, the broken stirrup and the slipped saddle just like me old man taught me. Foxie jumped of that beast like Dettori after seven winners. Look at me, ma, I’m on the telly. Feckin ape.

These mentallers are amateurs and they are getting the rest of us a bad name. I’ve got a horse for Jamie Osbourne tomorrow that will take a bit of stopping if youse gets my meaning and now the Jockey Club will be watching as if it was a bleedin porno. I’ll need to fall back on a trick ould Georgie Duffield tells me just to work bleedin deadly in his younger days, just before the Crimean War. It’s not one you can do in front of the ladies but let’s just say the nag will thank you for it at the time. A quick shuffle or two of the wrist and he’ll be so bleedin shagged out he won’t have a baldy. It’s a savage good bit of cheatin but it doesn’t work so well with fillies.

Sure and I might be needing a rake of new dodges what with Keiren banned for 21 days and all. There will be plenty of spare mounts going and one or two trainers might just be looking for a man who knows how to be terrible unlucky. Sure and I can do it all arseways and look no worse than a thick Paddy who just went for the wrong gap. Yeah, in me brown I did.

Anyways I’ve still got nearly a full pack of diuretics and a session booked for the sauna in the morning. That means I can eat me way through a cod and chips and still be able to wash it down with a rake of cake.

Hungry? I could eat chips fried in Shergar’s pish.

See youse at the track.

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Fat Fred

Fer feck’s sake Fallon

Howya

Oh jaysus. Poor Keiren. He’s really gone and done it this time.

The Fallon fella was only doing his job and making sure his nag didn’t win when it wasn’t supposed to so that the one of Jamie Osbourne’s got over the line first. Where was the harm in that?

But the eejit had to go and get that horse of his so far out in front that his arse would have looked like a mouse’s diddy to the rest of them. Then he had to put the anchors on so heavy that you could almost hear the beast screeching to a bleedin halt.

Fair play, the man’s a fine jockey but for a crooked fella he’s damn poor at the cheating. Me, I would have eaten me way through half a cow and weighed the beggar down so much that he didn’t have a baldy.

To make matters even worse, the eejit only had to go and tell a couple of undercover reporters that his nag wasn’t going to win. The fella’s got a gob on him like an overworked hoor. A right bollocks he is.

Now the gits at the Jocket Club are all over him like flies on shite. And that means the feckers will be after the rest of us an all. Jaysus.

Ah sure and the Jockey Club are as much use as a cigarette lighter on a motorbike. I’m sure they don’t know the end that shits from the end that eats but they sure know how to make the working man’s life a bleedin misery.

All this hassle is bad for me digestion I tell youse. Sure and it’s putting a proper appetite on me.

Hungry? I could eat chips from John McCririck’s knickers.

See youse at the track.

Categories
Fat Fred

Sea Biscuit? See me.

Howya

Was youse watching the Oscars the other night? Blinding it was apart from that diddy bitch-bag Billy Crystal. You ever seen anyone more in need of a good kick in the bollocks? Me neither.

Anyways it minded me of that film Sea Biscuit about that ould horse that won all them races in America. Sound it was.

Mind youse, that little horse was so bleedin diddy that I’d have crushed the beggar. The only way it could have won with me on its back would be if it had a ton of rocket fuel up its jacksie. Actually that’s not as Irish as you might think. Jamie Osbourne has this stuff he calls arse ammo for the ones he wants to win. Bleedin deadly it is.

But even the ould movie nag’s name would have got me thinking of food. Sea Biscuit is it? If I see a biscuit I eat it. Ah custard creams, Kimberlys, bourbons, jammie bleedin dodgers. Lovely.

You can’t beat a pack of biccies for keeping your appetite down. A rake of choccy diggies and I can put off eating dinner for a good hour. At Wolverhampton last week I couldn’t eat lunch on account of having to ride a nag for Mr Lungo that had a bit of a baldy. Hank Marvin I was. So I got meself on the outside of a box of jaffa cakes and that fair did the trick.

Ah fair play, I had to eat. Without food in me I’m as much use as a lighthouse on a bog. Mind you I did get a right dose of the scutters just before the 3.30. A right reddener so it was. Youse can have no idea how skawly the trots can be when you’re wearing riding britches. Like an atom bomb going off in a can of beans so it is.

Still, blinding news. I’m on a winner at Lingfield on Saturday. Mr Channon tells me the only thing that can beat his nag is a bolter being ridden by Kieren. Now what Mr C doesn’t know is I was enjoying a bit of rock ‘n’ roll with a stable lass who tells me that Fallon’s nag is going to run a bit wide at the second bend and then get boxed in before heading for home. Dreadful unlucky that way some of Keiren’s horses.

So that means I’ll be due a right little wedge in a bonus from ould Channon and can get a nice little lift from Victor Swindler as well. Of course I could always tell Mrs O’Farrell about me little windfall. Yeah, in me brown I will.

Anyways I’m off to see a man about a one and one — cod and chips to you. Hungry? I’d eat a farmer’s arse through a blackthorn bush.

See youse at the track.