Free Dispatches From a Dilettante by Paul Rowson

bit of knowledge. Ultimately I never had the nerve to be a regular or serious gambler but for a short period became totally absorbed by horse racing. What quickly became apparent was the folly of most punters who didn’t put in enough, or indeed any, work into researching form or applying some basic principles. Previous form, the course, the going (state of the course), the draw, the jockey, quality of opposition on previous outings, the weight, and the condition of the horse in the parade ring would be just a few of the things any serious better on horse races would take into consideration.
    For example Chester, which was a tiny little course with tight bends, was a completely different proposition from the wide open spaces of Epsom. However it was the small northern courses like Pontefract, Wetherby and York that we frequented all those years ago. Haydock Park was a favourite and amazingly the older I get the more wins I seem to remember there. The fact was that I was barely breaking even. I became a regular in betting shops and once won so much on a double that the betting shop owner announced loudly that he would have to go to the bank to get more cash. I was terrified that, when he returned with it, I would be mugged. My biggest win was a sizable ante post bet each way at thirty three to one on Morston, who won the Derby in 1972. Immediately I went to a boutique and purchased a ridiculously expensive, flash and ill fitting coat which I left on the bus two days later, never to be seen again.
    It was at this point that hubris got the better of me. I had convinced myself that a certain horse was going to win a race at Pontefract. The week before the planned Pontefract bonanza Brigadier Gerard was racing at York in the inaugural Benson and Hedges Cup. For those of you not familiar with racing, the Brigadier was named after the swashbuckling hero of an Arthur Conan Doyle novel and is now generally acknowledged to have been one of the greatest racehorses ever. At the time of this tale he was undefeated in thirteen races.
    In my febrile brain I thought that by placing a big bet on this certain winner at York, I would generate a bigger stake to put on my Pontefract horse which would be at decent odds. That way I would acquire some serious money. To obtain the stake for the Brigadier Gerard bet I had concocted a story about needing a car to get to a new job which was soon to be offered me, conditional on my having transport. I drew upon all my thespian qualities and used them to persuade the nice manager at the National Westminster Bank local branch to advance me two hundred pounds. This was, in those days, the equivalent to two months wages for the average working person.
    Armed with the money I got a lift in a coach provided by my local bookie to give mugs like myself a comfortable ride to oblivion. In my euphoric cash laden state I had failed to notice some key events and changes in the lead up to the race. A Panamanian jockey Braulio Baeza, who had never before ridden in England, had been given the ride on the unfancied horse Roberto. Roberto’s usual jockey Lester Piggott had declined the chance of the ride for this race and opted for a mount called Rheingold. I remained resolutely unmoved by these significant pointers. Additionally the Benson and Hedges Cup at York was to be run over a mile and a quarter, whereas a mile was the Brigadier’s preferred distance.
    In films and plays the weather is often used to illustrate moods and to portend disasters but it was a beautiful day when I arrived at one of the oldest racecourses in the country. Knavesmire looked good to me as I settled down at a spot ‘by the rails’ where serious money was placed. Even when the odds lessened I failed to take heed. When placing my bet I eventually noticed that the odds on the Brigadier had got even shorter and it started at 1-3 on. That is to say to win one hundred pounds you would have to have bet three hundred. I was therefore risking what