Midday in York

It was the Yorkshire Oaks today and oh, what a race we expected to see. Three crack distaffers. Sariska and Midday representing the cream of the older brigade, Snow Fairy the queen of the current Classic crop. Match ups like that don't come along every year. 

It wasn't even a three horse race. Eight of them lined up on the Knavesmire, all fillies and mares.

Trumpeters heralded their arrival at the start. Off-time, 3.25pm. Midday, a Breeders' Cup winner no less, let it be known that she'd be entering the starting gate at her own leisure. Sariska and Snow Fairy, dual Oaks winners both, meandered in as they pleased. Barshiba, the old lady of the field, needed four little men and a blindfold to convince her to load. Good horses have character.

All in. Under starters orders. Gates open. They're off!

Well, all bar Sariska. She was going nowhere. Jamie Spencer could push and shove all he liked, that lady was not for moving. Character, you see.

Barshiba set the pace. Midday skimmed along in mid-division. Snow Fairy stalked. Sariska sulked.

It was all over with three of the 12 furlongs still to race. Midday was cruising under Tom Queally. At a glance, Snow Fairy looked good too but Richard Hughes was on the three-year-old. Hughes always looks good with three furlongs to go. The trained eye could see that filly was beaten.

Midday shifted into overdrive. Snow Fairy chased her; Eleanora Duse ran on from deep. Nothing got near.

It was three lengths at the line. It would have been more if Midday hadn't got bored and drifted in the lead. Ears pricked, head slightly raised, I think she was posing for the crowd. Queally straightened her and kept pumping away. He didn't know about Sariska's strop. Sariska had beaten Midday three times already. Queally was expecting the big bay to loom upsides. She didn't.

Henry Cecil was presented with a rose bush before the race. It was for Midday, to recognise her second win in the Nassau Stakes at the end of last month. Henry said he'll plant it in his rose garden behind Midday's box. That's why he's a master trainer. So good with fillies. Wonderful with roses. I wonder what he'll get if she wins a second Breeders' Cup.

I love York races.

Primal recognition

Saturday was quite eventful in its way. Not only did my wife and I march to protest against cutbacks being imposed at our local hospital, we also dropped into Starbucks for a hot chocolate. Okay, so in and of itself, going to Starbucks is not in any way cool. But Starbucks, Highbury Corner branch, at 11.45am on this particular February morning was the exception. 

One thing about London is that famous faces are never far away. I've seen quite a few in my time and most I have not really been bothered about. I mean, the actress Juliet Stevenson was close by us on the Whittington Hospital march but so what. Most encounters with celebrities are of little consequence and barely worth noting. They are merely people, after all. In fact, I have forgotten about more such encounters than I actually remember. The exceptions being the ones like the time Jeremy Paxman almost ran me down on his bicycle outside the National Gallery or when the Queen gave me a dirty look at the Derby.  

Starbucks on Saturday was up there alongside my brushes with the reigning monarch and the BBCs chief interrogator. In fact, it probably edges in front. 

As we stood in line, debating whether to go tall or short, my wife turned to me and said that she was amused how the guy in front was telling his young son about the evils of the world. About how the capitalist masters screw the people - that kind of thing. I glanced at the said bloke and child. They were both lean with black shoulder-length rock legend hair. As I turned my attentions back to the menu, he turned his head and I caught a telling glimpse of his face.

It was double-take time. Was that really who it appeared to be? I looked again. He glanced sideways at me. I was wearing my aviators so he couldn't see my eyes. I was sure it was him. But maybe it just looked like him. Then he spoke. The Scottish accent was unmistakeable. It was him.

For the next three or four minutes, until our peppermint infused chocolate arrived, there was a barrage of swift, edgy, furtive glances cast in my direction. The great man was either wondering what kind of a fool wears sunglasses inside when it is actually dark and raining outside, or he knew that I knew. 

Bobby Gillespie knew that I knew.    

Marching for the cause

If you have embraced a creed which appears to be free from the ordinary dirtiness of politics - a creed from which you yourself cannot expect to draw any material advantage - surely that proves that you are in the right?
George Orwell

I marched on Saturday. I marched because I was angry, because I wanted to make a noise. I marched to scream and rail aginst the soul-sapping corruption of self-serving hypocrites messing with the lives of ordinary people. I'm tired of them interfering with my life and the lives of my family, friends, neighbours, colleagues and fellow citizens.

I marched because I believe deeply that the health and wellbeing of every individual is of incalculably greater importance than the balance sheet at Lloyds or the Bank Of England.

I marched because I know that mortality is fragile and life is precious.

I marched because I believe that the National Health Service, for all of its failings, is a beautiful concept and should be protected at all costs. 

I marched because I am angry at this cock-sure government that has dictated for 13 years, the supposed party of the people that is in reality a parasite, sucking the blood out of those that gave it life.

I marched because we the people should not have to pay with our lives when politicians and bureaucrats make a mess while fiddling the nation's accounts.  

I marched because I still believe in democracy.

I marched to say to Gordon Brown and politicians of every hue: "Keep your vile, incompetent, greedy, meddling hands off this country's hospitals."

I marched for my wife and my unborn child.

I marched to save the Whittington.