Life's A Gamble

Although it's been a few years since I last saw my good friend Rozzer (not his real name), I have every intention of giving him a good kicking when next we meet.

Rozzer is an old school friend of mine, a boarding school pal who educated me in the rudiments of betting on horses — a form of indulgence which, over the years, has cost me a fortune. It's strange, really, because as instructors go he was fairly well qualified — his old man trains horses, while his brother rides them for a living over in England.

Before making Rozzer's acquaintance, I had a vague idea of what a horse was. After spending vast swathes of my formative years in his company, I now know the name of every racecourse, trainer and jockey in Ireland and the British Isles (not to mention several of each in France, South Africa, Australia and Japan); the differences between a seller and a bumper; that a handicap with a field of 16 or more pays each way on the first four home; and that a 20p yankee involves betting on four different horses at a cost of £2.42 (after tax) for which one gets six doubles, three trebles and one accumulator. It's safe to say that, where the sport of kings is concerned, my only weakness is a chronic inability to distinguish between a particularly swift thoroughbred and the kind of idle laggard fit only for the knacker's yard.

Nevertheless, while thousands of well-heeled Irishmen recently made the annual three-day pilgrimage to Cheltenham in order to wage war on the layers in the world's most famous betting ring, I sauntered down to my local bookie's office for what most high rollers would describe as a minor kerfuffle with the amply-bosomed old lush who sits chain-smoking behind the counter.

Of course, before placing a wager on any horse, it is imperative that one should "study the form". There are two ways of doing this, one of which involves a tedious and time-consuming contemplation of equine ancestry, recent results, top speeds, ability over various distances and on certain types of ground, and such like.

The second involves tuning into RTE shortly before the off and betting on whatever horse Ted Walsh tells you to. Formerly a champion amateur jockey and currently a successful trainer, Ted certainly knows his onions and is quite possibly the most candid sports pundit ever to draw breath. If Ted tells you that a certain horse is a "super lepper", then you can rest assured that even if the nag in question is as slow as a wet week, when it eventually gets to a fence, it will definitely lep said obstacle with aplomb.

On day one of Cheltenham, Ted was in fine fettle, telling anyone who was prepared to listen that they should put everything they owned on Irish challenger Istabraq, who was running in that day's showcase, the Champion Hurdle. Owned by mega-rich former bookie JP McManus, Istabraq was the white-hot favourite to win hurdling's blue riband for the second successive year.

Before the race, one of Ted's colleagues asked him who he fancied to come second and third, as there seemed little point in anyone backing Istabraq at the prohibitive odds of 1/2. Ted was aghast at the very notion of investing hard cash in anything other than the jolly favourite, and went so far as to urge his public to withdraw all their savings from whatever finance house it was currently residing in and get it on JP's horse. His logic was blindingly simple: "The odds might only be 1/2, but at least you'll get 50% interest if you put your money on Istabraq — that's a lot more than you'll get if you leave it sitting in the bank."

Thus it was with a fire raging in my belly that I took Ted's advice, withdrew all available Glendenning funds from the bank and invested every single penny I had on a horse.

As the tapes went back and the entrants of the last Champion Hurdle of the millennium set off on their odyssey, it occurred to me that Ted Walsh might be wrong. That Istabraq is a very special, very talented horse is unquestionable. However, when push comes to shove, the fact remains that he is only a horse. What if he wasn't in the mood? What if he was depressed? What if he was sick? What if he hadn't had his oats the previous evening? What if he had and they were drugged? What if he fell? What if he was tripped? What if? What if? What if?

Thankfully, no such tragedies came to pass, ace pilot Charlie Swan was given an armchair ride and JP's horse won pulling up with the raucous cheering of thousands of drunk Irish men and women ringing in his lovely big brown ears. Spirits were high in the bookie's office as approximately 40 worshippers at the altars of Ted Walsh and Istabraq immediately formed an orderly queue at the Payout hatch. Tatty yellow betting slips were exchanged for sizeable wedges of cash, and grown men wept openly as they spoke of the ambitions that they could now afford to realise. It was all I could do to hold back my own tears, as I stared into the whites of old Ample Bosom's eyes, collected my winnings and left this most unlikely theatre of dreams.

I can't even begin to imagine how deliriously happy I would have been if, on the day, the sum total of my available liquid assets had amounted to more than £35.