Racing
Irma's Oaks
Jeffrey Bernard
The weekend's racing was spoilt and overshadowed by two things. Firstly there was Irma Kurtz's horrid letter about me in this journal and secondly there were those terrible Scots football supporters who laid siege to London for three days. To take them in order of importance — and if this editor doesn't warn me and give me time enough to reply to scathing attacks from very bright, witty women then he can expect me to use my column replying — let'S take Irma then the Scots and then the Oaks.
• I can't quite remember whether I tipped Irma Kurtz or Dunfermline to win the Oaks, but I'm sure one of them did. I had £5 each way on Dunfermline, but in 19661 had my limit bet on Irma. And, d'you know, she did a funny thing for someone who's subsequently taken to writing what she implies is a moral do-gooding agony column in Cosmopolitan of all magazines, she treated mejust like nasty men treat nice ladies — she never phoned me back the next day. Anyway, that's all pastis under the bridge and, as she says, we can't go on meeting like this. At least she doesn't write that goosepimpling stuff that pours from the pens of Messrs Mooney and McSharry. Dear God, I'm getting carried away. Please forgive me Irma. I respect, admire and love you. Will you come to the movies next week with me?
Sorry, yes, the Scots. Now much as I love horse racing I could never take it as seriously as football fans take their rotten game. If! could I suppose there's an outside chance that I'd be rich, if not, not skint. The first thing that struck me about the Scots fans, when I saw them lying in the middle of Old Compton Street just before opening time, was their complete and utter dedi cation to the game. This prompted me to have £10 on them to beat England, but it was only their number that prevented me from reminding the Bannockburn flag carriers what my old mate Cromwell did to them at Dunbar. Incidentally, Cromwell would have made a great England team manager. But I wander. I spent Friday barricaded in the Swiss Tavern with my old mate the ex-tic-tac guvnor, Charles Stevenson. He stood by the locked door of the boozer only letting the few sane ones in the place. Of course, the majority of them are very alright and they certainly seem to know more about sport than the average English fan, but that's not saying much.
What did strike me, round about 10.30pm, was their amazing grasp of the pugilistic arts. It was at that time that my left cheekbone stopped the hardest right cross it's ever been my displeasure to meet with. Mind you, if you're going to stop a hefty one then the cheekbone is a particularly good and tough place to have it land, but in this case it was so hard that the back of my head hit a pillar in the bar. I'm concussed you see Irma, so forgive me rambling. Anyway, the thing is, never ask a Scotsman to stop playing the bagpipes even when he's been playing them in your ear for half an hour. The other thing is don't make remarks implying that Hadrian's Wall wasn't high enough or would have been if McAlpine's had done the job.
As for the Oaks I hope that those nasty bastards among you who've written me filthy letters about my tips will now apologise, if not in writing, then in silent humility. In spite of what might have been a dreadful and fatal accident to Lester Piggott when thrown by Durtal, I'm absolutely convinced that that horse wouldn't have stayed the mile and a half. Be that as it may, it's a pretty nasty trick that Dame Fortune played on Barry Hills to have had the saddle slip on two Oaks favourites. Dibidale was hacking up when Willy Carson came unstuck, but at least he was compensated by Dunfermline's victory even if Barry Hills wasn't. I must say that it's the trainers and jockeys that I have most sympathy for when things go wrong. I mean it's hard to feel that sad for an owner like Robert Sangster who's not only just won the Derby but who doesn't and never will know what it's like to be short of the rent.
My £1 booktoken award for the shrewdest nut of the month must go to the Aga Khan. $4,600,000 for a horse before it has shown it can't stay a mile and half isn't bad business. What mugs the public is and what a load of greedy sods the bookmakers are. Never mind, that's what makes horse racing. By the way, a couple for the notebook and worth a few bob next time out are Bruce Hobbs's China Trader and Ryan Jarvis's Robust.
Previous page
