When Our Conor was put down after a fall at Cheltenham Ruby Walsh shocked some by declaring: “Horses are horses. You can replace a horse. It’s sad but horses are animals, outside your back door. Humans are humans, inside your back door.”
I am merely left wondering whether under Ruby’s rules I should have a different attitude to dogs which share my sofa and dogs kept in kennels in the yard.
Meanwhile, to add piquancy to animal lovers’ anxieties, just down the road in Cambridge there is a huge hullaballoo over restaurant chefs who plunge lobsters into boiling water.
Maybe if they boil their crustaceans outside …
Since their height and weight haunt the lives of racing riders I am inclined to believe the courtroom claim by Newmarket former jockey Michael Geran that his life was blighted when he grew too tall to be a jockey and took to crime.
Others, more cynical, will say it is just a tall story.
A planned new late-night cocktail bar for Ely has won support from planners and those members of the public who think the city “needs more night-time venues.”
Interesting. I am sure there are many Newmarket residents who would willingly give Ely some of ours.
I have every sympathy for Sarah Dedman, the Newmarket woman who suffers from a rare disorder, emetophobia, leaving her in frequent fear of vomiting. I even share the same sensation when seeing someone bite their nails in public. Having sat behind a nasty nibbler at a football match last weekend, I found it hard to concentrate on the game, my attention being drawn in fascinated horror by his disgusting digits.
The range of activities crowding under the broad umbrella of our sports pages never ceases to amaze me.
There’s everything from young men and women cheerfully beating hell out of each other in the boxing ring to sweet-looking cheerleader Xena Collen from Red Lodge doing so well in the national senior pom section. But there is still no mention of my sport: doing nothing and hoping no-one notices.
Our Property Pages picture of that solid 1926 former vicarage for sale in Newmarket made me sigh for the days when vicarages were vicarages and vicars were vicars – big, beefy blokes with big dog collars and big booming upper middle class voices who married you so securely that you stayed married till death did you part or even longer.