From the odd passing comment, I sometimes get the impression that one or two people see me as a vaguely unhinged loon. A vision perhaps of some dreadful old, overweight, drunk, lurching around the back streets of Lambourn, ½-eaten Ginsters in one hand, can of Guinness in the other, ranting at the powers that be, and hurling abuse at the traffic because the occupants might be board members of one of the 86 authorities in charge of racing. (There may be fewer, but who’s counting?)
Even if only partially true, this is still an undignified position in people’s minds—let alone one’s peers and fellow travellers. So, I have decided to change. I have decided to focus on a regime that will see my right arm do far less lifting and cutting, with some inevitable wardrobe adjustments. (Don’t panic; that vortex of air rushing from the room was entirely due to the collected and sharp intakes of breath delivered by the masses.)
I suppose this all started when I read that the Duchess of Montecito had started a lifestyle programme where she would share her spinach secrets. It might not have been spinach; it might have been Soya. It’s irrelevant. She is sharing, along with the rest of humanity. We know to the nano-second what views Musk, Trump, Milliband, and Starmer have expounded. We get resignation letters from Meta in four-part tweets from former Liberal leaders. We can see what banned Royal Naval statues look like and watch TV presenters raise funds for Little Jack Horner and all the other Children in Need.
In the modern manner, therefore, where every moment of one’s appallingly painful life and departure must be shared to raise funds, I shall be keeping you all abreast of my slow but relentless progress and all in aid of the Italian farmers’ wives charity, Tre Topi Ciechi. But first things first.
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