Racing's vanishing act shows you truly don't know what you've got 'til it's gone

I don’t actually go to the races that much these days. There’s something about watching it for hours at home, studying replays, watching, betting and analysing that, when I have days off I rarely think, "You know what? I quite fancy a day at the Knavesmire." For me it feels like paying someone else to let you get drunk at work.

It’s even worse when mates suggest it. "Hey, we should go for a day at the races!" Sure, sounds great. Then maybe next Saturday, when you’ve got two days off from being a plumber, we could knock back a bottle of champagne at the sewage works.

However, there is one time it feels special, and that’s in spring. After reaching the point where if I see another ragtag bunch of punch-drunk teenage chasers lolloping around Fontwell, neck deep in sludge, or a three-mile handicap hurdle turn into a Flat race because the omnipresent ball of flame in the sky has had the temerity to drop below the horizon at exactly the same time, in exactly the same place, as it always does on this particular day in the calendar, I’m fairly close to breaking point.