TWO DAYS TO THE MOON...

Roy Glanville offers an extract from his new hilarious book where he reveals stories from around the racing circuit

Baxter’s current relationship with Lady Luck was at its zenith. She had fluttered her eyelids and twirled her skirt at him to such an extent that he was producing winners at random. The formbook was abandoned to gather dust and his stable information, which had become very sparse, was not missed at all. Baxter was simply relying on his fancy and the lady was flattering him with winners as big as 8’s, 10’s and even a 20-1. Subscribers to the SureFire Tipping Service were amazed and one person wrote in, rather indelicately, to inquire whether the business was under new management.

Baxter had, in fact, built up a considerable betting bank from the successes but knew from previous experience with the lady that her caprices were unexpected and often ruinous. The trick was to enjoy her to the full before she dumped you.

The Middle Park Stakes at Newmarket’s October meeting was to be the biggest test of the Lady’s affection because Baxter was going all out for the unbeaten 2-year-old colt named Catch the Pork. Baxter was there, lumping on all his betting bank and a bit more. He averaged 7-4 and saw the horse start at 11-8. The Lady, it seemed, was still sweet on him.

What happened in the race was that having cruised to the front and stolen a two-length lead, the jockey of Catch the Pork stopped riding and had been collared on the line and beaten a sneeze in a photo. Baxter wasn’t surprised but disappointed that on his most important date the Lady had dumped him in favour of the bookmakers who seemed to have an irresistible charm for her favours.

It was back to the fundamentals of hours studying the formbook and badgering his contacts for information but there followed such a long losing run that his winning streak felt like it had taken place in a previous life. It was getting Baxter down so that he had become uncharacteristically moody. Having Mrs Wilbow sweep and dust the office while he pored over his formbooks didn’t normally bother him but it did now. Besides, he didn’t need his office cleaned, just exorcised.

Baxter glanced at his watch. There were two meetings that day – Sedgefield and Exeter – but he declined to go on account of his appalling run and a malnourished wallet. What he did was to put up a horse in the 2.30 at Exeter to his SureFire Tipping Service subscribers with rhetoric that was totally fraudulent. In desperation, he had promised to ‘join up if it didn’t win’ and, not really fancying a military career, was a little uneasy as he rang his bookmaker for the result.

“Toxic Soup run, did it?” he emphasised.

“Yes, Sir, unseated its rider at the first fence” came the reply.

“That jockey could fall out of an electric chair” responded Baxter slamming down the phone with considerable feeling.

After a momentary thought, he excused himself of the promise to his subscribers by suggesting – quite rightly - that he would not have passed the Army medical. However, he knew this wouldn’t stop the anticipated multitude of letters addressed to ‘Private Baxter’.

He put the formbooks away and sighed. There was no information coming in and yet someone, somewhere, must know something. Baxter had an exaggerated view that there was at least one plot going on every day at every race meeting. The frustration was that he never got to hear about them. He decided he needed a drink to lift his spirits and it then occurred to him that there was no better place for information of any sort than the pub.

He picked up his racing paper, put on his hat and gliding silently past his landlady with just a smile, he emerged onto the street. He avoided his own pub, the Drover’s Arms, feeling that he needed to seek fresh fields for information and, instead, made his way to a pub with the unlikely name of Slug and Lettuce, which had recently opened further down the High Street.

On the way, it occurred to Baxter that in devoting his entire time to horseracing and the study of it, he must have missed a new traffic law, which confined cyclists to ride on pavements instead of roads. It didn’t seem very sensible to him as yet another bike brushed past his legs.

Baxter entered the pub and decided that to ask for Macallan, his favourite single malt, would be a bit like asking the local fish and chip shop for kippered salmon. Instead, he took his blended whisky and followed an arrow that pointed ‘To the Beer Garden’ and found himself in a car park with some hanging baskets. He went back into the pub and wandered between several different groups, none of which seemed friendly or showed any interest in him. He sat down disconsolately at a table and pulled out his paper. He’d already read it pretty thoroughly and soon put it back in his pocket. He looked around the bar for some diversion and noticed another sign reading ‘Lively Atmosphere' – this he mischievously interpreted as fights at the weekend.

He wished now that he’d gone to his own pub and got up to leave. As he neared the door, he noticed three men at the end of the bar, huddled together

like conspirators in a medieval intrigue.

“Days to the Moon is the fastest thing on four legs” said one of them. Baxter braked to a halt behind them. “He won his last race half the track” said the second “and the trainer said he’s an absolute cert to win next time out.”

The men’s voices were low and Baxter was straining to hear. He leaned back a little more and could have done with having his shoes nailed to the floor.

“When’s his next race?” asked the third man.

This was it. Baxter leaned further backwards but his state of imbalance could last no longer and he crashed to the floor.

“Right, e’s ‘ad enuf” said the barman leaping over the counter.

“But I’ve only had one whisky” complained Baxter, objecting to being manhandled.

“Yer can’t hold yer spirits then, can yer?” said the barman, dumping him outside.

Back in his office, Baxter was puzzled that he hadn’t heard of Days to the Moon although it was possible he’d missed it or it ran on the all-weather which Baxter didn’t follow seriously. It was when he looked through the list of future runners that he found it. The horse was indeed an all-weather horse and was entered up at Wolverhampton in two days time. The trainer of the animal was a man named Benson based in Epsom. This interested Baxter greatly for in regard to skulduggery and treachery Benson was an arch exponent who, when deciding on a career, had just given the verdict to horseracing over politics.

The following day, Baxter was travelling down on an early train to check out the equine flyer named Days to the Moon for with such an apparent good thing he decided to see the horse for himself. According to what he’d heard in the pub, the horse was the sort of certainty that compared with death and taxes.

He arrived at Epsom Downs station and having walked a couple of miles and reminded himself to give up smoking, he found himself at the training gallops. There were several horses in the distance and a man, leaning against the side of a Jaguar car, had his binoculars trained on them.

“Excuse me” said Baxter “but is that some of Benson’s string out there?”

“It most certainly is” said the man, not removing his binoculars.

“D’you know which one is Days to the Moon?” asked Baxter eagerly.

“I’ll say I do, you can’t miss it. It runs like a goat – the one at the back of the string.”

Baxter raised his binoculars and focused on a skinny, long-legged chestnut toiling in the rear.

“But I’ve got a tip for that horse” said Baxter in disgust. “I was told he’s a certainty at Wolverhampton tomorrow.

“Well, someone’s been pulling your leg then. That horse will never win a race –it’s useless.”

“But I thought he won his last race half the track” argued Baxter.

“I don’t know who told you that.

Last time out, it was last of seven and was so late finishing his horse-box driver had to lock up behind him!”

Baxter was both confused and crestfallen and the man could see it.

“Look, if you want a winner tomorrow, back Cobbled Motorway. It’s not a certainty so don’t go mad but it will run a big race. Besides, I know Benson’s backing it. As for Days to the Moon, all it’s good for is 500 tins of dog food. And you can quote me – I’m the owner.”

With that the man turned and got into his car.