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.

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.

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.

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.