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.
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.