talking out of the top of my head.

​I am not a journalist. That, I should think, is plainly obvious. In the accepted definition of the word, I am also uneducated. And old. With a different perception of life than anyone fortunate to be thirty-years or so younger than my three-score years and eight-and-a-half. As far as horse racing is concerned, my history originated back in the days of black and white television, back to the days of wonder and utter fascination. Back to the time when Arkle, unappreciated then, by this pre-teenaged council-housed kid, roamed with kingly head-carriage, the parade rings of Cheltenham, Newbury and Leopardstown.
In a very minor capacity, virtually akin to Sunday League, I am a published author. Small stuff not worth bragging about, plus two self-published books, one an atheist-based, light-hearted novel titled ‘Linda Versus God’, to be found as an E-book, and a collection of horse-racing short-stories ‘Going To The Last’, which can be purchased in hard copy. Links to be found on this website.
I have no other authority to be writing about horse racing other than my life-long love affair with horses and horse racing.
As I have already stated, I am not a journalist. This fact of life, of course, does not excuse my inability (laziness?) in taking up my time in research to cast light upon my ignorance. Sixty-years of following horse racing and yet still I do not possess a coherent grip on the ins and outs of betting and the betting industry. I can work out £5 at 2/1 equals £10 plus the return of stake money but would only have a hazy calculation if that £5 was on a 11/8 or 100/30 shot. When I am told that a jockey rides a 170/1 treble I can only believe I am being told the truth as in sixty-years I am still unable to do the math.
I am also ignorant of racing politics. In fact, in my naivety, for many years into my love of horses and horse-racing I had no idea there was such a dark internal structure in horse racing. In my naivety, I must have thought that the sport consisted solely of horses, jockeys, trainers, owners and betting shops. Indeed, as recently as when the B.H.B. morphed into the utterly useless B.H.A., I was shocked to discover that those with the power to alter and impose the rules and regulation of the sport need not be people with an association of some sort with the sport or even had ridden a horse. I remain perplexed that the head honchos of the sport can be paid large salaries yet have no affinity or experience with horses or within the sport. Would the L.T.A. appoint as its chairman/woman someone who had never set foot on a tennis court? And only an air-headed optimist could have believed a tripartite agreement where all three parties had to agree on a matter before it could be ratified would ever work in favour of the sport.
As I say once again, though the evidence, I should imagine, is before ‘your very eyes’, as Tommy Trinder used to say (my apologises, comedian of the fifties/ sixties and before, I suspect, and a former chairman of Fulham Football Club). I admire all the Racing Post columnists, especially David Jennings and especially especially the part-time contributor that is Patrick Mullins. The former speaks with authority as he understands the niceties and intricacies of the sport and the latter through growing-up alongside thoroughly ingrained racing people. I don’t know about you, but I would would trade diamonds and gold simply to be able to address Ruby Walsh as an equal; to not go dumb just by being in his presence. Even David Jennings, perhaps even Tom Lee, would be a little on the back-foot to be alone in the same room as Ruby or any of the Walsh racing dynasty.
But I digress, something a trained journalist would never do. I digress a lot, losing my thread and train of thought on a regular basis. Something David Jennings would never do. Would never be allowed to do.
When I write best (or least worst) is when I allow my racing thoughts to come onto the page unaided by deep study. Stream of consciousness, if you prefer. In the same vein as James Joyce, though utterly not in the same silver lane as the writer of some of the hardest to read novels of all time. So, actually, a bit like James Joyce after-all. Beside me, to flesh-out my point, I have a few hastily scribbled research notes on the doping of horses. I have meant to write this up for over a week but I am held hostage by knowing for sure that I need to research the subject to a greater depth to achieve any sort of clarity and that it will involve a lot of literary knitting together for it to make any sense. It will require thought and planning, with the literary strength of character not to digress. 
My only concession to a small degree of professionalism is to confine myself to 1,000 words or less. I sometimes go over this limitation and yet I never edit back to the set number I restrict myself to. Tom Lee would be furious at my ineptitude and laziness! This very piece is now odds-on to go beyond the golden 1,000.
I remain, I admit, even after sixty-years, naïve in my approach and appreciation of the sport and my ideas and suggestions for the survival and marketing of the sport, though in my mind my ideas are both achievable and perhaps even aspirational, they are not written for public consumption neither after long study nor calculation of cost. I believe what I write, though. I believe a forty-runner Lincoln Handicap started from a barrier would be a better spectacle and start-off point for the flat season than the whimpering beginning we have now. I believe a fifth (non-festival) ‘Heath-type’ Day at Cheltenham would bring great opportunity and greater financial benefit to both the town of Cheltenham and the sport. I believe the whip, for the greater good of the sport, should be restricted to ‘one hit and that’s it'. You may disagree but as I am pretty certain only a handful of people read what I pen I am not going to lose any sleep over the possibility I might be wrong. And that includes Kevin Blake who belittled my first post on the subject and then completely ignored my rational defence of my position. I know, he’s too busy with his career to bother with the little people. I get that. Yet as it stands, I won the argument.
The reason, though, that I write and publish on-line my naïve thoughts and speculations on a sport I love, is because it is good for my mental health. My brain malfunctions on a daily basis. My memory is bettered by goldfish. My finger is sent a message to land on the r button yet somehow lands on the t, e or f button; the same with any of the 26 letters of the keyboard. And so on and so on. I write, therefore I am.
And I shall keep on doing it and yes, I really have no interest in the number of hits the site achieves and I have the same lack of interest in how many people have foolishly, with my sincere gratitude, bought ‘Going To The Last’. I do it because I can. And so could you.
Anyway, the Racing Post has fallen through the letterbox and it is time to read what the professionals have to say.