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.