Shorter on romance but longer on quality: the modern-day sprint handicap

Wine, women and song are all very well, but there are few things in life better than winkling out the winner of a big sprint handicap. Non gamblers – you know, those people you see all the time these days in bookmaker's adverts on the TV – may see betting on these races as a bit of fun with a slight risk attached, like going on the bouncy castle at a kid's birthday party after six pints and a slice of cake, but the rest of us understand.

In reality, it's a sophisticated blend of art and science, instinct and empiricism, with a financial and emotional maelstrom swirling around it.

Be honest, although you probably just about remember where you were when Kennedy was shot, you certainly know where you were when your countless hours of hard work and undoubted genius were vindicated on the racecourse. I'll certainly never forget where I was when Petong won the Stewards' Cup in 1984 (picking apples in the summer holidays and pleading unsuccessfully with the farmer to let me watch it on his telly); when Yeast won the Royal Hunt Cup in 1996 (a very long sprint admittedly), backed from 25-1 into 8s (standing on the lawn at Ascot surrendering my personal dignity, and my hat); and when Nagida won the 1993 Wokingham (on holiday somewhere manky wondering why I hadn't backed it before I went away).