I’m having a pretty ordinary day really, sitting on two losers. Both straight out place bets. Affluence in the 2YO who I couldn’t fault and briefly ran on before collapsing, and Lock It in Eddie, that didn’t even try to run on. So I’m up for some laying. And at last two chances in Race 6, the appropriately named Betfair Handicap.

Dane The Rave looks to be a hospital case with three bandages on his hindlegs. It’s a very bad look and it would be very hard to muster enthusiasm to back him. So he’s a definite lay if the price is reasonable.

And at last a favourite that I can oppose, Esprit De Bullet, with my pet aversion, the nose roll. As everyone keeps reminding me, Vintage Crop won the Melbourne Cup with a nose roll. I know, I know, I know. A nose roll on its own is only a minor negative (14% in the book) and horses can obviously get used to racing with it. But if I see a horse that shows sign of resentment then I give it the flick, and Esprit De Bullet showed the classic signs. Head up, the strapper using two hands to control it and circling it around in the yard, and then the icing on the cake, resisting the jockey on the track. I’m itching to take it on.

Into the bar, two minutes to go, whip out the iPhone. Did I tell you I had an iPhone? Login in a flash, it’s easy remembering your Mother’s maiden name once you get the hang of it, and the Betfair place market pops up. Suddenly the phone starts ringing. Why is my phone ringing when I have a secret number? And why does the market disappear and a big red box with “William calling” appear. Answer the green box, or Decline, the red box? A no brainer. How I hate that expression. Red! Red! Red! Decline! Decline! I’m betting! The market reappears and I see Esprit De Bullet is available to lay at $1.89, which is not fair really when he’s $1.60 on the tote. The phone rings again “William calling”. Accept or Decline? Bloody hell! I’m betting! But it’s the brother-in-law and The Missus could rescind all privileges if I deny her brother. Answer! Sweetness and light. “Yes, William?” He wants me to put a bet on his horse at Morphettville, Red First. He’s cleaning out his farm shed and can’t get to the TAB. OK, I’ll do that. He promises to give the money to The Missus, his shed-cleaning assistant. The market reappears, but it has gone all white with a big CLOSED sign on it. Bloody, bugger, bum. A lock out. I’m starting to get the hang of this laying business. It is not easy. And I didn’t even get to see the odds about the hospital case, Dane The Rave.

And wait a minute, I thought my iPhone was a secret number. I’ve got two phones – my sophisticated betting instrument and my regular mobile, for calls from relatives. Why wasn’t he on the relatives’ mobile? I have a sneaking suspicion it’s something to do with his shed-cleaning assistant. And look, Dane The Rave finishes sixth, just ahead of Esprit De Bullet.

Red First is crucified in Adelaide, so it’s three losers for the day. But I’m not counting it, because I didn’t see it in the flesh. None out of two, if  The Missus gives me the money.

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