Night 2 of the festival, beer in hand and instead of merrymaking and trying to cajole the ladies of Cheltenham into liking me enough to snog me in the face I somehow find myself writing a blog.
However, any day an Irish man gets to wear a suit without having to enter a church is a day to be savoured and today couldn’t have started any better when the first gamble of the day, a hot dog from a vendor, went down easier than [subbed-out lazy pun].
Things got better on a personal level continued to get better when the horse I fancied more than Miley Cyrus (unapologetically yes), faugheen, stormed to victory.
However, things were looking a lot less rosey with the professional hat on as the results of the day left us with a bill that wouldn’t look out of place in Charles Saatchi’s divorce settlement.
Speaking of the Saatchi’s [note rogue apostrophe], I was busier than Nigella’s drug dealer trying to chase my losses towards the end of the day while my scouse mate cleaned up on 55/1 shot (can’t remember the horses name, throw it in lads)
After the day’s racing I’ve let what little hair I have down and have a couple of quiet ones but now the gang is mooting shots and my head nodding to the suggestion may be the worst decision made by a Paddy Power employee since we left the chainsaw juggling work experience kid pick the festival special.
*Not actually drunk.