PETER THOMAS

Weblog: Wandering the world wide web

The Gruffalo outfoxes big field of Irish rivals

I HATE to admit it, but I'm still not missing the turf. I'm not angry with the frost. I'm showing no sign of missing the sun. In fact, the prospect ofhaving to go back to betting on bad handicap chases at Plumpton and Fontwell is beginning to fill me with something bordering on dread.

I went out today, took my nipper to see The Gruffalo at a theatre in Covent Garden, lots of grown adults dressing up as mice, foxes, snakes and owls, squawking brats clambering all over the seats and such like, and I didn't once feel the urge to nip to the Ladbrokes round the corner and have a speculative but ill-fated tenner on the 30-runner Pierse Hurdle. I think I may be coming down with something.

Anyway, we ended up at Pizza Express, as is the fate of all dutiful parents who lack the backbone to stand up to children with a doughball craving, and it was only around the tiramisu that I started to hanker for the last few races at Great Leighs. This in itself was a first, but then again so was yesterday's trip to a BAGS meeting at Crayford. I fear I could be on the brink of becoming easily satisfied. I've spent an adult lifetime imagining myself to be discerning (in a scuzzy, drunken sort of way), and now I'm hankering for all-weather claimers. Next thing you know I'll be reading Titbits over a pint of Carling.

All I can hope is that my elitist tendencies will resurface with the spring , perhaps when Denman reappears in the Aon, or some such. And I'd have to say I was heartened the other day when I went into a bar at London Bridge and found a beer I really love, Thomas Hardy's, weighing in at a mighty 11.7 per cent, on draught for the first time, salivated copiously and then heard the man in front of me ordering what turned out to be the last half-pint in the barrel.

"That'll be £4.50," said the barkeep.
"Fine," said the man.
"That's £4.50 a half."
"Fine."
"Just thought I'd let you know."
"Fine."
And he paid his £4.50 for a half of £9-a-pint ale, and walked off. And I thought: "You bastard. I wanted that. I'd have paid £9 a pint for it."

Yes, I think I may be on the road to recovery. Roll on the sunshine and let's get ready for some good stuff again.