Oy oy! I’m back from Nam – Cheltenham, the biggest and best horse racing bash you can get, unless you’re really into orange Scouse birds who’ll do anything for the price of a blue WKD and a lift back from Aintree Ladies Day to a booth in the Newz Bar.
Won a few quid this year as it happens and we had a good laugh superglueing some lad’s head to one of those floppy Guinness top hats on St Paddy’s Day. It was all sorted in time for his wedding photos on the Saturday though, and his intended is apparently very understanding where such banter is concerned. It’s always about the banter, never forget that.
We didn’t have any runners at this year’s festival, which is probably for the best as you can relax and get bladdered, rather than fretting that the nag that’s just gone down like a sack of shit at the first fence is yours – all those yard fees for nothing. There’s a few tales of that sort of thing going on at the moment.
Word is a load of the Irish boys who’d gone in too deep on the property boom over there are having to have their horses shot. Actually buying horses isn’t a problem you see, especially in Ireland – the damn things are running all over council estates over there, like rats round a Rusholme kitchen.
The cost comes with getting a roof over their heads, hay in their bellies, and paying some little muppets to give them a bit of a test drive (probably not the technical term) every morning or whatever. It doesn’t come cheap, and as the Micks are all skint now and have to ask Angela Merkel for so much as a Euro pocket money, they’ve nowhere to turn but the gun.
There is an alternative. Not that I’m entering the market to buy any more nags – our little syndicate’s got more than enough on its plate with the glue factory candidates we already own, such as Flash the Cash and Rampant Roger.
But I’m brokering a deal in classic Cashman style. The French, as we all know, will eat anything and it just so happens I’ve been cultivating a contact in the meat trade there. He’s desperate to get his hands on as much cheap flesh as he can, so poor old Dobbin needn’t live a wasted life.
The logistics are looked after as well. I met a Geordie lad at MIPIM, who’s made a million by buying up old choppers and planes from the MoD. He reckons we can get more horses in one of those big troop carrier planes than die in the first lap of the National every year. The only thing we need to sort out is getting some cargo in for the return leg – and as much as the little devil on one shoulder whispers “Asylum seekers” I’m just too nice a guy to get involved.