While those who make a study of such things- and count us amongst them- wonder about the sudden drop in almost one fell swoop of being on Twitter by many in horse racing, races are still being run and right at the bottom are not tips per se, but only what we like at today’s Carnivale of Actione at another Happy Wednesday. But Twitter? Hmmmm.
While Twitter will always attract those with an opinion, especially regarding the ebb and flow of politics led by the daily Trumpeting while there will always be tweets featuring cats, other cute animals, the sayings of online life coaches and some genuinely relevant news, other than those who’ve been tweeting away about the same things for the last 5-6 years, there’s a hush out there from the rest of the racing community.
I really needed this. And it came in through the bathroom window. It’s again about the power of music to take you somewhere else where only you know exists somewhere in your mind. But the songs of Paul McCartney, with often more than a little help from his friends, especially John, are magical and spiritual. They’re uplifting and positive and where, yes, all you need is love and to know that in your hour of darkness, mother Mary will come to you saying, Let it be, let it be.
We’ve lost our way in recent times, but this little Carpool Karaoke video with James Corden brings it all back home- the innocence, first love, real love, friendship, friends taken away from us, memories and knowing that everything is possible. It’s up to us to know which door to open and go through.
The problem with today is that everything is so immediate that nothing really matters. There’s no lasting power. It’s a dangerous time to be alive because not many appreciate being alive. Life has become a buffet- sampling everything but still being hungry for more when often there’s nothing more. And it’s this hunger to be constantly fed clutter that has made so many lose sense of priorities and in the process left feeling lost and restless.
When minds snap through feeling lost and restless, they go hunting for anything to feed this addiction. We read everyday what this voracious appetite to feel something leads to and the mad aftermath of it all. But by then, it’s too late.
“If any c*** sends you a letter asking for payment for something you’re not aware of or saying you infringed copyright, ignore them. They’re fishing.”
That was some of the best advice I received and it’s served me well. It came in particularly handy during those years when Racingbitch was fun to publish and from which came characters like The Plodder, Toffee Tongue, the messiah, Peter The Not So Great One and others who are lost in the blur of the past.
Kevin Egan gave me that advice and for which I shall always be thankful. We lost Kevin, a truly gifted lawyer, to a heart attack on Sunday, ironically Father’s Day. There were two missed calls from him the day before. It was a race day and we’d always buy a Six Up.
World Cup Fatigue had struck as hard as the three goals the night before by Ronaldo, so we never made it to the races at Sha Tin.
Truth be told, we extremely rarely go to Sha Tin- and especially if there’s racing across the Big Waters on a Saturday. It’s hard to imagine these days that once upon a barren rock, there was only horse racing in Hong Kong on a Saturday- and only at Happy Valley.
Kowloon was where the nightlife and everything else throbbed- the clubs, the nightlife, the gorgeous dancers back from the USSR and working at upmarket escort clubs Club BBoss and Club De China.
The fire in his belly might have never left as he’s certainly not someone to roll over and become another Yesterday’s Man, but the Chinese racing media has been abuzz of late about the persuasive powers of jockey Douglas Whyte working overtime during track work these days.
As anyone who’s watched his winning rides of Star Shine and on Kiram on Wednesday will testify to, the Durban Demon has woken up from, most likely, a self imposed hiatus where he stood back and checked out the lay of the land. Timing is everything.
A rainstorm warning had been raised in the afternoon and I managed to make it to the Grand Cafe of the Grand Hyatt for a bowl of chicken congee, the best remedy when needing to steel one’s stomach when unsure where one might end up after the races on a Happy Wednesday and eat anything placed in front of you without thinking. It’s been the ruin of many a poor boy’s stomach. A hot bowl of congee with all the trimmings is an anatomical Great Wall of China.
It was my last girlfriend who tried to wean me off it- Twitter. Though pointing out that it was taking over my life and, without me even realising it, detonating any chance of trying to make our relationship work, I refused to listen. I was lost to the clutter of 140 words or less. Instead of there being one less bell to answer, it was adding another empty online junkie’s lament dressed and disguised as some bluebird of happiness. Progress has created some dangerous addictions. It might explain much about a world having lost its way. Lost with no direction of home. Refusing to recognise the tell tale signs.
Horse racing has been around since the chariot race between Judah Ben Hur and Messala. Probably even earlier.
These days, this pastime has become a spectator sport where the best- the riders, the trainers, the owners of the champion horses- are worth many millions and even billions. “These days” really wasn’t that long ago.