PETER THOMAS

Weblog:  Wandering the world wide web

An alarming outbreak of common sense

I'VE not been sleeping well. It's not been the blue cheese or the red wine, the prescription drugs or the guilty conscience, or even the wife's unnatural demands, this time. No, I've been worried, and not just about the normal stuff. It started when I was sat in front of the telly on Saturday afternoon and saw something sensible happen at a British racecourse. Ever since then I've been waiting for it all to go belly up.

You'll be familiar with the circumstances: heavy ground at Chepstow, farcical six-runner race, a bad faller here, a crazy unseated there, a no-hoper coming from a hundred miles back to win, but not before doing a quick shimmy round the third-last, rather than jumping it in the traditional fashion, because a frantic woman with medical qualifications was running across the track and a big man in a fluorescent waistcoat was waving his arms about.

It looked a bit mad, to be honest. You didn't know whether to hoot with laughter, hold your breath in trepidation or just burst into tears to be on the safe side. But the one thing you knew was that it couldn't possibly end well.

And it didn't. Despite the best efforts of the lady with the qualifications, a horse died, which was very sad but a conversation for another day. The next problem was the almost certain demise of the reputation of the stewards on duty, who would plainly try and be seen to be doing the right thing, take the indiscriminate shotgun of justice from the cabinet behind the sweet trolley and shoot themselves in the foot. Or was I being unnecessarily cynical?

In fact, they did the eminently sensible thing, took into account the circumstances, adhered to the spirit of the law, took advantage of the 'get out of the **** free" card offered to them by the "exceptional circumstances" clause in the rule book, and that was that. The winning jockey told them he didn't want to jump the offending obstacle for fear of landing on somebody or something sentient, the beaks said okay, that seems fair, and the result was allowed to stand. I was quietly amazed.

But then there was plenty of timefor a rethink, wasn't there. When I woke up the next morning and opened the paper, there would surely be a story about a dressing down for the local panel, a forensic investigation of the pertinent regulation and an impending trip to Shaftesbury Avenue for some poor soul (although isn't it odd how the phrase 'a trip to Portman Square' used to strike fear into the hearts of brave men of the Turf, while 'a trip to Shaftesbury Avenue' sounds more like an early supper and a night of jolly show tunes?).

Not a bit of it. Still no recriminations, no penalties, no mad flailing of the tentacles of legislation and no excruciating embarrassment. There didn't seem even to be any losing punters bemoaning their fate and seeking heads on platters ormoney back in pockets, which, frankly, is a miracle (although I admit I didn't look under the stones where you might be most likely to find such creatures).

It was as if Racing For Change had stopped worrying about team racing and started a 'Use Your Gumption' campaign to instil confidence in our sport among the general public. You never know, it could catch on. Well done, everybody.