The more observant among you will note the complete and utter absence of blogs from Kelso in December. We have, reluctantly (some more than others!), sold our pick at Kelso. Hard decision but it's a long way, we are a long way north and it's winter work. We've actually been unable to attend a few meetings that have been on because of weather at our end and we will look to invest nearer to home, and probably in the summer! Especially after our experience described below.
I've probably used this song title before but I won't apologise because it's very good and very, very apt. There's only so much you can tell from a Met Office app- for most of the week it was cold and dry and our only concern was whether it would be frozen off. Come Tuesday and, as is so often the case with Met Office, we were in for torrential rain and 40 mph northerlies more or less until race 1. They were right about that at least. The tunnel was a makeshift bookmaker store which doubled as a wind tunnel. Pitch in 11:05 and Darren got us in a bit early as he usually does. 99% of the time we really appreciate this- not so this time when I think we'd have all settled for 12:34 pitch in and a delay of an hour to the first race. Neither came to pass.
Soaked to the skin building the joint and we shivered under the mush waiting for the merest moment when we could consider putting our electrics on the line. Around this time we discovered that Steve's fingers stop working at around 3 degrees. Mine followed suit about 5 minutes later.
Screams are never good for bookmakers; they herald either a well bet jolly hosing up or, in this case, punters, literally, sprinting for cover as the ice cold rain came in at 90 degrees. We wondered if they'd ever appear again- most didn't. I stopped drinking at 9pm on New Years Eve and set a 6:45 alarm call for this.
Soaked to the skin the rain finally relented around 12:30. Which is when you realise the impact of that northerly. It wasn't good. I was on the end of the 2nd line with Bryson, Steve was on the front with his non working digits occasionally jabbing at the keyboard and the punters must've been somewhere but it was anyone's guess. My misery was finally ended when a chap came over to tell me he liked the blog. Great guy. Probably the only bloke in the ring at that point. These two facts may, or may not, be related.
1) We didn't get enough in on the jolly, Johnny Ringo, to make it a loser due to a combination of it being odds on and, presumably, a lack of Johnnys (perhaps they were still shivering in the bar) and/or a lack of fans of 1970s maize related "O" shaped snacks or, slightly more unfeasibly, folk with an attachment to parking apps. We stood Cracker Star and Spartan Warrior in the win market and Spartan for plenty in the places. Given the modest (for this fixture at least) turnover we got off to a good start supplemented by a cracking each way result as well. We had a degree of optimism.
2) Half an hour delay while they dumped half the beach on the crossing and did "maintenance" somewhere. Spirits were not being lifted. Teeny tiny win on original favourite Okavango Delta with a teeny tiny win in the places as well. No damage done but it's the biggest meeting for 3 months either side and teeny tiny didn't cut the mustard when we'd been on IPA abstention the night before.
3) Teeny tiny win was better than this though. Loss in the third on Bold Light with the Ballygeary the jackpot in 2nd. Turnover was still modest given the history of the fixture. I was more focussed on the redundant beer machine than I was on the disappointment playing out in front of me.
4) 50s into evens. Or so it seemed. Probably more like 5s into 3s. Business was picking up but they were all on Boomslang. No concerns on the Cairn Bet stand as it was well back and double digits in running but the commentator was muttering something concerning about "stamina" and "comes from a long way back" and so it transpired. We lost, we moaned, Frosty on the front pitch was spending the race down time in the toilets trying to get feeling back into his digits. We were back to covering expenses only, but no more, on the 2nd biggest meeting (in Scotland at least) and, did I mention, we'd sacrificed the night before on the Frozen Altar of Misery.
5) Business finally hit expected levels and we had jackpots everywhere. 25s into 2s. Or so it seemed. More Toms on track than the Cats Protection League. Remember the bit at the start about the screams? Yeah, the crowd finally came out with the sole purpose of backing Top Man Tom. Places stemmed some of the bleeding but we were joyless.
6) Plenty of cash for Ginger Mail and Scots Poet and we had another shortie running for us in the shape of Slugger. and a jackpot at the bottom of the market with Ravenscraig Castle who had doubled in price at the off and doubled again after a mile in running but gave us our final shot at a bona fide monster result. We'd have taken Slugger just to get us out with a wage but when the commentator got very, very excited about the fast finishing Castle we thought we might just get all our Christmases in one go. We weren't seeing it with our own eyes though and it was either the angle or a case of mistaken identity and what was a solid, "get out" result felt like another loss to some extent.
So there you have it. A very British blog where we talk about weather relentlessly and deal in dampness and mild disappointment. I'm writing this the next day and I still have a shiver in my bones just thinking about the weather (you're welcome Natalie Merchant fans) My infinitely better half told me it could've been worse and I suppose it could but, like Fight Club, the first rule of 2025 is never to talk about New Years Day. Ever.
Musselburgh again for us at the beginning of February before we dial it up again a bit more in March. Until then...
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