not an angel, i suspect, but the devil of a good writer.

​John McCririck, apparently, said of David Ashforth. ‘The outstanding racing journalist of our generation’. Arguable, I think even Mr.Ashforth will agree. Jilly Cooper placed her praise of Mr.Ashforth in the heavenly realm. ‘David Ashforth writes like an angel’. This is definitely debatable as not one of us, even the divine Jilly, can be certain if angels possess any grasp of punctuation, spelling or syntax. It is possible angels are actually experts on the preservation of feathers whilst being completely illiterate. Robin Oakley, I think, defined Mr.Ashforth with greater accuracy. He also names a racehorse in his praise of his colleague and, no doubt, friend, which Mr.Ashworth would admire. ‘An indefatigable researcher as well as the wittiest man writing about racing.’
When the reader buys a David Ashforth book, he or she can never be quite certain what is about to be discovered within its pages. His latest tome, ‘Ashforth’s Curiosities of Horseracing’, is curious in itself as all the acquired photographs in the book were sponsored (paid for?) by the Tote 0r the +o+e as they prefer their name to be now wrongly constructed. Prince, he of ‘Purple Rain’, has a lot of wrong-doing to answer for.
I would describe David Ashforth’s writing style as a cross between academic and impish. ‘Curiosities’, to shorten the title, is just a lovely book to handle, let alone read. The front cover has a photograph of Joe ‘Mincemeat’ Griffin leading in his 1953 Grand National winner Early Mist, flanked by two mounted policemen, with some over-sized leprechaun over-excitedly, causing a curious expression to flit across the face of the winning horse, jumps up and down, waving his hat aloft. 
Personally, I like chapter headings that provoke interest yet gives little away and Mr.Ashforth is a master of the craft. Three such examples to whet the appetite are: ‘Prince Khalid Chooses His Curtains’. ‘Frank Goes Legless’. ‘Eclipse Has Seven Feet’. It all makes perfect sense once read.
Unlike the indefatigable Mr.Ashforth, I am not a diligent researcher and with there being no ‘also by’ David Ashforth featured in his latest creation, an oversight, surely, I should as a favour to him list further examples of his work, yet in the half-light of 5.56am on a Sunday morning, I don’t feel energised enough to search them out from the dusty shelves of my small yet significant racing library. But they are out there, though as only a fool would part with one of his book, you will not likely find one in a charity shop. If out-of-print, I would suggest contacting ‘Ways of Newmarket’, antiquarian booksellers, the supplier of most of my racing library.
The reader will always learn something new, fascinating or downright unnecessary by reading a David Ashforth book. ‘Curiosities’ is no different. I suspect, and this is where the great man is so devilishly clever, this book may become Volume 1, with further volumes coming out in time for each succeeding Christmas.
His books, each and every one, is an achievement. Though his greatest achievement has been to repel the Great Reaper for so long, his battle with cancer (pancreatic, was it?) documented with his usual impish sense of humour during his time with the Racing Post, something he combined with attempting, and usually failing, to ‘win a grand’ for charity during the week before Christmas. Live long, live happy, Mr.Ashforth. I salute you.
And, dear reader, buy his book, any or all of his books, the royalties may be funding his life-or-death struggle with the repugnant Reaper of Death.
(I hope he is a nice man. Pleasant, you know. Not a drinker. So many writers are. Look at Alastair Down. You never know, do you, when praising someone you only know through their writing. The photograph, used by the publisher to persuade the uninitiated that he possesses the required knowledge to be considered an expert on the subject, does him no favour. He looks haggard. Would curmudgeonly, be unfair? I hope he is a nice man. I really do. I wouldn’t want my love of his work to be blemished at this late stage of our reader/writer relationship). I have not yet recovered from learning that Raymond Chandler, my favourite American writer, was lost to drink.