This year I was once again sumptuously entertained at the Cheltenham Festival by the racing tipster Colonel Pinstripe in his tented chalet. On Gold Cup day I presented myself at the flouncy entrance and the Colonel, standing just inside, like the custodian of a harem, warmly welcomed me in. Before introducing me to the company, the arm came around my shoulder and he steered me discreetly to one side. ‘My girlfriend thinks she’s got a stalker,’ he said anxiously. ‘Oh, no!’ I said. ‘Well, she’s not my girlfriend yet,’ he said, waggling his eyebrows, clearing his throat and adjusting his pink Hermès tie.
And that’s how it is with the Colonel. He likes to get you off on the right foot with a daft joke. It sets the right tone. Rogues and funsters, as he puts it, is the kind of society he likes to have in his hospitality tent at Cheltenham. A frivolous or irreverent turn of mind is its own ticket of admission. The trade of journalism is well represented. When Colonel Pinstripe’s tent is pullulating with these rogues and funsters, and his tips have been successful, and everyone’s trousers are bulging with ‘cesh’, which is what pleases him more than anything else in the world, I’ve seen him standing in the midst of the uproar in a kind of ecstasy, warbling to himself: ‘Rogues and funsters! Rogues and funsters!’
The hospitality is lavish. Apart from the lunch and afternoon tea, sandwiches and cake, there is a continuous free bar and waitresses. All you have to do, once these waitresses have clocked what a lush you are, is nod. There is even a dark-suited Michael Caine lookalike who appears in the tent before each race to take your bet, saving you the bother of walking the 30 yards to the Tote. This laconic man scribbles out your betting form in a wonderfully offhand and illegible manner.
So if you are a follower of the Colonel, you have only to ask before each race which horse we are all supposed to bet on, exchange some cash with Michael Caine for one of his Picasso-like masterpieces of economy, watch that horse win an exciting race on the television screen, and afterwards put out your hand when Michael Caine returns to the tent to pay out. The only thing you have to worry about is whether the seams of your trouser pockets will withstand the increasing strain.
Of course it doesn’t always happen like that. Sometimes the horses tipped by the Colonel inexplicably fail and we stare at the screen in shock and disbelief. And on his tipping line next day the Colonel will tell us that even as he is speaking Mrs Pinstripe is in the kitchen baking a humble pie, of which he promises to eat a very large slice as soon as it comes out of the oven.
I missed Michael Caine’s appearance in the tent before the first race of the day. I got my bet on with him before the second, but the horse came nowhere. We heard later that it had travelled so slowly the jockey had kept a diary on the way round.
As the big race drew nearer, the tent was thronged with guests, excitement mounted, waitresses darted, and the ladies’ heads went back as they drained their champagne flutes from ever steeper angles. I’d made a resolution, given my recent form, to try not to black out. But by now I’d forgotten all about having made one.
The next thing I knew, they were under starter’s orders and we crowded around the television in the corner. I found myself standing next to the Colonel. As the race unfolded, underneath the cheering and the banter, I noticed that he was watching the race with his customary cold, expert eye. On the successes, failures and size of his own bets, Colonel Pinstripe is cheerfully inscrutable. It is generally understood, however, that as well as being a tipster the Colonel is also a fairly big punter.
And, as Long Run came up, I looked sideways and saw that Colonel Pinstripe’s ample frame had gone rigid. And as the horse crossed the finishing line I was astonished to see our genial, but normally unemotional host punching the air. First one fist then the other. Then both together. Pumping. Then he went into a crouch, his eyes screwed shut, spluttering, ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ and it was touch and go whether he would be able to stand up again without assistance.
Estimates differ as to the size of the Colonel’s win. No one was indecent enough to ask him outright. Seasoned Pinstripe watchers, however, going solely on the uncharacteristically emotional reaction, reckon certainly large enough to be mentioned in the head of his bookmaking firm’s suicide note.
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