Tag Archive for: Roving Reports

Roving Reports: Work til you’re Musselburgh Bound

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About a year ago now, maybe a bit more, a plan was hatched, writes David Massey. It was a plan to go to Thailand as part of Mrs M’s sister’s 50th birthday celebrations. She’d like one more big holiday abroad, she said. I was all for it, as there was no way you were getting me on a plane to a country with the humidity levels of the Royal Ascot press room; I’ll be able to experience that without going abroad come June. So it meant that as the good lady and her sister sent me some lovely photos of sun-kissed beaches, wonderful food and quite lethal-looking fireworks displays that I found myself in the somewhat colder climate of Scotland. 

I’ve skipped ahead a bit here. Once it was clear I had little or no interest in the holiday - I detest flying, I detest heat - I started my own planning for these two weeks which began on Cheltenham Trials Day, took in the delights of Hereford and Chepstow where I was joined by my friend Alex for the day (she likes to pretend she’s my assistant for the day, which basically means having her photo taken with Mick Fitz and blowing smoke up his backside about how great he was as a jockey) and will finish at Warwick at the end of this week. Sadly, the weather played its part last week too, and the planned visit to Exeter will have to wait until the late spring. 

And in the midst of all this was my first trip to a Scottish course, namely Musselburgh. I went with my long-time friend Becky, who some of you might know as a racecourse photographer at Cheltenham. I’ve known Becky for a decade and more now; whenever people ask how we know each other, she says I stalked her one day at Towcester. She says stalked, I say "enthusiastically followed.” Big difference, as I told the court. 

So it is with great excitement we set off on Friday afternoon on our marathon five-hour journey (it’ll actually take six) to Edinburgh. I’m doing the driving, as Becky is cursed with bad luck when it comes to cars. She’s gone through more automobiles than Kia has trainers in the past three years, which is saying something. We have snacks (gone by the time we reach Sheffield) and great music, and the conversation on the way includes but is not limited to a Grand National quiz, my poor taste in music (she says), her ex-boyfriends (some household names in there, I’ll say no more, they’ll be in her autobiography no doubt), how many horses she plans on buying this year, and what they’ll win in the next four years. We hit Newcastle around six and the traffic grinds to a halt. It’s dark when we come out the other side and suddenly there’s just nothing around for miles; I feel we’re driving through some pretty bleak countryside, but as it’s as black as soot, it’s hard to tell. On cue, as we hit the Scottish border, it starts raining again. Still an hour to go. 

We arrive at our destination around seven, and grab some food. We do, of course, have separate rooms, there’s none of that shenanigans (a dirty weekend that’s squeaky clean) and agree to meet in the morning around eight. There’s some football on BBC Alba, St Johnstone vs Partick Thistle. I fall asleep with it on. 

Saturday. We make our way up to the track fairly early as I have some Trackside work to do. Part of the reason for coming up here is to try and get a few more bookmakers signed up to the on-course service as we’re planning to do a bit more work in the North this calendar year. I have a chat with the on-course books, they seem a friendly lot, and I know one or two of them anyway, who do the introductions. The course isn’t overly big but that’s a good thing, everything is easy to find and get to, and I have to say it has one of the poshest William Hill on-course shops I’ve ever been in. Plush seating? Very nice. There’s also some old-fashioned weighing-room scales in there for you to have a try on; there’s an overweight notice incoming when I give them a go. 

It’s good racing too, quality stuff. I’m against Lord in the first (too keen again pre-race) and just about cop, and Star Of Guiting is a small winner for me in the next. Easy, this game. And then it goes wrong, although I have to say I’m delighted to see JPR One, a horse I’ve always had a lot of time for, win the Scottish Champion Chase. Becky is chatting to his delighted lads afterwards; they’re off to Wetherspoons later to celebrate, they tell us. That’s how you do it. I try to get Absolutely Doyen beaten in the novice hurdle but fail, and that takes a chunk of the winnings back. Then I kick myself for not backing Magna Victor in the next (if it’s an Alastair Ralph runner at Musselburgh, just back the thing) but Kelce ensures the day at least finishes on a high. Becky, having had horses with Neil Mulholland in the past, is particularly pleased at Kelce’s victory, and Georgie, his lass, has been kind enough to sort us some owners badges for tomorrow which, with less work on, should be a more relaxing day. 

Back at the hotel, we sort-of plan on maybe going out before we realise we’re both old and knackered, and would rather just eat in-house again before falling asleep. I’m so tired I manage that much more easily than I did Friday night (always the case when I go away - awful sleeper first night, much better the second, weird that)  and don’t wake until seven the next morning. 

Becky’s already gone for a run, so I make my way down to breakfast about eight. With Leopardstown postponed for 24 hours, today is the first day of the DRF too, so I’m catching up on all the gossip via the WhatsApp’s from last night. Along with another cracking card at Musselburgh, it promises to be a great day ahead. 

Before we go racing though, we find the beach and go for a little walk. There’s always something very therapeutic about being next to the sea, hopefully when that big Lucky 15 comes in and we retire, it’ll be somewhere on the South West coastline. Failing that, there’s always a weekend in Skegness to look forward to. By some miracle, the sun has come out and the wind has dropped. For the first time this year, I’m fairly sure, I can feel some degree of warmth. It doesn’t last long, the cloud soon returns though.

So we’re back at the track. I tell you what, the music that the course is pumping out is best described as “eclectic.” We go from what appears to be some Ceilidh tune to - and I’m not kidding here - the House Of Pain’s finest moment with “Jump Around.” It makes my selection on the way home look normal. 

It’s also student day today, and the place is packed out with them. They’re very well behaved and cheer them home on every circuit, which is nice. I lose count of the number of times Becky says “you can see her arse in that skirt, and probably more” as the afternoon progresses. Being the gent I am, I don’t look. Obviously. 

Let me say how lucky we are to have the owners badges today as the hospitality is incredible. We both agree the meal is the best we’ve probably ever had on track, with a complimentary drink too (Becky has the wine, I’m driving so it’s just orange juice for me) and with sticky toffee pudding to finish off, well, superb work Musselburgh, that’s all I can say. Only Sedgefield on the one occasion I had cause to visit as an owner comes close to this. 

And then when Transmission wins the Edinburgh National and Becky has to collect the winner’s trophy, that’s her weekend made. She wears a smile a mile wide. I’ve managed to win enough off that one to pay for the weekend, which will do me fine. I’m not a greedy man. That said, if there’s any more of that sticky toffee going…

It’s soon time to go home. On this occasion, the light holds out and we enjoy the beautiful, rugged Scottish countryside that we couldn’t see on the way up. It really is something to behold, the sea never more than a couple of miles from the road. It’s been a fantastic weekend and I’m already looking forward to my next Scottish visit, which will be Kelso in a few weeks’ time for the Morebattle Hurdle. I get home by nine, and catch some shuteye. Back to the grindstone and Southwell on Monday - at least it won’t take so long to get there!

- DM

Roving Reports: Shut That d’Or

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Do you know what the French for "doors closing" is? Until a couple of weeks ago I'd have struggled to tell you, but I now know that "porte à fermeture" is the correct French phrasing, writes David Massey. This is purely down to the number of times I took the lift at the hotel in which we stayed in Paris for our recent weekend away for the Arc. I now hear the words in my dreams, my wife has started saying it every time I leave the room and leave the door open, and it has become so ingrained in my memory I now remember it better than the names of my own children.

Maybe this is the right way to teach French to older idiots like me, just batter the phrase at them until they can no longer forget it. My wife Caroline was most impressed by my wonderful mangling of two beautiful languages in the pizza restaurant of "deux more beers, s'il vous plait" but at under four euros a boisson I definitely wanted deux more.

I'm jumping ahead here. Let's start at the beginning, when we decided earlier this year we'd go to the Arc for the first time. We booked through Racing Breaks #notanad and given my absolute fear of flying - actually, a fear of crashing - it was always going to be the Eurostar that took us to Paris. I've been on a plane three times in my whole life, once to Belfast, once to Dinan and once before to Paris, having been to Auteuil for Champion Hurdle Day there a few years back when One Track Mind took his chance. That was a fun day, and there are stories to tell that can't be repeated on here, but it was the last time I flew: after a rocky landing in Birmingham I swore off the air, preferring to stick to wheels and tracks to get about.

So we, along with seemingly half of England, are catching the Friday afternoon Eurostar to Paris. This, for a 56-year-old man who hasn't been abroad in years, is actually quite exciting. The Eurostar rattles along apace; there's a helpful video explaining how to break the window in your carriage and get out safely if something goes wrong, or perhaps get trapped with one of the many racing "personalities" that appear to be on the train. One of them is in our carriage. I've seen him more since he retired than I ever did when he was commentating.

We get to Gare du Nord an hour late. No, hang on, my phone has merely adjusted to local time. Forgot about that. Metro, then a quick ten minute walk to our hotel, not a million miles from the Eiffel Tower, and we're all checked in and in our hotel room 28 storeys up from the Parisian ground. I'm not struck on heights, either, but here we are.

As it's getting on a bit, we decide to find somewhere local to eat and find a great little pizza place two streets away. It's run by, as it turns out, an Iranian family, and they couldn't be more welcoming. The pizza is excellent, the beer cheap, and we have a good meal for a shade over forty euros.

Saturday morning breakfast in the hotel is incredible. So many people, so many nationalities, but everyone is catered for really well. You name it, it's there. Puts the standard buffet breakfast I'm so used to on my domestic travels to shame. And of course, the croissants are so much better than they are over here. I've lost a stone and a half in the last five months by eating better food, and I strongly suspect I might be putting a fair bit back on over the next three days.

We're off to Longchamp for their Saturday card, too. 80 euros for two tickets that get us pretty much everywhere we want to go is very fair given the quality of racing. I immediately fall in love with the place. I love the simplicity of it; paddock to bar to concourse in under a minute, and for all I love a battle with the old enemy on a British racecourse, the PMU machines fascinate me.

Sadly, what I thought was a winning forecast in the Cadran was merely a swinger, which teaches me a valuable lesson to know what bet I'm actually wagering rather than what I think I'm wagering. I think being three beers in at this point doesn't help - I can't drink like I used to, the Skegness years are long behind me - but I'm having such a fun time I don't really care. The racing is fantastic, although what's with the idea of two commentators for each race? Even for shorter contests they swap over at halfway. Imagine that over here. Over to John Hanmer halfway through the Epsom Dash. It'd be done before you've identified what's in front.

Saturday night sees us eating in a steak restaurant near the Champs Elysees with about ten others. It's an incredible place, the steaks hanging up in ageing cabinets and you can choose your own, should you wish. Our waitress for the evening is great fun, her English is superb - even her swearing is top-notch - and she keeps our rowdy lot in order. Suffice to say, the forty-two euros we paid last night would barely get you a look at the menu here. Throw in a couple of Uber's there and back and the night is not a cheap one. We do, however, get to see the Eiffel Tower all sparkly on the way back. Which is nice.

A lot nicer than Paris traffic, though. As someone that does over 20,000 miles a year driving to and from racecourses I like to think of myself as fairly competent, and can cope with whatever the British roads can throw at me. But Paris is on another level. This is basically real-life Mario Kart. Diving in for any gap that appears, lining up four wide at junctions clearly meant for two cars, getting cut up at roundabouts, these are all perfectly normal for your average Paris Uber driver, it seems. I asked our driver why there was so much traffic on the road at 11pm on a Saturday night. "Paris!" he exclaimed, shrugging his shoulders. Two more motorbikes dive for the same gap at the lights in front of us. I think I'd rather fly.

Sunday is Arc day. After more hotel lift-related mayhem (smart lifts my arse) and another wonderful breakfast (I eat more than yesterday, given I'm likely to be drinking again and probably won't eat again until tonight) our coach arrives to take us to the track. One lady thinks we'll miss the first, but she's made the rookie error I made at Gare du Nord on Friday. Add an hour onto those Racing Post off times, we'll be fine.

There's ten times as many people here as yesterday and it's basically like being at one massive party. What a fabulous atmosphere there is. I bump into plenty of pals on my way around, and we meet up with my friends Alex and Sophie, regulars at northern tracks. The beer is flowing, the racing is superb. "Make some noise!" shouts the racecourse announcer as they go in for the Arc. I've had ale, readers, and am more than happy to oblige with his request. Daryz proves just too good for Minnie Hauk, a shame for the Irish but good for my bank balance as I tipped him up in the steak restaurant last night. Alex and I play the bandits - as we've named the PMU machines - all afternoon, and that's another thing the French do so well. They aren't scared of you having a bet, it's almost encouraged, in fact. Out front there are five large platforms with young people on top waving huge flags saying "Time To Bet!" five minutes before the off of each race. I'm not saying there aren't faults with a Tote system but my word, it has its merits too, with some huge jackpot bets on offer for small stakes.

The afternoon flies by, and it's been very enjoyable. It's really whetted mine and Caroline's appetite to do this again; both Auteuil and Le Lion d'Angers are mentioned (well, it does have that wonderful X-Country course, after all). At the age of 56, I think I might finally become a traveller, after all. Ludlow on a Wednesday has its undoubted charms, of course, but this weekend has been a real eye-opener for me.

Monday morning. And after one last breakfast, it's back to Blighty. We arrive in St Pancras an hour early. No, hang on...

Let the jumps season commence. See you all at Cheltenham this weekend, yes?

- DM

A York Roving Report

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Ah, York, and more particularly Ebor week, writes David Massey. It’s well known I’m more a jumps man than the Flat but it’s a week that even I look forward to. Royal Ascot, with its regimented fun, and Glorious Goodwood, a more relaxing week but still a day too long, have their charms but Ebor week has that right balance of quality racing (just the Super Seven every day, no need for eight races and no requirement to be finishing at a stupid time - this is the North after all, teatime is half five), tremendous atmosphere, great nightlife (if that’s your thing) and the whole thing doesn’t require you to sell a kidney to pay for it all. 

As ever these days, I’m working alongside Vicki for the week, the pair of us delivering our Trackside paddock reporting service, but I’ve plenty of tipping pieces that need writing up as well. Thankfully, the weather is set fair as there’s nothing worse than a changeable or uncertain forecast when you’re trying to get ahead of the game. “Well, we might get 5mm of rain, but we might get 30 if we’re unlucky.” At that point there’s nothing you can do except wait. So my week actually starts Monday morning once we get the Wednesday declarations through.

I’ve decided to stay in York all week. It’s right on the periphery of how far I’m willing to travel there and back in a day, but with two sets of roadworks on the A1 (still) adding 20 minutes to the journey both ways, it’s a case of finding a decent Airbnb, which I do, no more than ten minutes from the track. 

The Placepot isn’t a bet I have much time for, if I’m honest; too many five-out-of-sixes, too many out-first-legs, I find it utterly frustrating, but I do partake during this particular week, mainly as my good friend James is at the track every day, and he loves it. As such, I just throw a score away each afternoon in his direction. We’ll forward ahead at this point to say we didn’t get any of the placepots up; a short-head away from landing it on one occasion, and a five-out-of-six where we doubled up on two legs on another. I repeat, I do not like the Placepot much, and it doesn’t like me back. 

I’m currently dieting (1st 3lb so far, although by the end of the week, perhaps unsurprisingly 4lb will have gone back on) so it’s Shredded Wheat for breakfast and salad at lunch, but I eat like a king each night whilst I’m away, it has to be said. Wednesday night I’m out with James, having steaks. The food is superb and better still, my half of the bill has been taken care of by a friend of James who backed a winner I’d put up (I do that occasionally, you know) so it’s a free night. James enjoys a glass of wine or three, but as a marathon runner in training for his next, he assures me he’ll still be up for a jog at eight o’clock the next morning. I tell him I’d like a photo as proof of this, as I think he’s about a million to one to make it as we go our separate ways at the end of the night. Reader, no photo was forthcoming. I see him later on Thursday to pay for the next losing Placepot we’ll have. “It just wasn’t going to happen”, he admits. 

Ombudsman bounces back to form to take the International, but not before Birr Castle scares the living daylights out of us all. Hasn’t it been a strange Flat season, this? Talented handicappers winning Group 1 sprints, pacemakers causing mayhem, 2yo form all seemingly up in the air? Makes you long for a 0-100 at Warwick (please re-read the opening paragraph if you think I’ve lost my mind.) 

Thursday is very much a day for the favourite-backers, with five of the seven going in and bookmakers looking like the stretchers will be required to carry them out. My step count for the day is through the roof - just shy of 12,000 - which means, in calorie terms, I can “afford” a pudding tonight. And what a night it is too, with 16 of us booked into Delrio’s Italian restaurant in the city. There are three tables in the room we’re booked into; on the table to my right is Kia Joorabchian, along with a few owners, trainers and jockeys; to my left Charlie Swan, Ruby Walsh and many of the Irish lads. Quite surreal, let me tell you. I do my quiz that I’d prepared for everyone and that goes down well, too. Plans are already afoot for another one. Next morning, I do my round on “racecourse geography” with Richard Hoiles and Stuart Machin and I really wish it had been recorded as it would have been social media gold. To see two of our finest commentators scratching their heads as I read out a series of roads and ask them which racecourse they would end up at was a joy to watch. I was surprised how tricky they found some of them, given their vast knowledge, and a 7 out of 10 for Richard earned him a “see me” on his report card. Must do better next time…

Friday kicks off in the best possible fashion with Asgard’s Captain, who I was very strong on, and better still, was one of the paddock picks too. I pressed up again and gave him a roar as he came to claim the prize. Our new customers would have been delighted. Even more so when we find Lifeplan, Cape Flora and Frescobaldi as the afternoon progresses and it really is something of a red letter day for Trackside.

There are days as both an analyst and a paddock watcher when you can’t find your own arse with both hands and you can have a crisis of confidence in this game more times than is good for you, believe me; but on days like today, when everything just flows, and the winners jump out at you, it’s the greatest game in the world. Find me a better one and I’ll switch. But until then, this will always be king. 

Friday night and we’re eating at eight o’clock. At a place called Ate O’Clock. You can imagine the anger earlier as I tried to get the relevant information out of the idiot that booked it. “What time are we eating?” “And where are we eating?” “No, you’ve already told me when, where?” “STOP TELLING ME WHAT TIME WE’RE EATING” and so on. He did it on purpose, obviously, as he knew full well he’d get a rise out of me, and he did. 

The sooner he gets his HWPA Lifetime Achievement award and leaves the press room, the better. I won’t give him the satisfaction of naming him, he’ll only think he’s even cleverer. Anyway, Ate O’Clock (at 8.15, it turns out, ha!) do good food and I get to chat to some new people, which is always great. We end up going round a few pubs and bars and meet up with one of the Sporting Life lads, who tells me an utterly unrepeatable story from Delrio’s the night before. I’d have been better not knowing, I think. It’s 1.30am before I crawl back into bed, and whilst by no means pi$$ed, I know I’m going to suffer a little in the morning. Indeed, the Shredded Wheat next morning isn’t cutting it, and I weaken enough to have a bacon sandwich, a sure sign I probably had plenty the night before. God, I’d forgotten how good bacon is. 

And so… we reach Saturday. Most of the work for the week is done and, bored, six of us in the press room have a round of Greyhound Roulette. I’ve explained the rules before, but essentially a dice decides your trap number for the first ten races on the card that morning, 3pts for a winner, 1pt for second. (Yes, it’s a game for degenerates. Don’t judge.) Anyway, all you need to know is we throw a tenner in each, winner takes all, and the winner was… me! A nifty in front before lunch. Could be a good day, this. 

We’ve already had one visit from the Queen this week and today we’re getting another. I come barrelling out of the press room around lunchtime, head down, not really looking where I’m going, to be grabbed by a member of security as I walk into what appears to be a vacated area. “Sorry sir, sterile area.” I’ve never been so insulted. I’m on the verge of telling him I have two happy and healthy children when I twig he means Her Maj is on the way through. But what’s really strange is, once she’s gone past, I’m able to walk, quite literally, five paces behind her with nobody seemingly stopping me. I’ve never been part of a Royal Entourage before and although I’m not supposed to be part of this one, it’s yet another quite surreal event in a week of them. 

It proves tougher to find a winner today, although the good news is that James has gone home, so I immediately feel I’m twenty quid better off, and I do locate both Never So Brave (another Group 1 winner that was in handicaps not so long ago) and Revival Power on the card. We at Trackside are big Revival Power fans; she’s going to be some horse at three. Mark this, and come back to it. (Only if we’re right though, obviously.) 

Death, taxes and the Irish winning the Ebor. Seemingly, three certainties in life. Actually, add a fourth. Roadworks on the A1. They might be gone by this time next year. Then again, probably not. See you at Doncaster, and then at Newmarket. AND THEN, AT CHEPSTOW!! Hurrah! 

- DM

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: 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: Epsom’s Downs

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Even before we set off for two days on Epsom’s rolling downs this year, there’s a problem, writes David Massey. There are always problems when I’m on the firm, it appears, mainly of the IT variety (more of that later) but on this occasion, two weeks before the big event, we have a slightly bigger one.

There are five of us due to travel to Epsom, two of whom, Tim and Paula, are a couple and have been for as long as I’ve known them. And then, a fortnight before the Derby, a date comes through for Paula’s keyhole surgery on her knee. It’s Oaks Day. And if she doesn’t take this date, she’ll be waiting until September, she’s told. It’s not even an argument, she has to have the surgery and so Paula, who spends more time in a certain beauty salon in Mansfield than she does at home, sadly will not be with us this year.

This means we have to recruit at short notice and BMW - Big Martin - steps into the breach. Martin has more Derby tales to tell than anyone I know, and is one of the Top 10 Eaters on a racecourse alive today. The man has hollow legs.

Martin’s favourite Derby tale is one I’ve recounted before, I think, but it’s always worth a retell. “We used to bet up on the Hill back in the day”, he says, “and there’s this one year we’re a bit late, the traffic was bad. In the front of the car we used to have a hooky Lyons Caterers pass - they supplied for the Queen, and the gatemen never stopped you if you had one of those. So anyway, we’ve pulled up, all suited and booted, and the guy on the gate gives us the stop signal.”

“You’re a bit late lads”, he says.

“Yes, bad traffic.”

“I don’t mean that. That Lyons pass is about three years out of date”, he says, pointing at the offending item.

“Look pal, we can stand here arguing if you like about the validity of that pass but we’ve got the Queen’s strawberries covered in the back of the car and they’re going off! She won’t be happy…”

“You’d best get going then lads”, says the gateman, hurrying them through. Unbelievable!

Anyway, I’ve gone a little off-topic here. Bottom line now is that we’re a room short, as Martin can’t really be sharing with Tim. And at this stage, a room near Epsom isn’t going to come cheap.

To the rescue come my friends Claire and Wayne, who live in Addlestone. They’ve always said if I need a spare room I only have to ask, and now seems a good time. Only thing is, they’re off to Berlin for the weekend as it’s Claire’s birthday treat! So I’ve got a four-bedroomed house to myself for the two days! What a result!

We travel, as ever, on the Thursday evening - the last thing you need is M25 traffic on a Friday, Thursday is bad enough - and so, early on the Friday morning at just before 8am, I’m waiting to be picked up for Epsom Racecourse. As Epsom is so expansive, the pick for both days is ridiculously early, 9.30am Friday and 9am Saturday, as the ring managers have a lot of area to cover, and the course want bookmakers in position before the double-deckers start arriving around 11am.

There are two surprises - one, there are less bookmakers in our enclosure than last year (five less, to be exact) and two, IT’S LIKE THE MIDDLE OF BLOODY WINTER HERE!

The last thing that the good lady said to me as I sat in the car Thursday, ready to go, was “are you taking a jumper?” At that point I’d ummed and ahhed about whether to take one or not, with a somewhat mixed forecast, but it turns out the best decision I made all weekend was to get out of the car, go back in the house, upstairs, and fetch my warm blue cotton jumper that is normally reserved for Yarmouth in September. I kid you not when I use the word “freezing” here - it really is cold, grey skies all around, no sign of any sun, and a temperature of 10 degrees. It is not going to get any warmer all day long. Luckily I can disappear to the press tent for a coffee and a bacon sandwich, unlike some of the poor bookmakers who are going to be sat around in the murk outside for the next few hours.

When I reappear around midday, I find Tim and the rest of the team have turned up, and Tim has delved into my bag of wet-weather gear and found my winter coat. Which he’s decided to purloin for himself. Tim, who spends one-sixth of the year in Barbados and does not cope well with English weather the other five-sixths, looks utterly disgusted with proceedings already and we’ve not even had the first race yet.

The whole afternoon is best described thus: the cold weather stops the picknickers, the buses are few and far between, and the ones that turn up are not betting buses. Overall, not great. The only saving grace is the fact that the bookmakers are down in numbers, which matches the custom. There’s really not as many here as you’d like, and crowd numbers are on the small side. Very noticeably so.

As such, results are almost irrelevant given the level of business, but we don’t have a winning favourite all afternoon. Ideally, you’d like these results tomorrow when business will be better. The biggest bet I take all afternoon is £200, from a lad that wanted to back something he called “hammish” in the Coronation Cup. I look for something hammish, anything ham-like on the board, in fact, but it turns out he means Hamish. I assume he’s not Scottish at this point. Regardless, when that one finishes second he leaves his money with us.

As the afternoon goes on and it gets colder, talk inevitably turns towards tonight’s food order. Nando's is the destination of choice, as it caters for all of us (i.e. the fat sods like me and Martin can have chips with our chicken, whilst the healthier brigade - Tim - can have his couscous. Or whatever.)

Saturday morning, 7.45am pick-up. I lock up and push the keys back through the door. It’s supposedly warmer than yesterday, but if it is, it’s not by a lot. The jumper is still on.

The press room is even more packed than yesterday. I must be the only person in there trying to look at Worcester’s afternoon card, but there we go.

Today I find myself right down the end of the line of bookmakers in the Lonsdale Enclosure, often a very good pitch on a day like today. We’re still awaiting three buses turning up which we’re told are all late. Those three buses will be right in front of me when they turn up; sadly for me, they never do. There’s some miscommunication somewhere and my good pitch suddenly looks less good. That’s another massive disadvantage of having to pick at 9am when there’s no crowd or buses - you’re relying on the info you’re given at that point, and if it’s wrong, tough luck.

The crowd are coming in pretty quickly now and at least they are filling the gaps that the buses leave, which is some consolation. The sun is trying to come out. Things are looking up.

A group of young ladies come along and sit near the joint, set up with picnic and prosecco. After a while one of the girls comes over and - this next conversation is 100% how it happened - says to me…

“City Of Troy runs today, doesn’t it? In the Derby?”

I inform her it does, and she wants to back it.

“I was told, back in March, don’t back it first time as it won’t win but back it second time because then he will win.” I ask if the person that told her this information had a quiet Irish accent and said “listen” a lot. Fully expecting her to have a fiver on it, she pulls a card out and has £100 on at 3-1. Her mates all follow suit with twenties and fifties.

Business is slow to get going for the first, with so many people coming to the party quite late, but I still manage to take a grand on the race, most of it on Portsmouth, and when that’s beaten, it’s a good start.

It’s fair to say this is not a racing crowd - you’d not expect it to be, not in this enclosure - but equally I did expect them to be in better spirits than they are, and they really are, in the main, a miserable lot. One lad insists on giving me dog’s abuse after his 50 quid bet on Running Lion gets stuffed - somehow that’s my fault, it seems - and one girl insists I’m trying to cheat her after I charge her 20 quid for her £10 each-way bet. Yes, you read that right.

“I know that a £10 each-way bet is a tenner, not twenty. You’re lying”, she shouts, with some real venom. There’s a queue behind her that I really need to serve. I offer to get the ring inspector involved but all she wants to do is shout at me. Eventually the bloke behind her in the queue intervenes on my behalf and tells her she’s wrong, but I feel really down after the episode. In fact, it rather ruins the afternoon if I’m honest and, after that, I’m not my usual effervescent self. I just want the day to end and to go home.

However, I’ll tell you of one other episode on the day that did actually offer some optimism for the future. Sadly, we lost Tears Of A Clown after the 3yo Dash, the green screens going up in front of the stands. One lady asked me what had happened - had the horse died? How had it died? I explained to her in non-emotive language exactly what had happened, and why I thought it had happened. She was very sad about the episode, as you’d expect, but she thanked me for explaining it all to her, and in clear terms.

When the worst happens on a racecourse and we sadly lose horses, and that’s just a fact of our sport, we need to deal with it in an adult fashion and not try and hide anything. Twice this season I’ve heard courses use the phrase “ x is being assessed in the horse ambulance” in an effort to try and lessen the blow for racegoers when clearly that’s not been the case. That has to stop, if we want the transparency the new Horse Pwr initiative is supposed to bring. Be honest with people. They’ll understand.

Anyway, the girls knew. City Of Troy kicks them aside in the Derby, a dreadful result for the books, as it turns out. As the girls pick up, I ask them whether their mystery source has informed them as to whether he’ll win again third time? “Oh yes, he’ll win again.” Who needs form books when you’ve info like this, eh?

Let’s hope the crowd at Ascot is cheerier. See you all next week. Bring a brolly, that’s my tip.

- DM

Roving Reports: Time Away

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When the cat’s away, the mice will disappear off down South for a weekend of punting, so the saying goes in our house, writes David Massey; and, with the good lady vanishing off to a spa weekend with her sister and nieces to celebrate one of them turning 18, it meant a weekend of either fending for myself, which usually ends with the local takeaways doing well out of me, or letting someone else take the strain, and take in some racing as a sideline.

So rather than raid the ready meals aisle at the local Big Tesco, I took the decision to take myself off to the desirable location of Staines-On-Thames for the weekend and had the idea of going to Plumpton on Sunday and Windsor on Monday night before heading home to Southwell on Tuesday morning. But first, an actual day of work at Nottingham.

Yes, it’s the one day of the year that it’s Money Without Work, as I jump on board the Martyn Of Leicester bandwagon. Martyn has numerous pitches at Ascot, Leicester, Warwick and Nottingham so anyone that’s anyone can get a day’s work as Martyn spreads the lightboards all over the country. It’s a local one for me at Nottingham and as it’s their Ladies Day, a busy one to boot.

I mean, it was busy, don’t get me wrong, but not as busy as last year when I worked the rail for them; there’s a lesson for courses here, it’s okay filling the place, Nottingham having sold out every ticket beforehand, which didn’t happen last year, but when you do, and space is at a premium, people tend to find a spot and stay there, rather than roam around, knowing a sitting space is more likely to be available. More isn’t always better, when it comes to crowds and the experience they have.

Anyway, let’s not complain too much. After a slow start and results not really falling our way, the second half of the day livened up and just in time as the 8-1 Spirit Genie was followed up with 6-1 and 12-1 winners, meaning a good day for the firm. (Unlike later on at Warwick, with five jollies and two second-in jollies going in. Ouch.) The pay for the day will cover my expenses for the weekend, so let’s kick on.

I’d already made an executive decision, once I’d seen that the M25 was shut between junctions 9-10 over the weekend and was going to cause quite a few disruptions (and throw in people traveling to the South Coast on one of the hottest days of the year so far) that poor old Plumpton was going to get the heave-ho in favour of a day of pointing at Kingston Blount, near High Wycombe. I’d never been and always wanted to go, so with my friend Lawney helping out with a badge, it was time to hit the M40 and head to Aston Rowant.

I have to say, what a glorious setting. Green fields as far as the eye can see in all directions, beautiful forestry, and a pair of red kites soaring overhead for most of the afternoon, if that’s your sort of thing. Where better to be than with a pint in your hand when the sun’s beating down? (Please drink responsibly.)

As for the punting, well, I’ve had better days. Alan Hill tells me his best chance of the afternoon runs in the first, so I invest 40 notes on him at 6-4. Sadly that went west, even with the odds-on favourite all but refusing to jump off; he never looked like winning and pulled up. No bet on the 1-3 favourite in the second and I left the Ladies Open alone, but did like one in the Men’s Open, which led three out, went clear, only to get picked off in the shadow of the post. It’s a stiff old finish, is Kingston Blount, and going for home early isn’t always the best policy. So that was a kick in the teeth, although not as much as the first division of the maiden, where I backed one each-way at 6s, and with three going clear three out and my pick just taking up the running, he unseated.

I decide today is not going to go my way, pull stumps and lick my wounds back at the hotel. At least the food was decent. Some comfort at the end of the day.

Monday morning. I’ve a lot of work to do before Windsor tonight and crack on, but once again it appears I’ve got clog-wearing Morris Dancers above me in the hotel and I opt to retire to a nearby coffee house to do some writing, which is considerably quieter. The York card looks decent and I decide fairly early that I’ll be having a decent each-way bet on Makanah in the sprint handicap.

You’d think that I’d know my way around the racecourses, having done it a few years now, but somehow I manage to take a wrong turn for Windsor and end up going down the M4 for a junction too many. Good job I’ve left in plenty of time. It’s supposed to still be a warm evening but I can tell you from bitter experience Windsor can be a cold place and sure enough the wind is blowing when I get there. The t-shirt comes off, and the long sleeved version goes on.

Operation Sunday Recovery begins well when the paddock throws up the first winner He’s Got Game, who I have £40 on, and despite almost throwing it away out of the stalls, he’s got enough in hand to win. I’ve nailed the trifecta on paddock looks as well, and already Sunday’s disasters are becoming but a distant memory.

The second looks too difficult, with five of the eight runners presenting well beforehand, so I sit it out, and a three-place bet on the exchanges on Frinton in the next gets me a bit more back. I go the wrong way in the novice with Mono River, and decide, having got Sunday’s losses back in the main, to call it an evening. I give Simon Nott, one of the few people in racing that does more miles than me, a lift back to the station and head for the hotel.

I get back in time to watch my tip for the day, Inspired Knowhow, scramble home in the closer and make a good day even better. He wins literally on the bob, and the next morning I remark to Mr Delargy how lucky we’ve been with the bob lately - three winners in the last week, none of which were in front either before or after the line. Sometimes your luck is with you, sometimes it’s not.

I celebrate with the complimentary fizzy water in the fridge and a Twirl (have you seen the tiny size of those these days? Shocking)  - rock ‘n’ roll, kids - and decide on an early night, with a long drive to Southwell Tuesday morning beckoning. It’s been a fun weekend, with a bit of profit at the end of it after expenses, which you can ask for no more than. Busy week ahead - York, Doncaster and Stratford, no rest for the wicked, or indeed the journeyman worker. See you all on the Knavesmire - and bring a brolly…

- 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: “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: 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

Roving Reports: The Month of May

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Ah, the month of May. Those who like their speed of the four-wheeled rather than four-legged variety will tell you that means the Indy 500 and Monaco Grand Prix, writes David Massey. I haven't been to Monaco this month, but I did stay for five races at Market Rasen the other week, and that's very much the same.

For me, May means a first visit to York and in this case, a second one, last week, too. The initial one was for the Dante meeting and for all it's one of the summer Festivals it's not a particularly well-attended one and the Wednesday of the meeting was one of the quietest days I've known at the place.

That's not to say it was totally dead: business was okay but no more than that. It did give me a chance to have a quick chat to one or two people, including our esteemed editor, Matt Bisogno, looking like a million dollars in loose change in his suit and sunglasses [too kind, cheque in the post! - Ed.], and my good friend Emily. Emily and I have two things in common - a love of racing and a love of The Smiths, and the two of us went to see Morrissey in concert at Blackpool last year. I've not seen her since so it was great to catch up. Speaking of Blackpool, a long-term reader of mine, known only to me as Blackpool Jezza, introduced himself, too. Always great to meet the people that read this nonsense!

The racing? Well, it started off one of those days where, despite the big prices, punters seemed to have been told the winners as they came in. First race winner Scampi was the worst result for me on my side of the book, and Bielsa was no better in the sprint handicap.

As ever at York, a bit of thought goes into the winner's music as they are brought back in, and "Leeds, Leeds, Leeds" comes over the PA as Bielsa is brought back in. We'll also get a blast of Leicester City fans as The Foxes returns after winning the Dante the following day. I'm less sure about football chanting as a suitable recompense for winning a Classic trial, but there we go.

Frankie. He can't pack up soon enough as far as the bookmakers are concerned. He could be riding a Skegness kids donkey and I guarantee you a dozen people would still back it, convinced he could somehow get it home in front. Soul Sister wins the Musidora by an easy four lengths and the only solace I can take is that, if this had been a Saturday card, the payout queue would have stretched back to Tadcaster.

Business is a little better on the Thursday and better again on the Friday, and results fairly kind. The biggest bet I take over the three days is a monkey on Broome in the Yorkshire Cup, and that never looks like copping. That rather shows level of business over the three days. Indeed, the moaning from the rails firms suggests that the ring was arguably better business than they saw.

York last Saturday was much better business. A two-hour pick (which means we take our positions at 11.35, not long after the course has actually opened the gates) meant an early start, but once prices go up just after 12 it feels busier.

There's an Irish band playing, but I have to say, with sun beating down, people out enjoying the day with a pint, I'm not sure whether The Fields Of Athenry is quite cutting it. If they were belting out a few Pogues numbers to get them going then fair enough, but whether a song about famine sets the right tone is open to debate.

Anyway, the first winner, Doctor Khan Junior, goes totally unbacked on my side of things, and I can't ever remember the first race at York throwing up a skinner.

By the way, how did we miss that? A Geoff Oldroyd winner in the Bond colours at York on the day the Reg Bond Handicap takes place at the end of the day? As my mate Joe pointed out to me as it sailed past the post in front, jabbing his finger at me, "as a tipster, isn't it your job to notice these things?" It is, and I hang my head in shame. We could have had a 28-1 winner if I'd been a bit more on the ball.

One thing you don't need on a Saturday is a withdrawn horse. The only way it could be worse is if it's the favourite. Well, The Line provides us with that nightmare scenario in the next. A 45p Rule 4 gets punters irate enough, but as ever, the announcement of the withdrawal gets totally lost over the PA and creates confusion.

How many times do I have to say this? To all racecourses - USE YOUR BIG SCREENS WHEN THESE OCCASIONS OCCUR. SHOW your customers what has happened, don't tell them, because half of them can't hear. As I write this on the Wednesday after the meeting, six of my punters are yet to collect their money back on the non-runner and I guess they aren't going to now.

At the same time I'm trying to explain to punters what's happened, I'm also fielding a call from Chester as our man at the track can't get wifi and can't take bets as a result. So I've punters chewing one ear off and a man with IT issues (and doesn't understand how wifi works) in the other. It wasn't the most fun 15 minutes of the day, let me tell you.

No sooner have I sorted his tech problem out than my own system goes down. Now I can't take bets either. I restart the system and it works, but only for a couple of minutes before it all goes down again. This is going to be a long job. I'm losing valuable betting time and punters are heading elsewhere. When I'm finally up and running they're going in the stalls. My take on that race is a third of what I took on the previous one. It's not going well.

River Of Stars is actually a good result in the Bronte and Starnberg an even better one in the handicap that follows. The laptop has another moment and basically I think everything is overheating, so I try and keep it all in the shade, which does seem to help. I'm overheating too, so it's off to the bar whilst the race is on to get some iced water.

You do not need to be a genius to work out what everyone wants to back in the last. Yes, to a man and a woman, Yorkshire, the short-priced and appropriately-named favourite, is the one that they want. When that's sunk without trace, I know it'll be a quick pack away after the last and we're in the car and heading home within half an hour. It must have been a good day as the boss comes out of the BP filling station with two Magnums for the journey home.

Next stop is the Derby. I have a feeling there may be things to report back with, if the news is to be believed. It'll be interesting to see what effect the train strike will have, if any. I'll tell you next time. I'm off to listen to some Chas 'N Dave to get me in the mood...

- DM

Roving Reports: HQ, and Closer To Home

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My workload is starting to pick up as the season progresses, and now the evening racing has kicked in, even more so, writes David Massey. I shall tell you about the knock-on effect of that for me later, but let's start this episode at the beginning of the month, and two days at the Guineas meeting at Newmarket.

You'll notice only the two - we decided not to go on the Friday, as the Silver Ring, which is where we will be working both days, has next to no business that day. So we set off on the Saturday morning, and in this case the "we" is myself and the good lady, who has purloined a free ticket from a friend of hers. The forecast is mixed, with some showers due early afternoon but should pass through quickly. I trust the weather forecasts as much as I'd trust having my palm read to determine if it'll rain or not, so the wet weather gear is packed.

We arrive in plenty of time to get set up, and start betting. It is extremely slow to get going, with families still coming in as the first goes off. However, before that, the rain begins, and up go the bookmakers' umbrellas, along with a whole row of gazebos as families that have been a bit more forward-thinking take shelter.

The rain gets a bit heavier and behind us are some very dark clouds indeed. It soon becomes fairly clear that the wet stuff is set in. Worse, it appears to be coming in sideways. When rain falls directly on you from overhead it isn't so bad, as the umbrella does its job and keeps the majority of it off you. When it comes at you from the side, everything gets wet. You're not only trying to protect yourself but all the electrics - if your printer packs up as the damp gets in, that's game over - and a second pair of arms is called for.

We take very little on the first race, which is just as well as the jolly old favourite wins. The two joint-favourites are hand-in-hand over the line for a 1-2 in the next, too, but it hardly matters as the rain is absolutely killing the business.

It gets heavier still. One family in front of us packs up and goes home. Two races. That's all they have seen. I hope they feel they had value for money but, equally, the idea of going somewhere warmer and drier appeals to me right now, too. I fancy Probe a bit in the next and give it a cheer as it wins. At least I've got a few quid in my pocket after that, even if the firm haven't. I really don't need to tell you how the rest of the day went, as the rain did not go anywhere and it was quite literally a wash-out. After five races the water-resistant coat I'm wearing becomes resistant no longer, and my shirt underneath develops some big damp patches. I have to go back to the car and change. The deluge eventually stops as the last gets underway. The least said about this day, the better.

Sunday comes and is a different kettle of fish. The sun is shining to the point I need sunscreen, and there are families pouring in on what is traditionally a family day. The puppet show (the same noisy one as last year, but mercifully further away from us this year) is in full swing, the inflatables are proving popular and the ice-cream van has a queue all afternoon. I wouldn't mind a 20% share in that action today.

We get going an hour before the first. It isn't long before a bloke, who appears to have been on the early shift at Wetherspoons, comes up to me. I shall try and give you an idea of the conversation.

"Is this the first race?"

"Yes mate, it is."

(Long pause)

"And these are the runners?"

"That's right."

(Long pause)

"For the first?"

"Yes."

(Very long pause)

"Can I have a bet in the second race?"

"After this one you can, yes."

(Long pause)

"Is this the first race?"

And so on. He gets bored after ten minutes and goes to the bookmaker next door, and asks exactly the same questions. He looks absolutely out of it. I shout over to Tony, the bookie next door, that he can have him all afternoon if he likes! For some reason Tony doesn't want him. I cannot imagine why...

It is, as you'd expect for a Silver Ring, all small money we are taking but surprisingly we do plenty of business on debit cards, too. HMS President is a good result and so is Running Lion in the Pretty Polly, with Queen Of Fairies one of the best backed horses all afternoon. There are a lot of first-time punters, and as is always the case, one of them has backed the first three winners. I let her into the secret that "we always let you win first time" before she promptly gets the four-timer up with Via Sistina.

Now, there has been a distinct waft of weed in the air all afternoon (sadly, all too common on racecourses these days) and the lady with the drugs dog is in the area to try and find the source. It doesn't take the dog long to latch onto the scent and he's pulling her towards someone.

It's only matey boy who was such a pain in the backside before the first that she's after. Suddenly, that conversation makes a bit more sense.

Laughably, he's off and trying to get away from the dog. "STAY THERE!!" the handler bellows at him, and he knows the game is up. He sinks to his knees in despair, his face pleading for mercy. She's having none of it, and within a couple of minutes he's escorted off the premises by three security guards.

"Cheerio, cheerio, cheerio!!" goes the chant as he's marched off. Myself and Tony are killing ourselves laughing as he tries to get a roll-up in his mouth, only to miss, and isn't allowed to go back and fetch it. He seems more upset about that than the fact he's got to leave.

Anyway, back to the main event, and the 1000 Guineas. Business is solid and I take a £200 bet on the favourite, which stays in the satchel as Mawj proves too good. It's that good a result I'm sent for four Magnums from the ice-cream van, a bargain at fourteen quid. And they moan about the margins that they bet to in the ring.

Two races to go and, from nowhere, I have a punter that's having a few quid on. He has £200 on Hectic and £100 on Saxon King. Where's he been all afternoon? Has he got any mates that want a bet, I ask him with a smile?

He backs the winner and with the £600 he collects, has £300 back on Lion Of War. Sadly there's no good ending for him as it finishes a well-held fourth. I enquire as to whether there might be a second round of Magnums only to be told I was lucky to get the first one!

There are cars stuck in the car park on the way out, parts of it have just turned to mud after yesterday, and the tractor is going to be busy. Not for us though, and after getting paid it's out and we're on the way home.

The following Saturday, with so many meetings, saw me pick up a day for a firm I don't usually work for. Martyn Of Leicester (for it was he) had pitches at Ascot, Leicester, Nottingham and Warwick, a total of 16 in all, and that requires a lot of workers. I'd been asked a couple of weeks ago if I'd like a home fixture and so I worked the rails for him at Nottingham on what was their Ladies Day.

I often moan about how soulless Nottingham can be but there was no lack of atmosphere on Saturday; the place was buzzing with a great crowd up for an enjoyable day in the sun. All the other rails pitches had three workers on them, but I was on my own ("just do your best" says Martyn; I informed him I always do my best) and was busy from the word go. Most of the punters seem to know what they are doing, always helpful, and the first two results go our way. Come race four, though, and I have a problem.

The 10 horse, Showalong, wins easily but one bloke brings a losing slip up, saying I gave him £20 number 2 rather than £20 number 10. It's entirely possible I misheard him - a genuine mistake if so, particularly with a loud tannoy system - but I point out to him it's too late to do anything about it now. It clearly says on every ticket we print "please check your ticket" as I can change a bet beforehand, but he's not happy. I tell him I can get the ring inspector if he wishes but he's not listening, he's stormed off with a few choice words regarding myself getting a hearing test. The other 500-odd punters I deal with over seven races have no such problems. Please, ladies and gentlemen, check your tickets...

At the end of the day Martyn is delighted with the efforts I've made. He's had a winning day and he pays me well, with a good top-up on my wages. Better still, I only have a five-mile journey home. If only all tracks were five miles from my house. I could work twice a day, at least until the end of August...

- DM