Hooray ! Hooray ! It's a Holi- Holiday

I understand that it is customary for some people to travel to far off countries by aeroplane for holidays and while there undertake such activities as dancing, sight-seeing, scuba diving or transient relationships. I have for some time been in agreement with Philip Larkin's remark that he wouldn't mind going to China if he could come back the same day. But since I can have the sort of varied and hugely enjoyable few days as I had in Swindon, Oxford and Cheltenham, I have no need of further afield. Only a train ride away, I benefitted from a programme of unremitting excellence.
On Saturday I didn't even have to miss the Grand National on my way to Jesus College, Oxford because the train arrived in time for me to find a bookmaker's before proceeding to Daisy Dunn's talk on Catullus. I have reviewed Daisy's recent books here most favourably, as is proper, and was able to include her appearance at the Oxford Literary Festival in my itinerary. It might have been a minor disappointment not to find the event by sauntering through an historic quadrangle to a venerable hall- it was through an entrance between two shops and turn right, as indeed Boris Johnson might, into a modern place with flipcharts and other C21st facilities- but that doesn't matter. Daisy's obviously accustomed to these promotional appearances now and she does it all very well, even being polite enough not to have me thrown out for maybe not looking quite the debonair academic but something obviously disreputable that is trying to get away with it.
One disadvantage of having a book published is having to promote it because I gather that publishers like to know that the author will do such things to shift a few copies. I wouldn't want anybody to think I am self-published because I can't find anybody to do it for me. Oh, no, it's easier for me to do it myself and give them away. Only the most commercial of writers would write if only for money.

The questions I had for Daisy were answered completely to my satisfaction. Is that picture on the back of Catullus' Bedspread really him? Well, at least she was honest. Top marks to the lady. I don't suppose the translation of Ovid I gave her to look at will be forwarded to her agent with a note recommending that I be offered a lucrative advance to do more.
One changes trains at Didcot to get from Swindon to Oxford and back, right by the power station where the explosion was. At 7.45, on the way back, with the sun setting behind the mangled wreck of metal and concrete, it made for a sinister post-apocalyptic tableau that didn't seem right to be taking pictures of and the camera I have isn't good enough at that distance anyway.
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A new event in our family sport of Bag Boggling, The Spring Open, was held on Sunday at a new venue, Market Lavington, where my neice hosted this special, early season warm up in a year that will see the Olympic title played for again in August.

Warm up might have been the best words for it as, like other summer sports such as cricket and cycling, an April date doesn't always bring with it summer conditions. On a soft pitch, with a wind to bring into calculations when assessing one's optimum throw, it gave the players more to think about and more than one fell over, for different reasons. But it is a picturesque venue with potential to host further tournaments as the sport grows and extends its franchise.
The handicap event finally proved the worth of the handicapping system and provided a new final, my sister Pam v. my father, the inventor of the sport (in Nottingham, late 1970's) and it went to Pam in a close match which is what the handicapper wants to see.
The Open itself served its purpose by giving the recently deposed World Champions, my nephew, Chris, and myself, a chance to chip away at the confidence of Ollie who took it last year in the best game ever played in the history of the sport. And that is what we did. It might be said that Ollie had more on his mind, renovating a whole house, than concentrating on his boggling but world titles are not easily come by and even less easily retained and so not even such an important diversion can be allowed to distract a top player. I knocked him out in the semi-final and then Chris came back from 2-0 down to become the first winner of the Spring Open (10-8, I think it was) and is installed as outright favourite for World and Olympic glory in August. But everyone played well and the old game has never been better. Thanks to Laura for pictures...
One of the fallers was me, overcome by the celebrations and biggest ovation of the afternoon when Ron took an early lead against my dad with a spectacular, and very unexpected, 2 point hit. His interests, and talents, are more practical and tool-based than my own and if he is the perennial outsider in any boggling event, he is the consummate groundsman and prepared a superb playing surface last year. But I came away reflecting on the difference between those who can, will and even enjoy renovating a house and those, like me, who are horrified by the idea. There were all kinds of activity going on there- in the garden; stripping paint off one room or removing fireplaces in another and I realized that none of them had given any thought to poetry, books, Catullus, which novel to read next and how the world is so very different for all of us. But, gladly, Ollie has more of a soul than I am giving him credit for and, with two adjacent rooms that have their ceilings removed, has invented Demolition Tennis, a very difficult sport in which you throw the ball over the wall from one room to the next and the other player either catches it or, generally, doesn't.
Tremendous. I can't see how you could refurbish a house without getting some poems or a whole new sport out of it.
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And then, Wednesday. It has been said that Heaven is a Place on Earth, not originally by Belinda Carlisle but she made a reasonable job of saying so. She must have been to Cheltenham races on a bright, Spring day- the nice, quieter meeting in April, not the madding crowd of the festival- and backed almost nothing but winners. There is nothing I'd rather do. I only took photos of the horses I was backing and came back with pictures of nearly all winners.
I know the racecourse can be a lonely and desolate place when it all goes wrong but it helps if you do your homework. Ruination is only a few weeks away for the obsessive but, if it doesn't matter and you can stand a loss if and when it happens, it is a great feeling to have when you think you've unravelled the mystery of this esoteric sport and find that, actually, the bookmakers have paid for the whole holiday.
I could expand upon minute detail of each and every race but will save you that and explain that the best moment, by far, was when the screens had been put round a faller at the last (when one fears the worst), who was beaten anyway, but then the screens were removed and the horse was led away, no more than winded, to a gentle round of applause. One of those moments, and I do have them from time to time, when one embarks upon a sentence but finds one can't finish it. Not for the want of words (oh, no, not me) but because your voice fails you.
Otherwise, hats off to Richard Johnson, two winners and champion jockey de facto to add to all those titles he won betting without A.P. I don't call him Dickie because he's very reliable. Here he is returning on Fox Norton from the novice chase that made me richer than I imagined it had until I got home, looked at the account and saw how all those fiddly, little combination bets can multiply up once you have 4 winners lined up in a row.
I'll stick at it, then. I've promised myself that when the year's profit gets high enough and I can see Ton Koopman's  Buxtehude Opera Omnia, 30 discs of it, at a price that coincides with the ostensible surplus cash, that's what I'm having because that's what I want and I'll deserve it. The defintion of luxury would need to include ownership of such a thing and having the time to review it. And I could do that without going anywhere.