Here’s to the housewives’ choice

By Jack Davison

There is nothing like having to push a manure-filled wheelbarrow into the driving wind and rain on a Tuesday morning to compound your misery and make you realise the full extent of your betting mishaps. Well Bet Chronicle certainly didn’t have to work as hard for my money on Easter Monday. In a way, I’m glad I’m back to work, battling the elements and my racing demons, as it is usually within the perimeters of a stable, whilst mucking out boxes, (which, by the way, happen to be doubly filthy due to the bank holiday weekend staffing arrangements) that I find some serenity, which allows me to stand back, have a rethink and formulate a plan of attack ahead for the up and coming English version of the National. Regular hard toil also acts as a salient reminder for me of what it takes to earn the stake which I intend to gamble, and helps keep me disciplined in a game where a rush of blood to the head stimulates thoughts of maybe doubling, trebling my stake when a really good betting opportunity comes along. So, when I finally arrive at the overflowing muck pit, soaked to the skin and not a very pretty sight, it hits me, as in, some clarity of thought: I figure that I’m going to swallow my pride ahead of the English National, ignore the form book, tipsters, even my own views, and join the housewives as they embark on their annual quest to find the winner of the race that epitomises National Hunt racing.

I mean, there is a lot to be said for it: picking a horse for reasons that are, if you are honest, somewhat exasperating to us form fiends, like a nice name or lovely colours. Don’t pretend that you were actually delighted that time that your friend, who may as well be looking into a ditch when looking at a form card, fished out a 25/1 shot, which chinned your selection on the line and went by the name of something like, She’s The Fastest! Come to think of it, Bindaree was my last punting success in the National and that was a fluke (lovely colours – green with white stars) and before that it was Royal Athlete, in 1996, and at 66/1. I was nine at the time, and well, I may as well have won the euro millions. I backed Royal Athlete because I liked the name. Oh yes, and the comment in the racecard next to Royal Athlete’s name: “This one has about as much chance of winning the Grand National as Scary Spice does of becoming a nun”. Scary Spice was my favourite Spice girl and the inclusion of her name in the description of the horse’s chances, despite the negative connotations implied, coupled with what I thought was a good name was a surefire recipe for Grand National success. Sold! One pound on the nose please Dad.

I had serious difficulty being objective this time around, so in the end, I asked a non – racing friend to do the honours. Cloudy Lane it was, and he put up a very credible effort, but more importantly, the small each-way bet had done nothing to poison this chalice. It was great stuff and the conspicuous display of emotion that McCoy displayed was infectious, mainly because never before had the champ shown such elation in victory. If ever anyone deserved to win something, McCoy deserved to win the National and all is now right in the racing world. Maybe McCoy was the housewives’ choice, or the once-a-year punters’ flutter, after all, he is the people’s favourite. I was feeling so good and full of the joys of Spring that I made my way to the Curragh on Sunday. Don’t worry though, tomorrow morning I shall be making my way back to the muckheap!

By Jack Davison