QUAM CELERRIME - THE BLOG

Jan12: Back in the game! It was the first run in a while, but one thing I do have is nervous energy (before review, that word ended gyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy), so a lively run first time out was possible. But, but, but. It was the week between Christmas and the New Year, when the entire country either gives work a miss, or turns up and goes through some very sluggish motions. And like the rest of the nation, I was returning to work after the break, so I too went about it in a slightly disinterested fashion. Halfway through the race, the jockey raised the point that we had come a long way for this, and it might be appreciated if we tried to make all that travelling worthwhile. I thought about it, but when you do not have your wits entirely about you, it can take some time to digest these concepts, and by the time the wisdom of the viewpoint dawned on me, there was not time to end up any better than second. 

After that, it was back in the lorry. We had gone all the way to Yorkshire and not partaken in any of the local customs. And as for this Catterick Bridge stuff? I SAW NO BRIDGE!! There were many other things that supposedly infest Yorkshire of which we saw not a sausage. No pancakes masquerading as a savoury pudding. No whippets. No brass bands. Not even any affordable broadband. I heard that there WAS a diminutive magician, but having not seen it myself, I am only passing on rumours. All I can confirm is that there were lots of towns twinned with other towns in Yorkshire. Plus some sort of building used for textile weaving, in which a disturbance was in progress.  

Perhaps instead of going all the way to Yorkshire to race, we could import Yorkshiremen to Lambourn and train them to race. I have heard that you can always tell a Yorkshireman, but you can't tell him much. Well I think that I can disprove that. All I need is a Large Hadron Collider, and plenty of time. Whales? Their moment in the spotlight has passed.

Dec11: Now that a bit of time has passed, I have recovered my composure, which went a bit astray when Maderson Blue overtook me in the winning tally. This has largely been down to the weather, which by remaining infuriatingly clement has really left me not poised on the edge of a chance to even up the score. 

In the meantime, I have been watching both "Frozen Planet" and "Nordic Wild" on television, and it has been most fascinating to see animals operating in a different environment. I am not entirely sure that any of the land animals covered are suitable for racing, but the whales have definite potential in this field. From what we have seen so far, the one that combines the best balance of speed and stamina is the minke whale. Anyone know where I can buy a dozen or so? Or how much Weatherbys would charge to run the stud book? And I would definitely need to some investigating to see how the southern and northern hemisphere seasons would fit together. 

Names of competing whales need sorting out - having every runner called "eeeeeeeeeee-eeeeeeeeee" is going to make it hard for fans to latch onto a favourite whale, and spray painting the them in the owners colours will take some time, although if we genetically engineer the calves, this can become a natural process. And we also need to do more research on what are acceptable levels of performance enhancing substances in krill. Someone also suggested using penguins as jockeys, but that is just ridiculous.

As a sport, it is virtually 100% weather resistant, the course can be set up anywhere on 70% of the earth's surface (although it has been suggested that going too near Japan might not be a good idea), and the only real risk is that if the whales are as clever as some would have us believe, there is a chance that corruption could take hold. There certainly seemed to be a minke whale in goal for Dinamo Zagreb the other evening. 

Nov11: Disaster strikes! I cannot find words to express how much my life has taken a turn for the worst. One thing that always gave me the moral high ground in the blog wars was that I had won over hurdles, and Maderson Blue had only ever won a bumper. Now that has changed, as he has won over hurdles as well. Now, not being the sharpest stick on the pile, he has yet to realise the spiritual advantage that this confers upon him. I ask you, as right thinking people, to let him work it out for himself. That should but me some time.

However, the chain of events has given me food for thought. It does not take much. This time, I have learnt a great deal from how Maderson Blue has retired hurt and then come back into action successfully, and am intending to carve a lucrative sideline in medicine as a result. And what brought this revelation about? He was cured by standing in a field eating grass. As we are both mammals, if it works for a horse, it should work for people as well. Now some have said that the grass is merely a placebo. Well, I do not care what type of animal it is, I am not claiming to explain it's magical powers, I will merely be utilising what I have seen work, with mine own eyes. Others, capitalist lackies of the big pharmaceutical companies surely, have said that all angles have been explored and grass has no medicinal benefits at all.* Well, they were clearly looking at the wrong bits. And before I get deluged with emails from Dr this, Surgeon-General that, vets and medicine manufacturers, I have set my mailbox to automatically forward everything to info @ blocking-progress.com, so you are wasting your time. More information to bear in mind. When the EU developed the "set aside" scheme, perhaps it was not totally irrational, but a secret plan to ensure adequate medical resource in the future. Which, confusingly, is now. 

* Disagreement from hippies and rastafarians is based on a linguistic difficulty, I am told.

So, as end of the world fears build to fever pitch in 2012, and so many people are looking for a get out clause, progressively more desperation creeping into the search, expect the growth activity of the next year to be standing in a field doing nothing. And everyone you see doing it, owes me a small fee for the right to do it. Crop circle buffs are in for one mighty shock...

Sep11: As you can imagine, the September talk of the town was "Inside Nature's Giants: Racehorse." In a long overdue accolade I have been identified as not only a literary giant, but also a natural giant. In your face Ernest Hemingway, Charles Dickens, James Joyce, Michael Crichton. To be fair, the programme was quite educational for the horses as well. I certainly had always felt that, hard as it may seem, the idea was to take a deep breath before the start and run on that for as long as possible. As it turns out, I was supposed to be breathing just over twice per second. And the fact that the various intestines are working to force me to do that does explain why I was struggling to breathe as infrequently as I wanted to. At least I have yet to suffer the indignity of having to potter up the gallops with a camera stuck up my nose. 

It has certainly led me to consider a post-racing career in medicine. Given the right opportunities, my bedside manner could take me a long way. "No, madam, it is not necessary to have a general anaesthetic to treat a strained earlobe." Or "Bear in mind, Mr Smith, that there are 2,327 different afflictions that are indicated by a red blotch on the back of the hand. Under the circumstances I had almost no chance of guessing the correct one." Or "I can guarantee that no medical equipment was left in your body. If you will not admit to eating it yourself, it makes it very difficult for us devise the best treatment." That has just about everything covered except for an epidemic that turns everyone into zombies. But I think that may have already happened - they seem to herd them all into Ascot every few weeks.

Literary legends adopt a mixed response to being trumped by me.

Aug11: It has been fairly quiet in the magic realm of me lately, as there has been not the least sign of the rain I need to be an active sportsman. In fact, it has been just right for Maderson Blue, so whilst he was building up to a run, I was given a bit of a break from the constant ear-bashing as to what the blog should be all about. And that has been the topic that has mostly occupied my thoughts in recent weeks. What should a blog be about? Just because the majority fit into one (or both) of two categories, does not force us into a situation where the norm is necessarily correct. Of the 2,117,583 on the net, take out blogs that are the delirious ramblings of the unhinged or political activists trying to slur their perceived enemies whilst disguising the slander* as a news story. 

So once we have eliminated all of these, the areas of bloggery are easily quantified. Sports: 2,317. Photos of the Northern Lights: 266. Being angry with Bill Gates: 148 (Excludes the more numerous ones about assassinating Bill Gates). Electricity pylon spotting: 112 (Surprised me as well - I was expecting more). Sewing/sowing: 87 (i.e. both needlework and crop planting on one page). Currency printing: 51. Appreciation of the Arbroath Smokie: 48. Coping with loss - of contact lenses: 39. Beano nostalgia: 37. Was that cat in my garden a puma? 33. Sexual peccadillo about plants: 27. People with a lemon curd phobia: 21. Friends of bankers: 18. Founding your own nation state: 7. Bubonic plague - not always a terrible thing? 1.

Obviously most of the sport ones are football related, and hilarious to read, if only for the eccentric spelling, but as far as actual racehorses go, my blog is as unique as the one on the positive aspects of plague. Never underestimate the power of individuality.

* Not sure if the law allows for internet gibberings to count as slander.  

Jul11: In an unexpected microcosm of events in Libya, the struggle for the control of the blog continues, but feedback from afar tells me that the rightful controller is the fresh, new face in the chair (i.e. me) not the evil, old dictator, who I shall not name but has been making some really quite aggressive comments about the ingratitude of a carefully nurtured protégé. No idea what that is all about. So far neither the UN nor NATO have not become involved, and whilst I have, as mentioned, support from afar, I have heard nothing from the Afar, which is a little disappointing as I feel a natural affinity for a people who have developed skills for surviving in the most extreme of climates - even if it is the opposite extreme to the one that I thrive upon.

As for the contrived stories agenda, it has fallen down entirely. Those with long memories and/or nothing much to think about in life will recall that it was about now that Chesney Hawkes was supposed to be number one in the Finnish charts. It has not happened. I did check. There was also the possibility that in a deliberate spoof, Tony Hawkes may have been number one in Estonia, with book to follow. Nothing there. In fact, nothing seems to have come in close. In Latvia it is Andris Erglis with a song called "Izvelies." In Finland itself it looks to be Jukka Poika, as hundreds of readers counter-predicted all those months ago. Sweden is too tragic for words. Our crazy Dutch friends have Lucenzo & Don Omar, which has woeful summer europop nonsense written all over it. Add in the fact that the same song is top in Austria, and the Dutch inference becomes a cert. And in the Faroe Isles, the number one act is FAROES, which does suggest that if you give everyone in the country a credit as a performer, sales will be really rather good - something in the region of one per person, I suspect. Puerto Rico have gone for Coldplay. And in good old Paraguay, the number one is Five For Fighting, which is presumably there as a tribute to their football team in the South American Championships. And finally, in Israel, the website I looked at was in Hebrew, but by limited translation skills suggested that it could indeed be a chart topped by Chesney Hawkes. So there!

A Washington Post snapper catches the highlights of the Paraguay - Venezuela game

Jun11: Right, trouble is brewing and I will not be denied. Maderson Blue is back in training, and as if the old timer has not got enough on his plate, he wants his blog back. I say no. Since I took over circulation has risen 1,000% or so. On that basis, I stay in place, and promise nothing will be written about fish stocks in the South Pacific. And, whilst I have not investigated this any more thoroughly than certain Met Police officers would have done, I am fairly certain that he has been hacking your phones. OK, nobody might be able to tell from the torrent of non-stories and made up interviews that he offered, which I have never done, but he was clearly a good blogger gone bad. Obviously Hugh Grant is not available to lead the campaign to keep Maderson Blue in his place, but I have offers from Angus Deayton and Max Mosley. For the time being, I am holding out for someone better qualified in the field of public sympathy, so if Pol Pot is reading this...

On the racing front, it is nice to see that the weather remains generally hot and dry, as whilst I am on the defensive regarding my publishing outlets, I have not had time to get myself prepared should the August rains come with a vengeance. Based on hundreds of years of weather records kindly provided by Romney Marsh, I have pencilled in Folkestone in mid-December as day when the right balance of raceability and flooding should be available. In the meantime, it would be appreciated if outside parties could avoid bringing about Armageddon, or Indonesia puts a hold on joining the British Virgin Islands as my busy schedule means that the correct conjunction of conditions on a day when I am available to race may take a while to come together. And that strained link means that I have still just about stuck to the agenda offered last February.

May11: And so, horse feed. We thoroughbreds tend to be given a energy rich diet, which, it is argued is needed to sustain our raging metabolism. I am interested to see whose idea this was, and their qualifications for making that deduction. Note that anyone who describes themselves as a "dietician" has studied somewhere and gained accredited qualifications, whereas a "nutritionist" either bought their diploma from an internet-only college based in the wilds of Montana, or simply set up shop in a new job when the rash gamble of selling scented candles from a tent caught up with their store and stock. 

Scientists studying the ancient remains of man and horse that are gradually melting through the tundra east of Russia have found some interesting aspects of the way we formerly interacted. At established camp sites, the food stuffs acquired typically consist of the following: Roasted ox and mammoth, beer, cheese, bread, fish and jam. Obviously our stomachs are not built to digest cooked meat (although I have come across the odd colleague who does not mind a nip of raw, human flesh occasionally). We will indulge in the odd pint here and there if allowed, but it does tend to cause awful indigestion for several days. Cheese is definitely something we would graze in the wild, but it is quite hard to find, so counts as a very rare treat. Catching fish - never thought we could do it, but having seemed those slow, cumbersome buffoons known to some as bears manage it, perhaps salmon trapping is something we should have indulged in years ago. Which leaves only bread and jam as the part of the feast set aside for the revered horses of the steppes. Blackberry is my favourite. 

Some archaeologists have suggested that the reason why there is no obvious horse food is that we were left with grass and a handful of left over vegetables. This is clearly preposterous. I asked as friend who is a Przewalski's Horse by birth and he assures me that the collective tribal memory definitely involves jam, but seemed to think the bread in those days was a bit dry...perhaps he was confusing it with toast as he has been a bit addled on many topics since he had his vasectomy reversed.

On a note closer to home, as I write, my great chum Kidajo is busy demolishing an electric fence for the third time in quick succession. Having found a candidate to play the lead and do his own stunts, I am working on a script for an all-horse version of "X-Men." I mention this only because investors will be needed...

Apr11: Water, water everywhere, and all the boards did shrink. Actually, water nowhere, and the boards have been maintaining their original dimensions, but in an odd way it seems an appropriate quote. It also leads nicely into my topical article on the extremely long lived Ferdinand Magellan. He was, of course, reported dead in the Philippines back in 1521, but it now appears that the truth was far more amazing. Interestingly, it does seem that Magellan did not really know what he was letting himself in for, as he named the volatile ring of fire region "the peaceful sea" and was himself killed in a battle there where his 50 men were outnumbered 30 to 1. But people do live and learn, and when I visited him at home in Hemel Hempstead, he had this to stay.

"Sailing round the world is quite tiring, so for the first century and a half I had a rest. After that I spent the eighteenth century drinking tea and betting on the various European wars - made lots of money out of them, although I often had the Russians wrong. Then I had forty winks and missed the French Revolution, but just when I was thinking about another voyage for old times sake, Krakatoa erupted, and it was clearly wiser to stay at home. Next up, the Wright Brothers succeeded in heavier than air flight and I thought that this could be interesting, but there is no point getting involved until it is perfected. Before I knew it, the sky was full of dogfights, then someone invented the Euro, and here we are. Although I do vaguely recall watching the 1970 World Cup on the telly. And the end of the USSR after a lorry knocked over next door's wall. The trouble is, there is so much to remember." 

So there we have it. Sage advice from a true immortal about how hard it is to cram everything in, even if you are going to live for ever. On that basis, I really do hope it rains soon, as I am likely to be rushed off my feet for the next couple of centuries.

Mar11: So here we are - the rain has gone, and I therefore have not been in a position to run once having got over my chest infection. In some years, we do get a weird belated wet spell in May, so I have been keeping my ear to the ground for weather forecasts that suit me. All I have got from it so far is a sore neck. So this allows me to explain the petrified sponge cake Pyrenees theory. Geological study has proven that the Pyrenees are made of ophites (dolerite, diabase and serpentine) and granites. Granite is often silica and oxygen, but can be constructed of potassium or sodium with the oxygen. The basalts that produce ophites can occasionally be derived from potassium and sodium, again with oxygen.

In a different line of enquiry, the content of sponge cake is as follows: 

Baking Powder - Na H C O₃  + K H C₄ H₄ O₆

Caster Sugar - C12 H22 O11

Flour - consisting of strings of hydrogens and carbons. 

In total this gives us C17 H27 O20 (with as much additional H and C as we need, plus a smattering of Potassium and Sodium).

Once erosion has shifted the Carbon and Hydrogen, and much of the Oxygen (I won't condescend anyone by explaining how this happens), you pretty much have left varied samples of  Na₂O, K₂O, KO₂ and NaO₂. Ergo, if you leave a sponge cake long enough (and do not over indulge in flour), it will end up indistinguishable from the mountains that divide Spain and France. Which more or less proves that early man did not live in caves, but simply occupied the holes in his tea. And this dear readers, is why major scientific prizes are on their way to my box in Lambourn as we speak.

Feb11: As this is my first contribution to the blog, my first job is one of self-introduction. The name means "as fast as possible," which is a sentiment I entirely endorse, as long as it is waterlogged in the vicinity. As fast as possible on dryish earth sets expectations unreasonably high. I have in the past been accused of being named after the Chilean Air Force's motto, but they have suffixed "ad astra," to indicate that they are in a hurry to get somewhere, all travelling together in the communal Vauxhall. For no obvious reason, it reminds me of the silly joke about the French Navy having a motto that translates as "to the water, it's the hour." It has been brought to my attention that my predecessor, who was some sort of self appointed guru, was not comfortable that I would prove a reliable source of blog material. I am yet to prove to myself that writer's block will not strike, so the precaution has been taken of writing several months material in advance. Let every reader do the utmost to make certain that events do not overtake what is already composed. Events required to happen are:

- Geologists discover that the Pyrenees are made from petrified sponge cake.

- Ferdinand Magellan is discovered, having found the secret of eternal life, he faked his own death in 1521 and is now residing in Hemel Hempstead.

- It is proven that early, wild horses existed solely on a diet of bread and jam.

- For tax purposes, the entire country of Indonesia declares itself to be part of the British Virgin Islands.

- Chesney Hawkes has a surprise number one hit, with a cover version of "I Can't Help Falling In Love With You" sung in Finnish.

"Viisaat miehet sanovat,vain hölmöt ryntäävät suinpäin mutta en voi olla rakastumatta sinuun..."

MADERSON BLUE - MY BLOG

Jan11: This submission is a little late, as I have now officially retired, and I have been preoccupied with planning how I am going to fill my post-racing days. The list so far is:

1) Polynesian Cruise, to investigate first hand the real issues they encounter regulating commercial fishing, especially by countries disinclined to consider themselves regulatable.

2) Appoint a successor to run the blog.

3) Eat some hay

4) Ermm....

So if anyone does have worthwhile suggestions, please send them to Roger. As mentioned before the World Cup, I am up for anything that does not involve a country bordering Colombia. 

The vexed question of my successor is a tougher challenge. This will definitely be a managed, unopposed appointment, totally election-free, as your normally encounter in political parties fond of telling other people about their lack of democracy. Obviously the front runner is Quam Cellerime, as he has done a solid job as my apprentice racehorse, and is just about ready to pick up the slack in other areas of activity. Whether he can operate to tight publishing deadlines is a doubt, but that may make him fit in well with the typer-monkey. Brave Enough is a contender, although it may end up a monthly bulletin on how wonderful he is. Another that I could hand over to is Munich, although we would have to have the lawyers on 24 hour stand by. The other option is of course Romney Marsh, who has just the sort of whacky, off-beat world view that could make her a literary sensation. In fact, this has inspired me for a new option.

4) Become a supervisory force, managing editor if you will, of all the horse blogs in Lambourn, even the southern part of Britain. Once I learn the secret of immortality, I really would be the equine Bill Deedes.

Dec10: By Jove, there was plenty of cold and snow. Certainly it will live long in all of our memories, and whenever we start to talk nostalgically about it, I, along with many others, will refer to it as "December 2010." As it was so enduringly awful, I did come pretty close to taking up snowboarding as a means of transportation. As a method it has it's limitations, but the one thing that we have around Lambourn is slopes. Plenty of them. So I wrote to the parish council, suggesting that any spare budget could be invested in constructing a network of chair lifts around the downs. It does mean progress from A to B can only be by an exaggerated zig-zag, which would be reminiscent of a crab that may had had one sherry too many for the day. The more local parishes that are willing to invest, the wider and more effective the network. But with it open to both people and horses, it is certainly better value for money than most local transport schemes. Obviously with it being my pet project, I would imagine that in some way, it would be named after me. Perhaps Madlift would be best.

Another downside of the bad weather is that with most of the racing off, the other horses are tending to lack the sort of wacky adventures that can be used as a space filler, erm, I mean source of inspiration for blogospheric wisdom. The most exciting thing that anyone has done all month is stay indoors and keep warm. In fact, we were all so busy tucking up in seven rugs, that not one horse had the energy to take the mickey out of Dawn when she lost her voice. That, to me, is the real sign of a cold month...

Nov10: Initially, I was a bit stuck for ideas, so much so that the much feared tuna conservation tirade was about to be dusted down, but then it started getting frosty and snowy, and that is always an interesting topic. Obviously train disruption does not really make much difference to horses, as the doors are no longer big enough for us to get on board. And road hold ups on the whole are not much bother as the end result is that stay inside our box with a warm rug, or several, on. By anyone's standards, it is quite a civilised way of dealing with the problems, and the general bedlam does appeal to the casual anarchist in me - up until the rugby is called off. However, issues are arising. There is talk of a national hay shortage, which would be a sort of equine "A Christmas Carol" scenario come horribly to life. In fact, we are more or less in that situation already: I see myself as a sort of amiable Bob Cratchit figure, with Quam Celerrime as Peter Cratchit and Romney Marsh as Mrs Cratchit, and one of the new arrivals as Martha, perhaps Cariboo Lady. Based on comparable silly names Kaycee is the yard Fezziwig. And far be it for me to say which is which, but Munich and Dreamwalk do the job of Scrooge and Jacob Marley. Finally, my favourite character, The Portly Gentleman. I would not want to put anything libellous in writing, but Near Germany needs to take a long hard look at himself.

And whilst we are on the subject of great art, I hope everyone is excited as I am by the imminent sequel to "Tron." It has been a long time coming, will it live up to expectation?

Oct10: It has been brought to my attention that someone has been winning in my colours. Whilst it is not a Goldilocks and the Three Bears situation of impending violence, it would have been nice had the accused, whose name is not dissimilar to From Bellireem, had asked permission first. But no matter, because when my colours are used, and the winning owners are the Maderson Blue Partnership, it does reflect quite well on me. After all, at Trafalgar did Nelson rush around pointing and firing every cannon? Did Lewis and Clark meander aimlessly across North America unassisted? Did Robin Knox-Johnston sail around the world single-handed? (Yes! That was the whole point of the exercise - Ed.) It is all about splitting the credit appropriately between those who inspired the achievement, and those who handled the nitty-gritty. As far as my win in the mud at Uttoxeter goes, I was not unduly bothered by the conditions, and it was rather easy. Probably I did not quite stay two and a half miles the second time round. That it the downside of operating with a proxy, all glory they achieve can be appropriated, but when they get it wrong, there is the risk of being tarred with the same brush. Obviously, I have to take a little blame, for not putting the devices and education in place for my stand-in to get everything right at the first time. All in all, however, my apprentice has been doing a solid job, and viewers of low-brow television shows tell me that in the world of apprentices, I could be doing a lot worse.

Sep10: After the latest knock, the subject that has been occupying my mind the most, apart from the fluidly changing world of Micronesian Fisheries, is that of durability. We all want to go on forever at whatever we do, although people responsible for extracting deeply trapped Chilean miners would probably currently be happy to have a brief spell of not feeling needed. That extends not just to sport and occupation, but also to life itself. Like all of the world's great thinkers, I thought a bit and then did some research (actually, the greatest thinkers can afford to pay someone else to do the laborious bit and concentrate on exercising their grey matter). And my findings may shock you. First of all, the bigger you are, the longer you live. Take the average life spans in the wild of certain mammals. Vole = 1 year. Squirrel = 5 years. Wolf = 10 years. Asian Elephants = 40 years. It works outside mammalia as well. Would you rather be a may fly (1 day) or a crocodile (4 decades)? Or a pine tree (2,000 years)? And that brings us onto another finding even more shocking than the bigger you are, the longer you live. The less you move, the longer you live. The tree is the best example, but what is the animal we associate with longevity? The tortoise. Not immobile, but pretty genteel in it's perambulations. So the answer to long life is get as big as possible and move as slowly as you can, if at all. So when the government is lambasting you about getting thinner and exercising more, or when Roger forces me to go haring up the gallops, THEY ARE TRYING TO KILL YOU. There is no debate about this. And never underestimate the significance of movement, not just exercise, as the self inflicted demise of the Segway man proves - a device all about movement with no exercise. So my advice to all readers is STAY EXACTLY WHERE YOU ARE AND GET AS BIG AS YOU CAN. In theory, it is the route to eternal life.

Aug10: The pressure was on in August, as there had been a bit of a reaction after the comeback run and I was anxious to put that behind me. The other thing was a rumour that my blog was to be scrapped simply because one of the other horses had an idea for one of his own, and the tag was that it would be "The Life Of Brian." We must always be on our toes against up and coming youngsters, but as far as blogs go, he's not the Messiah, he's... 

So, in the quest for something vital and enlightening, I have had to put defer Micronesian Fisheries yet again, even though there have been some really quite eye-catching developments since the first draft was written. Instead, we have to consider what are the implications for sport and horses with the latest craze for 3D television. I have to hold my hoof up here and say I am not a fan. How do people with glasses get prescription 3D viewing glasses? And what about on hot days? It is bad enough once in a cinematic while, but day in, day out? The trouble is, the manufacturers have tried to flog this before and failed but they are making it clear that they will not give up until we surrender. There will be a set list of 'watching sport in 3D injuries.' Boxing - whiplash. Speedway - sprained ankle. Fishing - hook caught in lip. Cricket - injured wrist accepting backhander. Golf - irreversible descent into a catatonic state. Can you imagine racing in 3D? Anyone wishing to enjoy a cup of tea and bit of toast in the morning, and they switch on the racing review, and have Dave Crosse apparently hurtling out of the television at them (although this would possibly be the one case in which the 3D image would be the one ending up injured)? We have to hope that for things like that, the watershed will still apply. And even if they do not get the fright of their life from the jockey, they could get a Kilcommon Pride looking like he is about to take a flier over the sofa. Viewer ducks. Tea spilled. Long, litigious chain of events and owner is sued for damage to the carpet. For insurance reason, expect 3D television to result in a lot more of this on the race course.

And I, for one, am going to feel just a little foolish.

Jul10: I am afraid I am going to have to disappoint you again on the subject of Fishery Protection in Micronesia, but some people read my blog in search of a racing angle, and as I have actually had a run, it would be unfair to try their patience any longer. I went to Stratford for my comeback. For those unfamiliar with the course, it consists of three straights which were independently created, and then somebody realised that there was no room left to connect them up, but managed some crazy botch job in the tiny space left available. This does mean that large chunks of the race are run with the horse in a morbid fear of tipping over sideways and the little fella on top doing his best to ignore my, I mean our, protestations that discretion is the better part of valour. It does have possibly the best choice of housing overlooking the track, and I may buy one of those properties when I retire to become a crotchety buffoon yelling abuse at the horses that misjudge the final fence.

Anyway, the race went quite well, and I was definitely destined for second until I made a horrendous mess of the last hurdle. Given the retirement plan mentioned above, I felt such an oaf, I don't mind admitting, but when you have not raced for a year, people can be tremendously forgiving of such minor fluffs, as long as you finish the race and can have a civilised debrief afterwards. I have not decided where to go next, but if there is one thing that I have learned over the last couple of years, it is that the best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley, so perhaps it is time I scheduled a holiday. And on the subject of "gang aft agley" and holidays, things are not looking good for the speedy bluefin tuna, which goes to show that there is more to life than going rapidly from A to B. Bear that in mind...

Having persuaded them that I was worth a small each-way bet, Lennie and George watch me over (sort of) the last at Stratford

Jun10: What with the relative upheaval of the last few weeks, it has been useful for the younger horses to have a calming, unflappable presence around, to prevent them getting too wound up. That presence being, obviously, me. Still, we have had the sedating influence of the World Cup to settle them as well. I actually wanted to write my blog about Fisheries Protection Issues in Micronesian Territorial Waters, but apparently it IS illegal to write anything at this time and not mention the football. With Ireland not being there I had to find a team to support. Referring to my preferred topic, both Koreas and Japan were out, because they were the bad guys in that scenario. Ivory Coast is a no, because I would rather they lost and could have a laugh at Drogba having a childish tantrum and getting sent off for it. South Africa is a no, because the home side usually gets enough support from other means, nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Germany, USA and England are also out, because it limits the possible banter with other horses around from those countries. Homer Simpson has already explained why Uruguay are off the list and New Zealand's coach looks a little too much like George W Bush for comfort. There were one or two other irrational fears, plus the wish to avoid confusion that led to the exclusion of any other country that plays in green, plus any that has a geographical border with Colombia. The tiebreaker then had to be names, and a horse cannot fail to support a team featuring Giovanni Van Bronckhorst, a man trying to be a horse twice over, but never quite making it. Admittedly, picking the Oranje has led some of the others to mock me for being a wannabe chesnut, but I will deal with it stoically, as I always do. So Netherlands it is, although I hope Georgie Welcome has a good tournament up front for Honduras, who at least play in blue, as he sounds like a sound sort of chap.

Right, now that is out of the way, about these fishery protection issues. Or can that wait until July?

May10: Sometimes other horses really annoy me, and as you all know by now, I am a very tolerant creature indeed. The target of my ire is Baltimore Patriot. All he did was go to Guernsey for a weekend and a race. It is not that clever. But now that he has completed the incredible journey all the way back to Lambourn he thinks he is Sir Francis ******* Chichester. Mentioning that he has sailed to his latest race ceases to be interesting after a few hundred times. However, there is no need to do it in a ridiculous 50s Hollywood pirate accent. He is not qualified to answer all my questions, "avast ye, scurvy landlubber." There is zero reason to be flying a skull and crossbones from the top of his stable. If he must shout "prepare to repel boarders" at every unfamiliar person who comes into the yard. And last, and most important, I really, really, really hate parrots. 

Apart from this distress, since my last update I have had nothing but worry. Eurozone meltdown. Will the Icelandic volcano set off more and bigger eruptions? Will coalition government affect the price of carrots? The availability of carrots? Why was I disgracefully overlooked (again) for the role of the horse in the Weetabix ads? And why is my favourite team in Azerbaijan being managed by Tony Adams. It may be time to hibernate - wake me up in 2011.

Apr10: Having become the leading medical expert around the place, I have been quite busy of late, checking out the various degrees of soreness of throat that it is possible for horse to have. At least I have no Hippocratic Oath to think about, so that when I am doing my rounds and someone, lets hypothetically refer to him as Munich, shouts out "Ahhh, here comes the eejit with the lamp," I can just walk past as if there is nothing there to concern me, and offer treatment to a horse more appreciative. Obviously some of the patients are a little bit unsure when I prescribe leeches, but being self taught in medicine is not easy. I decided that the best way was to start at the beginning of written medicine and read every book ever published on the subject. So far, I have only got as far as those issued in summer 1618, and whilst I acknowledge that a lot can happen in four hundred years, the guys who were writing this stuff were the top men of their day, and seem fairly certain of their own excellence. I am looking forward to moving on another couple of hundred years, where I have been advised everything is the same but with sideburns and a top hat.

I would also like to thank everyone who offered consoling words about the failure of the grand theatrical production. I was getting worried that some (i.e. all but one) of the cast were underprepared, so when the torrential rain washed the stage away, it may have been a blessing in disguise. Via a friend of a friend of a friend, Stefanki had insured us for much more than we spent on it, so it all turned out like "The Producers" meets "Minder" - a nice little earner. And we still have it up our sleeves for next year...

Mar10: And so the Lambourn Open Day approaches. It is a good opportunity for us horses to demonstrate that we have a wider variety of talents than the world at large appreciates. I got the ball rolling by auditioning performers for snippets from Othello. Alderbrook Girl was the only one to shine at that stage, but I have to say that her performances as Desdemona have only picked up since she retired from racing – obviously she enjoys her new hobby – and Dreamwalk has really tried hard in the title role, given that he is suffering a dramatic bout of stagefright. Mucho Loco as Cassio? Could do better if he learnt his lines, and some of the others in the minor roles aren't even trying to act, which drives me bananas. But the revelation has been Street Devil as Iago. For some reason he seems to relish every line and is the best Iago I have seen since Bob Hoskins – can there be greater praise? I just wish that when I call a rehearsal, he would stop responding, “ready when you are, Mr de Mille.” Anyway, we should be fine on the day. Candilejas has offered to play a bit of Spanish guitar, but volunteer flamenco dancers were a bit thin on the ground, which for me ruins the spectacle, especially as flamenco is something horses do especially well, but let us allow the audience to judge for themselves. Zambuka is working on a ventriloquist act with Going French – the fact that they won’t let anyone watch their rehearsals has me worried, very worried indeed, as it is supposed to be family occasion. But I found them a slot anyway, as our only other equine volunteer was Baltimore Patriot, for a bit of juggling, but I have seen him and he is rubbish at it, so we may be looking for an audience participation bit to fill up the time. For that reason, the word was put around that the show will be half-horse/half-human and so far I have been promised a Lithuanian skiffle band, a Helen Mirren impersonator and two separate people offering to rehash old Les Dawson routines. If this all comes together, it will be legendary. For a moment I hoped we may also get Ray Winstone, as I heard someone walk into the yard and say “I’ve come about your monster!” Actually, it proved to be the blacksmith here to shoe Kilcommon Pride, which in itself could be good entertainment for fans of low budget horror films.

Feb10: It has been brought to my attention that people sensed a veiled threat in the first paragraph of the January blog. That was not the intended perspective, but I can see how it reads like that. Back in Ireland, we used to be entertained by having the works of Joseph Conrad read to us of an evening. Having been subjected at an impressionable age to the concept of taking one simple act and repetitively stretching out over several pages (one of my stablemates described "Heart Of Darkness" in one sentence - they sailed up a river, someone fired some arrows at them), I have made much more effort to be concise and get to the point on the blog. The ability to libel my enemies via a medium in which they have no presence is only a bonus effect. The vet has also recommended that I stick with the roadwork for now. This is because he has a rival blog and is jealously trying to sabotage mine by limiting the things that I experience, and therefore write about. Blogging is proving a much better training for competition than I was expecting.

So, in the interest of direct reporting, my month has been. Sleep, eat, walk, eat, sleep, eat, walk, eat, sleep, eat, walk, eat for quite some time, until I was wrong footed by the inclusion of a trot. Now I have been in (and out, and in) training for a while, and surely the best simulation of the racing experience is sleep, eat, go for a drive, run, run, jump, run, run, jump, run, run, jump, bask in glory, go for a drive, eat, sleep. It seems to be a peculiarly British thing to train for a sport by doing something completely different. Footballers run, rugby players go weightlifting, cricketers play rugby (and get injured doing it), boxers mix jogging with car accidents and winter Olympians go high diving. At least I presume they do, as that would explain all of these terrible flops I keep hearing about. So, on the whole, horses should be thankful that our only real challenges training-wise are to make it up to the gallops without tripping over a stray jockey (and that, as you can imagine, is not as easy as it sounds) and to remember that if you are lucky enough to get loose, never, ever run off in a direction that there is any logic to you choosing. And, above all, find your way back home in time for lunch.

* It is appreciated that standing there and being punched in the face has also has limitations as a training method.

Jan10: You will be pleased to know that I have pretty much got over my tendon injury, which at least was a proper sports injury, unlike my helper monkey, who did his getting out of a bean chair. Thanks to the many thousands of well wishers world wide, who sent messages of encouragement and cards, but far fewer carrots than I was trying to hint at in my last blog. What comes around, goes around. As you will all find. 

Now that I am edging towards fitness, I have had to start getting into roadwork. It is a fairly social way of training, as there are plenty of familiar people and horses around Lambourn to stop and have a chat with. However, I was given a break from it during the snow as there was the risk of slipping and aggravating the nearly cured ailment. Obviously, I was very envious that the other horses could go out when it was so cold (so very, very cold) whilst I had to stay in my box, out of the wind and with six rugs on. I may not have been out there with them, wandering around the Downs looking for which gallop had been harrowed and cleared in a whiteout, but my spirit was, as they all surely appreciated. In fact, I have a picture of Myshkin and Baltimore Patriot coming back from a schooling session, which I was disappointed to miss.

What people do not often realise is that horses really like the snow. We can play snowballs. Hooves are not good for making them, but the shape of our mouths and tongue means that we can roll up a ball and spit it quite ferociously at our chosen target. The downside is that they do get covered in slobber and spittle, which then freezes and makes the projectile less snowball and more spiked, icy nunchuk, of the sort preferred by an Eskimo ninja. Which is my chosen post racing career. Being an Eskimo ninja means a) Lots of snow-filled jollity, b) probably a not overly busy schedule and c) almost certain appearance in a Steven Seagal film. What more could a horse want?

Dec09: As I was preparing my Christmas message, I was struck with a sudden bout of sympathy for the Queen. She has been knocking these out for fifty years now, and most of the time, there is not really a great deal to say. And even if she was thinking, "everything's rubbish, and it should be better," she is not in a position to say it. On the personal side, I have had a bit of a knock on the tendon. It seems not to be too serious, so I have had two weeks off of school, but in one of the linguistic misunderstandings that are the bread and butter of my blog, I have got the other horses to come up with a list of the best 10 Dons. By democracy, we have decided upon Don Mclean (singer), Don McLean (Crackerjack – spelling of his name seems flexible), Don Quarrie (Jamaican sprinter and athletic role model – middle name O’Riley so was he half Irish?), Don Howe (dour football coach), Don Quixote, Don King (boxing promoter of repute), Don Estelle, Don Valley, Don Henley (The Eagles drummer) and finally, Don Powell (Slade drummer). If nothing else, it proves that horses only think by word association, struggle distinguishing real and fictional humans from geographic features and think drum’n’bass is cluttered with too many instruments.

But I do have a useful Christmas message for all of the people. It is a time for giving. Carrots to me is a good way to start, and if you like it, then the giving experience can easily be expanded. I will take pretty much anything edible, and then move onto other horses if the warm feeling it imbues does persist. It is a time for thinking of others. Not all the others, obviously, as they do not really have as much to offer back, in terms of literature and cutting edge debate. It is a time for singing "Good King Wenceslas," my favourite song of the season, even though it hardly rings true in the modern age, and when the poor man came in sight, he surely would have left the snow no longer crisp and even, unless he had the power to levitate, and was criminally under-exploiting it. It is a time for forgiving. The robin for his previous twelve months of aggression and brawling, the elf for his terrible acting in "Lord Of The Rings," William Fletcher for discovering vitamins, which led to the invention of Marmite and last, but not least, bacteria, because if we do not forgive them, they CAN get us all, you know. Merry New Year. Which reminds me, we even have to forgive Eddie Murphy for The Nutty Professor films and Norbit. I know it is hard, but if cannot do it now, when can we? 

Nov09: As re-writing the dictionary has become really rather dull, I am suddenly changing focus. I have also picked out a possible race at Chepstow, but Roger is not so keen as he seems to think racing belly deep in watery mud over a buried roller coaster is not where our campaign should start. We shall see, but lots of horses swim as part of their training, so why not include it in a race?

Due to a certain degree of recalcitrance by my helper monkey, these thoughts are, like hazelnut and toffee chocolate bars, only vaguely topical. Back in October, my good friend Bengers Lass found her ability perform to the maximum hindered as her helper monkey (alas for punsters, it was not Graham Gibbons) was hit in the face by a large stone in the middle of the race. This severely restricted his contribution to their combined efforts. As it is a method already proven in camel racing, the time has clearly come for robot jockeys. Or so I first thought. But if there is one thing that science fiction has taught us (apart from the the inevitability of inter-stellar travellers being distinctly humanoid in shape and the fact that "a long time ago in a galaxy, far, far away" can also somehow be in the future as well) it is that any form of robotic construction will, infallibly, be doomed to go on a violent anti-human - maybe anti-all mammals - rampage, possibly provoked by a need to steal clothing and motorcycles. And if anything is bound to spark that revolution, hitting them in the face with large stones would be it. But are there any options that are less vulnerable to stones than humans and less murderous than robots? With the powers now available via genetic modifications, we ought to be able to replace jockeys with specially bred grape vines. They are not averse to stony conditions, can come with much of the tack built in and can provide a delicious mid-race beverage. They could also be developed to say "In the end, he's done it well" when asked for their thoughts on the race (choice of accents available). So, there is another major debating point put to bed. In fact, I may well decline to race again until my design for a GM-plant-jockey is accepted by the racing authorities.

A furtive horde of robot jockeys maintain cover prior to their blood-curdling rampage (Tony Culhane middle of the third row)

Oct09: It has been brought to my attention that a fair few people read my blog, and some of them look at other pages on the site. Those people who travel the virtual highways and/or byways of t'interweb will have spotted that we have had influx of German horses that have spent some time in Ireland. I do not approve. On the whole, I am fairly well travelled, and have experienced some of the great sporting cultures of Europe - England, Ireland, France (I ran at Folkestone!) and Staffordshire. I am not gratuitously against polyglottery. You'll not hear me complain that they come over here, take up places in our novice handicap hurdles. It relates to my campaign to simplify the language. I cannot understand a word they are saying! When one comes over and says, "Excusing me, vo ist der entry fur our feckin' gallops," is he showing signs of multi-culturalism or just mocking me? If the latter, they are good at keeping a straight face in the process. Rewriting the dictionary is proving a slow job, due to a conspicuous lack of volunteer helpers, and I am only up to 'abate' and trying to include of this nonsense they speak is becoming demoralising. I have tried to fight them at their own game:

Baltimore Patriot: Morgen! Guinness und potato for breakfast ich habe!

Me: Indeed? Meine beutelmaus hast verstopfung!

Then Zafisio reminded me of a famous man who tried to be clever and told hundreds of thousands of Germans, "I am a doughnut" and I realised that it is time to scorn them with my silence. 

Sep09: I have been held up with corns. I was going to write a blog asking why corn is good for me and corns are not. However, that would have been short and pointless, like the health and safety goblin's spear. What I really do not understand is why we have so many duplicate words. There are 26 letters in the alphabet, which makes for 26 one letter words, 676 three letter ones, 17,576 four letter ones and 456,976 four letter ones. Only those who have been in earshot when certain riders get beaten a short head would consider that to be insufficient four letter words. So, without exceeding four characters, we can assemble over 475,000 different words. I have no claims on being the finest speaker of English, but I am fairly certain that we can get across all of our intended meaning with that number. Want a beer? Look at that red hat! Who ate all the pies? And so on. But the longer words can be fixed. So all I need now is a volunteer to take all the five letter words or longer in the dictionary and devise their shorter, more efficient replacements. Anyone worried about how to pronounce 'jlkw' et al simply needs to have a quick chat with the Welsh or Polish and it should be a piece of cake, and all nouns will be the same in singular and plural, and verbs in all tenses. The sheep shall inherit the Earth? Maybe they already have - we would have to listen carefully to the way things are said. In the interest of avoiding an argument when the job is done (or should I say 'In the ghej of svb an hwpp when the job is done'), the following longer words are exempt from translation. Horse. Dinner. Stable. Maderson. Ireland. Bumper. Field. Cloudburst. Surrealist. Zoroastrian. This is the project that I was designed to see through!

Aug 2009: There has been a certain amount of heel kicking this month as we had a couple of injections to shake off the lurgy. With my ever improving medical skills, I was able to reassure the other horses that it was indeed normal to feel worse as a result of the cure than from the original affliction. And also that when it came to revenge on the mickey taking two year olds, he who neighs comically last, neighs comically longest. Ultimately, I am led to believe that in the Horse Racing Comedy Pyramid of Excellence (you would be amazed what they found time to document in days of yore), that still falls a long way short of refusing the last fence when leading the Grand National, or being left in the stalls when Derby favourite, but most comedic acts take time to refine, and should I ever find myself leading the Grand National, it will no doubt be a touch and go decision - win the race or go for comic immortality. 

To fill the time, I have been reading "A Brief History of Poland." At this point, I would comment that I cannot remember why on Earth I did that, and that it is a few hundred pages longer than anything that I would consider brief. And it is not as funny as I expected either. All that I have proven is that Taras Bulbar probably did not look anything like Yul Brynner and that the borders of the country are about as consistent as an unset blancmange. And on that topic, let's be hoping for a little rain so that I can leap back into action. I caught a sight of Galway at the end of August on the television, and with the bumper being run in drizzle and wintry gloom, it really motivated me to get racing again. 

Jul 2009: I have suffering what has been popularly called the lurgy, although it has not gone unnoticed that the humans seem to be getting a bit over hysterical about this swine flu thing. There is a lot to be said for animals that race, rather than are eaten (are you paying attention France and Italy!) and if more people had a horse and less people a pig, everything will be fine, apart from the lack of bacon sandwiches. It does sometimes need an outside academic to see the wood through the trees.

Anyway, a few of the horses were confused as to what 'the lurgy' was, and knowing that I had already solved swine flu, they came to me for medical advice. I explained that back in Ireland, we had a thing called a Banshee, which wailed and moaned and made everyone a bit fed up. Zafisio, who had taken up the role of political comedian in the yard, suggested that we had merely misidentified Harriet Harman, but other Irish horses confirmed the legend of the Banshee. I explained that the Lurgee was the opposite of the Banshee, in that it had the same effect but merely went against the wind, rather than with it. I could see the words 'John' and 'Prescott' milling round in Zafisio's mind, but pressed on before he interrupted. So, having shamelessly persuaded an array of impressionable youngsters that the Lurgee was a wind and voice-based evil spirit, I ended up having to explain why a couple of injections would help. Thinking on my feet, I explained that all evil can be warded off by taking a course of neat parsnip juice. Not a great reply, but if only that annoying a*** Mucho Loco believes me, it was worth it. 

Jun 2009: Since my last communiqué to the outside world I have had another run, and it really was a mystical experience. Some of theJ other horses had come back from a run and reported that at the end of the race they felt a bit out of sorts and not really with it. Well, regular blog readers will know that I pride myself on being soundly rooted in the realms of reality, so I expected not to be affected in the same way. Which puts in context why I did not react with any degree of surprise when, crossing the third last, I looked around and saw on my right Casper, The Friendly Ghost and on my left Archbishop Desmond Tutu - most readers would agree that they would both be regulars at Newton Abbot. What was really weird was that Mr Tutu explained that he was merely a figment of my imagination, and Casper tried to sell me half a kilo of yams, for just 79p. And I had no idea whether that was a bargain or a rip off. By the time we were back to unsaddle I had manage to outrun the hallucinatory clergyman and the greengrocing spectre, but when I asked Dave Crosse if he had seen them, he denied all knowledge. Perhaps I should have bought the yams anyway, to prove my tale. What is most annoying is that ever since then, Mucho Loco keeps knocking on my stable door in the middle of the night and saying, “Whooo-hooooo-ooooo. Bananas! Pound for a pound.” Obviously, I have a sense of humour as good as the next horse, but after a week, the novelty wore off. If he was as funny as he thinks he is, he would have his own blog!

May 2009: Initially I did not mind being a bit under the weather, as it is basically just time off work without it having to snow, and I certainly do not mind that in the least. But then some of the other horses began to have exciting adventures, and I got jealous. Lady Deauville went to Ireland, Zafisio went to Germany (from which he brought back some Germknodel - delicious), a trio of troublemakers went to Guernsey, for what seems like a game of golf and a paddle on the beach (I am sure that whatever they eat in Guernsey would also be delicious, but they brought back nothing, with some cock-a-mamey tale of cutting things very tight for the ferry) and Callisto Moon went to Haydock. He was going to bring back tasty snacks but could not find anything local that appeared to be vaguely healthy. He was offered a meat pie, but the provider could not even be certain what type of meat was in it! So here I am, writing my blog about what the other horses are doing - not what I had in mind at all. Of course, I could revert to the traditional use of a blog, which is to write scurrilous, and largely unfounded, smear stories about my rivals. Except that whilst I am not racing, it is not entirely clear who my rivals are. If anyone spots a confirmed rival, I would like to point out that they have been performing a variety of criminal activities, defrauding the vulnerable of their benefits, indulging in a swathe of dubious sexual deeds and devil worshipping. Then again, that does appear to be a fairly normal week in Lambourn...

April 2009: Since I last wrote, I have been suffering a bit of a liver infection, which has left me a bit lost for words. Certain people, whose initials may be not far removed from RC (in fact, they are RC) have accused me of being inclined to mope excessively when not feeling right, which is a scurrilous accusation, even if it is true, which it is not, or may not be, as I do not really know the norm by which I am being judged - if I sound as unconvincing as a politician trying to bail out an economy it may be due to being at a similar level of confusion at the lack of control. Anyway, all my human chums out there who have had a liver infection will confirm that it is no joke, and they will also appreciate that the equine species have evolved to have a considerably bigger liver than the one generally found in homo sapiens. I am advised that as liver size increases, so the discomfort factor rises exponentially. Ironically, as we horses are not inclined to batter our vital organs into submission with Guinness and red wine and all sorts (well, very few of us) the liver scenario is somewhat ironic, although chuckling at it is not that comfy at the moment. That said, if anybody wants to come and give me a good pat, no problem - please, neck and buttocks only. The internet tells me that high energy, low protein food is good treatment, plus vitamin B and glucose, but then it also tells me that the holy grail was brought to Glastonbury by Joseph of Arimathea, jam is made by wasps and that John F Kennedy was shot by Sammy Davis Jnr. Everyone knows that all these actions are or were performed by Dick Cheney.

March 2009: Guess what? I finally ran over hurdles, because the snow had gone. And I am not sure that I care for it. Actually what happened was that one of the other horses kicked me and stole my shoe. As a result my leg was bruised and I could not catch him to duff him up. But I know who it was, he knows I know who it was, and he had better have eyes in the back of his head when we meet up in future. There were other things that were confusing about the race. We had a look at some hurdles before the race - I have no idea why, they all look the same to me - and when we set off, we seemed to be running in a bumper. It went on and on without anything happening, sort of like The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner, but without the hallucogenic narcotics. I was beginning to think that the jockeys had got lost when we finally found something to jump over. And by then I wasn't ready and made a mess of it. All I ask for is a bit of information about what is going on, some warning of impending danger. Anyway, now I know that schooling and racing over hurdles are very different experiences indeed, I will be ready for it. But will the Notorious Shoe Thief of East Kent?

Have you seen this item? If so, please post it to Maderson Blue, Lambourn. There may be a small reward, but anyone who does not treasure a little bit of hay should not get their hopes up...

February 2009: Snow, snow, snow. More snow than I have ever seen. Obviously this would be a more meaningful statement if I were Roald Amundsen, but there was more than plenty, and after my previous observations on horses and mathematics, I can confirm that it was more than four inches deep. We tried to sneak out side to build a snowman, but various people, who shall remain nameless but go under the secret codename of Egorr, said that there was no reason for skiving and we still had to go out on the gallops. Obviously this was an exercise in futility as even if we managed to do anything worthwhile, there was no racing to go to anyway - but sometimes it pays to humour the trainer and have credit in hand for when you need to take the mickey later on. There is one horse, Wessex, who seems to have saved up enough credit to put in next to no effort on the gallops, which is a nice place to be in - perhaps he will soon retire and move into banking. 

As it has been too cold to go out I have been spending the time studying hypnosis and watching Frankie Boyle on DVD. So if you are around the yard and I shout an extreme insult at your in a broad Scots accent, it is not my fault, I have just got my studies mixed up - apologies in advance.

January 2009: I have not been doing much lately, because it has been too wet. This has ruined my latest collection, which was miniature dirt sculptures of all the saints that have a church named after them in Ireland. I was only up to seven so had a little way to go, but the rain has turned them all into indistinguishable blobs. So now I have a collection of dirt sculptures of John Prescott. It's not the same, is it?

I did go up and have a chat with the all weather flat horses just to pass the time of day. After I ran on the all-weather I suspected they would have to be fairly pint-sized to be able to whizz round the turns, but there is something disconcerting about trying to have a chat whilst a vertically challenged colleague gobs sand in your face. If they weren't so polite whilst doing it, I would think they are deliberately having a pop at me. When I was up there I could not help but chuckle at the guys from Mauritius. In weather that in Ireland would be 'inclement' at worst and 'you'll be needing a jumper' at best, they all turn out with seven coats on, which I suppose is understandable given that the island's winter low is 22º C. When I looked up Mauritius on the internet, I found that when it was occupied in 1598, it was uninhabited. This means that a) it is younger than New Zealand (in your face, willfully inaccurate Kiwis) and b) the genetic parts in the incoming population that deal with handling bad weather seem to have disappeared in no more than four hundred years - rather slower than the Dodo did, but amazing all the same. I sense a similar trend in the parakeet colonies of South London. I intend to investigate this further. When the next set of Darwin retrospectives comes around, expect the last chapter to be "Maderson Blue - the horse that finished Darwin's work." What I need is funding - can someone put the John Prescott sculptures on ebay for me?

December 2008: It has been brought to my attention that a bunch of so-called researchers claim to have proven that horses can count up to four. Their method was to take two barrels and, in sight of a horse, put more apples in one barrel than the other. Up to the balance being 4-3, the horses apparently always picked the fuller barrel. Once it was 5-4 or more, then the picks seemed to be random. What really happened was that they dragged two drug-addled halfwits out of a field, and then were amazed that said gutterwipes could count to four. I can replicate the experiment quite easily, to prove that horses are a more literate species than humans. On behalf of my species, I modestly offer my blog. My purely random selection from seven billion human beings is...Jeffrey Archer. No contest.

I also found out that we have a new yard, which I can see over the field. I said to Roger that I would like to go and have a nose around, see if there was any saucy young fillies around, but he said I had to go and jump over some sticks instead. What I really wanted to know is if there were any there had their own blog or had won a bumper. Some of the other horses said one of them had won a group one race. Obviously that means nothing to me (oh, Vienna), and does not sound as impressive as a bumper. Anyway, I doubt he could match me at leaping twigs either. Or counting apples in a barrel.

November 2008: And so, despite many misadventures along the way, by which I mean the bruised foot incident, I returned to the racing scene. Myself and Alderbrook Girl went down to Folkestone for this, where she complained that it was not muddy enough, and I observed that it was far more muddy than is really necessary. Up to a point, things went quite well. All the others appreciated that I had won a race, so much so that they let me be number one, and the fellah that had won a point-to-point was realistic enough to acknowledge that made him second in command at best. Some of the horses that had not run before all got quite excited, and my, how I laughed when I recollected what it was like for me all those years ago (Ed: - it was Easter 2008).

Things were going all rather well, as we went round at just above walking pace, when some lunatic tried to barge me into the car park. I had noticed that he was a bit of a frothing-at-the-mouth nutter in the paddock. Now I am a tolerant individual, but there is a time and a place for horses like that, and it is as far away from me as possible, along with the serial killers, war criminals and the man who invented tequila. Towards the end of the race, a couple of naive ones decided to dash off into the wild blue yonder, and I ambled along after them. All in all, job done, although there was some talk of hurdles in the future - whatever they are.

In the meantime, that orange bloke and the queen of the stone age also went racing for the first time. They did not win, so I am still king of the heap. Apparently, the queen went a bit over the top and did not run at Lingfield, but had a near miss at Hereford. She said that the backdrop of gently rolling hills soother her more than the building site - my gut feeling is that being in cider country might have been a factor. If I had an index finger, I would be tapping my nose with it.

October 2008: A month has passed, and in that time, I have been wounded in the most foul and underhand way. It was decided that it was time that I had some new shoes, as the old ones had become slightly unfashionable, although silver is still very much the in colour for late 2008. But as ever with new shoes, sometimes they are extremely comfortable, on others rather less so. In fact, these were so uncomfortable, that my foot fell off. Roger will tell you that I had a bruised foot, and if you wish to be medically pedantic, the foot was still completely attached to the leg, but I can assure you that it FELT like my it had fallen off. Anyway, after limping around for a week or so, and frankly getting far less sympathy than was due, I pretty much managed to faith heal myself. That in itself answers a question - who does an ill faith healer go to for treatment?

One of my bugbears is inappropriately named or arrogantly named horses. I am a work of equine art, so immune from this problem, but Olive has been given the full name Elegant Olive. It does not really fit, and was apparently second choice to something that was also a song by Queens Of The Stone Age. Now that would have been spot on! Coppermalt does smell of plumbing and barley, so he has a good name (humans would not have the sensitive nose to pick up on it), and Tech Eagle definitely has the aura of a giant robot bird of prey, often seen destroying Tokyo in Japanese monster films. Come on humans, it does not take much effort!

September 2008: I have been reunited with an old friend, in the shape of Happy Fleet, who has arrived in Lambourn to follow the career path which I have used with aplomb, if I might say so myself. When we were in Ireland, she was a touch on the arrogant side, but the first thing I did when she arrived was point out that I had won a race, bet her that she did not even know where Uttoxeter was, and ask who did she think was so clever now. To be fair, she said Professor Stephen Hawking, which I was not in a position to dispute, but I definitely retain the moral upper hand. Other than that, the summer has been quite relaxed. The Native American art collection has not really taken off, and most of the time set aside for sun bathing had been spent scurrying for cover under a tree as it began raining - and I thought Ireland was a bit drizzly. But it has had the desired effect, and I am actually quite looking forward to having a race again. All the routines around it just become soothing: Strolling through the village to the gallops, passing the time of day with other horses whose faces are familiar but I cannot put a name to, Sevillian whistling the theme tune to 'Catch The Pigeon'* as we get ready to start (is he supremely self confident, or taking the mickey out of me? - I'm not yet sure), jumping in the horse box to go to Devon, and basking in the admiration of the crowd. It must be genetically drummed into me...

* He is a bit of a thickie as he apparently does not know the lyrics and let's be honest, they are not exactly Oscar Wilde's lost classic. Now the Banana Splits theme tune, that IS poetry. By the way, I heard that Fleagle is now a big player in the porno film industry.

August 2008: I have been lazin' on a sunny afternoon in the summertime, in fact, all afternoons, any day of the week, any weather. And I reckon that I could work with in any season as well. This did give me the idea to write an entire blog using Kinks lyrics, but the first website I had gave me 455 songs to choose from. That is too much like hard work for a horse having a holiday. So I thought about the credit crunch, and realised that I don't care, I DON'T CARE!!! (nearly stepped into Chas'n'Dave territory for a moment). In fact, every world issue that I took a moment or two to contemplate soon became an item of irrelevance to me. Maybe GM crops could fire my imagination after a while, but let's be honest, even teachers are jealous of the holidays I get.

July 2008: I am now having a rest, which I like. Not as much as dinner, but more than speedway, which I cannot get my head round at all. A bike with no brakes? No wonder the Aztecs opted not to invent the wheel. It looks like the next run will be in the autumn, so for a couple of months I need to find a hobby. Plan A was to join a historical re-enactment society, but when I went along, they wanted me to play the part of a horse. That's not really a hobby is it? Some of the other horses have come up with sarcastic suggestions for a time filler: origami, amateur dramatics, cheese-making and translating the formbook into Latin. The last one appealed, because I could put veni, vidi, vici into the formline for a certain bumper at Uttoxeter. But in the end I began a collection of apples. After a week or so, I had five, so the time came to make up some labels, as it was becoming tiresome explaining to everyone who asked* what types they were. But there they sat, looking at me all rotting and delicious, and now I have no apples in the collection. So I am starting again, this time with Native American art. 

* You would be amazed how few did

June 2008 appendix: Can an appendix come before the text? Is that a web-only privilege? Who cares, because I won a bumper. Hands up if you have won a bumper? Not so fast, Mr Lah-di-dah Kauto Star. Not so fast Denman. Not so fast Master Minded. Not so fast Comply Or Die. Not so fast Inglis Drever. In fact (at this point I would put on an anorak, if anyone was around to help) only two horses that won at Cheltenham this year had won a bumper in Britain (three if you include Cousin Vinny's win in the Festival Bumper) - the answer is at the end of the paragraph, in pale text so it can be argued over! So clearly I am morally superior to all of them. Actually, Mum told me that rampant smugness does no go down so well with everyone, and when you look at the list of people who have not won a bumper, I am beginning to wonder if I might have made a terrible mistake. Mind you, Roger arranged for a youthful hippie that I had never seen before to ride, and he seemed pleased enough. I like to do my bit for the alternative community. When you hear about all those painters who could not get into art school, engineering innovators who failed maths, and The Man From Atlantis, perhaps early success puts too much mental pressure on the achiever. But I did win a bumper. And all those who doubted will suffer copious humiliation. Humiliation, I say. Except myself, obviously. Mum also said something about self doubters. At least I think she said doubters.  Albertas Run and Whiteoak

June 2008: Another run has led me to conclude that Seamus Durack is nuts. We went to Newton Abbot [no otters, but no monks either - a complete con trick of a place]. We all lined up at the start, and everyone sort of mulled around regarding the others suspiciously. The tape went back and...nothing happened. Eventually, they all set off at a genteel meander, so I thought that if the others were just going to phaff around, I would charge off and win it. But Seamus would not let me. The phaffing was part of some intention that I still fail to understand. But to rub salt in to wound, he suddenly tried to make me run really fast later on, for no apparent reason. So, just to annoy him, I slowed down even more. Then I thought I had better show a bit of vim, and tried for the last bit of the race. That'll learn 'em to do it my way!

Things have been a bit bizarre on the gallops as well. I usually go for a run with Seville. On one side, they have these marker posts, and they all look a bit rickety. Every time I pass one, I have to duck and flinch in case the wind catches it and it whacks me on the schnozzle. But on the other side, there is this luminous orange head bobbing in and out of view. Why do I have to endure all these distractions?

Incidentally, Seville has changed his name to Sevillian. When I found out, I would have wet myself laughing, except that I was already going to the toilet. What does he think he is? Some sort of super hero who struts around in a bright orange suit and then, at he first hint of trouble, turns into a member of the public and quietly melts into the background. It would not make a great film, but a better one than Spiderman 3.

May 2008: I had plenty to say for myself this month but the helper monkey that does the typing has a bad wrist and is refusing to type much of it. As I can destroy a laptop with one blow of the hoof, whether I intend to or not, it is a job best left to the primates. We only had one day out this time, Towcester. It was a lot like Exeter - on top of a hill, scattered with bare rough patches and totally otter-free, so we did not run. In some ways I feel a lot like an Italian striker* - arrive for the sporting event ready to go, but any participation is purely coincidental.

Given my name (see several months ago), I did consider taking up art. With the prestige already there, and no need to bring in an elephant for providing the dung, it looked like the Turner Prize was in the bag. Until I realised that with a huge virtual canvas and almost unlimited material to sculpt with, I was a bit short on ideas. Happy to receive any ideas that readers do not mind being plagiarised without any credit. More soon.

* Coppermalt tells me that in the current political environment, Russian president is also a workable analogy.

April 2008: So it was building up to race number two and then Roger said that whether we got a run or not depended on the ballot. The idea that voting was involved had completely passed me by first time around. Who were the electorate and what did I need to say to impress them? After spending some time writing a particularly rousing speech, which will have to be saved for another occasion, it suddenly became clear that I had won the ballot. And that without coming into contact with a single voter. I certainly feel like a splendid combination of Robert Mugabe and Silvio Berlusconi * all rolled into one. Having won, there was no chance for a victory speech, and I recall from my days at home in Ireland watching people listen to Bertie Ahern's and always end up laughing fit to burst.

So we set off for Exeter, where there is a racecourse hidden on a piece of exposed moorland. When we got there, Roger walked the course and came back somewhat displeased. As I understood it, there was no beach, some grassy bits and some roady bits, which are grassy bits without grass. And the roady bits, due to the drying effect of the wind and sun, were not really suitable for racing on. I wondered if some sort of mat may be in order, but it seemed to be too late for that to be organised. In the end we went home, with not a cream tea in sight (Devon without a cream tea? Madness). As this promised to be a less flat and sandy racing experience, it was disappointing to miss out, although I am assured that if we go to Towcester, I will see more than enough slopes for the time being.

As usual, my travels were a learning experience. I had been led to believe, and the phrase is used advisedly as I am finding the information provided by the other horses is getting ever more unreliable, that the entire population of Devon spends the day wasted on home made cider and persecuting otters. Now that I have been there, it is clear that in some cases nothing could be further from the truth (although no otters were actually seen on the day). With my understanding increasing, I am writing entries for the Lonely Planet guides, as actually visiting the places does give me a huge advantage over the other contributors.

* I was going to use my new found PhotoShop skills to merge pictures of Berlusconi and Mugabe here, but Coppermalt, who considers himself to be politically aware, said that I could save time by just getting a picture of a great big knob. So here it is, but I don't get it...

...and it is both amazing and disturbing how many pictures of a doorknob a simple web search will find.

Easter 2008: I had a race! A real one. And it was brilliant, brilliant fun. I told Ti Amore that it was great and she should try it, but she just said she had no time until she had the crew assembled for the big bank job, and may try it later. We went to Lingfield for a race on the beach. They must have an amazing tide at Lingfield, as I did not spot the sea all the time that I was there. To make me feel at home, Roger got a chap called Seamus to ride. He seemed like a nice bloke, but has the unusual hobby of breaking his leg. These humans are crazy.  We were in the first race, which was good, because it meant we could be home in time for tea, and as we were walking round the paddock Dawn said that I could stop halfway round and build a sand castle. When we really were halfway round (and neither up nor down), I found that Seamus had not been told of this part of the day, and having charged round the first part really fast, he wanted me to do the rest even faster. I have to admit that a combination of sand construction deprivation and raw unadulterated panic caused me to briefly forget how to gallop and I didn't win. This does leave you feeling a bit sheepish, but most people were too polite to make a big deal of it. When I got back, I told the others what had happened, and Alderbrook Girl said that when under pressure I reminded her of Patrick from Spongebob Squarepants.

By coincidence, the race was won by Ti Amore's half-brother, which made me reflect on what an incestuous industry we operate in. Being near a religious festival, that in turn reminded me of the tale of Sodom and Gomorrah, but like everyone else, cannot recall exactly what the Gomorrahites are supposed to have done. Did it involve chickens? Anyway, let's be careful out there...

March 2008: Ain't Lambourn brilliant? Fantastic. There are millions of horses there, of all different colours, shapes and sizes. It is very scenic up on the Downs (chortle) and on a clear day you can see for miles and I often watch most of the other horses running around like lunatics in the distance. On a still morning you can also hear the trainers shouting instructions at them, but even when they are comprehensible, very little notice seems to be taken. Roy Keane would have a fit. Some days we have to go up there when the weather is not so good, but it is easy to get out of doing too much. Whoever is riding, just throw them to the ground and dash off and loiter around somebody else's yard until they send someone out to catch you. By the time the people left in the yard have worked out who you are (and often there are not many around, as they have had to go and retrieve their own horses) and somebody comes to collect you, it is time to knock things on the head for the morning. Obviously, you have to hang around the right yard to be caught, because having a long walk back with a p***** off trainer and/or rider can lead to a rather frosty atmosphere... I have noticed that the human being can be a temperamental animal and some days they are inexplicably unwilling to discuss the political situation in Somalia at 6.30 in the morning. 

I have pretty much decided that being a racehorse is the job for me, so at some stage I really ought to try going in a race. This is not something to dive head first into without serious planning, and I have not yet told Roger what days are convenient for me. He did mention something about a bumper, which sounds like a lot of fun, just the sort of thing that ends in a food fight. As well as a convenient day, I also need to pick the right track, which is difficult as I do not know any of them, and rely on advice from the other horses - but who can I trust? Romney Marsh reckons Toaster is one to give a miss - funny name for a race course but the food fight could be well provisioned. So I only really have the name to judge them by and I notice that many contain some sort of culinary reference - Plumpton and Musselburgh, Banger and Market Rasin. Are they naming these to taunt the jockeys? As there is not one called Carrotsthenanap, in  the end I have settled for Haydock. I expect it is on vast, unspoilt agricultural plain that ends at the coast, with waves gently lapping the beach as the sun beats down, so we can have a picnic and then get in a bit of sailing for a post-race wind down. 

February 2008: I set off for Lambourn from Ireland. I packed everything, including some water wings. The other horses took the mickey, but the weather has been a bit volatile lately, and you cannot be too careful on boats. I also took 'The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner' to read on the voyage, which was shorter than I expected (the voyage, that is. The infernal poem goes on for half a lifetime). It may be set long ago, but there is some worthy advice to be gleaned - if you are approached by a mad, staring eyed lunatic of no previous acquaintance, the time efficient response is to run quickly away or set the dogs on him. And talking of mad, staring eyed lunatics, ever since I arrived at Lambourn, the Taipan mare has been acting a bit funny...

Anyway, back to the journey, as nothing broadens the mind like travel. We drove through South Wales in the dark, I presumed it was night time, but apparently South Wales is often like that, all the way along the Emmfour (whatever that is) to Membury Services. Lambourn is sort of round the back of them. The plan was to entertain the horses in the yard and make friends by pretending to be Mexican, but I cannot do the accent very well, and there were a few stern looking German horses around, who might not have seen the funny side of it. That meant I had to put a few impersonations on hold as well, as I had copied them from Freddie Starr and they would certainly have gone down like a lead balloon - but I did sell the wellies for £5 (or 7 Euros). I bought some ear plugs with it, to get some peace and quiet from the Germans wandering around humming brass band music all the time. Overall, being in a yard in Lambourn is what I expected. Soon after I was settled, the vet came, looked at all the horses, shook his head and gave us all an injection. This took me by surprise, but I will get him next time. 

A few people have asked where my name comes from. It is, I am told, after the eminent Irish painter Arthur Maderson, of whom Tricia Burke is an admirer. So if anyone dares say about me, 'Well he's no oil painting,' they can expect a rapid fiery retort. Hopefully he does not work in watercolour or elephant dung, or my point sort of dissipates feebly. Until next time, adios, gringos.

December 2007: One recent evening, when I was sitting in the pub, Gerry came rushing in and shouts to me, 'Lamb born' so suddenly that I dropped my crisps, and choked on my Guinness. As the fake coughing plan had been deduced, no-one dashed forward to apply the Heimlich maneouvre. And someone nicked the crisps. Another hard lesson learned. As for Gerry's proclamation, this was odd. Lambs are born all the time, it isn't really big news to anyone, and as a) a horse and b) a gelding, I don't think the birth of a lamb can be anything to do with me - unless that dodgy South Korean fellah has been up to more no good than we imagined. After another pint, it became clear that Gerry had said Lambourn, which is apparently a place in England, where it also rains, but slightly less often, and that was where I was going. As my uncle had lived there as well, I am looking forward to it as they apparently in his day they had hay bales the size of mountains, so many carrots that they could afford to even let people eat them, and red kites the size of, well, red kites, which you can't eat. As even nostalgia is not what it used to be, and in light of earlier experiences, I am treating his anecdotes with caution.

Why are all blogs in plain, unfussy fonts? Hopefully, I will have an answer by the next update, when I will also have taken up my new residence in Lambourn. Where will my adventures take me? Perhaps I may end up as Lord Mayor of London and own a smug, irritating cat. Or some newts.

November 2007: I live in Ireland, which is extremely pleasant, if a bit rainy. But as long as it is not acid rain, what harm is there in getting your feet wet every now and then? [After watching the news lately, Pacific Islanders need not dignify this question with a response]. Inspired by stories of what my uncle, Marlborough, had done, I was seriously considering a career in jump racing, but there is no point in rushing into these things, is there? So, just to see what it may be like, I went along for some work experience in a racing stable. I heard that it was run by John and Kylie, but it turned out to be John Kiely, whose posterior view is someway short of the delights that I was anticipating. It appears that the world outside could be more challenging than I expected.

For the most part training is tremendous fun, although you do have to get up early in the morning (I keep missing Jeremy Kyle on TV), and run quite fast. At the moment, that is a bit of a culture shock, I can tell you, but if you cough a bit in the morning, you get the day off. This is a pretty reliable tactic, but if I overdo it, someone is bound to rumble my cunning plan. Every so often, people come and look at me trot up and down, do my daily routine, and stroke my legs - what the blazes is that all about? As some of them had travelled all the way from England, they deserved a bit more fun than that, so I did offer to learn to juggle chainsaws or sing 'This Town Ain't Big Enough For The Both Of Us' by Sparks. Apparently the best thing I can do is keep quiet and do what I am told. A shame, as I feel I have so much more to offer.

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