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Couldn’t they bring Cheltenham back a day, to start on Monday? …grizzle… grizzle…
Talk about a watched kettle never boiling… It’s worse than waiting for my pooter to change screens.
I quite like it – the lull before the storm.
Final checks on weather (sunny/dry from now on), horses in and out, and a time for reflection about the horse you think would/will have done well. Its gut feeling time before the action starts
yep about 7 weeks to the Craven ……
You’ll be saying its not long to the Lincoln next, hideous thought
I quite like it – the lull before the storm.
Final checks on weather (sunny/dry from now on), horses in and out, and a time for reflection about the horse you think would/will have done well. Its gut feeling time before the action starts
The build seems to take forever but before you know it, it’ll all be over and we’ll be reflecting on it all and getting excited for next time……
I quite like it – the lull before the storm.
Final checks on weather (sunny/dry from now on), horses in and out, and a time for reflection about the horse you think would/will have done well. Its gut feeling time before the action starts
The build seems to take forever but before you know it, it’ll all be over and we’ll be reflecting on it all and getting excited for next time……
That’s about the strength of it, Burrough. But, fortunately, the hankering after next year’s Chelters is tempered a bit by the length of the wait.
March/April is a fantastic time of year; Cheltenham, Aintree, The Masters, Punchestown.
Love it.
Godstone PTP tomorrow and then travelling to Cheltenham Monday afternoon so as far as I’m concerned it starts tomorrow
Lee
Couldn’t they bring Cheltenham back a day, to start on Monday?
I’ve long thought that the atypical Monday comprising of three NH meetings: Plumpton, Stratford and Taunton is an ideal, moreish appetizer for Cheltenham
A buzz of anticipation must pervade the courses and the sport itself is pretty good too with Class 3 handicaps at both Stratford and Taunton (a 0-140) and somewhat better than usual at Plumpton
Must admit that I’m looking forward to this Festival less than I have for years……..
I mainly concentrate on the flat and only really follow the jumps through the pages of Nick Mordin’s online column – since he stopped writing it last year I don’t feel as though I know the runners this time round………
Of course, I’ll still watch it but probably won’t bet…….
Actually I didn’t bet on it last year either……..I find the races too competitive, too many possible winners. If I remember rightly I had 3 bets during Cheltenham week last year…….all of them at Southwell and all of them won
Nice little 5 and 6 runner handicaps……
Surprised Racing for Change (part of BHA) haven’t been all over this by now wanting to change it to Wed-Sat.
You’ll be saying its not long to the Lincoln next, hideous thought
I can remember when the Brocklesby was the highlight of the flat season.
It still would be if they moved it to its rightful place.
‘Aubrey’s up,the money’s down/The frightened bookies quake/Come on,me boys and give a cheer/Begob ’tis Cottage Rake.’
Cheltenham is like sex; when it’s good, it’s great, and when it’s bad, it’s still good.
Almost here (tho it was better at 3 days)Couldn’t they bring Cheltenham back a day, to start on Monday?
I’ve long thought that the atypical Monday comprising of three NH meetings: Plumpton, Stratford and Taunton is an ideal, moreish appetizer for Cheltenham
A buzz of anticipation must pervade the courses and the sport itself is pretty good too with Class 3 handicaps at both Stratford and Taunton (a 0-140) and somewhat better than usual at Plumpton
D’you read that signature of Lee, in the post above, Drone? Another soul in thrall to poetry, by the sound of it. ‘Horseman, ride on… Yes, past the bee-loud glade, until you reach the lake of Innisfree.’
I’m sorry for mangling your best Yeats, Drone, but my memory isn’t what it was.
Talking of which I was impressed by my sister’s total recall, as I believe they call it. Although women are more neighbourly and socially-minded). I asked her if she remembered the first name of Mrs Brooks, next door, where we grew up in Enfield. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘Eva’. She was a fine figure of woman, as the old writers used to say.
I remember her standing at the top of the stone steps leading to her front door, looking down at me with that curious blank-seeming gaze women often have, when you can’t tell whether they are looking at you as a piece of dog’s mess under their feet, or have taken a a shine to you.
In this case, without any pretension to modesty, I think the former would be a cast-iron certainty. Within the context of my memory of that time, it would have been a one-off, an anomaly. Still no harm in rose-tinted hindsight.
Then my sister said, do you remember Mrs Carter, further down the road. ‘Yes, Vera’, I replied. ‘Do you remember how their grubby, white, Staffordshire bull-terrier, Bill, used to eat the damson windfalls from the tree in their garden? And because they were half-fermented, he got pie-eyed on them?’
Well, I had forgotten that, but it began to filter back. But just imagine: a grubby, white, piggy-eyed, Staffordshire bull-terrier, now also pie-eyed, called Bill, tail slowly wagging his tail, as is the wont of bull-terriers when in a meditative frame of mind… not wagging wildly like a barmy spaniel.
I mean, could you ever imagine a more perfect name for him? Not too long, not too short, not to fancy, just well, neighbourly, I suppose.
I wonder what Yeats would have made of it, Droney? Perhaps, more Edward Lear’s field.
That fine sig of Lee’s is taken from Oliver Twist, and the paragraph from which it comes is apposite being as we are in England now that April is here
Oliver rose next morning in better heart, and went about his usual early occupations with more hope and pleasure than he had known for many days. The birds were once more hung out, to sing, in their old places; and the sweetest wild flowers that could be found, were once more gathered to gladden Rose with their beauty. The melancholy which had seemed to the sad eyes of the anxious boy to hang, for days past, over every object, beautiful as all were, was dispelled by magic. The dew seemed to sparkle more brightly on the green leaves; the air to rustle among them with a sweeter music; and the sky itself to look more blue and bright. Such is the influence which the condition of our own thoughts, exercises, even over the appearance of external objects. Men who look on nature, and their fellow-men, and cry that all is dark and gloomy, are in the right; but the sombre colours are reflections from their own jaundiced eyes and hearts. The real hues are delicate, and need a clearer vision
I once knew a scruffy and smelly black-and-white terrier-mongrel that was named Eric, which seemed appropriate: one of those names – like Ernie – that conjours up an image of a flat-capped, Woodbine-Best Bitter-Yankee addicted seedy late middle-aged ‘working man’
Read Gamble and weep Mr Lear
That fine sig of Lee’s is taken from Oliver Twist, and the paragraph from which it comes is apposite being as we are in England now that April is here
Oliver rose next morning in better heart, and went about his usual early occupations with more hope and pleasure than he had known for many days. The birds were once more hung out, to sing, in their old places; and the sweetest wild flowers that could be found, were once more gathered to gladden Rose with their beauty. The melancholy which had seemed to the sad eyes of the anxious boy to hang, for days past, over every object, beautiful as all were, was dispelled by magic. The dew seemed to sparkle more brightly on the green leaves; the air to rustle among them with a sweeter music; and the sky itself to look more blue and bright. Such is the influence which the condition of our own thoughts, exercises, even over the appearance of external objects. Men who look on nature, and their fellow-men, and cry that all is dark and gloomy, are in the right; but the sombre colours are reflections from their own jaundiced eyes and hearts. The real hues are delicate, and need a clearer vision
I once knew a scruffy and smelly black-and-white terrier-mongrel that was named Eric, which seemed appropriate: one of those names – like Ernie – that conjours up an image of a flat-capped, Woodbine-Best Bitter-Yankee addicted seedy late middle-aged ‘working man’
Read Gamble and weep Mr Lear
Trust you to spot that, Drone!
Also, I catch your drift about that scruffy, smelly, black-and-white-terrier-mongrel named Eric.
I was thinking about Bill, again, and it occurred to me that actually, other names could have been just as, or almost as funny in different ways as Bill
‘Nigel (or Tarquin) has been at the damson wine again. Look at him, the bandy-legged old **; He can hardly stand up’ – as ‘Nigel (or Tarquin) tries to focus his cock-eyed gaze on his admirers.
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