GEORGE'S OLD NAG

IT'S that time of year again. The buds on the trees are swelling nicely and starting to burst, the evenings are getting noticeably longer and George Dawber is training Lucky Laddo for the point to point again.
I doubt that a horse has ever been saddled with such an inappropriate name. Laddo's had four outings so far and he's never managed to reach the finish yet. Even the on-course bookies, not noted for the generosity of their odds at this type of event, are seriously considering offering four figure numbers to one on his winning. George will be a taker, of course. I've heard him described as a wild optimist but I think that he's usually a bit more cheerful than that.
Training consists of a morning trot along the verge of the main road to Bridport and the horse doesn't get any at all. George reckons that he doesn't want his Laddo to be 'stale' when he faces the tapes on the big day. All this has resulted, so far, in two refusals at the first fence, a fall at the same obstacle and last year when '16 hands of pure strength and athleticism' , as George describes the nag, didn't even have the courtesy to take a short jog with the other entrants but simply ambled round in circles at the starting line. Riding in point to points can be a lonely business for those with mounts that aren't stuffed to the ears with the competitive spirit.
Down at The Lark Ascending, our local, Bert, the landlord and a mean judge of horse flesh, reckons that Lucky Laddo will be doing well to make it into the paddocks of the equestrian version of heaven when the Grim Reaper finally catches up with him, and he won't have to break into a sweat to do that, there's children on tricycles around here that could catch up with that particular candidate for the glue factory. Of course George will have none of it - he's convinced that he's got a potential Grand National winner on his hands.
The rest of us in the village have mixed feelings about the whole affair. After all local pride is something that can't be ignored. Our village gets few enough sporting legends passing through it so a horse, even one that never really gets going, that takes part in any sort of competition has got to be supported to the hilt, even if not backed, pride's pride but good money thrown away on ridiculous bets is something altogether different.
To save us all a great deal of embarrassment and money old Trevor has started his own book, he's offering odds on the type of thing that a proper turf accountant wouldn't even consider. So you can get evens on Lucky Laddo lasting a furlong, 5-1 on him attempting the first fence, 25-1 on his getting over, round or through it and 100-1 on his finishing. There isn't a figure for his winning, Trevor know that it would be an absolute waste of time working it out.
Instead of being pleased at the amount of village interest his racing pretensions are raising George has got very huffy about the whole matter and has even threatened to take his thirst, wallet and custom to The Gates of Calais along the road, something that would hit Bert's takings considerably.
Now it appears that to run a book you need a licence, something that Trevor completely overlooked, or didn't know in the first place. Sadly the whole business has come to the attention of PC Stratton, who would once have been known as the village bobby but now describes himself, rather pretentiously, I think, as a community constable. Trevor suspects that a member of the Women's Institute jam making committee 'grassed him up' but Stratton is keeping as dignified a silence as he can manage about the source of his information. Whatever it was he's hot on the tracks of this little bit of rural criminality and is determined to catch our very own Mr Big red handed.
All this has led to some strange goings-on the saloon bar of the inn on the green. When business of a gambling nature is being conducted the curtains are drawn and the doors bolted, something which has mystified more than one passing motorist hoping for nothing more than a pint of foaming lager and a packet of cardboard crisps at eight o'clock in the evening as he makes his way homeward from Dorchester.
Now the village is divided as it hasn't been since the unpleasantness over the girl from the Land Army, the gas mask and the GI from Maine. Mind you everyone's only heard the story from their parents so perhaps it's been a bit exaggerated with the passing of time. Anyway there's pro-betters and anti-betters and the sooner the whole matter is sorted out and George's reluctant charger gets put out to grass the better. There's enough troubles enough around here already without adding to them.