Horses and shit

Three things united only by an equine theme.

1. White Horse bigger than Nelson's Column planned for Kent. That it appears to be act of almost unspeakable ghastliness scarcely needs to be said: the aesthetic of the porcelain figurines favoured by menopausal, sentimental women plonked into Kent on a gargantuan scale in the vain hope of impressing foreigners arriving on the Eurostar. What's wrong with a bigger Nelson's Column to welcome them anyway?

One can live with the prospect that the French will have an excuse for another 100 years of so of sneering at the vulgarity and poor taste of Les Rosbifs. One can accept that it's a damnable waste of money; even that the people building it struggle with the proper distinction between small and far away (thereby completely undoing the Renaissance development of perspective).

What's really so bad is the justification for it: it will impress people. Art doesn't work like that, the imagination and the sense of beauty doesn't: people are impressed by that which grabs them, not by that which sets out to bludgeon them into submission.

2. Government drug adviser "sparks tabloid fury" by pointing out that more people die from riding horses than from taking ecstasy. Does anyone dispute his figures? They have not. Do some people get upset by suggesting drugs might not kill them? They do. Should we care about that? Well, no.

That the government is packed with pusillanimous panderers to puritanism is not news. When said drug adviser suggests that, since ecstasy is less lethal than horse riding, it might be a waste of time to impose punitive sanctions on ecstasy use it's a waste of time, and gets ignored for fear of what the Daily Mail might say, again it's not news. (Nor is the boundless contempt one feels at this form of governance).

What is worth noting is that no one has asked the important question. Is horse riding more fun than taking ecstasy? It's pointless trying to weigh up whether either activity is worth the risk without this sort of information.

3. Now for the good good news: Tony McCoy's 3,000th winner. In a world with justice this achievement, with all it entails, would get the recognition it deserves. Ah well.

The impurity of the turf

In honour of tomorrow's Derby, here's one of the more agreeably louche openings of a novel.

"I'll take the odds against Caravan."
"In poneys?"
"Done."
And Lord Milford , a young noble , entered in his book the bet which he had just made with Mr. Latour , a grey-headed member of the Jockey Club.
It was the eve of the Derby of 1837. In a vast and golden saloon , that in its decorations would have become , and in its splendour would not have disgraced , Versailles in the days of the grand monarch , were assembled many whose hearts beat at the thought of the morrow , and whose brains still laboured to control its fortunes to their advantage.
"They say that Caravan looks puffy," lisped in a low voice a young man, lounging on the edge of a buhl table that had once belonged to a Mortemart, and dangling a rich cane with affectad indifference in order to conceal his anxiety from all , except the person whom he addressed.
"They are taking seven to two against him freely over the way," was the reply. " I believe it 's all right."

Okay, the Derby doesn't enjoy the prestige - or the sense of being a great national occasion - that it enjoyed in the 19th century. Until recently it was run on a Wednesday, giving it a natural appeal to idlers, skivers, aristocrats, dandies and other ne'er do wells. The pity is that there were not enough of them to sustain it as a weekday event in the modern era.

Then again, our current crop of statesmen don't seem the sort to knock out a novel or two as a sideline. Disraeli was no more an aristocrat than our current Prime Minister, but Gordon Brown does not strike one as the sort to enjoy anything to do with the racing world.

My Derby tip is don't listen to me, listen to people who really know what they're talking about. That said, I like the look of Doctor Freemantle as an each way bet (currently available at around 10/1).

Trollied Tuesday: Guinness and Cheltenham

When money's tight and hard to get
And your horse has also ran,
When all you have is a heap of debt –
A pint of plain is your only man.

Never mind St Patrick's day; this week marks the start of the real Irish holiday: the Cheltenham festival. One Irish bookie even offers a book on the number of pints of Guinness consumed during the course of the event. It's a bit of a marketing stunt, really, but how many times are puters able, collectively, to influence the markets on which they're betting?

Guinness is besides, the drink for Cheltenham. For starters, there's the strong Irish contingent (breeders, punters and jockeys) who make the event an annual pilgrimage. (This is helped by the fact that St Patrick's Day normally falls during the festival, the early Easter's done for that this year). Then there's the fact that the stout itself is perfect for the time of year and event; warming on a blustery and wet spring day, refreshing should the sun come out, cheering should your finances suffer, oh so sweet should you win (and not bad with champagne either) and calming amid the frenzy of the betting rings.

The Irish aspect of the event can be over-played, as I suppose I am guilty of doing in this post, and you will find plenty of English types there too – gamblers, country folk, working men, toffs, city boys and so forth. By far the best thing about events like Cheltenham, though, is that they are wholly inimical to prigs and puritans. Above all, it is not bourgeois.

For those who regard the prospect of risking money – which they might not get back – on chance events, skipping a working day to enjoy yourself, drinking to excess, rubbing shoulders with shady characters and shedding the constraints of the mundane world for the thrills of the chase, of intoxication and the taking of risks (be they physical or financial) events like Cheltenham are a living reproach to their sour, thin-lipped, desiccated natures. The Guardian, of all papers, captures this spirit well today.

Such individuals will get a measure of revenge tomorrow, when the chancellor is expected to offer a few corrective taxes on drinks as a sop to the sanctimonious. Meanwhile, a few hundred miles away several thousand of people will be proving that it is perfectly possible to drink to excess without the whole thing degenerating into a mass brawl. Think of it as a pocket of resistance.

There is a rather senimental idea that Guinness tastes better in Ireland. It's not entirely true; for one thing the stuff you get in London is all brewed in Dublin these days. Besides, in Cork you should stick to Beamish or Murphy's. However, any beer that does not sit too long in the barrels will taste better than one which is not consumed in streams. One's physical location, then, is less important than one's state of mind if you want to get the best of your pint of Guinness; another reason why the drink is so perfectly suited to a day at the races.