Shouting at the telly with my nearest and dearest was a winner all right
We had a terrible Cheltenham. Is it bad that, because my dog died, I fully expected to clean up in the Cotswolds? Back when my Dad passed away, on another Saturday in February, I consoled myself somewhat by opening a Paddy Power account, depositing fifty quid, and then – through a combination of grief and dumb luck – watched it turn into nearly €400 as Cheltenham played out on the television in the kitchen.
The Boy, similarly inclined in so many ways, has his own Paddy Power account now. Sometimes I remind him to be careful. In an old man pub in Ballina, where he and I had rocked up for Other Voices – a trip we sadly had to abandon at first light when the dog suddenly headed downhill – the television was turned to the At The Races channel. I took the opportunity to warn The Boy to never bet on a race that’s run on sand; something that’s always seemed to me the difference between a bit of harmless fun and a serious problem. Fast forward 15 minutes and we both had a bet on the next sandy race. We are a terrible influence on each other.
Anyway, what with everything that happened the next day and the heavy sadness that precedes me now into every room, Cheltenham should have been an absolute banker. And so it began: I had the second placed horse in the first race of the festival on an each way bet, which boded well. But nothing went right for me for the rest of that first day and the growing unease about the meet even taking place began to sour the whole effort to discharge my grief through mindless gambling. Day two wasn’t much better and I didn’t even check in on day three.
But there was still another day in which to make my fortune and find my smile. And I had a secret weapon. To go back a few fields, last year I wrote about the fox who lives under our shed, a gentleman caller I named Foxy Jack, after a contemporary of my Dad’s from Macroom. Anyway, billionaire financier Dermot Desmond sent me a lovely letter afterwards – which is not something that happens to me every day – and he informed me that Foxy Jack (the man, not the fox) was his uncle.
He also mentioned that he owned a horse with a similar name, though he advised me not to back him. Needless to say, I was straight on to Horse Racing Ireland to set up alerts every time Foxy Jacks ran – and over the past few months, I’m happy to report that his efforts have resulted in a modest spike in my PP account. And he was running on the last day in Cheltenham. At odds of 150-1. And The Boy’s college internship was cancelled on Thursday so he was going to be at home with me on Friday.
With all of those planets in the right place, The Boy and I were clearly going to rival our unknowing benefactor himself on the financial front by the end of the day.
Our preparation for our coming windfall was meticulous. SuperValu in Knocklyon for a spot of panic buying, to include a load of cans. Then we installed ourselves in the front room with the big telly – the one in the kitchen didn’t seem grand enough to announce our approaching fortune.
And because we’d never watched anything in the front room together without the dog on the sofa beside us, we brought in his newly returned ashes in their wooden box, and set it down on the sofa. We even chose a horse for him, and The Boy stuck a few quid on it on his behalf. If you were passing our house that Friday afternoon and chanced to look in the window, you would have thought us mad. And you’d have been right.
Foxy Jacks finished ninth. The dog’s horse was third, which was something. Not the fortune we’d dreamed of, but at least one of us (though sadly, not me) finished out the week with change in their account.
It’s kind of hard to find a moral in that twisted tale, but here goes: don’t bet on races that are run on sand. Don’t run horse racing festivals during the greatest public health scare in living memory. But if you are overwhelmed with sadness, and you can find a brief respite of sunshine by shouting at the television with your boy on one side of you, your deceased dog on the other and a can of beer in your hand in the middle of the afternoon, then I think you should probably go for it.