Good For The Soul

Other Half has found out about my Glossy Magazine addiction.

I have ferociously protested that the heap of magazines hidden underneath the spare room bed were all donated to me, but he has still banned me from spending any money on publications that are full of adverts for bathrooms and kitchens.

I have been going cold turkey for a few weeks now; in a sense. Because I have managed to satisfy my addiction to the lovely photographs in these magazines by visiting their websites instead. This (aside from the horrendous cost of my painfully slow and frankly futile broadband) is free. It also means that you can read articles that were written months ago without a towering heap of magazines on your sofa or under the spare bed.

I’ve just looked at good old Country Living’s website and was thrilled to read that living in the countryside is “good for your soul” and to emphasise this they gave me 8 reasons as to why. I’m not quite sure why they supplied me with only 8. Perhaps they couldn’t think of 10.

So, living in the countryside is meant to be better for you, both physically and mentally. After I’d read the first paragraph of the article I knew for certain that this piece had been written by someone who lives somewhere which is served by both public transport and a super fast internet connection, because the term “closer to nature” had been used.

Apparently living in the countryside makes you more mindful and therefore you notice the weather, the birdsong and the sounds and smells of the countryside as everything is enhanced.

True.

I am aware of the weather because for 6 months of the year I am wading through sludge. In the winter, I wash so much mud off my wellies that I half expect my landlord to turn up with an invoice. And I’m certainly aware of birdsong during the summer months, although when a pheasant is screeching away on the grass margin outside your bedroom window at 5.30am you could be forgiven for shooting it even though it’s 5 months out of season.

If you are lucky enough to live in an area where humans outnumber pheasants or where there are none of the stupid birds at all, you will be unaware that they are really rather good at throwing themselves at moving cars. They have an exceptional technique to achieve this and I can only assume that the skill has been passed down through the generations.

To begin with they usually loiter at the side of the road and as you approach them, they run to the middle of the road. As soon as your foot moves towards the brake pedal, the idiotic bird will then return to the side of the road. This is all part of their cunning plan to lull you into a false sense of security because when you are within kicking distance of the dim fowl, it will suddenly make a frantic effort to reach the other side of the road. When you are about to run the brainless thing over, the bird will then make an attempt at flight. This means that instead of making contact with the underside of your car, it collides with the bodywork of your car and this in turn costs a lot of money. The pheasant is a plump, weighty bird and is capable of breaking bumpers, aerials, headlights, windscreens, number plates, fog lights and giving motorcyclists a terrible headache.

Aside from the annoying, screechy, Asian-imported, poor excuse for a bird with a death wish, you will develop an appreciation for your planet if you live in the country. Apparently seeing “Flash floods stream down country lanes” and “snow blanketing untouched fields” will make you appreciate the power of the world that we live in. Unless you live in a house that has previously flooded which means that a flash flood of any kind notifies you that you need to instantaneously lift all of your furniture to waist height and set your flood alarms. Blankets of snow might delight Britney (not her real name) but to anyone over the age of 12, snow is just something that makes country life even more difficult. Snow means that there is a higher than normal risk of crashing your car on the narrow ungritted roads and the white stuff also makes the journey to work take longer than normal. Because, and this may well come as a gigantic surprise to residents of urban areas, people in the countryside do in fact have jobs to go to as well.

Country Living also reports that there is a slower pace of life in the country and that “although people who live in the countryside can still lead busy and hectic lives, the peace of their surroundings helps to bring them to a gentle halt and remind them not to rush life away”.

When I am driving over close to the legal limit to get Britney to school on time or when my car is in the garage and I have to ask people for lifts because the nearest Bus Stop is 3 miles away, I am rarely in a position where I can consider being brought to a gentle halt. I’m surprised that people who live in the countryside aren’t given Valium on a repeat prescription.

Another thing about living where a bus is a rarity is that there is the “Possibility of adventure”. Because “without having a plethora of transport and social activities on your doorstep, both children and adults can be left with just their imagination and senses to take them on an adventure”. The author then suggests that a “walk, a bike ride or building a den in a forest will all give you a different perspective”.

Firstly, if you try to walk anywhere in the countryside without a canine, you will be offered a lift by every passing car. No one walks anywhere in the countryside. If I announced on Facetube that I was about to walk to the local shop to collect the Sunday papers, 15 people would then offer to drive me and ask if my car is broken.

Yes okay, there isn’t the plethora of social activities on the doorstep, but we do still have them. It might mean you have to drive 7 miles to get to the gym but to those of us who reside in the country; this is quite normal. Come to think of it, it almost certainly keeps us healthier as we can’t have 5 pints of lager after visiting the gym as we have to drive home afterwards.

I have to agree that the bike riding facilities in the country are fabulous as there are a lot of rural roads with little traffic. This mode of transport is also convenient because it allows us to have 5 pints of lager and ride home legally.

The whole building a den in the forest thing is never going to happen because whichever “forest” you choose is owned by someone. Generally, landowners don’t take kindly to den building and should you decide to have a quaint campfire beside your bushcraft creation, an alarm automatically sounds in the local Game Keeper’s house. I can assure you that your campfire won’t even have reached the smouldering stage before he appears with a shotgun, 9 dogs and a very cross expression on his face.

Point 5 in the article suggests that you will make “friends for life” in the country.

I suppose this is partially true, there are many occasions when you have to ask a neighbour for help in these less densely populated areas. Whether it’s the neighbour with the 4x4 when the snow is 2 foot deep, or the neighbour who has a chainsaw and there’s a fallen tree blocking the road, people in the country definitely rally around to help you.

As long as you were born here.

Even if you have lived in the country for 30 something years and are a Parish Councillor; you are still not a local. On occasions even people who have lived in the country for 58 years, will still be referred to as “the new people”. It’s just the way it is.

The article also tells me that it is a much “healthier way of living” in the country because of all the organic produce. No one I know can afford to buy organic produce so the only organic objects we eat are grown in our gardens. That’s if the carrots don’t get Carrot Fly and the tomatoes and the potatoes don’t get Blight. Then we just go to Aldi like every one else.

But living in the country does give you a “happier mind” because we mustn’t “underestimate the happiness we get from the small things in life.” This is a good point, life is too short to walk around with blinkers on and ignore the good stuff.

The final point suggests that you will have a “more active body” through rural living because it appears that there are “huge physical benefits from just one hour in the garden”. Now this is truly marvellous news. I didn’t realise that I was actually benefiting physically from sitting on the patio with a gin & tonic.

I will make absolutely certain that I do it much more often.

What Winter is Really Like

Up until a few weeks ago, I was convinced that winter was over. I was so willing to believe that spring was almost upon us, I even posted a photograph of some Snowdrops on my Instaphoto account.

But no.

The air has been so cold that it has consistently turned my fingers white and then numb even when they were encased in my thickest gloves. Last Thursday Kamikaze Girl and I enjoyed a bit of fast work on Giant Horse and Anxious Horse along the beach and ended up with hypothermia.

There was not a breath of wind that day and we were able to canter side by side and actually have a conversation instead of just shouting “What?” at each other for 10 solid minutes. This was nice, but the air temperature wasn’t and it took another 20 minutes for my features to return to normal. I should really apologise to all the people we passed as we cantered back along the beach, as they must have assumed that I had taken advantage of a half price Botox offer.

The rain that we have had of late has turned my postage stamp of a paddock into a water feature and even Wet Dishcloth Horse who is usually eager to go out and play in the mud, has been quite reluctant to leave his stable.

On Saturday afternoon I put him out in the field as he had been in the stable all Friday night and all Saturday morning. It’s unnatural for a horse to be stabled and although it was chucking it down with rain, Wet Dishcloth Horse needed to go out and stretch his legs. He quite literally glowered at me as I turned him loose in the mud pit and promptly marched across the field, into his shed and refused to leave it until I went to get him in 3 hours later.

Although this winter has been a good lot easier than last year, as usual I had my rose tinted binoculars strapped to my face until November. I was dreaming of cosy afternoons tucked up in front of the log burner, conveniently forgetting that I am unable to put my pyjamas on before 6pm because I have a horse standing out in a muddy paddock waiting to be brought inside. I have tried putting my wellies and waterproof trousers on over my pyjamas but I just felt as though I was about to take part in an episode of My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding. I’m not the sort of person who would venture into Tesco’s at 11pm in my dressing gown, so I don’t go outside in my pyjamas.

Unless it’s Sunday morning. Then I think that it is perfectly acceptable to run from my back door to the stable, give the Wet Dishcloth some chaff and a haynet before running back into the house for a leisurely coffee.

Up until January, there had been a lot less rain than last year and this made me fairly cheerful. Although mud is an excellent exfoliant scrub for your hands, it makes your horse look very messy and brushing off dried mud creates gritty dust all over your face which in turn, makes the black semi-circles under your eyes look even darker.

Thankfully we are past the worst part of winter, when it is dark by 4pm and still dark at 8 in the morning. because there is nothing worse than going to work in the dark and returning home again in the dark.

I like to have all my outside jobs for the week completed by a Sunday evening. I fill 10 haynets to save me having to do them each working morning, a whole bale of wood shavings is put in the stable to last the week and I like to see my washing basket is empty before the working week begins.

In fact I have been known to have a builder’s dumpy bag containing 1 and a half tonnes of split logs in the corner of my lounge on a Sunday night, to save having to bring logs in during the week in the dark. Okay, okay, you got me, that was a total exaggeration. There was only about 3 quarters of a ton of logs in the dumpy bag in the lounge that time.

Although the glossy magazines that I have become addicted to, depict winter as a wonderful time, I can assure you that it's not all cashmere socks, cosy fires, soup and hot chocolate.

But sometimes in the dark of winter we are blessed with days like this.

And that's when you forget the biting winds, the numb fingers and the rain. You even forget about the way that the skin on your hands splits open with exposure to the cold and the waterproof trousers that are still damp when you put them on the next day.

For a while, at least.

It's a Mug's Game

I hold my Granny entirely responsible for my addiction to horse racing.

Granny was a wonderfully kind lady with a very quick mind which stayed active to the very end. Sadly, as what often comes to pass with these pre-war durable old sorts who are still mobile at a ripe old age; a broken hip took her from us when she was 98.

My friend The Aigle Welly Wearer, was most shocked by the news as she had always said that Granny was hanging on for a telegram from The Queen. 

In my mind, Granny resembles Grandma from the Ronald “Carl” Giles cartoons that appeared in the Daily Express, which is a bit unkind because Granny didn’t really look like that at all. But she was tough, unshakable when faced with a crisis; and I suppose that is why I think of her as the Giles Grandma.

When I was young, we used to visit Granny on a Saturday afternoon and there was always horse racing on the television.

You had to pay attention though, because Granny only watched the races and not the interviews in between. This was back in the days when there were only 4 television channels and amazingly, with the power of a remote control Granny was able to watch all 4 programmes at the same time.

Granny also liked the occasional flutter and I remember her backing Mr Frisk to win the 1990 Grand National. And not only did she back him but she backed him weeks before the big race, at odds of 40 to 1. The weather in the spring of 1990 was unusually dry with very little rain and Granny had backed Mr Frisk after the racing broadsheet The Sporting Life, had said he “liked to hear his hooves rattle”.

With Granny’s years advancing, she moved into a beautiful Retirement Home in the Gosforth area of Newcastle and regularly scared the shit out of all the people who worked there, by disappearing off down the High Street to go to Ladbrokes.

Unlike my Granny, I have always been a cautious gambler because I am the worst tipster the world has ever seen. There is literally more chance of Kim Kardashian buying her footwear from Sports Direct (and the items actually fitting AND being comfortable), than me backing a winner at Warwick this afternoon.

I once (and only once) backed the winner of the Grand National and that was because in 2004, I allowed sentiment to rule my head and bet on the horse that was trained by Mr Ginger McCain who back in the 1970’s had also trained Red Rum. Amberleigh House duly obliged and as luck would have it I had the same horse in the Office sweepstake.

When I watch the racing with Other Half it is always a complete disaster. There is no point in logging into my Ladbrokes account as it would have the same effect as feeding £20 notes into my shredder. Other Half knows one thing about racing and that is the term “Sheepskin Noseband”. So if there is a horse running with any kind of fluffy embellishment on its bridle, Other Half chooses it.

And it wins. Always.

Every. Time.

I on the other hand, look at each runner’s conformation, research which horse is going to appreciate the going, study the form and then proceed to be beaten by someone who chooses a horse which is wearing half an inside out Ugg boot on its head.

Last weekend there was a meeting at my local Point to Point track. As a group of us had arranged to meet up, I got Other Half to drop me off and arranged a lift home with Pilates Friend, just in case I fancied a gin & tonic or 7.

Music Teacher Friend asked me for my tip of the day and I did (for once) actually tip a winner. Unfortunately, as the horse in question was called Always Tipsy, they obviously thought I wasn’t being serious and no-one backed him.

Towards the end of the day, we were all congregated outside the bar as the tannoy system announced which horses would be taking part in the next race. Music Teacher Friend immediately chose a horse for her bet and was about to march off to the Bookies when PR Friend asked if she wanted to go to the paddock and wait to see the horse that was about to carry her wager.

Music Teacher Friend looked blankly at PR Friend and then remarked: “Well, no not really, I’ve chosen it haven’t I?”

We all laughed uproariously at Music Teacher’s method of horse selection and watched her weave her way through the throng of people in front of the Book Makers. We were still bent double with laughter when we went down to the rails at the final fence to watch Music Teacher’s horse carry her £2 stake to what surely had to be impending doom.

By the end of the first circuit, we were no longer laughing and by the time the runners approached the second last fence, Music Teacher’s 2 whole English Pounds was in the lead. Landing safely over the final fence however, her £2 was suddenly in second place having been overtaken in the air.

At this point all hell broke loose and everyone was shouting and yelling encouragement to Music Teacher’s horse to make one final, valiant effort to get to the winning post first.

And would you believe it, but he did. And won by a neck.

As we congratulated Music Teacher on her amazing win, she confessed that she’d backed the second placed horse as well.

I clearly should have paid more attention to Granny and I think I will just remove what small amount there is in my Ladbrokes account and close it.

It’s just a mug’s game. 

Save British Racing

In 2016, Spelthorne Council in London issued a “call for sites” in an aim to address the need for local housing.

Obviously as I live in Northumberland this piece of information completely passed me by, until January 10^th this year when the hallowed entity that is The Jockey Club announced that they had submitted Kempton Park Racecourse for consideration.

When this news was first publicised, there was a sharp intake of breath throughout the racing fraternity. The shock was palpable and once everyone had regained the use of their faculties, Twitter very quickly turned into the House of Commons.

This decision (and I’m just a punter who has never been to Kempton) makes me feel as though someone has just walked into my house on Christmas morning and urinated on my presents.

Actually no, that’s not true; it’s way off the mark. This decision by The Jockey Club makes me feel as though some bastard has broken into my house in broad daylight, kidnapped Britney (not her real name), had an affair with Other Half, stolen my turkey, killed my cat, eaten half my Christmas pudding, slashed my saddle with a Stanley Knife, smashed the screen on my phone, taken the charger, stolen my favourite jodhpurs, punctured my car tyres, stuck pins in my wellies, stolen all my spare contact lenses for my right eye, left the kitchen tap running, urinated on my presents and cut off my electricity so I am unable to watch the racing from Kempton on Boxing Day.

Christmas for Britney happens on Christmas Day and Christmas for me occurs on Boxing Day, when I demand a large Martini and silence; to watch the 3 mile King George VI Chase from Kempton.

My Mother even understands the importance of Kempton Park on Boxing Day. She now asks if we would like to go to her house for lunch if it’s frosty at Kempton and racing has been abandoned.

The King George is the second biggest Jump race in Britain, the only race more important is the Gold Cup at the Festival of Racing at Cheltenham in March.

Whilst the Grand National is an important race, the Grand National meeting at Aintree in April is when all and sundry get dressed up in very little and proceed to drink their own weight in lager. The people who go to Kempton and Cheltenham, love racing. Dressed in lots of layers and a tweed coat, they go to watch the racing and if they are feeling flush, will spend £8.50 on a glass of wine the size of a thimble.

The Jockey Club has a tremendous plan in place should Kempton be accepted for housing development: The King George will move to nearby Sandown Park. This is like asking Newcastle United to use the Stadium of Light as their home venue; and be happy about it.

The Jockey Club has also said that they will build a shiny and new all weather track at Newmarket 100 miles away, to replace Kempton’s all weather circuit. Newmarket might be the home of British Flat Racing with a history 350 years deep, but the reason Newmarket Racecourse always has bumper crowds is because 1 in every 3 people who live in Newmarket, works in the racing industry.

I’m also a bit puzzled by the figures that The Jockey Club has quoted. For one, the sale of Kempton would raise 1.5 million English pounds and the Jockey Club has pledged that 500 million pounds would then be re-invested into British Racing. They’ve also said that if Kempton isn’t chosen for development; they won’t be investing 500 million at all.

Kempton Park was established in 1878 and being only 16 miles from London City Centre, is one of the most profitable racecourses in the Country. Should Kempton be accepted for such a proposal, racing would cease in 2021 and after the site has been bulldozed, around 3000 houses would be built on the site.

This year Kempton has 71 scheduled fixtures, both over the jumps and on their crappy all weather flat track. You might have guessed that I’m not much of a fan of Flat Racing. If I’m going to lose my money, I want to lose it over 4 minutes and not 40 seconds. And I haven’t the legs for Flat racing. When I go to the races, it’s to watch jump racing when, you wear thermals and a warm coat and hat. Not something that you threw on and very nearly missed.

But do you know what? If you want to go and watch horses gallop around on the all weather track; then good for you, because at the end of the day it’s all about going racing and supporting the industry. #comeracing

At Kempton there are weekly markets, twice monthly antique markets and as well as other community inspired attractions, the Police also use the course to train their Police Dogs.

I was busy making my placard and finding some chains with which to anchor myself to the gates of Kempton Park, when I thought I had better have a look at Spelthorne Council’s website, just in case I was missing something.

And it was then that I realised that Twitter and ITV Racing hadn’t really given me the full story. Because it turns out that the people who live near Kempton Park do not want the Green Belt land of Kempton turned into a housing estate either. And to be fair, why would they? Even if they hate horse racing surely it is better to have somewhere that is green in colour to walk around rather than a housing estate?

Councillor Ian Harvey even wrote a “belter” of a letter to the proposed developer, Redrow Homes back in April last year. He states he is “greatly surprised” that Redrow are continuing to try and develop 1500 homes on Kempton Park. My favourite bit is when he says “Despite mischievous PR, Spelthorne Borough Council has no intention of ‘working alongside’ Redrow Homes or any other private company on a local plan.” I was so impressed with his letter that you can read it for yourself here.

Many years ago when I worked at Miserable Finance Limited, I worked with a family who desperately wanted to buy their rented farm.

“They have to buy it.” I told my boss “They’ve spent their lives there.”

“You are far too sentimental.” he replied.

Yes I am.

And that is why I will travel to London armed with a placard, a length of chain and a padlock with no key, should this ridiculous nightmare become reality.