festival clues and slip-on shoes

Detroit City - a worthy Champion Hurdle favourite.

I was fortunate enough to be at Cheltenham last week for both days of the Boylesports International meeting and it proved to be a journey of discovery for me.

It seems despite my strong arguments to the contrary which raged until Saturday lunchtime, that Detroit City is a worthy Champion Hurdle favourite.

Katchit traveled and jumped like a Triumph Hurdle winner and while 8-11 is a ludicrous price, Black Jack Ketchum seems to have the Ladbrokes World Hurdle at his hooves.

Still on the feet theme, and I also discovered that I will have to wear slip-on shoes at the big Festival in March. I lost count of the number of times the laces on my right footglove came loose last weekend. At least seven fellow racegoers pointed out my problem. Each time I would thank them, bend down, do my best double knot, and stroll into the distance, only for the lace to have unraveled by the time I hit full stride.

Not for the first time I was embarrassing my father with my walking style in public. In one final, desperate throw of the dice he took to his haunches to tie the lace himself. Seeing a retired schoolteacher tending to the laces of a fully grown son was an unedifying sight and one that can never be repeated. So laces are now a thing of the past.

I have reached the age when these things happen. For example this Christmas a nose and ear trimmer is much higher on my wish list from Santa than a Play Station or Nintento Wii, especially after a long dangling nasal hair was over-vigorously plucked by my girlfriend Nina earlier in the week. I have only just regained full sight in my left eye having been accused of squealing like a girl. Pain is not my thing.

Back to racing and something must be done about the late arrival of horses into the parade ring. Before the Boylesport Gold Cup last weekend six horses failed to enter the arena before their jockeys. Reveillez only made his bow after the bell for horses to be mounted had sounded.

These aren't fragile two or three-year-olds whose delicate temperaments trainers are trying desperately to keep in check. They are seasoned, hardened racehorses and the public deserve better, especially as for at least halve the races the horses just turn left from the chute and down to the start giving those in the stands only a distant view of the bottoms of their fancies, horses and human alike.

That was the only major grumble from a terrific weekend on the racing front but sadly from a personal point of view dignity was again in short supply.