Top of the morning line to you

Howya

Being followers of the sport of kings as you are, you’ll have seen me name on your racecard and in your papers and here I am to write for youse every now and again. Me oul sweat Paul Pot gave me the gig and said I should tell youse all about the grand game and the twisters that run it. Well here it is.

These days I don’t really have what you would call a regular stable. One day I’m whacking the arse off a horse for Mrs Reveley then the next I’m holding one back for Jamie Osbourne. It’s the variety that makes it so bleeding deadly.

I suppose it’s fair to say I’ve had something of a problem with me weight. It’s me genes — makes me lard go up and down more often than a stable girl’s cacks. All it takes is a couples of pints of the black stuff and I end up looking like that fat fecker McCririck. The lads like to indulge in a bit of cheery banter by calling me Fat Fred O’Farrell, the Fattest Fecker in the Field. Ah the cheeky little gobshites, I hope their bollocks drop off.

Anyways I may be a couple of pints overweight but at least I can ride. Some of these midgets are as much use as tits on a bull. They may be as small as a mouse’s diddy but they can ride feck all.

Sure I’m partial to a bag of taytos and the odd swallow of Arthur’s but all it takes is a few days of starvation, pills, saunas and cocaine to get me down to the same weight as the tiddlers.

End of last summer I was on a nice two-year-old for Mr Cecil. Top nag it was as well. The sheiks had wanted Fallon on board but there was no way that Mr Cecil was standing that. Kieren has had one ride too many at that yard if youse gets me drift.

I wasn’t Mr Cecil’s first choice either but Mickey-Jo, Spencey and Darley were booked up, Frankie was getting his hair cut and oul George was in his scratcher having a nap. A right mentaller the oul fella is, still riding at 72 and all.

Anyway, nice horse this was and I’m pretty sure it would have bolted up if I hadn’t had all the strength crapped out of me trying to get down to nine stone. Those diuretic pill jobs are the business for losing weight but spending half the night on the pan sure shags the bejesus out of ye.

Oul Sheik Yermani wasn’t best pleased at his nag losing either and I don’t suppose he’ll be shouting for O’Farrell come the Guineas. Ah well, bollix to him.

Today I’m off to Lingfield and I’ve got two rides, one winner and one loser. The one that doesn’t have a baldy is up first so there’s plenty of time for me to work off that fish supper I had to meself last night before I get on one of Mr Berry’s “specially-trained” efforts in the last. I had to stop this nag winning at Southwell and it nearly pulled me feckin arms out. Today it will go through the field like an Eddie Rockets breakfast through a tourist.

Of course I’m not allowed to bet on this nag as it’s against the rules. Yeah, me arse and Katty Barry. Mrs O’Farrel and the little O’Farrell’s will be going without dinner if something goes wrong and this fecker gets banjaxed. No worries though.

Anways, I’m off down to see my accountant and invest the snapper’s college funds. And I should just have time for a bit of dinner myself before I’m off. Hungry? I could eat a baby’s arse through the bars of a cot.

See yous at the track.

Fred O’Farrell