A tale of expensive odds-on losers - but at least the memory is a source of comfort now in these trying times

Bad betting tales. It's amazing how many a person can accumulate. I've shared a few of mine in these pages, moments when sporting speculation descended into slapstick, and another one came to mind this week.

It was a dreich afternoon at Newbury in early 2001, the tail end of winter, then known as Tote Gold Trophy day. I fancied a couple at juicy prices in the big race, of course, because it was a 20-runner handicap hurdle; you only had to look at it for five minutes before you started to see possibilities among the less fashionable runners.

But the first three races were small-field contests, trials for the Cheltenham Festival, lacking in depth and complexity. We could all see what was going to happen. It was a shame to have such predictable races on a Saturday card.