A Farewell to Arms, to the Ladies and Gents and to the Festival.

This time last week, the developed world was either preparing itself to go to, punt on, work at, host lunch parties for, or give hospitality at Cheltenham.

I say developed world, I mean, of course, sane and sensible people who don’t mind looking exactly the same as everyone else - a bastion of middle-class Tweed, a portcuillis of brown and coloured velev…