Flat pack

Getting to Goodwood last Saturday was an achievement in itself. On the Bank Holiday weekend I calculated a cross-country route from Oxfordshire to avoid the traffic. All went well until my satnav threw a hissy fit at my variations. Its female voice, that of an eager hockey mistress contemplating a career change to dominatrix, instructed me to take the fourth turning off a roundabout that possessed only three. Shortly afterwards came a peremptory order to ‘turn right’ off a long straight road that offered no exit, so I switched her off and navigated the old-fashioned way with a map. Even then there were problems: when I stopped in one leafy Surrey lane to seek confirmation from a sensible-looking lady in a headscarf that I was on the right road, I was puzzled at the way she backed away from the car window rather than approaching it with her advice. At the time I blamed the garlic in the excellent turkey koftas Mrs Oakley had served the night before: only afterwards did I realise that perhaps it is not wise to approach single females on the kerbside with your CD playing Jose Feliciano’s heavily suggestive version of ‘C’mon Baby, Light My Fire’. She probably passed on my number to the local constabulary.

After that journey I should have kept my betting money in my pocket. In the first race I was tempted by Jim and Fitri Hay’s The Corsican, trained by David Simcock, but having been told by a friend that the trainer thought he might need the run I backed the former Ascot winner Remote, trained by John Gosden. The Corsican, an improving horse, won nicely while poor Remote finished fifth of six, having bled from the nose.