On its numerous outings, it’s wreaked havoc among the rest of the field with its zigzagging. Inebriated on its own exuberance, if stuck on the inside, its recklessness in getting itself free can be staggering.
Some, indeed, have even called for it to be barred, fearing it could be the harbinger of a 1928 rerun. It’s a sobering thought that many a race has been marred by other horses falling over themselves to avoid this loose cannon.
As a matter of fact, it does come from military stock; its sire in artillery, but, as a wayward colt, it’s rebelled against discipline. Anyway, swayed pub punters hope they’ll be painting the town red after Aintree in the unlikely event it heads straight down The Elbow and goes on to win.
One of my most military memories I remember is a memorable memorial on Remembrance Day. There were flags unfurled flaunting fighter-jets frolicking overhead with flowery smoke in the fray. Previously primed primary school children with chalk chatted and chomped on their rationed chocolate with high-flying lowlifes leading lowly folk longing to follow a philosophy, or any old cold callous cut.
As three-market thatchers thought about thinking, and thanked their lisping stars they had no thpeech impediment, Workers were willed to work on their soft ‘R’s but couldn’t help but Really Resent that their bullying betters believed in butchering them to a bit of beef to be ground down and brutally bred as groaners in their own grief.
As the years yearned on yearly, not yet to yield a tomorrow but a yesterday the preach-privileged pried on property with propriety and prosperously preyed on its precarious prey.
As Geoff Hurst plays a blinder against Germany The home fans rub their eyes in disbelief. Italians take their hats off to Paolo Rossi As scoring a hat-trick, he brings Brazil a bit of quarter-final grief.
In a World Cup of national stereotypes Only lager louts and greaseballs qualify; Gazza gets into aggro on the terraces, beating up the wife As slimy Silvio Berlusconi gets behind Forza Italia in his football scarf and tie.
Mafia bosses with back-handers in their pockets Grease the palms of players playing on the other side. A pre-match talk on how they can throw it Cashing in on slotting the ball wide.
As Sicilian mammas in funeral black Cry out Avanti! football-stripped to kill, Elderly English Roses, in baggy pink underwear, go on the attack Winning the Widows XI, with Stanley Matthews skill.
The Beatles line up against Battisti Chorusing Hey Jude ; naa-naa-naa, na-n’-na-naa, na-n’-na-naa, Fab Four! Meantime, Lucio chants, sick as a parrot over the moon with Emozioni, Liverpool Mop-Tops, non incazzare, l’importante partecipare! i.e. You’re not singing anymore!
Over ninety minutes, pasta and pizza beat traditional eggs and bacon But a cappuccino doesn’t go down half as well as a good old cup of tea. Umbrellas in the rain and parasols in the sun Defend in numbers ‘away from home’ tourists from The English Riviera to Rimini.
Bobby Charlton queues up in the box As Gigi Riva pushes forward to get in a header. Union Jack the lads with brewer’s droop have to pull up their red and white socks As Gli Azzurri as Latin lovers hold a press conference with dressing room tactics on how to bed ’er!
So, with the Heroes of ‘66 matched against Beckham and Owen And Gli eroi di ‘82 drawing a comparison with Baggio and Del Piero, It’s Bye Bye and Ciao; I blow the final whistle on my latest poem; The readers think it’s all over! It is now!
Tall Tales When Amy Winehouse died, Conix was distraught with grief. ‘I was with her a few days ago, and she seemed fine.’
This was typical of him. Making out he’d been anywhere of importance when news broke. When questioned about how he could have possibly been with her, he looked up from his tears in disbelief as if to say How dare you not believe me! And then very calmly said: I went to Camden Town last week on a uni trip.
Everyone got used to Conix’s tall tales. And went along with them. They were so far and few between that his tall tales actually became entertaining as he added more and more unlikely details to what had happened.
No one ever believed him even when he was telling the truth.