I had a little write of this about the Champion Hurdle on Monday:
The ground is likely to be more good than soft good. This is, I reckon, going to suit the flat-bred lads a little better. So Celestial Halo by Galileo – tick and Punjabi by Komaite – tick, and whilst I’m at it Khyber Kim by Mujahid – tick. But the big fat tick to end all other ticks goes to Zaynar.
On Tuesday I find that the first 5 home were by flat-bred sires in the race. Binocular was the joker in the pack that I overlooked because, like Solwhit, he’d had problems. Well we were sold a bit of a pup there weren’t we? Actually his pedigree is interesting. His flat-bred sire was a flipping sprinter (and not a well-known sire at that), but his dam is stoutly-bred by the NH sire Pistolet Bleu. So there. Next year watch for the same kind of thing. A mix of toe and staying power to sprint off up the hill.
This Wednesday has turned into a bit of a dog already. Rudi spent some time treating the garden as a velodrome (running round the walls without the bike) after the foxes got the rubbish. So I’ve had to hold a Stewards’ Inquiry into why the rubbish was not in the shed (all before 9 a.m.). Added to that, the children are ill and I must teach later. You’ll therefore forgive me if my Cheltenham attitude has become too dilatory to inflict on readers. Those huge handicaps make me shudder. Blokes love them. I rest my case.
I am hoping to have earned my Guinness later. Whether it’s in life-changing quantity rather depends on how this lot run. One from THE bumper, one from the bumper in Huntingdon and two maidens and maybe a dabble on Ferdy Murphy’s pretender.
Shot From the Hip – by Monsun and has to be backed – worried about the Weld horse – Mullins who’s he?
Dominium – love it love it love it
TheRedBalloon – Sulamani has a staggering percentage call over 14f+
Mirza – the Dandy Nicholls runner could ruin my St Patrick’s Day party
Kalahari King – to place maybe because really I want the Master to win…
And this is nothing to do with anything, but I like a poem.
Achilles – by Carol Ann Duffy
Myth’s river – where his mother dipped him, fished him, a slippery golden boy flowed on, his name on its lips.
Without him, it was prophesied, they would not take Troy.
Women hid him, concealed him in girls’ sarongs; days of sweetmeats, spices, silver songs…
But when Odysseus came, with an athlete’s build, a sword and a shield, he followed him to the battlefield, the crowd’s roar,
And it was sport, not war, his charmed foot on the ball…
But then his heel, his heel, his heel…
I know, given the time lapse, that this poem has been a honed a little, but not a lot. What I want to know is if Beckham is Achilles, who the heck is Odysseus?
Wot I have learned in the new ice age.
That the weather forecasters are mainly wrong about the timing, the quantities and location of snowfall.
That BMWs spin their tyres a lot and that in these conditions the TinCanfromJapan is an effective conveyance. Snow chains – Honda Civic = you decide.
That a heated pitch does not a match in heaven make.
That not even the Poet Laureate can compose a 2010 snow poem without cliches, although she wrote one about a snowman prior to her Laureateship than I am quite keen on here.
“You don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you?”