Tag Archive for: David Massey

Roving Reports: Do You Know Where You’re Going To…?

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Where to start the latest missive from around the tracks? Aintree would seem like an obvious start point after last week, but then again, I haven't told you about what happened at Cheltenham either, writes David Massey. So do we start there? No, I'll tell you what, let's start at Clacket Lane Services, and with Vicki rather than me, for a change. 

Vicki, for those of you unaware, has been my other work partner for the last year. In fact, as she recently reminded me, it was at Aintree last year we sat down and thrashed out the idea that Trackside has become since then; so, for all I'm dreadful at remembering dates, I can remember a decent meal when I have one, and I had a very good steak that night as we discussed future world domination. 

Vicki has a superb business head. I leave that side of things to her. She can negotiate contracts as if she was trying to win The Apprentice, squeeze ten pound notes out of people tighter than two coats of paint. They should send her to the Ukraine talks. Perhaps she could sort it in a week, because Fanta Man seems to be struggling to finish the job off, to use racing parlance.

However, she has her weak spots. Geography is one of them. Leicester Racecourse is "somewhere in the middle", "I didn't realise Aintree was quite so far away" - she lives near Colchester, "how the hell is it over two hours to Fakenham? It's only seventy miles!", another map-reading gem she came out with the other week. (If she read these columns, she'd know Fakenham is four hours from anywhere, as I've stated on many an occasion. More on this particular excursion later.)

These all pale into insignificance, mind, when I tell you her crowning glory. She was amazed I'd made it to Uttoxeter by 11am the other week. "Wow, how have you got there so quickly?" she exclaimed. Puzzled, I wondered what she meant, given it's barely an hour from my house. "Well....isn't Uttoxeter in Devon?". Yes, friends, she'd spirited it away from East Staffordshire, took it all the way to the bottom of the M5, gave it a new accent and thought I'd somehow driven 200-odd miles in an hour after sending her a text I was setting off sixty minutes before. 

That Fakenham trip. She'd decided she wanted to try out some new make-up brands and looked for a large branch of Boots that was on her way to the Norfolk track as a stop-off. Thetford was favourite, there was what looked a very large branch on the map. And so, off she went and got to Thetford, following the sat-nav directions. When she arrived at Boots, it was indeed a huge, huge building. She'd found the Boots distribution centre on an industrial estate. 

So anyway, Clacket Lane, and she's called in for a coffee and, ahem, a comfort break on the way to Ascot. Having precariously balanced her car keys on top of the toilet roll holder (this isn't going to end how you think at this point) it takes them mere seconds to fall off and onto the floor. And at the same time, slide into the cubicle next door. 

You might expect them to be slid back at this point. Instead, she tells me, she can hear them being picked up and the inhabitant leaving the cubicle, footsteps suggesting she's actually walking off with the keys. Which, as it turns out, she was. 

Panicking, she quickly has to get out and find the person that's waltzed off with them. But she's no idea who. They're long gone. Now what do you do? As it turns out, nothing needed to be done, as ten minutes later the key holder returns to the toilets, looking for someone that might sport a face that says "Hello! I'm an idiot that's panicking having lost my keys." She spies Vicki matching that description and gives her keys back. Turns out her neighbour thought that it must have been she that dropped the keys and thinking they were her own, took them off with her. It was only after realising they didn't open her own car that she realised what had happened, and brought them back. 

All I'm saying is this. If you want someone to read a paddock laden with unraced two year olds, Vicki is your lady. Just don't let her anywhere near a map. 

Oh yeah, Cheltenham. It snowed. A week before, on a Sporting Life podcast recorded in bright sunshine I'd got laughed out of the place for suggesting it might snow at Cheltenham. Nobody was laughing as we drove through heavy fluffy white showers near Evesham on the Wednesday morning and, as I walked into the press room, the Sporting Life lads actually gave me a round of applause for my prediction and a rendition of "Simply The Best", which is a standing joke with the Life lads as my final appearance on Popmaster (a good fifteen years ago now) saw me forget the name of Tina Turner's mega-worldwide hit, meaning I didn't win the DAB radio, merely a Bluetooth speaker that broke within two months. Thanks for that, Ken. 

A tick-box food card was introduced for the press at Cheltenham this year, seemingly to stop repeat offenders from having half a dozen lunches (you know who you are) before the first. You got your bacon roll for breakfast, tick, hot lunch, tick, and a snack in the afternoon, third and final tick. All good. At the end of the Tuesday a couple of people gave me their cards as they weren't coming back for the rest of the four days, meaning I quite literally held all the cards as far as meals went. As word got out later in the week, I had various members of the press sidling up to me, asking if I could use one of my cards to get themselves a bit of breakfast as they hadn't got one. "Here you go son, treat yourself to a sausage sandwich", I whispered, handing the golden chalice over. This must be what it feels like to be a drug dealer. I've never been so popular. 

Horse racing? Yeah, we had a couple of nice winners and napping Doddiethegreat in the Press Challenge, plus sticking up Lecky Watson, saw Team Trackside finish a very respectable fourth on the week. We built on that by making Nick Rockett a bet at Aintree and now stand third overall. Long way to go (doesn't finish until Champions Day) but we're in the mix for the big prize. 

Aintree. The undoubted highlight of the week was not the aforementioned Nick Rockett, nor Jonbon getting back on track, but the Yorkshire Gold teabags in the canteen. Most courses, you're lucky if you get Happy Shopper-type teabags that aren't even tea, just stuff swept up off the floor and tied up in a perforated bag; but such luxury we haven't seen for some time in a press canteen. To give you an idea of what we tend to put up with, there's one course (I won't name and shame... yet) that has tea and coffee you serve yourself with and if you turn the coffee jar upside down, the coffee usually sticks to the bottom. You don't spoon it out, you chip it out. 

The racing was excellent at Aintree on the Thursday, it’s one of my favourite days of the year with its opening run of Grade 1s in a proper jumps atmosphere. Different kettle of fish on the Friday, mind. Ladies Day seemed slightly less busy but hectic nonetheless. As we stayed around the paddock area for much of the afternoon, doing what we do, we didn’t see the, er, merriment around the front but I did get a message from Vicki as she left the track. “There’s a woman lying on the floor getting her face licked by an Irish wolfhound. Also, a lot of nipples on show. I’d leave sooner rather than later if I were you.” Needless to say I packed away pretty quickly after that and made my way back to the car. Sans nipples, thankfully. 

I’m back at Cheltenham for their April two-dayer as I type this and it’s freezing cold, a reminder we haven’t got shot of winter just yet. No snow, but I’m not counting any chickens…

- DM

Roving Reports: Data Driven Drizzle

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It's a wet and cold Monday morning here in Nottingham, writes David Massey, and the news has just been announced that it's been the warmest January since they started measuring such things, which apparently was in 1919. As a slave to the data then of course - of course! - I believe the science when it tells me as such. It's just that the places I seem to have visited during that most miserable of months have managed to dodge any semblance of sunshine, as demonstrated by the fact I don't recall any tracks I attended having to miss out obstacles because of low sun.

I tell a lie - Doncaster on a Friday. Ah yes, I remember it well now. The warmth on the back of my neck as I wrote my notes about the brave and talented warriors about to contest the 0-100 handicap hurdle. A brief glimpse of potential spring, snatched away not two days later as I tried to make my way around a flooded Herefordshire.

Yes, I did one of my bi-annual excursions to the Welsh borders at the end of last month. After making a day trip to Cheltenham on the Saturday and remarking how much the water had receded around the Evesham area since my last visit, by the time Monday came back around it was starting to rise again, and quickly. I stayed in Worcester, by the cricket ground, on the Sunday night (although I didn't realise this until first light Monday morning, when the first thing I saw on opening the curtains was the Basil d'Oliveira Stand) and no sooner had I arrived there than the words "precautionary inspection" were uttered at Hereford, along with the phrase "cautiously optimistic". As I've said before, any clerk of the course using the word "optimistic" in an update should be fined five grand, and ten if they precede it with "cautiously". The BHA could, however, use that money to pay for trainer interviews, where famous Berkshire handler Willie Runnem-Ornot can tell us his horse has had a setback for the Cheltenham Festival, but he's "cautiously optimistic" he can get him back on track if Kempton will let the lad have a gallop round next Tuesday when there's no press about. That'll be two grand please. Cash in a brown envelope? Yes, that’ll do fine, thanks for coming along.

And so, early Monday, Hereford bites the dust, and I'm left in a hotel room in Worcester with little to do but look at an empty Graeme Hick stand and nowhere much to go. I'm tempted to hoik it up to Monmore Greyhounds for their afternoon meeting, but my next stop is Ross-on-Wye, in readiness for Chepstow on Tuesday, and I'd be heading the wrong way. I decide instead to do the sensible thing, and just do some pre-emptive Cheltenham writing whilst drinking more hotel coffee than is probably good for me.

The rain is still falling as I set off for Ross. A wise man would have gone back to the motorway at this point and stayed on the main roads but I'm a romantic idiot with time on my hands and decided to go the scenic route using the back roads. I'm glad I did, in some ways - stunning vistas as I drive in the shadow of the Malvern Hills and I also trundle past someone's training establishment - I still haven't worked out who it was - through one of the villages.

Then, about four or five miles out of Ross, there's trouble. I'm in a village where the only way through it is via a bridge, and that's flooded, badly. I stop and try to work out the situation. Gamble, drive through and potentially flood the engine, or (according to Google Maps) track back almost eight miles and add another half an hour to my journey time? I didn't need to wait long for an answer. A lorry goes past me and through the flood. It's deep, too deep. This is confirmed by a Range Rover who does the same, and barely gets through it. For once, common sense kicks in and I turn around. The Malverns look as lovely as they did twenty minutes ago from the reverse angle.

You know that feeling you get sometimes when you arrive somewhere and think "I've been here before, but I can't quite remember when?" - I get that as I pull up in Ross at my Premier Inn. I know I've been here, but I can't quite remember when, or why. Then it dawns on me. I came here once with a good friend a long, long time ago on the way back from our one and only trip to Ffos Las. We had dinner in the Beefeater next door and then a night of great sex in the hotel. Well, that's my recollection of things. She says we just had a poorly-cooked steak and the only pudding I got was sticky toffee before we hit the M50 half an hour later. I think she's probably right. I suspect I've let my imagination get the better of me. It was about ten years ago, after all. Anyway, I'm here again, and I ask the receptionist to book me into the (now) Travellers Rest next door for dinner.

"You'll have a job. The place closed months ago. It's derelict and being knocked down." That's the end of that, then. Serves them right for undercooking my steak.

There's a precautionary inspection at Chepstow tomorrow now. This journey could be a fairly expensive busted flush. However, some light emerges at the end of the tunnel, and for once it isn't an oncoming train.

To amuse myself whilst writing I've had an each-way Yankee at Plumpton and after a 25-1 winner (in a four-horse race too, all to win!) along with another winner and place it's looking pretty good. I'm offered a decent cash out. I never cash out. Never. But... the cash out would cover the price of the trip, and if Chepstow bit the dust tomorrow, it wouldn't matter too much. For the second time in a day, I do the sensible thing and cash out. Do I need to tell you what happened to the fourth selection? Of course I don't. It won half the track. The only consolation being I did have a few quid on as a single. Still, a bit gutting, although I remind myself the whole trip is now paid for if it all goes blank tomorrow. And as the rain falls down on a humdrum town, as The Smiths warbled back in 1984, it has to be said that looks a very likely scenario.

Tuesday morning. Miracle of miracles, Chepstow is somehow on. I'm actually going to get some racing.

I'm going with my friend Alex who I haven't seen in years. She awards herself the title of "Assistant Media Bitch" for the day, which not only suits her well, but could catch on elsewhere, I reckon. I know a few that would fit that title perfectly. Anyway, we have a cracking day, the highlight of which - for her - was making Richard Hoiles a cup of tea. "It won't get any better than that today", she excitedly shrieks. I manage to find a couple of losers before Royal Jewel digs me out, and then Lagertha is something of a paddock standout in the Mares Novice. It'll be a winning day, which is always nice. I don't have a penny on Jo Lescribaa but I'm delighted for my friend Andy who has a interest in her, and all in all it's been a really enjoyable trip despite the grim weather. Better still, it has rekindled Alex's love for a day at the races. She hasn't been for some time - "the game isn't the same as it was", she says, but I hope she will go racing, at least in midweek when it's a bit quieter, again in the near future. The drive home is a long one, but a call in at the ever-lovely Gloucester Services breaks it up.

Back to the present day. The app on my phone now tells me "Rain coming in under an hour." Any chance of a look at that weather data again, please? It's Leicester on Thursday and Haydock on Saturday for me this week. The Trackside bobble hat will be on, I can assure you. Say hello if you see me, or if it's as warm as the data says, Stop Me and Buy One. Either way, have a great week.

- DM

Roving Reports: Reflections from the Festivities

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Well, Christmas and the New Year holidays are well and truly over, writes David Massey, and with the decorations stuffed back into the garage, the last of the Wensleydale and water biscuits demolished and just the awfulness of the Bounties left in the Celebrations tub (sorry Lydia, but it’s true) it’s time to go back to work.

Or at least it would be if the weather wasn’t playing havoc with my schedule this week. Leicester, which was the first port of call on Tuesday, bit the dust at the weekend and I’m not holding out a lot of hope for the nominated replacement fixture, Doncaster on Friday. Warwick on Saturday has to be in the balance, too, with the course waterlogged; and that in turn means they can’t get the frost sheets down for later in the week. I fear it may be a week at home, which in turn means the good lady will find lots of dreadful jobs for me to do. Anyone any good at hanging pictures up?

At least we got through Christmas with no abandonments and thank the Lord we did, with the good lady and myself taking in Kempton on Boxing Day and staying over for the Friday meeting before heading off to Challow Day at Newbury. She’d never been to King George Day before and so, despite a stupidly early get-up of 7am, we set off for what we hoped was a Bank Holiday weekend of tremendous sport.

The one really good thing about the Christmas period, when you do a lot of driving as part of your job, is the total lack of traffic on the road. It felt like it was at least ten minutes after leaving our house before we came across another vehicle. Why can’t it be like this all the time? Oh, how my life would be easier. No more bottlenecks in the roadworks on the A1 going to Wetherby. Goodbye, shocking jams near Heathrow that take me forty minutes to navigate on the way to Sandown. And farewell 50mph M1 roadworks near Northampton… actually, no. Those swines would still be there. Forever.

We arrived at Kempton in plenty of time – early, in fact, even after a Boxing Day Maccies breakfast stop at Watford Gap, a service station I frequently can’t find my way out of – and the Christmas spirit was already evident. After grabbing a coffee and catching up with my friend Anna from Sheffield, also at KG Day for the first time, I found my work partner Vicki and we set about how we were going to tackle the day.

The racing, I have to say, was superb. The Jukebox Man did not disappoint, looking every inch the chasing star I really hope he is. Constitution Hill, whilst not back to his best yet, was at least taking a step towards it in the Christmas Hurdle (and yes, he will come on for that). The wonderful Banbridge proved myself and others wrong by staying the three miles well and picking up a brave but tired Il Est Francais after the last. I was equally delighted to see L’Homme Presse finish third on his seasonal debut for Andy Edwards, and he tells me he's come out of the race well.

After the last we head to Addlestone, which is where we are staying for the next couple of nights. The good lady has booked us into a local Thai restaurant early evening for food, an excellent choice. We are greeted with a cheery “Merry Christmas!” by a Thai lady as we enter. I wish her a Merry Christmas back, thinking she was a member of staff. It turns out she wasn’t, merely a customer that had been enjoying herself in a local hostelry or two for the afternoon and wanted to carry that enjoyment on here. She entertained us by (loudly) singing along to all the easy-listening versions of classic pop songs the restaurant were playing – her rendition of Coldplay’s “Yellow” a personal highlight – until she’d entertained us for long enough and decided to go back to the pub. “If you ever come to Woking, I’ll take care of you!” she shouted as she left, something I wasn’t sure was a promise of hospitality or a threat. We finished our meal in peace and went back to the hotel for a quiet night.

Kempton Day 2. Breakfast in the superb Bread & Roses, which I can highly recommend if you’re ever in the area, is followed by a blissful 17-minute drive to the course. Although not before I’ve filled up with petrol, which has me muttering “how much?” as even the prices at the local supermarkets are considerably higher than they are in the Midlands. Can’t eat value, goes the old racing saying, but I can’t even put it in the tank down here.

With time to kill at the track, I try my hand at a Crystal Maze-like box that is one of the on-course attractions set up by Ladbrokes on the day. Those of you of a certain vintage will remember the endgame of The Crystal Maze: what remained of the team of accountants/nurses/architects by this point were locked into a huge glass dome before they turned the fans on, and all the pretty gold and silver tickets flew around their heads. The aim was to get 100 Gold tokens to win the big prize (“The pony-trekking holiday in Ullswater will be MINE!”) which they failed to do with alarming regularity. This was similar, but with flying foam balls. I scored 30 in my allotted 30 seconds in the box, which I thought was pretty good, but the bloke after me, who couldn’t have been much more than five foot tall, scored an impressive 38. Lower centre of gravity, I told myself. Yes, it was that, and not the fact I’m old and creaking, that was the difference. Let’s move on.

The highlight of the day’s racing was, without doubt, Sir Gino, who looked superb before the Wayward Lad and, as he danced around Kempton’s tight turns attracting oohs and aaahs from the knowledgeable crowd as he put in spectacular leaps at some of his fences, you did get the feeling you were watching a new chasing star being born. From a punting perspective, by far the better day of the two for me, with both Della Casa Lunga and Ooh Betty getting me back in front over the two days.

With the Italian restaurant cancelling my reservation for no good reason, food that night is nothing more than a raid on the local Waitrose and back to the hotel but the peace of the evening is rudely shattered by the fire alarm going off. We’re all outside – I say all, there couldn’t have been more than forty of us – debating whether this is someone having a fag in one of the rooms or whether local kids are mucking around, when I realise I’ve left my coat in the room and am now freezing cold. It takes 40 minutes to sort the mess out, but thankfully it’s a false alarm, and nothing worse than us missing an Only Connect Christmas Special has happened. However, the alarm periodically goes off for a few seconds at a time and we wonder whether we are going to get through the night without another visit to the car park.

The episode takes me back to a time when that happened in a Travelodge in (I think) Leatherhead a few years ago. We were all outside in the cold when a lady offered me her dressing gown. That was weird enough, but literally getting propositioned by her not long after put the tin hat on things. (No, I didn’t, behave yourselves. I’m better than that. Not much, but I am.)

As things turned out, it was a Silent Night, with the alarm behaving itself and we get a decent kip. A final Builder’s Breakfast at Bread & Roses (the scales were not kind to me next morning) and we are on the road to Newbury.

Now, Newbury is one of those tracks that seems to split opinion. Vicki loves the place, but she’s crackers, and I’m with the majority that find the place hard going these days. I have to say that the new pre-parade ring is very good, though, and a real boon for those wanting to get an early look.

This is supposed to be a day off with the good lady for me, with Vicki doing the donkey work for Trackside today, but it isn’t long before I’m roped back in as the favourite for the second is taken back to the pre-parade. “Get in there and see what the problem is, will ya?” she says, literally pushing me that way in the process. I do as I’m told, obviously, and it turns out they’re having issues with the tongue-tie, which gets a report. The horse ends up well beaten.

The Good Doctor, on which I’ve had a decent bet in the next, isn’t quite good enough, as it turns out, with The Famous Five having his measure by a short-head. The wife has backed the winner, too, a double kick in the Norbits, but Henry’s Friend prevailing an hour later ensures I won’t go home potless on the day.

The Challow is a cracker, with The New Lion looking every inch the top-class hurdler (and future chaser) he promised to be beforehand. He’s too good for them, far too good. Did I foresee him being sold within a week? Using the Yates' celebrations after as a guide, I did not.

It’s getting dark, and our Bank Holiday Bonanza Of Racing is coming to a close. With still little traffic on the roads, we head home via the M40 and A43. We’re within a couple of miles of the now defunct Towcester Racecourse at one point. Oh, how I wish that was still open. Finding slow horses is something I can do…

The M1 Northampton roadworks haven’t gone away. You can’t have everything, I suppose. Home for seven, and a chance to catch up with that missing Only Connect. I reckon we could do a racing version, if we put our minds to it. I’ve got some time on my hands this week now. I’ll have a think and get back to you in the next missive.

See you on a racecourse soon!

- DM

Roving Reports: The End of the Line

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In many ways, I'm glad it's York that's the end of the line as far as my life as a bookmaker's workman has gone, as it's one of the more pleasurable tracks to work, writes David Massey. Nice crowds, little trouble over the years, and with many punters returning time after time to the Ebor meeting, I've made some new friends too. More on that in a moment.

I say this is the end - the door is always open, I've been told, so who knows, perhaps the odd guest appearance here and there might still be a possibility? And of course, you'll still see me through the winter at good ol' Southwell, working for Rob and the S&D mob, but as far as the summer work goes, York is very much the final stop. But pastures new beckon, and exciting projects to get stuck into.

These tales won't disappear either, but they'll obviously have a new slant. I'll now have more time to take in my surroundings, which means a lot more complaining about roadworks, bad food, awful digs (have I told you about Yarmouth? I will do, shortly...) so these articles might start reading less like the humorous pieces they're supposed to be, and more like two-star Trip Advisor reviews. [DM, we need to talk..! - Ed.]

So Yarmouth first - I went there for their two-day meeting earlier in the month and, after my usual landlady couldn't find me a spot in her hotel, I admit to leaving booking somewhere rather late, but found a place that looked okay on the website. Not a palace by any means, but somewhere to rest my weary head.

On arriving at said place, just after 3pm, the first thing I can hear is a lot of shouting from round the back of the hotel. The second thing I see, as I enter my digs, is that there hasn't been a Hoover pushed around the floor for quite some time. I'm already getting nervous as I pick the room key up from the receptionist, who has a face like he's worn out, although presumably not from vacuuming.

I get to the room and open the door. The horror.

The bed is unmade with last nights sheets on. The shower and bathroom are full of used wet towels. There are half-drunk coffee cups everywhere and whatever that stain is on the carpet I don't know, and don't want to know.

I return downstairs and hand the keys back. I'm offered another room but the damage is done. I'm out. A sheer piece of luck ensues as I bump into my usual landlady who goes into crisis mode and starts ringing around her B&B friends. I'm delighted to say this ends well as I'm found a great room for the night that's so near the course I could walk in.

Do I name the hotel of horrors? Put it this way - my new work partner Victoria is great, but clearly not all Victorias are as good as she is....

And so to York. The first thing to say is how quiet it was for the first three days. The Thursday in particular was very poor business-wise. Seven races, and in five of them, I couldn't take £300 a race. Wednesday first though, and a cracking day of racing ahead.

No sooner have I set up in my usual position than a group of ladies who come on this day every year appear in front of me. "DAVE!!!". I know that voice. It's Emma, who asked me out last year but sadly for her, as I told her then, I was getting married the following month. It's literally the first thing she asks me. "Did you get married, then?" I inform her I did. "I don't suppose you want an affair, do you?" Emma, ladies and gentleman, is a bad influence. However, they are a good laugh and keep me entertained all afternoon.

The racing itself is fantastic but in terms of taking a bet, the biggest I manage all afternoon is a £300 on Los Angeles, who gamely scrambles home by a neck. The strong wind that's almost behind them means track records are falling, and I will be proud to say I was there to see City Of Troy win the Juddmonte. I was one of the doubters beforehand but that particular crabbing-club is now surely defunct.

At the end of the day the ladies are back for the yearly group photo. Emma hasn't given up. "Are you sure there's no way I can tempt you into something naughty?" she asks. I stand on the joint and the ladies gather around me for the photo but Emma grabs the fake-grass mat I stand on, puts it on the floor and kneels on it in front of me. We will stop at his point as this is a family-friendly column but I will leave it to your imaginations, dear readers, as to the pose Emma took. I repeat - Emma is a VERY bad influence.

So a quiet start to the week, and it's back to the usual digs which I have to say I won't miss that much. The rooms themselves are fine, just that the walls are paper-thin, so when the bloke above you comes back at midnight after being in the pub and falls asleep with the telly on too loud, a ticket to morningtown does not come easily.

Thursday. The wind is getting up again. My good friend James, who cost me £20 yesterday as part of his placepot (we went out leg five with 8 x £1 lines on the go at the time, then doubled up again last leg, ouch) is back with another perm which I once again invest in, having gone so close yesterday. We go out leg 1, and promptly get the next five legs up. I hate placepots.

As stated, business is no better than yesterday, worse in fact, although a well-known ring bookmaker has a grand at 7-4 Arizona Blaze for the sales race with me. It looks home for all money when 22-1 chance Diligently comes out of the pack from nowhere to nab him on the line. He throws a grand at me with the line "hope it chokes you" afterwards. He's taken defeat well, clearly.

Vicki's on good form with the paddock picks, finding both Thunder Run and Angel Hunter on the afternoon. I tell her she doesn't need me after all. Sadly, she agrees. This partnership might be over before it's even started..!

It's burger and chips at the pub that night and clearly someone's had a word with matey boy upstairs, as he's as quiet as a mouse when he gets back. I sleep better until around 6am when something crashes to the floor in my room. Having left the window slightly open for fresh air, the wind - now gale force - has blown a small ornament that was in the windowsill to the floor. It's absolutely howling outside. I decide to get up and go to York early to use the press room to do some work.

The wind is so bad there's a tree down outside the track, which Highway Maintenance are chopping up into pieces to take away, and the course itself has taken a proper battering, with upturned benches and tables strewn around the place. A couple of the bookmaker joints have gone over too - one has had the leg snapped off, that's going to be hard to fix, and expensive too.

Business is a little better on the day but results are tremendous. There's one bet of note, and it's a good one - one guy wants £5k at 6-4 Asfoora in the Nunthorpe. Let me tell you how good a bet this is to lay - next door but one are 13-8. How he's missed that I've no idea. For all Asfoora isn't beaten far she never looks like winning and we have a good winning day.

Better still, Vicki and I both found Canoodled at 25-1 and it pays for our food that night. Live jazz and Cajun food, it's an amazing place she's dug out. But before we get there, I've a major problem with my phone.

In the press room earlier that day, I managed to spill a bit of tea on it. Not much, and it was soon mopped up. But when we get to Vicki's to get changed for our evening out, my phone - already down to 12% battery - won't charge. It keeps telling me damp has been detected in the charging socket and is making some alarming noises at me. I frantically start giving the phone the hair-dryer treatment but to no avail, it won't charge. I send the wife a message saying I'm turning it off for a while to try and save some battery for later and to call Vicki if there's an emergency. After food I turn the phone back on - I'm down to 3% very quickly, and after dropping Vicki off in town, it dies completely. It's at this point I realise I don't know how to get back to the digs.

I stop and have a think. I just need to find signs for the A64. Once I do that it'll be fine.

I set off, driving blind around York on a Friday night, dodging revellers left, right and centre as I do so. Finally, a sign for the A64 by-pass. I start to relax and keep following the signs. At the same time, an idea strikes me - what if it isn't the phone that's damp, but the charging lead?

I hit the A64 and wind the window down. It's probably a good job there's not much traffic around as I waggle the charging lead around with my right hand in the wind whilst driving (steadily) with the left. I give it five minutes and try charging the phone again. Yes! Success! The battery level starts creeping up. Smug with my victory, I continue driving along until I suddenly see a sign for Scarborough.

Yes, in all the phone-related malarkey I'd managed to go the wrong way up the A64, taking the Scarborough route rather than the Leeds one, which is the direction the digs are in. What should have been a 20-minute journey back has taken well over an hour. I feel a bit of a fool and am glad to reach my bed, later than expected.

Matey upstairs comes back and puts the telly on. I keep telling myself this is the last night I'll ever spend here.

And so to Saturday. The wind has died down, thankfully. There aren't many of us in the press room that morning and with most of the written work done, we have time on our hands. As most of us in there are degenerates (well, some of us) a game of Dog Roulette ensues.

A quick reminder of the basic rules - six of you throw a tenner in the pot, and roll a die. That will be your trap number for the first ten races after 11am - five from Romford, five from Monmore. Three points for a winner and one for second. After ten races it's a dead heat between myself and Ken Pitterson. We agree to a run-off in the next and I win!  A great start to the day. Someone mutters about "money coming to money" but I don't care, I'm a bullseye in front before York even begins!

If the first three days have been modest, then Saturday is much, much better. It's busy from the word go and the day flies by. The £4k bet on Audience stays in the satchel although the usual Saturday problems come with trying to explain what a Rule 4 is to novice punters, with Lake Forest ensuring a 20p in the pound deduction. I'm called a thief, of course. I'll not miss this part of the job. For the last time, racecourses - USE THE BIG SCREEN TO TELL PUNTERS WHAT HAS HAPPENED.

Betfair goes down for the last and it's suddenly like the old days, with back bets flying around the ring. We get a result with old Sir Busker, and it's been another good day. Good week, in fact, and I'm pleased my last week on the firm is a winning one. I pack up, shake hands, get paid, and then it's time to go home.

I've enjoyed my time as a workman and I hope you've enjoyed the tales too. There's more to tell, of course, but I've got to save something for the autobiography...

See you all on a racecourse this autumn.

- DM

 

Roving Reports: It’s Glorious

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Goodwood is one of those weeks of the year that, as a racing fan, even one that prefers jump racing, you look forward to, writes David Massey. A wonderful setting, quality facilities, a chance to catch up with friends both at the track and outside of it.

Sure, it helps that I’m not working for one of the books this week (only the Ebor left to do now, and that’s my career as a bookie's workman done) and that I’m working alongside my new work partner Vicki for the week - more of what we’re up to later - but first, a leisurely drive down on Monday afternoon to stay in Haslemere at my friend Sarah’s house.

Sarah is kindly putting up with me for the week and her hospitality is second to none, and again that’s a lot nicer than staying in a hotel on your own. Sarah, a Goodwood member, intends going every day, and knows her horses inside out.

As if to show how hospitable she can be, there’s lasagne in the oven when I get there, which goes down very well with a Peroni. I think I’m going to be just fine here for the week.

Tuesday morning and my word, it’s hot. 24 degrees on the car dashboard as I drive in at 8.30am, and the air conditioning is on full. As is my music. “Bit lively for this time in a morning, isn’t it?” the car park attendant enquires as he tells me where I’m parking for the week. Clearly not a fan of the Prodigy then, or at least their older stuff.

I’m right at the back of the press room, which means I can see everything going on in front of me, and can keep an eye on certain photographers, inevitably up to something that will involve money coming out of my wallet for some gamble or other they have had wind of.

Two coffees in and I’m ready for a walk of the track but the temperature is up to a scorching 27 already and I decide that a quick 3f dash is all that’s required. I don’t want to be dripping in sweat before we’ve even started. Vicki arrives around 10.30 and we start planning our week.

A few of you, as you’ve seen me around, have asked what the new venture is. Well, in a nutshell, Vicki and I both had the idea of doing live-time paddock updates earlier in the year, and Goodwood is our trial week. Various companies and on-course bookmakers will be taking our feed across the five days which, alongside my mark-your-card on each day, we hope proves beneficial to them.

We’ve three separate feeds, for which we use Telegram and WhatsApp, and although I’m skipping ahead here, by the end of the week it seems to have been a success. Indeed, the bookmakers that have taken it are already asking about the Ebor and the Leger Festivals. If it’s good enough for them, and they’re a picky lot at the best of times, then we’re doing something right. I’ll get the plug in - tracksidemediaservices.com if you’re interested.

The mercury hits 30 as we start the afternoon’s work. And there’s no fresh air. It doesn’t take the bookmakers long to realise this is going to be a very quiet afternoon for them. “Everyone’s just staying in the shade, nobody’s coming out to bet”, moans one of them. “It’s like working in sodding Cyprus”, complains another. I know what they mean, and from someone that lives in Nottingham, not Nicosia, this is far, far too hot. Fair play to the Goodwood executives who have made the sensible decision that jackets may be taken off. Common sense has prevailed.

I’ve no strong fancies on the Tuesday and that’s just as well, as my selections are sunk without trace. I immediately have a crisis of confidence and stopping short of slapping me around the face and telling me to have a word with myself, Vicki does her reassuring thing that I’ve not gone at the game in a day, and it’ll all be fine tomorrow. However, Vicki asks a favour of me that, she says, is well above my paygrade - would I iron two items of clothing she’s brought in with her, as her place doesn’t have an iron? If it gets around the press room I’m running an ironing service I’ll not hear the last of it, but I agree to her request, as I’m a nice guy.

Tuesday evening sees us finishing up the lasagne, along with some salad. This will be one of only two occasions on the week when something even reasonably healthy passes my lips. I’ve said before how awfully you tend to eat when you’re away from home for any great length of time and as a man left to my own devices, the profits from nearby takeaways would tend to soar for a few days when that happens. However, Sarah is a tremendous cook, and indeed baker; every morning she bakes for her friends that will be attending Goodwood, starting the process at 7am, and I kid you not when I say her planning for putting it all in the oven is to the minute. She tells me she almost made The Great British Bake-Off back in the day, but the final heats before the TV stage were Cheltenham week, and so she told them she couldn’t make it. Sarah, my friends, has her priorities right.

Wednesday. It is no cooler, maybe a shade hotter, in fact. I’m wearing the lightest shirt I have and I’m still cooking by the time I’ve reached the entrance gates at 9am. My suggestion to racecourses on days like this is to let everyone walk through the cooling fans that the horses use after a race, charge them a quid a time for a minute in front of them. Here, Goodwood, take my money! I hang up the two items of clothing I’ve ironed (beautifully, I might add) for Vicki and crack on.

Poor Vicki comes in with bites all over her. No, she’s not had a good night, dear reader, not those sort of bites, but mosquito bites. Luckily for her I carry antihistamines at all times (hay fever) which help her cause, but she needs more medication than that. She battles on through the bites and heat and the pair of us have a much better day, getting Henry Longfellow beat, and my confidence returns. Business is still very poor in the ring, though, and I’ve basically turned into a waterboy for them. “Same problems as yesterday, nobody wants to move”, says Martyn Of Leicester. “Get me two cans of Coke, will you?”. I’ve turned into a gopher for the books.

Sarah and I, along with her two children, go out for food that night, which saves the ache of cooking at the end of a long day. Nothing I eat that night is healthy. Thank God I’m doing about 12,000 steps a day to make up for the rubbish I throw down me this week.

There’s talk of rain around on Thursday and the weather breaking, which it needs to, as it isn’t getting any cooler. My linen suit is on its last legs, and I fear after one more sweaty day it’ll find its own way to the dry cleaners. Speaking of which, word is out about my ironing exploits earlier in the week, and the jokes are starting. “How much for a full bag?”, asks photographer Alan Crowhurst, the leader of the clown pack. “Some of it might need a wash, mind”, he states, pulling a face that says I wouldn’t want to go anywhere near whatever it is he’s got lined up.

Mid-morning, one lad comes over with a cup of tea for his boss, sat next to me. It’s fair to say we’re packed in pretty tight next to one another and as he leans over to put the tea down, the cup rocks, almost in slow-motion, and I can see it heading for my laptop. After what seems like an eternity, the cup settles, as does my heart, but not for long. Five minutes later he’s back, with a phone on a selfie stick, which again hovers above my laptop; the phone falls out of the holder, hitting the table with a loud thump about three centimetres away from my keyboard. Sharp words are exchanged between the lad and his boss, and he’s told just to go downstairs, where she’ll join him shortly; I require the defib.

We’re gaining confidence as the week goes on, Vicki and me, and find both Approval and Mr Chaplin at decent prices on paddock looks, which is nice. We’re also meeting some lovely people as we go this week, with a few asking what it is we’re up to, including a delegate from the Hong Kong Jockey Club, who wishes us well with our project. Ebt’s Guard almost nets us a hat-trick on the day in the last but we have to settle for second. Vicki and I are out in Bognor after racing (seems rude not to go to the seaside when you’re so close) and let me tell you good people, the reviving effects of seawater on tired feet cannot be overstated. Ten minutes standing on the edge of the sea chatting racing and it feels like I’ve a new pair of plates. Fish ‘n’ chips are the order of the day, followed by half an hour throwing money away in the arcade. Except my luck is in, and I’ve an absolute pocketful of pound coins by the time we leave. (They’ll go in the pound jar when I get back. I save them all for the Eastern Festival at Yarmouth every year.) Vicki has won a foam glider from the 2p pushers. Everyone’s a winner.

Friday. No rain has been forthcoming, although clearly Epsom had their share last night. Maybe, just maybe, it’s down a degree or two but as Phil Collins might have said, there’s no jacket required.

On the drive in I spot a place in Midhurst that, if Bad Manners didn’t open with a song, I can only assume the owners missed a trick:

 

 

It’s all happening in the press room. One prominent member of the press corps has had a new jacket go missing: he’s not happy. My good friend and photographer Debbie arrives; she’s the latest to suffer The Attack Of The Night Mosquitos and, as well as her legs, one has bitten her just under the eye. She too gets help from my drugs stash, which sounds a lot harder than saying you’ve got paracetamol and antihistamines.

Business is improving for the bookies (“it’s ten times better than it has been”, says one, perhaps exaggerating ever-so-slightly) and as we continue to have a decent week, the pair of us finding the nursery winner at a good price, it definitely starts to cool as a breeze gets up, which is almost greeted with a cheer. Friday night is fish ‘n’ chip night, again; I did have an apple and an orange earlier, which makes me feel slightly better about it.

And finally to Saturday, and cooler weather, thank God. Sarah is back on her feet, and baking again, which is good to see. The smell of chicken pies in the oven at 7.15am is making me hungry. There’s a tea and bacon sandwich on the way, she tells me. God, she’s good. Why would I want to stay anywhere else? I think I might be making more trips to Fontwell this winter…

It’s actually drizzling as I drive in, and I’ve never been so happy to see it raining. The press room is virtually empty, compared to the rest of the week. Once the Group 1’s are done, it does tend to quieten down. Which is fine, it means the rest of us can spread out a bit! Also, more cake for us in the afternoon. I play Dog Roulette with a couple of others to pass the time in the morning (you’re best not asking, all you need to know is it cost me a tenner).

Vicki’s friend Jenn is arriving today, and when I say arriving, I mean from Luxembourg. Jenn has never been racing before, and is excited to see what it’s all about. Needless to say, as it’s her first visit, she’s allowed to back winners (it’s how we all get the bug) and finds Term Of Endearment at 15-2. “I’m a little tipsy!” she exclaims after her winner. Well, when you hang around with a certain Paul Binfield (Paddy’s PR) for the afternoon, that’s gonna happen, lady….

Before the Stewards Cup gets underway, the strangest thing of the week happens. I’m stood near a bar when, seemingly from nowhere, four police surround a bloke sat on a bench near me. It appears the man in question has been missing for a while, but now they’ve found him. He claims mistaken identity and rather helpfully has his passport on him, but the coppers aren’t buying it. The words “we can sort this at the station” are heard, and before you know it, he (and his mate) are taken away. I can only hope he didn’t back Get It, or he’ll never get his money now.

Somehow I find 40-1 winner Witness Stand (no aftertiming here, it got a good write up beforehand) and that, along with Align The Stars, puts the cap on a good week. Our trials appear to have worked well, with the books asking if we’re thinking of running this for the Ebor (we are). Even the drive home is kind, with no traffic on the M25 or M1. Back home for 9, tired but happy. York, here we come…

- DM

Roving Reports: Ascot Reflections

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“You off to Royal Ascot, are ya? Like having a week’s racing holiday, isn’t it? Swanning around, drinking champagne, take a few bets from the top hats. Easy week. ” Yes, friend, that’s what happens, writes David Massey.

My week begins on Monday night at Windsor, where the firm I’m working for is standing but my services are not required, so I can have an evening off and some pre-Ascot chat. A few of the Northern lads are having the night at the races too, sucking wind through their teeth at the prices they’re having to pay now they’re down South. However, we all back John’s Dragon in the second, which pays for the overpriced burger and chips I’m having for tea.

I pick the keys up for our digs, which this week is in Datchet, about eight miles from the track. We’ve an Airbnb house, which means we all get our own rooms, and there’s a lovely garden area out the back to enjoy a beer each night. In fact, it’s a really lovely house, although not a quiet one - it’s directly on the flight path to Heathrow, and when you can’t hear the planes, you can hear the noisy parakeets instead. “They’re classed as vermin, you know,” says Liam, one of our party for the week. “If I’d got my gun, they’d be a lot quieter.” Liam does a lot of field sports and I don’t think he’s joking.

As well as the bookmaking - and this will be my last year at Ascot in that regard - I’ve a whole heap of writing to do daily, and I find myself working in the media marquee in the centre of the track each morning. It’s a huge, greenhouse-like fixture, basic but functional. “Like working in a cannabis farm”, as one of the bookmakers PR’s describes it, and he’s probably not far off (not that I'd know, you understand). Last year, this place started off well and fell to bits as the week went on. Let’s see what 2024 brings.

In terms of a loo, we’ve a gents and a ladies Portakabin behind the greenhouse. After three cups of tea I need to go. It’s disconcerting to hear a noise that resembles water hitting a wooden Portakabin floor as I do, and lo and behold, the plumbing is broken. Worse, because the Kabin is on a tilt, the stream appears to be heading back my way. I bet Charles doesn’t have to put up with this.

I report the broken urinal, and warn others in the Press tent that might think about using it not to.

The lunch food is decent - picnic boxes - and there’s plenty of cold drinks, which I snaffle into my bag as I make my way over to the ring. I’m on the rail all week, which means dealing with the Royal Enclosure mob. I’m hoping the Arab punter I had last year is there, and remembers me (he had about 6k on with me, all told); sadly, he's nowhere to be seen.

Next to me on the rail is the Aussie bookmaker Rob Waterhouse, and my neighbour for the whole week will be the lovely Erin, from Melbourne. Erin is young, enthusiastic and fun, all the things I’m not, but we get on well, and we help each other out when needed. Erin tells me she’s just got her bookmaking license in Oz, and relays the way she works, which is very much at odds with how many British bookmakers would work. She’s more than happy to stand one, even if her price is bigger than Betfair, it seems. At one point I saw she was 13-2 a horse that was a 5-1 chance on the machine - come racing, get the Aussie value, it appears!

It doesn’t take me long to bump into a bet, a 7000-2000 Charyn. I’ve backed Charyn myself, which now puts me in the difficult position of not being able to cheer it home. “Never cheer the favourite home”, was one of the first pieces of advice I was ever given by a bookmaker, “or you’ll not be in a job long.” I don’t say a dicky bird as Charyn bursts through to win. Jason comes over with seven grand for me to pay the punter out. “Try not to lay any more winners”, he jokes. “You’ve already made a dent in the float, and this is a long week!”

Our Charyn punter comes back for another go and has a grand each-way Camille Pisarro in the Coventry. The good news is it’s well beaten with a furlong to go; the bad news is that one lucky punter, guessing, has had £50 win on Rashabar at 66-1 with me. The float takes another whack.

It's a very quiet start to the week, and for the last three races trade dies a sorry death. Since going to seven races a day at Royal Ascot, it is noticeable how business often drops off late in the play, with many preferring to go home early and avoid the worst of the traffic. Very few stay for the 6:15, and despite it being a competitive handicap, it’s my worst take of the afternoon. We pack up and go for food, which tonight is the Turkish restaurant in Windsor. (If you’re looking to lose weight, don’t work Ascot week.)

Wednesday. The plumbing in the Portakabin has been fixed! By fixed I mean the offending urinal has now got a bin liner with police tape all over it, and a bucket placed under the corresponding piece of piping. Tremendous. The coffee machine also appears to be giving up the ghost; I ask it for a latte, and am returned an empty paper cup. “Please enjoy your drink!” it chirrups. I would if you’d given me one.

Every day Bet Victor’s Sam Boswell is relieving me of a tenner for some placepots. We can’t decide what should go in for the Queen Mary, other than the favouite. “Stick Leovanni in,” I say, “ it won well enough at Nottingham”. I’m not overly hopeful of getting past Leg 1 today.

The coffee machine is fixed - turned off, turned on again, has that ever worked before? - and I crack on with the rest of my writing. I really fancy a couple on Thursday and get them over to Rory (Delargy) for tomorrow’s column nice and early.

If I thought Tuesday was quiet in the ring, welcome to Wednesday. It never gets busy until the Royal Parade has gone past, whatever day it is, but it seems to take an eternity today. However Leovanni is a good result, ignored by most punters, and it isn't until I get a text from Sam reminding me I picked it for the placepot that the result even clicks with me. Two 50-1 chances fill the frame; 95% of the placepots have bit the dust. Five more good results and I can take the rest of the week off. Illinois keeps the dream alive in the second but that’s as far as we go; I had managed to talk Sam out of Laurel in the Duke Of Cambridge and that’s the end of that. Of course we got the last three results up. Of course we did.

No big bets to speak of all day, lots of twenties and fifties (one bloke peeling them off from a roll as big as any Andrex) but at least a winning day, although again, trade dies a sorry death for the last three. That’s becoming a habit.

Back at the digs and the boss has finally made an appearance after three weeks in Las Vegas playing poker. He arrived at Heathrow around 2pm, got a cab straight to Datchet, and now wants to go to sleep. It’s only 7.30 but he can’t keep his eyes open. We start to watch the Euro match but it’s no good, Rob’s totally jetlagged, and at half eight he’s snoring his head off. We give him a kick and tell him to go to bed. Wednesday night food is a BBQ, with the lovely Heather, the fourth member of the team this week, doing the honours.

Thursday 6.50am. The alarm goes for Day 3 and I go for a shower. Sadly, the water pressure is now very low and I can’t fix it, so it’s like a shower in tepid rain. It’ll have to do. I’m hoping this isn’t a bad omen for the day, as I do like a few, and have invested quite heavily in Assailant, Skukuza and Carrytheone.

My car park at Ascot for the week is 7B. This has both its advantages and disadvantages. The main advantage is that I’m not in Car Park 2 and as such, don’t have to climb the North Face of the Eiger every morning to get to the track. Last year, I was knackered and in need of another shower before I’d even sat down at my desk. 7B is on the inside of the track, next to the pull-up area for the horses; I can actually see my car from the Queen Anne Enclosure on the other side of the track. So there’s no long trek to my workspace, which is great, but getting out, it means I’m right at the back of the queue. Good job I’m not in a hurry.

Thursday is Ladies Day and so we’re hoping business will be a bit better. Thankfully it is, small stuff but workable, and helped in no small part by IT issues from those around me. Erin is struggling to get her lightboard working properly, and then the wifi appears to go off completely just after the Royal Parade has gone to post. (There is a theory that this happens every day of Royal Ascot - namely if something dreadful happens, the police and emergency services need all the bandwidth going, which I can sort of see.) It gives me around 15 minutes of betting time on my own for the first, which I make the most of. I take an even 2000 Whistlejacket, which stays in the hod and repairs a bit more of the float damage. The new problem with the float is fivers and pound coins - we’ve not brought enough of either - which means a call to a friend on course who helped in a similar situation last year. I won’t name her for fear her employers will read this and she’ll get in trouble, but she once again comes to the rescue with £200’s worth of golden nuggets and five pound notes and the promise of more tomorrow.

Assailant runs a cracker in the King George V Handicap and looks a likely winner at one point before just fading late. I’ve had a good run for my money, at least, and got half back in-running, so no disasters. I’m against Diamond Rain in the Ribblesdale and my place lay cops; Skukuza runs a mighty race to be second to the Aussie-bound Mickley in the Britannia, and Carrytheone rattles home for a place at a big price in the Buckingham Palace Stakes. (Wins the Bunbury Cup. You’ve been told.) As good a day at Ascot betting-wise as I’ve had in a while. Sharing the wealth, as I always try to do, I buy Heather a thankyou for all the work she’s done at the digs this week (she put a wash on for us all Thursday night, and even hung it all out. What a star!) and get her a couple of pouches of tobacco, as she loves a roll-up. I nearly die when I’m told the price of Ready Rubbed in the shop; I genuinely thought it was about a tenner a go. Best part of a bullseye for the pair! Don’t moan Massey, you’ve had a winning day. Pizza for evening food; I fear the scales will not be kind when I get back home.

Friday. Liam has fixed the shower. The joys of a proper hot power shower cannot be underestimated. I swear the parakeets are noisier than they were on Tuesday, though. I have at least taken the precaution of bringing my own breakfast food, namely five packs of Shredded Wheat, probably the most healthy thing that’s gone down my neck all week. Sadly I forgot to buy milk at the shop when I got Heather’s baccy last night; as such I can inform you that almost-dry Shredded Wheat are not my idea of fun.

The weather has started to take a bit of a turn, too. The sun we’ve had for most of the week is starting to disappear as the clouds roll in. There’s even chat of a bit of rain tonight. Given I don’t work well in hot weather this is a bonus for me, although Erin thinks otherwise. “It’s bladdy FREEZING!” she complains. To an Aussie I suppose fifteen degrees is a touch on the cold side, but to this Midlands bumpkin it’s ideal, thankyouverymuch.

The money is usually better on the Friday, and so it proves, although the first two results are shocking. Fairy Godmother attracts plenty of £100 and £200 bets and one lad has £800 quid on at 2-1 with me. Two out the money is staying with me; by the winning post, I’m in need of another float topup. Second home Simmering was a skinner. They play it up on Inisherin and his backers barely have a moment’s worry. I’m concerned that if I ring Rob for more dosh again I’ll get a mouthful. However, on his joint in the ring they only wanted Givemethebeatboys and so it’s not the disaster I think it is. And the rest of the afternoon’s results are corking, with no sign of the jollies; only a £100 each-way on Soprano at 14s in the Sandringham stops it being a near clean-sweep for the firm. Food is leftovers from the last two nights, which we need to start mopping up (you don’t want to be packing up a lot of on the wane tuck Saturday morning, do you?)

And finally, to Saturday. We’re all knackered and ready for home, but there’s one last day to get through. But we have encountered a major problem.

Liam and Heather have, somehow, managed to leave the keys to their vehicle (which hasn’t moved off the drive all week) with Jason, who is now in Newmarket. Frantic calls have been made to and fro, as the car has to be moved by 2pm latest for the incomers to the Airbnb; it is arranged the car keys will arrive at Ascot (via a jockey) around 11am. That means I’ll have to drive one of them back to the digs to collect their vehicle when the keys get to Ascot, and if the keys are late, it’s going to make getting back into the track a nightmare; we could even miss the first. And as it turns out, the keys are indeed late, not arriving until after midday, so it’s decided Heather has to get an Uber back, or it’ll mean half the team going missing, which we can’t afford to do. Heather makes it back easily, as it turns out, with an hour to spare, and disaster is averted. The stewards’ enquiry as to whose fault it was the keys ended up in Newmarket in the first place are still ongoing, I understand.

Bedtime Story gets punters off to a winning start, but Isle Of Jura, Khaadem and Haatem make sure we get it back with interest. And then, one of the highlights of the five days as Valerie, my Punter Of The Week Royal Ascot 2023, makes a welcome reappearance.

Those of you with long memories might remember Val turned up on the Wednesday last year when she started with a couple of fiver each-way bets in the first, backing the winner Crimson Advocate, and from that point onwards, never looked back as she went on the rampage, following up with Villanova Queen, Rogue Millennium, Mosthadaf and finishing the day off with £25 each-way Sonny Liston and Jimi Hendrix in the Hunt Cup. She took well over a grand from the firm and was almost apologetic as she picked her final winnings up on the day. “Do you remember me?” she asks. How can I possibly forget the luckiest punter I’ve ever come across? It’s an absolute delight to catch up with her and her son, but sadly she can’t replicate her luck of last year, and her two in the Wokingham were well beaten. All the same, it is lovely to see a familiar face.

As the day progresses, the Ascot wifi starts to drop out a lot, to the point where we reach the Golden Gates Stakes, and three bookmakers near me are struggling to get prices up on the board. In fact, they give up completely for the last, the Queen Alexandra, and I’ve got it to myself. I’m taking absolute chunks - it’s my best take of the week by a country mile. All we need to do now is get a result.

Uxmal, the 2-1 favourite, romps home. You can’t have it all, can you?

On the way home, I call in at the services on the M40 for food. I see a bookmaker I know quite well struggling to use the touchscreen as he tries to order his KFC. It appears bookmaker IT issues aren’t just confined to the track.

I’m back at 10pm, and am asleep by eleven. That’s a wrap, as they say. My week’s “racing holiday” is over for another year. See you all at Goodwood, yes?

- DM

Roving Reports: Chasing the Easter Money

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It’s a busy time for bookmakers, is Easter, with a whole raft of meetings both Flat and Jumps to attend, although the early news on Saturday is not great, writes David Massey. Not only has Musselburgh bitten the dust after an early morning deluge, but for the Midlands bookmakers, the point-to-point at Sandon, near Stafford, has also been called off. That’s usually a really well-attended event, and will be a big miss for them. There will be no chance to see Eddie Redmayne, and his dogs, there this year. 

This matters not to us, as we’re off to Haydock for their family fun day. The weather looks mixed, to say the least, and it’s grey and damp as we set off. By the time we get there, however, the sun is trying to break through and things look brighter, literally. 

Other meetings being off means more bookmakers than there were last year at Haydock; four more, in fact, and this means betting on two lines rather than the one we were in last year. (The line takes 17 bookmakers.) When all the punters are in front of you, business is better; if you’re on the front line, you run the risk of a bookmaker betting behind you, and taking a share of your business. Such is the bookmaking life. 

We know what today will be like - all small money, lots of bets on “named” horses (it cannot be coincidence that one of the best backed horses all day with us is called Holly) and now the sun is fully out, we should have a decent day. 

Quiet to get going, as ever, and putting the forecast up for the four-runner first event is a waste of time. Nobody has a clue what it is, and nobody asks. I’d have been better putting the weather forecast up. It might have been more informative. 

As stated, the aforementioned Holly is an each-way disaster in the second race for us, and with the favourite, Brentford Hope, winning it’s a losing race. Secret Trix is much better in the next, but there’s a dinosaur show on for the kids, and business isn’t as strong. 

There are often dinosaurs in the betting ring - most of them will take your bets with a smile - but these two are bigger than the norm. One is a T-Rex and the other one isn’t. Some of the younger kids find it all a bit much. If you’ve bought “crying children” at 15 at the start of the day, go collect. 

Numitor is actually an okay result but Daly Tiger finishing third knocks a fair bit of the place money out. I go to get the coffees and offer up a loyalty card. Despite buying three drinks, it’s only stamped once. “One stamp per visit”, we are told. I shake my head. Come racing. 

Duke Of Deception is a good result but the enormous gamble on One Big Bang is joined in by a fair proportion of the crowd, and that’s not. Said crowd ebbs away pretty quickly after the sixth, with tired and emotional children in tow, carrying their dinosaur merchandise. Elleon wins the last, a good result, and it’s time to go home, although somehow I manage to join the wrong lane at the Haydock Island roundabout and end up taking a three-mile detour to get myself on the M6. 

Sunday sees me at Southwell, and in truth there’s little to say. Southwell are only allowing 100 public in, on top of owners, trainers and annual members, with the downstairs grandstand still out of operation. There’s only three bookmakers in the ring, and one on the rail, and whilst there’s enough business for the four, there’s only just enough. It’s families again, although with a cold, grey day, most are in the warmth upstairs, bar one family determined to stick it out on a couple of picnic tables. There’s an ice-cream van on the premises, but you wouldn’t want a share in it today. Results are irrelevant with the business - at least for four races - when suddenly a big punter appears, wanting a grand each-way Squeaker. He gets laid, and the business, rather than going back to the machine, is shared around the books. Squeaker looks beat at halfway but rattles home and is beaten under a length. He’s copped the each-way money for him, at least. He doesn’t bet the next but smashes into Brother Dave in the penultimate, and when that cops, it looks bleak. We get a bit back off him in the last but we’ve stood all day for very little. And it’s freezing. 

On to Huntingdon on Monday. This is more like it. My first McDonalds of any description for 41 days (not that I’m counting, you never do when you’re on a diet, do you?) is a Bacon Roll and Hash Brown as we make our way down the A14. God, I’d forgotten how good a bacon roll tastes. Everyone knows calories don’t count on Bank Holidays. Just for once, the Shredded Wheat can be passed over. 

After a rainy start, the sun really does come shining through - I contemplated sun cream at one point, no, honestly - and a good crowd are still piling in as the first goes off. If the money was small at Haydock, it’s positively minute here, with about 50% of the bets either £2 win or £1 e/w. Families having five or six bets, novices placing their first ever bets, mums taking advice from their kids, they’re all here today. Two families, from Cambridge, apparently remember my face from last year and have their knicker each-way bets with me all day. “You were very polite”, they tell me. That’s the game on these days - price is irrelevant, customer service everything. This is proven by the very first bet I take - £10 on Annie Day at 10-1 in the first race, when next door to me is 11s. Smile, be nice, have a joke. It works. 

However, I’ve got a problem. Two, to be precise. Because the firm have no fewer then seven pitches running between Huntingdon and the other half of the crew at Fakenham, it means that bits of kit that wouldn’t normally be used are wheeled out today. The laptop I’m using was the very one that Noah used to count the animals onto the Ark two-by-two with. The light board is old too, and for some reason, the bottom half of it isn’t working, which is far from ideal. The laptop crashes, at various inconvenient points throughout the afternoon, no fewer than eight times, and each time I have to restart everything. At the end of the day, I reckon that’s probably cost me a monkey’s worth of business. The temptation to launch the damned thing into the bin at close of play is great, but it’s not my equipment...

This is doubly frustrating with results as good as they are: not a winning favourite in sight until the last two races, by which time business has notably dropped off anyway, with many families off home after the sixth. We’ve won and won well on the day, and although the urge to double-dip at Maccy D’s on the way home is great, I resist. Just. 

And so finally, to Pontefract. I’m not working, just a day out. It normally takes me an hour and 10 minutes from my house to get to the track, so I leave in good time. Or so I thought. 

I drive into the track as they are going into the stalls for the first. The M1 was bad, the A1 worse, and finally Pontefract town centre itself appeared to be at a standstill. The nearer I got to the track, the further away I got, time wise, according to Google Maps. That’s never a good thing. So as you can imagine, I’ve fallen out with myself before I’m even parked up, and when the only parking space left appears to be in the middle of a lake of a puddle, the appeal of turning the car around and going home is strong. 

But I'm glad I didn’t, as it was quite an enjoyable day overall, bumping into a few old friends, backing a winner, then giving most of it back, and probably seeing a future winner in Vallamorey. However, if anyone wants to pop round and clean my car in readiness for Aintree next week (when it’ll DEFINITELY get dirty again) then don’t let me stop you...

- DM

Roving Reports: Not Long Now

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A week today (or tomorrow, if our esteemed editor publishes on Monday) we’ll all be like kids at Christmas as the Cheltenham Festival begins, writes David Massey. Money in our pockets and hope in our hearts, we’ll attack the week as if it’s the only show in town and racing doesn’t exist for the other fifty-one weeks of the year, only to watch those ante-post dockets go up in flames one-by-one as something you hadn’t even considered goes sailing by your good thing at the top of the hill, leaving yours eating trail dust. 

Not that there’ll be much dust around, with the forecast going no better than soft and, depending on which long-range weather forecast you’re looking at, it’s either going to tip down during the Festival, or it’ll be as dry as a bone, cold, with minus temperatures at night. I like weather forecasters, as they make us racing tipsters look like we’re on solid ground with their weekly absolute guess-ups. Maybe I’ll have a go at the weather next week and Sarah Keith-Lucas can try and find the winner of the Ultima, see how she likes those apples. 

Anyway, I have been around and about for the last couple of weeks, with work trips to Market Rasen and Doncaster with the Paul Johnson firm, Southwell for their Winter Derby day with S&D Bets, and Hereford and Newbury with MT Racing. That was my yearly outing to Hereford: with two members of the firm sunning themselves in Barbados it means I get the call up. Hereford, much like Fakenham and Great Yarmouth, is three-and-a-half hours from anywhere in the United Kingdom, and whilst a lot of the rain has dissipated from north of the Midlands, it’s clear from the drive down that they’re still struggling around Hereford and Worcestershire. Fields turned into duckponds, and the ones surrounding Hereford can’t be seen for floodwater. I’m amazed it was even on. Fair play to the groundstaff. 

There are no fewer than 15 bookmakers turning up for what is, after all, just a normal weekend meeting but the crowd is a good one and there’s enough business for all. I’d forgotten how much the people of Hereford love a forecast - I stuck it up on the lightboard for the first race, a four-runner handicap chase, and I don’t take much less on the forecast than I do on the actual race itself. Compare that to Newbury last Saturday where I put the forecast up for the opener and didn’t take so much as a washer on it. Strange. 

The race is off, and there’s early drama with a faller which brings another down. Phil (Cashmore Racing) three doors down from me is scratching his head. “How has this happened?” he bemoans. “I was against Burrows Park and that’s been brought down, so I’m going to win on the race. But look at this,” he says, pointing to his forecast book. “I’m going to lose all that whatever happens, the only forecasts I’ve laid are the two left standing!” Sometimes, in this game, you can be right, and still not get paid. 

Five out of seven favourites win on the afternoon, and one of the other winners, Bertie B, is 12s into 7s, so you really don’t need me to tell you how the afternoon went for the majority of the books. 

Southwell on Winter Derby day saw a hundred members of the public let in for the first time since it (almost) went behind closed doors after the Storm Babet floods last year. There’s still reduced facilities at Southwell, with the downstairs grandstand out of action (and will be for a while yet) but tickets went quickly enough, I’m told, and it is nice to have a bit more of an atmosphere about the place. The winter nights are bad enough even when things are “normal”, for want of a better word, but with only owners and trainers there over the winter, what tends to happen is there’s a few racing people at the start of the meeting but they drift away once their horse has run. By the time you get to the last two races you’ve got a few annual members left, and maybe twenty others. If an owner has a monkey on, you take the bet, shut your eyes and hope. 

The hundred that did turn up were mostly families with children, looking to enjoy an afternoon’s racing and a bit of fresh air. As such, small money, but enough of it around to make a decent book. Results were mixed, a few jollies going in but the worst result for many was Rose’aid finishing third at 125-1 in one of the maidens. Head in hands stuff for the Stevie Stretch firm, who laid £50 ew to one punter and a tenner each-way to another. Oof. 

Newbury on Saturday saw another of the Invades student days. Before we all start slagging it off again, I’ve got some positive words to say about these days now. The students themselves, as they go to more and more of these racecourse days, are learning what it’s all about and as such, behave themselves very well, in the main, and now know how to place a bet. Yes, it’s almost guaranteed they’ll want £2.50ew on a debit card but so be it, if that’s how it’s going to be. It’s harder work but they know what they’re doing now, and have become easier to process - if you'll excuse the phrase - when placing their wagers. 

As David Johnson, from the Paul Johnson firm, rightly pointed out to me, there have been 11,000 students at Doncaster over this weekend, 6,000 on the Saturday and 5,000 on the Sunday. If we can get a 10% retention rate on those students that's 1,100 racing fans you’ve got, hopefully for life. David is an angry middle-aged man these days - he gets more like Michael Douglas in Falling Down with every passing month - but he comes out with the odd pearl of wisdom every now and then, and he’s spot on here. 

Anyway, it’s all well and good me saying all this as I get the luxury of the rails at Newbury and don’t have to deal with the students, all of whom are behind me in the Dubai Millennium hall! After the usual quiet start on the first (see earlier comment about the forecast, a waste of time) it picks up nicely, and there are a few decent bets flying about. Sadly one of them is on the winner, Heltenham, with one punter having £100 on, but it’s a small winning race all the same. 

Bucephalus is almost a skinner, with most punters avoiding it as they can’t pronounce it, and we go the right way with Spring Note too. I watch the race with one of the big firms who have laid a £6000-£4000 Brentford Hope. Two out, they’ve done their money but a mistake at the last gets him off the bridle, and he finds less than I do having climbed four flights of stairs. Easy game...

I always joke to one customer that they are my “customer of the day” and today that’s Belinda, who has a colourful bee brooch on her coat (“it’s my nickname”, I am informed) and is having £2.50 each-way on two horses in every race. So far she’s backed Highland Hunter, Heltenham, and is collecting again after Knowhentoholdem wins the fifth race. She puts her bets on for the next, not only for herself but her aunty and best friend, neither of whom can be bothered to put their own bets on, it seems. “Ooh, I’ve got a £20 note here!” she exclaims, pulling one out of her coat pocket. I jokingly remind her it’s the one I gave her earlier, when Heltenham had won. “Oh yeah, I backed that one too, didn’t I?” she laughs. She goes on to back another winner and almost cops again in the last, but Geturguccion is just touched off by Jasmine Bliss, who went down to post like she was on wheels, and carried my tenner. Next door to me, Norman Barnes also see it go down well and immediately duck it, and push the second favourite out instead. There are bookmakers that still bet to opinion, rather than what the machine tells them - you’ve just got to find them to get the value. 

They knew. Jasmine Bliss wins and sends us, and punters, home happy. 

I’ll be at Sandown with MT on Saturday and quite possibly Warwick Sunday, but then, let the fun begin. 

See you all at Cheltenham! Best of luck to us all, we’ll need it! 

- DM

Roving Reports: “Hey! Student”

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If you’re wondering why “Hey! Student” is the title of my latest meanderings, well, two reasons, the first of which is obvious enough, writes David Massey. What follows is about Haydock’s Student Day, which took place at the weekend, and for which I was working in the ring; and secondly, I’ve always wanted to crowbar a The Fall song into the title of one of my pieces. For those that care, which I am aware is very few of you, it was originally called “Hey! Fascist” but rebadged once Mark E Smith realised he disliked students more. 

There’s barely a workman alive that won’t have done a racecourse Student Day at some point. They tend to vary from course to course, with some allowing mingling with the crowd to those - like Haydock’s - where the students are penned in to their own area, presumably as much for the safety of the annual members who, it is safe to say, would have limited knowledge of the dubstep classics that the DJ bangs out between races. 

The key piece of kit today is the card machine. If you haven’t got a working card machine, prepare to have a very quiet afternoon. On a normal, civilian, raceday the split of the take would be around 85% cash, 15% on the debit card on average. On a student day, you can pretty much reverse that. The younger generation do not believe in “cash is king”, instead “tap ‘n’ go” is very much the phrase that pays. 

The weather forecast is playing a part, too. Most are suggesting some rain after 4pm, which will mean the last two races could be a bit of a washout. If it’s no worse than that, then we can just about live with it. If it comes earlier, that could badly affect business.

Which would be a shame, as it’s a card of two halves - the first four races, small fields with some odds-on chances, but bigger fields for the handicaps in the second half which give you a chance of taking better money and getting a result. 

An early-ish start of 8.15 (the nights are starting to get longer, aren’t they?) and the fact I’m now on a diet (lousy high cholesterol) mean that the McD’s breakfast is foregone in favour of two Shredded Wheat and some toast. For snacks later in the day; one apple, one orange, and one Tunnocks chocolate wafer, my treat for the day. Welcome to my new, joyless, world of food. 

It’s all quiet on the Preston front when we get there, with the first of the coaches not due until around 11.30, but that gives us plenty of time to get the first pitch up (we’re running two, I’m single-manning the second one) and make sure the card machine is in working order. It is. We get going and straight away a few lads want a bet. In the meantime I’m putting the second pitch up and once I’m up and running, there’s a steady trickle of lads and lasses having a flutter. 

Unsurprisingly, quite a few need a crash course in how to place a wager, and I’m happy to oblige. A bit of a chit-chat with a few reveal many of them are from the Manchester universities, which is where my kids are. (Neither are here.) When I tell them my daughter is also at Manchester Met, one of them asks what halls she’s in. I honestly haven’t a clue. I think about sending my daughter a text to ask but as any of you out there with a teenage daughter knows, if you send them a text, you’ll get a reply around four days later. If you’re lucky. To be fair to my daughter she replies to my query within five hours, which in her world is almost instantaneous. 

One lad, who appears to have been on the ale already, tells me he has to have a tenner on You Wear It Well as “it’s his cousin’s horse.” Now, I’m not saying his cousin isn’t Sir Chips Keswick, but… well, he isn’t. Later, the same lad will perform a quite incredible acrobatic feat as he careers down the steps in the stand, loses his balance, somehow jumps down three steps in one go, not spill a drop of his beer as he regains his balance and runs off in the direction of the burger van. 

I take 40 bets on the first race for the grand sum of £300. You can work out the average bet size yourself. Stainsby Girl is actually popular with those having their fivers on and gets an enormous roar as she wins. Because they’re all betting on cards but getting paid in cash means you need plenty of money on a day like this, too. 

After the first it busies up and there are queues waiting to get on. Almost every bet I take is either a fiver win or fifty bob each way, and whilst the processing time for each punter is a bit longer than normal, there are no complaints and the banter is good-natured. In fact, perhaps to my surprise, I’m quite enjoying the day, despite some terrible dance music between races. 

And what’s this? “£150 win Salver, please.” Cash, as well. Where’s he come from? “He can’t lose!” he tells me. I’m rather fretting that whether Salver wins or not will determine if the lad can eat properly next week, or if he’ll be living off 20p packs of noodles for the foreseeable. I needn’t have worried, as Salver does indeed win with a bit in hand, and the £50 profit he picks up will buy another round or two. He even offers to buy me one. What a lovely lad. 

Butch is very popular in the next. One young lady comes waving her ticket at me, proclaiming “I’ve won, I’ve won!” When I point out to her that they have another circuit to go, her mates rightly laugh at her, and she sheepishly wanders back to the stands. 

And then, disaster. The weather forecast is wrong. The rain arrives a good hour earlier than predicted, and the waterproofs are reached for. It’s such a shame, as the afternoon was building up quite nicely, with the better races to come. It quickly turns to heavy rain and the umbrella goes up. Only thing is, the firm have packed the wrong umbrella. Instead of the big mush, I’ve got the tiny rails umbrella. I might as well stand on the joint with a colander on my head. I have to cover everything, laptop, printer, card machine, money, as the rain comes in sideways. It kills business stone dead. 

I’m now taking half of what I was, and with each race it gets less and less. Worse, the card machine packs up. This is game over. By the time we get to the seventh, the boss tells me to pack up, as it’s pointless carrying on. Everything is soaked, and that includes my clothes, as the waterproofs are now starting to leak too. I pack the kit away, and go and help out on the main pitch for the last race. Behind us, one bookmaker, also packing away, drops the lightboard on the floor as he tries to pack it away. It’s so wet it slipped out of his hands, and crashes to the floor. That could be a very expensive mishap, as a new board will cost him well over a grand - even the cheap ones - if it’s not working. 

By the time we get in the car, at half five, there’s barely a word being said as we’re all so knackered, tired and wet through. It hasn’t stopped the students partying - after the last the music cranks up another five notches, and I offer the paracetamol around. 

A genuine shame that what was promising to be a good day for everyone has fizzled out. And it isn’t as if I’ve anything nice for tea to look forward to. Broccoli, anyone?

- DM

Roving Reports: “Are you sure?”

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It’s 6.50am on Saturday morning, and the alarm has just bleeped its way through the first of three wake-up calls (copyright D. Thompson), writes David Massey. The other two, which will come at 6.55 and 7am, signify the start of what has become known among jumps fans as Trials Day, but the good lady is having her own trials at the moment, torn between wanting to come for a day at the races with me, and the immediate warmth and comfort of a lie-in. 

“Eh, what, errrr, what?” is the reply I get when I ask if she’s tagging along. Unsure of whether this is a yes, no or maybe, I give her another five minutes to make up her mind before she decides that yes, she’s coming along for the entertainment. I know this means I’ll be driving home tonight in silence, as her falling asleep on the way home is now the nap of the day. Quite literally. 

We’re out of the house for eight, as I have to be there for around ten due to working on the rails today. It’s the usual stop-off at the Maccies two miles from our house for breakfast and it’s the usual muck-up with the order too, as somehow they manage to put cheese on both of our bacon rolls. Now I like cheese, and I like bacon, a lot, but just not together. One of these times, they’ll get the order right. (Wrong coffees last time. More trials…) 

So, after an early start and the wrong food order, you can imagine the good lady is already in a cracking mood. I turn the radio up, which seems like a good idea. 

Driving down, we can see how the floods have receded around the Worcester area. Last time we drove this way the Avon had flooded badly, and the fields were lakes, but most of it, all bar a bit just before Strensham where there was still some low-lying water, has disappeared. Amazing how quick the ground has recovered. 

The morning call comes in from my writing colleague Rory Delargy as I drive down. Rory, as many of you will know, is working in Riyadh half the time at present. At the weekend he flies into Dublin to do the PP Podcast on a Monday with Ruby Walsh before flying back. He’s spent more miles in the air than your average Arctic Tern this winter. 

He’s also in the bad books of the good lady after forgetting the time difference between Riyadh and Nottingham the other morning, and ringing me at precisely 5.56am. I know this, because the good lady looked at her alarm clock before asking the not unreasonable question “who the f**k is ringing you at 5.56am?” I saw it was Rory, immediately realised what he’d done, and declined the call. He called back at 5.58am, which only made a bad situation worse.  

We make good time and are there for just before ten, which means I get time to say a few hellos to some fellow press and photographers. “Going to Yarmouth this year?” asks one of the snappers. He knows full well I’m not, which is why he keeps asking every time he sees me. I tell him I’m having a badge made that says “NOT GOING TO YARMOUTH” that I can point to every time he asks me. 

Anyway, the pick is made at 10.30 and I’m stood next to Pinno, so it’ll be an afternoon of him asking me questions that all end in the words “Davey Boy.” “Can we get this jolly beat, Davey Boy?” is the first of them. He’s referring to Burdett Road, who was the favourite when he asked, but they flip-flop and Sir Gino then heads the market. It’s normally slow to get going but not today: it’s lively out there, and in comes a grand on Burdett Road at 11-8. That’s followed by a £200 on Sir Gino, and clearly this is a race that’s divided opinion. As it should! We go the right way with Sir Gino and we’re off to a good start. 

The next, though, is not so good. We go 9-2 Ginny’s Destiny near the off, having not taken much for it, and I’m filled in good and proper. Bets are flying in at me, 40s and 50s, a 200 win and a 400 win. I can just about keep up. Two out I think we’ve a chance with Es Perfecto, but by the time the last comes around, it’s game over. A 3k+ payout, which not only hits your float hard, but the line to get paid out is long, and doesn’t help my business for the next. 

Here’s Tracy, one of my favourite punters. A Cheltenham member, she has a fiver on every race and if you followed her blind, you’d not go far wrong. Always cheery and smiling, she has a fiver on Ga Law for the next. A minute later, I take a 300ew at 7s the same horse and when that romps home, that’s my float done. I go and ask the boss for more money. “Try to stop laying winners, that might help.” I’ll write that down, might come in handy. 

Capodanno is a better result for us and stops the rot, but now it’s Jonbon time. I’m betting with and without the jolly, and there’s plenty want to back Nube Negra without the favourite at 4-1. I do NOT take an each-way bet on Jonbon - a first - but one lady wants £2 on him just so she can say she backed a winner. I don’t need to tell you how that went. 

I have a group of young lads and lasses not far in front of me at the off. Whilst Jonbon runs, they’re all taking Insta photos of one another with the track behind them. None of them has any interest in what's going on. When Jonbon clouts four out and raises a big “wooooh” from the crowd, it barely registers with them. Does it depress me? I’m afraid it does. 

Elixir De Nutz is all but a skinner. One person has had a tenner with me, and that’s it. When he picks his money up and informs me he actually backed the wrong horse… I tell him that, as he’s told me this information, I get to keep the winnings. For a split second I think he believed me. 

The flip side of a skinner, particularly when you’ve another odds-on jolly in the next, is that it kills business off. We’re all stood around looking at one another for much of the next half-hour. I go off to fetch some chocolate which I intend sharing with Joanne, three doors down from me, working for Ken Howells. We often share biscuits and cakes and the like and when I return, she’s deep in thought counting money. I just stand there, holding the Mars Bar, and she bursts out laughing. “What are you laughing at?” I ask. “Because I know what’s coming, and I’m trying to concentrate!” she says, and I split the Mars in half. She doesn’t refuse. 

The crowd want Paisley Park to win, of course they do, and he nearly gets up in the Cleeve. We’re glad he didn’t, but I think we’re the only ones that are. That’s saved another long payout queue. Before the last I see my good friend and fellow Derby County supporter James, who informs me the Rams are one down. And his punting has gone badly. I also know he’s all-in on the Ravens to win the Superbowl. I’m guessing he’s had better weekends. Always tomorrow. 

Gidleigh Park is actually a fair result in the last. Business picked up for it but they all wanted Antrim Coast and Johnnywho, both of whom are well beat. 

And finally, the nap gets beat, as the good lady remains wide awake for the whole of the car journey home. Derby turn it around to win 2-1. And I've backed the first winner at Kempton. The journey home always seems shorter when you’ve had a winner. Scientific fact. 

Next stop, well, maybe Sandown this weekend. See you there. Probably. 

- DM

Roving Reports: A Boxing Day Miracle

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The first piece of good news I receive regarding the working day is the start time for my pick-up from Leicester, writes David Massey. I’ve heard some horror stories from lads that have worked Boxing Day at Kempton previously. Half-five starts to miss the traffic seemed almost to be the norm, so I’m delighted when I’m told it’ll be a 7.30 collection. That still means getting up at 6.20 for a quick shower and out, but that almost feels like a lie-in given what I was expecting. 

However, I’m about to make my first and second mistakes of the day. As I need petrol, I’ve also decided to pick myself up a McD’s breakfast from the restaurant next door to the pumps, and kill two birds with one stone. As it turns out, the two turtle doves remain untouched by shot, as not only is the petrol station still closed, so’s my breakfast. Nothing’s open until 8am. I do at least fill up at a nearby Shell and grab two bars of chocolate, which is entirely within the Breakfast Rules Of Christmas Week. 

My lift is waiting as I pull into the car park. From here it should be about two hours to Kempton, with barely a car on the road. If there’s two days when, as a workman, I love traveling, it’s Boxing Day and New Year’s Day. It’s a joy to go to places like Cheltenham and Fakenham when the roads are as clear as a bell. 

Having said that, I’m amazed how many cars we see on the hard shoulder of the M1. “They’ve all run out of petrol”, says Irish Joe, in the car with us for a lift. He might have a point. I can’t believe they’ve all broken down, but, like me, I can believe they couldn’t find a petrol station early in the morning and haven’t made it to one before the juice has run dry. Careless, lads. 

We get to Kempton around 9.40am and set the two joints up. The pick isn’t for another 90 minutes, so I’ve time to wander off to find a tea and a bacon roll from somewhere. There are plenty of familiar faces to chat to, and I’m delighted to bump into James Millman, who is his usual effervescent self. I like James a lot, not least because he puts plenty of homework into his selections when he’s on the telly; and if you ask him about one from the yard you’ll always get a straight answer. I wish him well for the day, but not before I tell him Hewick will win the King George. 

It’s pick time and once we’re settled up, we get up and running. I have to say the crowd does not look huge, but to be fair plenty are still coming in, so there’s reason to be optimistic. As we’re in the Silver Ring, we aren’t expecting big bets, but it isn’t long before the other pitch takes a £100 each-way on Russian Ruler at 4s. 

It’s slow to get going on our pitch, mind, only picking up in the half-hour before the race. As tends to be the case on days like this, the general public latch on to the same couple of horses in each race; this is both good and bad: good because the book makes itself, bad because it can mean you’ve got a lop-sided look to things. 

Anyway, Blow Your Wad is no good to us in the first but on the plus side, punters now have money to play with. We get betting on the Kauto Star but here’s a problem already - my keyboard has packed up. I can’t take a bet. The last thing you need on a day like this is technical issues. Poor Morley is flat out trying to pay out and take bets whilst I reset everything to try and get it working. Thankfully, after a couple of failed attempts, on the third go it starts working again. 

Hermes Allen is backed almost to the exclusion of everything else. One punter does have £120 on impressive winner Il Est Francais at 8-5 (it saves the change) but him aside, it’s a one-sided book. 

I’m a lovely, patient soul, as you know, but I have to say this - don’t come to me asking “how does this all work, I’ve never placed a bet before” when there’s a queue of 25 behind you and you want a pound on something. Please ask when it’s quieter, such as when I’ve gone home. (I’ll add she also wanted to pay on her card.) 

Constitution Hill time. The inevitable £2.50ew bet comes in early on, as does someone having a tenner win. Those are the only two bets we will take on him, although word reaches us of someone having £100ew at 1-10 in Tatts. A profit of £12.50. You may scoff, but that’s an interest rate you’ll not get at Barclays. The Hill doesn’t come out of first gear, never mind second. Surely they are playing for second come March. Incidentally, as he coasted past the post in front, there were one or two boos among the crowd. Is that where we are now? We boo short-priced top-class horses for winning easily? Hardly his fault it wasn’t much of a race. 

Big race time, and everyone’s having a bet. But hang on - the keyboard’s knackered again. Not now, keyboard. I’ve no time to repair - it just gets binned off and we do the best we can. They want Bravemansgame, which is perhaps not a surprise. Plenty of £20 and £40 bets come for him and he’s our loser. Shishkin is second worst. I’m just praying he jumps off, as the last thing I need to be doing is explaining to novice punters they won’t get their money back if he comes under orders and digs in again. 

There’s time for a bit of food and a drink as the race progresses, but as they go past us with a lap to go, I remark to Tim, who I’m working with, that my money on Hewick is done. He looks to be going nowhere. Shishkin appears to have matters in hand but somehow Nico is dislodged from the saddle after two out. The crowd roar as Bravemansgame is left in front but a riderless Shiskin gets in his way, and it looks like a fight between him and Allaho for victory. But wait! Who is this steaming down the outside?! Hewick, who couldn’t keep up for two miles and six furlongs of this contest, has hit top gear and sails past them on the run-in! “Never in doubt!” shouts Tim, and the pair of us burst out laughing. What a result, and a short payout queue to boot!

It’s a good job that three of the front four in the market fill the places in the maiden hurdle, as all the punters wanted was fivers and tenners each-way on all the rags. Had Sea Invasion - a horse I like a lot, by the way - got third rather than fourth, it might well have been a losing race. But it’s fine, no damage done and Mahon’s Glory is a cracking result in the last. 

We pack the gear up, get paid and all we need to do now is get out of the car park. There are queues of cars everywhere, none of them going anywhere very quickly. Pick a line, join it, and hope it moves. Ours does after about fifteen minutes and we’re out and back on the M3 in twenty. Back to Leicester for half six and home for 7.15. My first Boxing Day at Kempton is done. I’ve enjoyed it, but I’m knackered. Just another year until we do it all again!

Happy New Year everyone! 

Roving Report: It’s beginning to look a lot like Fakers

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December’s a quiet time, isn’t it? Not a lot going on, not much to do, writes David Massey. Not from a racing point of view, anyway. The days are short, which means earlier start times, which means getting up at the crack of dawn to get there, which means an early night the evening before, and usually abstaining from the bottles and bottles of Christmas booze you’ve bought for the festive period. Unless you want to work on the pitch with a sore head all day. And I don’t. 

I’ll be doing Kempton Silver Ring next week. It’ll be the first time I’ve ever worked a pitch on King George Day, so that’ll be exciting. What’s less exciting is the 5.45am alarm call to get there in time. I’ll let you know how that goes in my next missive. 

Southwell being as it is at the moment - no public, and there won’t be any for the near future, either - means my services are not always currently required at my local. It’s very quiet there, and for a recent meeting that kicked off around 11.20am, we were actually able to count the people attending (around 50) as we sat upstairs, keeping warm. 

I have, at least, had more time on my hands to go racing and get some notes down. Last week I went to Leicester, to have a look to see how Apple Away was progressing. I don’t mind a trip to Leicester, although for a track that’s only 35 miles from me, it seems to take ages to get there. Once you come off the M1, you’re in a world of pain; Fosse Park retail traffic to start with, then a whole series of traffic lights, bottlenecks and roundabouts before you get to the track. There’s not a lot to look at, either; no rolling Cotswolds to keep you calm, merely a series of Chinese takeaways, tanning salons, and Betfreds. 

The one thing I do miss about Leicester is Reg’s Beef Rolls. An absolute must in the winter months, lovely tender beef mopped up in gravy in a massive bap, all for the bargain price of a fiver. There was always a queue. 

That aside, Leicester is a perfectly nice day out. Apple Away was very good, and looks to be improving. Come the end of the day I had a little chat with Jonjo O’Neill about his in the last. Talking to Jonjo always brings a smile to your face. He gives nothing away. 

“Did you find a reason why he ran so poorly at Newbury, Jonjo?”

Jonjo looks at the horse, looks at me, and looks at the horse again. 

“Which one is this?” he says to the lass, pointing at it. I burst out laughing. 

“It’s Regal Blue”, she says. “Nothing came to light.”

“I don’t think he liked Newbury much”, says Jonjo. “Anyway, he’ll win today.” 

I’m just confused and laughing. Forty seconds ago he didn’t know which horse it was! 

He actually ran a good race, finishing third and running much better. I think he’ll win one soon. 

It was also a great pleasure to meet Malcolm Heyhoe and his partner at Leicester, both there for a day out. I’m sure older readers will remember Malcolm’s columns in the Guardian and Weekender, among others; we had a lovely chat and it turns out Malcolm’s a fan of these Geegeez scribblings. I look forward to bumping into them again in the near future.

Next stop was Cheltenham, at the weekend. On Friday I was free, so was able to do some useful paddock notes and enjoy myself, but Saturday I’d already committed to working on the rails. I found myself next to the ever-jovial Pinno, who had clearly been working on the joint I was on on the Friday. There’s always an easy way to tell; Pinno is the most untidy bookie you’ll come across. All of the previous day’s ripped-up tickets and newspaper were still in the hod, now wet from a bit of rain, and you have to clear them out before you can start. One of these days I’ll charge him for cleaning services. He always calls me “Davey Boy”; “what do you like here, Davey Boy?”, “can we get this jolly beat, Davey Boy?”, “not a lot of business about, Davey Boy”, that sort of thing. I like working next to him, he’s always good fun. 

Saturday was not busy. I was taking in the region of 600-700 a race on the rail, steady but nothing outstanding, The biggest bet I took all day was a 1000-200 Nurse Susan in the last, which won, and that sort of tells you how the whole day went. Over the 14 races on the Friday and Saturday, there were eight winning favourites and the biggest priced winner was 9-1 (Madara, I even managed to take a 900-100 that as well), and not many books were smiling as they headed to the car parks at four o’clock.  

And finally, lovely Fakenham on Tuesday. Sadly for me, my lift bailed after he’d seen the weather forecast of rain all day, so I had to drive myself on the 250-mile round trip. It’s a good job I actually like driving! 

I always keep Google Maps on to update me of any potential issues and one cropped up on the A17 near Sleaford. A lorry had come off the road and gone over into an embankment; it was lucky there was a large hedge there or he’d have gone fully over. I just about managed to creep by the accident, only to hear on the radio ten minutes later the road had been closed. That would have been game over as far as getting to Fakenham went. I often see accidents like that while on my travels and am always grateful not to be in them. 

Around 9.40 I was getting peckish and fancied a bacon sandwich, so was pleased to spy a “Hot Food Next Layby” sign near Sleaford. However, on pulling up the guy had already packed up and was preparing to tow his wares away! Either he’d had a jackpot morning or people don’t eat bacon sandwiches on the road after half nine anymore, it seems. A couple of miles down the road was “Michelles” in another layby, and she did provide an excellent bacon roll. All’s well that ends well, and I’m back on the road with a decent cup of tea to boot. 

At Fakenham, I’m working with the lovely Julie for the S&D firm and we have a fun afternoon, despite the rain. Plenty of locals have turned up and although it’s mainly small money, it’s busy enough, and the firm wins nicely on the day. Just as well, as my petrol expenses, having driven myself, are on the high side. Plus the bacon roll. The rest of the firm are off to the local Wetherspoons for their dinner, whereas I have the three-hour drive home.

The sky is a beautiful red and, as it starts to turn dark to the west and the light disappears, the colours begin to clash and I manage to get a picture as the last of the daylight goes.

I haven’t got an arty bone in my body, but I do like the snap I managed to take. I hope you do too.

On that note, I’d like to wish all Geegeez readers a merry (and profitable) Christmas and a Happy New Year!

See you all in 2024! 

- Dave M

Roving Reports: Pointless

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“The road to the Superbowl is long, and pointless.”

The Simpsons fans among you will recognize this line from the said Superbowl episode where various misdemeanors happen, including Homer having fake tickets (which appear to be printed on crackers), then getting locked up in Superbowl jail, getting busted out by Dolly Parton (no pun intended) and finally ending up in the winning team’s locker room, writes David Massey.

There’s been no winning team at Fakenham on my last two visits over the past few weeks, I can tell you, but the road there has indeed seemed both long, and as it turned out, pointless.

Let me start by saying I’m certainly not knocking Fakenham at all, a track I’ve extolled the virtues of on many an occasion, but circumstances have made things difficult this autumn. (It isn’t winter until December, whatever the weather feels like.)

Fakenham’s first meeting took place at the very beginning of November and, filled with the joys that lay ahead, was picked up at 9.30am from Bingham, midway between Nottingham and Grantham, for my lift to the track. The same old routine ensued on the way there; a McDs’breakfast at Long Sutton, plenty of football and racing chat with driver Daren, and of course the Radio 2 10.30 music quiz. Not Popmaster any more though, not since Ken Bruce moved to pastures new, but the lesser imitation Ten To The Top. Daren used to get a six-point start on Popmaster; not any more he doesn’t, with the new quiz far more random given the incremental scoring system.

So far so good then. All very familiar and all’s well as we reach the track in plenty of time. The weather forecast doesn’t look as good as it did earlier, with some hefty showers now forecast around racetime. We’ll deal with it as we have to if it comes.

In the meantime, a visit to the home-made cake stall is obligatory; two slices of lemon drizzle (one for the wife, before you accuse me of having them both) and a tremendous sausage roll to go with my lunch. This is what courses are missing.

I’m with the S&D firm, called in to work the rails at the last minute as business is expected to be good for the first fixture of the year. We get betting an hour beforehand and as ever, it’s slow to begin with. Then, a spaceship appears overhead.

Well, it feels a bit like that scene in Independence Day when the aliens arrive on Earth and it all goes very dark, but it is nothing more than a massive black cloud, which right now, is worse. It envelops the track and everybody dives for their wet weather gear. Sadly, I’m too late. The rain comes in very quickly, the wind whips up and the rain is hitting me horizontally as I try desperately to get the waterproofs on. By the time I do, my trousers underneath are soaked, and this is also a bad time to discover a hole in your left boot. I get back on the joint but it’s pointless; there’s nobody in front of me as everyone has run for cover.

By the way, the bookmaker’s umbrella - the most pointless invention since somebody came up with the idea of those “Baby On Board” car stickers you put in the back window. (Well, I was going to ram you, but now I know you’ve a baby in the back seat... To be fair here, if I see one that says “Show Cats In Transit” it does make me want to give it a little nudge. Just to keep the felines on their toes, you understand.) Utterly useless as protection from the rain when the wind’s up. You’re as well standing there with a sieve on your head.

The rain finally abates just before the first race but it’s killed the business off. I’ve taken eight bets for the grand sum of 90 quid. As the race jumps off we try and get dried off, but at halfway a horse slips up on the bend and brings another one down. We all look at one another. This could be a very short afternoon indeed.

Post-race, it takes a consortium of jockeys and officials about five minutes to decide racing can’t go ahead after walking the track. “Like ice”, is how it’s described by one of the jockeys. Ten minutes later, the bing-bong goes, and it’s all over. Racing is abandoned.

Six hours on the road to bet on one race that the favourite wins, and staff all have to be paid regardless. It isn’t a good afternoon to be a Fakenham on-course bookmaker.

Undaunted by this sorry episode, the call once again came in on Monday of this week to work at the track Tuesday. It’s a Greene King Day at Fakenham, and the Bury St Edmunds-based brewery often give out loads of free tickets for these days, resulting in a good crowd that have a bet. I’m on the firm again.

An earlier start time means a 6.50am alarm call and an 8.30am pick up at Bingham. Traffic is bad though and we set off ten minutes late. Indeed, we’re already debating whether we have time for a McD’s within a few miles of setting off, with a slow-moving tractor not helping the situation; the pick for pitches is 11.10am, and Google Maps is currently forecasting our arrival at 10.50am. That doesn’t leave you a lot of wriggle room if you get caught behind an articulated lorry or farm vehicle, which is almost always 1.01 in the run in north Norfolk.

However, man must eat, and so a swift drive-thru is required. You can imagine our joy when the car in front of us gets his food, yet doesn’t drive off; instead a woman darts out the passenger side to use the facilities inside, but rather than park up, the car does not move from the food window. I’m just about to get out and politely enquire if he wouldn’t mind kindly sodding off as we’re in a rush, when he finally moves off. 10.56 sez Google Maps. Squeaky bum time.

Delighted to say that for the rest of the journey we encounter little traffic and get there at 10.47 thanks to Daren’s judicious decision making at roundabouts. Amazing how much time you can make up by knowing which lane you should be in.

I’m with S&D again, on the rails, working Pitch 3 which is the least attractive of the four (end picks 1 and 4 best, then 2, then mine) and whilst the weather is at least dry, if cold, there don’t appear to be many people about….

I will not bore you with the details of the afternoon. All you need to know is this - seven races, over which I took less than seventy bets, and bar a £200 wager on Pretending in the fifth, the biggest bet I took all day was forty quid. It felt like a very long afternoon and reports of a big crowd had been greatly exaggerated. Worse still, the cake stall was absent.

The next fixture at Fakenham is their Christmas one, on the 19th. I think I might wear my Christmas jumper - the one that says “BAH HUMBUG” across the front - for that one…

- DM

Roving Reports: The 4.00 at Plymouth

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It's been a while since I last wrote an article for Geegeez, writes David Massey. I was very much hoping to do one post-Ebor but other work commitments got in the way and then, before you know it, I'm in Plymouth getting married.

Well, not strictly married as such: we had what's called a civil ceremony, Caroline and me; it takes the religious side of things out of it (neither of us are religious, so it made sense) but we had a great day with our friends, including one or two racing folk among the guests. A little honeymoon in Mevegissey followed, and then it was back home and straight over to the other side of the country (for me anyway) with the annual three-day trip to Yarmouth for their Eastern Festival. The car has done some miles over the past three weeks!

I'll come to Yarmouth later but I haven't told you how this year's Ebor Festival went. In a nutshell, very little big money flying around the ring, results decent, and the most remarkable thing was me driving home at 11.30pm on the Thursday from my digs back to Nottingham as a boiler that was next to my room started making a lot of noise and wouldn't stop. I decided that there was no way I was getting any sleep and so threw a pair of shorts and a t-shirt on and drove back home to get some kip. I arrived back at 12.45 to find the now Mrs Massey somewhat shocked to see me at such an ungodly hour. "I'll explain all in the morning," I muttered as I slumped into bed and straight off to sleep. She was delighted to see me, really.

So you see, it isn't all glam working on the tracks!

I actually had more fun working at York last Saturday. It was a new fixture and you're never quite sure what business will be like on those days. Indeed, after I'd taken the princely sum of £260 on the first I was thinking it was going to be a long afternoon but business did pick up and by the last I was taking £900 on the back line, which made it a lot more workable. We needed a result in the last to make the day worthwhile and got one with Two Brothers grimly hanging on. At that point we were covering expenses and no more, so at least we won on the day.

It was a young crowd, I noticed, and quite a lot of novices having their first time at the races. That included a dad and his three young daughters, none of whom had been racing before but were fully engaged with the whole process, going to the paddock each time, picking their horses and having their £2 bets with me. They backed plenty of winners between them and when I gave them a free £2 bet on the last, Two Brothers was the pick, which really made their day! I'd like to think they'll be back at some point in the future. You don't need fancy gimmicks and music most of the time - just make it reasonably priced, don't have people's trousers down the moment they walk in, and they will come. And hopefully come again.

The young crowd meant two things - a lot of asking for ID's (most have it ready, for young people today getting asked for ID is part of their everyday) and a LOT of debit card bets. Now, our firm has bought some new card machines that are integrated with the software we use to place the bets and my word, it has really sped the process up. Before, you had to punch the bet in, then go to a separate piece of kit, hope the wi-if signal held up as you waved the card machine around in the air, complete the transaction and then print a ticket once approved. That used to take anything between 25-40 seconds. Not now. The new kit spits the ticket out in around 10-15 seconds and makes card betting a breeze. The boss was amazed when I'd done over 70 card bets at the end of play. It's what the young ones call a "game-changer", I believe.

It's a way off but there will come a time when card bets are going to take almost as much business as cash, so you might as well get used to the technology now. A lot of books have adapted to it but many haven't - whilst you might not necessarily need it for somewhere like Fakenham, you almost certainly will at Sandown, so to me it makes sense to get on board with debit cards now. Whether we like it or not....

And so to Yarmouth last week. I normally work at least one of the three days but not this year, it was something of a well-needed break after, er, the break I'd had the week before in Cornwall. The weather was not kind, with a very stiff breeze on both the Tuesday and Wednesday that was right into their faces up the home straight. Plenty of plastic garden furniture went flying, including one old boy who got up to pour himself a tea out of his flask, only to watch his chair disappear from under him and head towards the furlong marker as he did. Thankfully it missed everyone but it could have been nasty. The results were stupendous on the Tuesday and I know of at least one firm that caught sight of a couple of Newmarket faces quietly backing the 25-1 newcomer Cross The Tracks in the ring and cottoned on pretty quickly it ought to be a runner; they won over £2k for themselves on the race. That pretty much makes your week, unless you absolutely do it wrong for the next two days. I'm pleased to say they didn't and won well across the Festival.

I thought the maidens/novices on the Tuesday weren't that great but the Wednesday was a different kettle of fish. The Goldolphin pair that won their respective races, Romantic Style and Edge Of Blue, were both very nice horses physically and should do well, but at the end of the piece today I'll point you in the direction of a couple that might not be stars but should win a race or two next year.

Punters definitely got a bit back on the last two days and a few books that were crowing after the Tuesday were a little quieter by the middle of the final afternoon. There was a double-figure winner on the Thursday but that aside, on an eight-race card the biggest winner was a 9-2 chance. I won a bit on the week, mainly down to the away meetings at Beverley and Uttoxeter rather than anything I backed at Yarmouth, but I couldn't help feel the whole meeting lacked the fun that previous years had. I think I might give it a miss next year and just take the new Mrs Massey away for a week somewhere nice. I hear Kelso is lovely around this time of the year...

Anyway, to finish off with, here's the two I've put in the tracker labelled "Future Handicaps".

Apeeling (Andrew Balding) is well-named, as she did indeed make plenty of appeal on looks and the dam, Satsuma, has produced a few useful sprint winners. However, she doesn't have the stamp of a sprinter - not yet, anyway, she's quite long-backed and has length rather than power and maybe 7f might be her thing. She's time to fill out but her second to the impressive Romantic Feeling was a big step in the right direction and was no fluke. She should be up to winning races.

Gamblers Kitty (Chris Dwyer) already has the size of a three-year-old: he's not only lengthy but tall with it and hasn't filled his frame out yet. He behaved well pre-race but was very green in the race itself, having little idea until the penny dropped very late and, once it did, he stayed on nicely under hands-and-heels to finish fifth to Cross The Tracks. There's plenty to come from him and he's definitely worth monitoring with next year in mind.

Good luck.

- DM

Roving Reports: An Unwelcome Hat Trick

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It's been a while since you had a blog from me as, to be honest, there has not been a lot to report back on since Ascot, writes David Massey.

For every week you find yourself working a Goodwood or a Newmarket or the Royal Meeting, there are two or three Southwells, Stratfords and Leicesters; and, whilst they all have their charms, there's usually little or no action in the ring.

Saying that, for those that complain the books are all the same, one Midlands bookmaker, in an effort to do something different, has started betting extra places on selected races. Come racing!

I've actually had time to go and enjoy myself at the races and went to Newmarket's Ladies Day with my friend Paula, who likes a day racing, and has her own retired ex-racer for a hack. Remarkably, despite living in Cambridge, she'd never been to Newmarket and was absolutely amazed by their woody pre-parade ring, which is surely one of racing's hidden jewels. I could sit in there all afternoon, just making notes and watching the horses. I think you learn a lot in there. Can I recommend you get Dubai Treasure, second to Sacred Angel in the fillies maiden, in your trackers? She had no clue pre-race and was very green going to post, too. Given how much energy she expended, I expected her to drop right away, but she stuck willingly to the task and will know a lot more next time. I suspect she's very good.

Anyway, in terms of actual work, it's been thin on the ground. I've done a couple of Southwells and worked York's John Smith's weekend, which can easily be summed up in a short sentence: wet, and disappointing business. The Friday was awful, with rain all afternoon and it leaked under the waterproofs. The money required drying out (you've never seen so many tenners on a bathroom floor) before it could be cashed up, and my socks needed wringing out.

Saturday saw a different kind of rain, one that wasn't as constant as Friday but was more ferocious when it hit, with two warnings given out by the track for lightning.

One of those came just as we were getting going betting on the first race, and it rather killed it; probably just as well, as Blue For You was well backed. Results weren't bad, with Pride Of America almost unbacked for the John Smith's Cup, surprisingly given his liking for soft ground, but there you go. The biggest bet I took all day was a £300 one on Hamish for the Silver Cup at 1-2, and the punter was made to sweat considerably more than I think he thought he might, although he got his £150 profit in the end. That, by the way, shows you the level of business; York, rails, on John Smith's day, and the biggest bet I can take is £300.

I'm not known by friends as The Rainmaster for nothing; it seems to follow me around like a bad smell and, sure enough, Doncaster on Saturday night saw us get another drenching. It wasn't as bad as expected and the worst of it came just as we were packing up, but it put the tin hat on a night of what-can-go-wrong-nexts.

We have a Saturday night crowd who are there to see Abba tribute act Arrival after racing, so we know what we are dealing with. This is confirmed by the number of "this is my first bet ever" ladies that come up before the first. It never ceases to amaze me that people in their forties and fifties have got this far in life and never had a bet. I think I'd just about reached my eleventh birthday before my first wager.

Anyway, all the kit is working fine, we're off and running, business is steady and results are okay. What could go wrong?

Race 3 sees the first issue. Chiefman is withdrawn at the start after having stalls problems, which sees a 10p Rule 4. As ever, the muffled announcement goes unnoticed by much of the crowd and there are a few punters a bit miffed that they aren't getting back what is telling them on the docket. "It says here I should get £40," says one irate bloke. I also inform him his docket says "a Rule 4 may apply" but he's not interested in that bit. I am informed I am a "robbing bastard" for which I thank him, and start serving other, less irate, punters.

I've banged on enough about how the courses need to use the big screens more and I won't go on again - suffice to say someone who had a decent bet on Chiefman is yet to pick his money up at the time of writing. If I'd seen him I'd have given him a shout, but never did.

Worse is to follow, as favourite Sir Thomas Gresham is withdrawn at the start of the next. A whopping 20p deduction. If matey boy thought he'd been robbed for the previous race, he's not gonna like this much. And then... a dead heat. My head is in my hands.

Most people are fairly understanding about the situation and are happy to accept that they are getting back less than half of what it says on the docket, but there's always a few. One is convinced I'm totally wrong and does the maths I've given him to do, at which point I do at least get an apology. The rain starts to fall and I'm cold. Can't be any more withdrawals, surely?

There is. The unwelcome hat-trick is brought up by Handel in race 5, who doesn't go with the field. Another 10p deduction. I'm fairly sure people think we're doing this on purpose. It also takes the field down from 12 to 11, so a quarter the odds down to a fifth. It's just one thing after another!

We start packing up after the last and it starts to belt down, just to compound the misery. After expenses, we have won... six quid on the night. Well worth turning up for. As I push the gear towards the exit, a bloke comes running up to me with a docket. "Sorry I'm late, pal", he says. I look at his ticket. He's got two quid back from a non-runner. I don't even bother getting the money back out, merely reach in my pocket for two quid of my own. As the band strike up with Waterloo, I shake my head, and get the hell out of there...

- DM