David Green

David Green (Books) is the imprint under which I publish booklets of my own poems, or did. The 'Collected Poems' are now available as a pdf. The website is now what it has become. It keeps me out of more trouble than it gets me into. I hope you find at least some of it worthwhile.

Friday 5 February 2016

All's Well That's Bellshill

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a betting account is much better when one is taking money out of it than putting it in.
I didn't carry very much forward from 2015, having transferred enough into the bank to make last year officially my most successful year ever. It matters little that all of that has gone because this steadfast refusal to move money into their bank from mine probably saved me from setbacks that would have come about last weekend. As World Capitalism teeters on the brink of disaster, which is what capitalism tends to enjoy doing, I am very aware that my every transaction and, even more so, any turf advice I post here, is the flutter of a butterfly's wing on one side of the planet that could set off an avalanche on the other.
But even if I have made a policy decision to not get involved in further investment until The Libertines win the NME poll and I thus collect, or I transfer in the stake money for Cheltenham in March, I only have to look at tomorrow's racing to waver, consider and eventually break under the pressure.
I have already plotted the attack on Cheltenham 2016, due to appear here later this month, and am sure it is a gilt-edged plan, but I can't look at tomorrow's racing and not get involved.
I won't be touching Peace & Co with a bargepole at that price and Pont Alexandre will have to wait and see; I can't imagine choosing between Tea for Two and Bristol de Mai; I lke Katkeau but have a history of getting that one wrong. I can find plenty of reasons to just watch races tomorrow but I can't let Bellshill go unbacked at 5/4 at Leopardstown. I'd prefer to back it and lose than not back it and watch it win.
So that is a tip in itself, that I'll break all the fragile rules I set for myself to back this one.
And by five past two, we will know if this was a brilliant piece of judgement by one who seriously knows what he's doing or, otherwise, proof if proof were needed that actually I'm no more than a compulsive gambler who simply can't face Saturday without having a few quid. Because once it's won, of course, I can have a guess at some of the other races, like a kid in a sweet shop.