five sleeps to 'cheltmas'.

​First off, do not expect four sleeps, three sleeps and so on to Cheltmas. The weekend will get in the way as I am always pushed for time on a Saturday and Sunday.
My memory is poor at the best of times and combined with the evil imp that has taken-up residence in what is left of my brain, ripping to shreds any claim I may once have had for efficiency, organisation and professionalism and rendering me incapable of holding on to any single thought for more than a minute, any fact I come up with should have an asterisk put against it. No kidding, I have the attention-span of a toddler and find myself committing the sort of stupidity normally associated with someone with dementia or a brain injury. I don’t so much need medical intervention as an exorcism! 
So, that said. My first memory of the Cheltenham Festival is running from school to be home in time to watch Arkle in the Gold Cup. Whether this was 65 or 66 I cannot say. What I do remember is that I so very much wanted Mill House to win as Arkle continuously kept trampling on my hopes and wishes of a British champion. As it generally is with me, I only truly appreciated Arkle when he was no longer around for me to eulogise on and idolise. I feel sorry for the generations since the sixties as any equine hero to grace the racecourse, without wishing to belittle any horse, cannot be compared with Arkle, perhaps not even with the largely unsung stable companion Flyingbolt. Once it was said, ‘Eclipse first, the rest nowhere’. I think that famous saying can also be ascribed to ‘Himself’. I often wonder how much better Arkle would have been if he was ridden by a stylist/horseman like Ruby Walsh and not Pat Taaffe, a great horseman in the cavalry style.
After Arkle, the memories are hazier. I recollect L’Escargot, The Dikler and Captain Christy and then my memory begins to jumble up the years. All I can remember about Midnight Court in 1978 is that the race was run in April due to waterlogging in March. And it is only in 1986 and thenceforth do the memories become clearer.
Oddly, perhaps because school got in the way, though I remember Arkle in 65 and 66, apart from watching videos on YouTube I have little recollection of Kirriemuir winning the Champion Hurdle in 65 or Salmon Spray in 66. I do though have fond memories of Persian War winning in 68, 69 and 70 and feel the pain of him being defeated by Bula in 71. In fact, I seem to have better recollections of Champion Hurdles from that era and beyond that I do the Gold Cup. It may be because the anticipation was greater for the Champion Hurdle as there were so many great and above-average hurdlers about at the time. After Persian War, there was Bula, Comedy of Errors, Lanzarote, Night Nurse, Monksfield and Sea Pigeon, and they are only the winners of the race. Bird’s Nest was runner-up in 76 and third in 1980.
Although Denman’s Gold Cup is ingrained upon my memory, the race that will be with me until my last breath has to be Sprinter Sacre in 2016. Yes, in 2013 he was imperious but it was an expected victory but in regaining his crown he defied the odds, defied sense, defied those who proclaimed him a shadow of his former self. People forget, he beat two horses that day that went on to win at the Festival the following season, which to my mind makes it one of his best ever runs. If I’m ever hacked-off with life, which happens more often than it should, it is the video I first turn-to to uplift my spirits. Nicky Henderson should have been knighted for that one victory. The training performance of the century, methinks.

Because of the muddled thinking of government, Mr.Patrick Mullins is denied the opportunity of adding to his Festival score this year. Why the B.H.A. didn’t point out that amateurs are still allowed to ride in Ireland and that the likes of Mullins, O’Connor and Codd are every bit as ‘elite’ as Townend, Blackmore and Power, and damn well nearly as professional.
Patrick Mullins is the sort of chap I envy to the point of resentment. As someone with little or no talent, it seems dastardly unfair that he is so talented on so many accounts it is easy to fall into the idea that he is in league with the gods. He is masterful jockey; he is the son (not that is a talent in itself) and heir-apparent to the great Willie at Closutton and if only to sap my confidence further he is only a gloriously talented writer. In fact, I would go so far to say he has an edge over all the Racing Post columnists, excluding the rarely seen nowadays Alastair Down. Oh, and he owns the looks of the eligible bachelor yet remains going into his middle thirties unwed or at least unattached. So at least, thank god, he is doing something wrong.