Low life
A fishy business
Jeffrey Bernard
Ishall give Epsom a miss on Wednesday. The coach parties over the past few years, either from the Groucho Club or with 'Bookshop' Billy, have been a lot of fun, but this year I want to see every yard of the running. At Epsom the only way you can do that is to be in a private box or on the grandstand roof as I was with Charles St George in 1979 when Shirley Heights won.
Anyway, the Groucho were beginning to introduce a sinister element of respectabil- ity into the jaunt and the late departed manageress of the club vaguely dis- approved of my chums from the Coach and Horses. I disapprove of them too but I cannot desert them at this late stage in the proceedings. We are all in the same life- boat, heaven help us. And it would be somehow odd to go to Epsom without the `Red Baron'. He was a bore but at the same time a mascot of sorts. There was something reassuring about his brand of eccentricity.
Incidentally, I hear that the police have at last caught up with one of the two men who murdered him two years ago and it is to be hoped that they soon catch the other vicious bastard. Homosexuals should pro- ceed with great caution. But so too should punters. This year's Derby presents a harder problem to solve than it has done for some years. At the time of writing one week before the race — I am scratch- ing my head, shrugging, pulling faces and trying not to listen to the opinions of idiots in the pub who wouldn't know a racehorse if one sat on any one of them.
Of course, it is not compulsory to have a bet, neither is it for that matter compulsory to get married but both events are good for the circulation. At the moment I am casting metaphorical glances at the Fran- cois Boutin-trained Linamix but I shall scream if just one more betting shop layabout tells me that 'They don't send them from France for the fresh air'. For 'There is not much thought for food.' that matter neither do I want to hear from professionals who should know better that such and such a' horse can catch pigeons on the gallops at home or that when so and so won at Goodwood he was doing hand- springs.
Today, Pat Eddery decides whether to ride Quest For Fame or Digression. To follow a jockey whatever horse he rides is a fairly speedy way to the bankruptcy courts, but there is a case to be made for Eddery. In the first place he is the best jockey in the world and secondly he is having an amaz- ing run at the moment. I firmly believe that luck and nearly everything in this life money, health, emotional disposition — go in cycles and runs like playing cards and it would be well to keep an eye on Pat.
Only one thing is certain apart from taxes and death and that is that two old mates are coming here to have lunch and then watch the race while I lay off their bets on the telephone to Victor Chandler for fear of there being a man from HM Customs and Excise under the sofa. We are to kick off with crab and avocado salad and then go on to kedgeree with a side salad of beetroot. Thirty years ago an old flame introduced me to the strange com- bination of fish and beetroot. Obviously you have to like beetroot in the first place, but if you do I can assure you that they get on together like eggs and bacon.
I am not quite sure why I am telling you this. I must be delirious from trying to sort out the puzzle of this year's Derby. Maybe that is why it has just occurred to me that were that very good horse Salmon Trout alive today and could he sire a filly, a good name for her would be Salmonella. Dare I say it? This coming week is going to be a fishy business. The North Sea crabs are said to be polluted and I do not want this to be my last Derby. Pity there isn't a horse called Kedgeree.
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