Spare a thought for bet-starved punters waiting out the festive season

I have mixed feelings about Christmas past. Believing in Santa was good; then there was the agnostic phase, where you got to eat his mince pies and drink his sherry, in the fairly certain knowledge that he didn't exist; but that was followed by the adolescent phase, where your nan got you the same present every year – namely a small, green plastic bottle of Brut 33 aftershave and a £1 coin, back in the days where £1 still wasn't worth very much and Brut 33, despite being endorsed by Harvey Smith, still smelled like weedkiller.

After a while, the magic went completely, and even your mum started saying things like: "I never know what to get you, so . . ." I'm 60 years old and she still gives me money, with the express proviso that I should spend it on something nice, "not throw it away betting on a horse". It seems like 60 years of parenting have taught her nothing.

Of course I'm going to bet with it, probably on Boxing Day, so I can escape from the festive melee and watch an hour of racing on my own, having been starved of action for the previous four days.