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.