Twice in ten days, I have found myself in London town, and again a young person has drunk a Fernet Branca in my presence. It only happened because I thought a chum’s son needed some stiffening, in order to reject a ghastly offer to appear in STD Island or somesuch. Having heard of the drink’s popularity, I offered one to Charlie, who as it turns out, has more sense than I thought – and judged it foul. Why is this drink even allowed to be sold? It smells like an ointment for piles yet, and I might have mentioned this before, I have been told by the au courant, that it is the absolute rage in BA. Sadly in the Argentine at the moment, they are about to have an election, so getting hammered is probably the best temporary solution to their never-ending problems. Even sadder, with inflation running at 50%, it’s perhaps wise to pop down to the local Aldi and stock up before sobriety becomes the only option.
At lunch, there was some discussion about the opening of the National Hunt season. My fellow-lunch companions told me that TRUESHAN might win the 3:25 at Newbury. I pointed out this meeting lacked hurdles, fences or even a bit of bumping and hardly counted as a Jumps tip. Wrong, I was told, Alan King trains it! Like the charms of Argentinian cocktails, this left me stumped. It appears, therefore, plus ca change, that you must rely on my dross to see you through the opening exchanges at Cheltenham where £82,538 is up for grabs.
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