There's Nothing Undignified About Lying About All

You Never See A Pretty, Unattached Girl On A Racecourse. But You Often See Positive Gangs Of Rather Unpretty Ones. They Are The Owners Or The Owners' Wives And They Wear Mink In All Weathers And Far Too Much Make-up. For Some Odd Reason, I Can Never Work Out Why They Always Seem To Be Married To Haulage Contractors In The North, Builders In The South And Farmers In The West.

When I Was A Boy, I Naively Thought That This Thing Called Happiness Would Be Something I Would Wake Up To Find Every Day Once I Could Smoke, Drink And Fornicate.

It's Not Name Dropping, But Not Many People Can Say, Like Me, That They Spent The Day With The Likes Of Francis Bacon Or That Boring Drunk Dylan Thomas. You Don't Forget Things Like That.

I Have Stood In A Bar In Lambourn And Been Offered, In The Space Of Five Minutes, A Poached Salmon, A Leg Of A Horse, A Free Trip To Chantilly, Marriage, A Large Unsolicited Loan, Ten Tips For A Ten-horse Race, Two Second-hand Cars, A Fight, And The Copyright To A Dying Jockey's Life Story.

I Was Under The Care Of A Couple Of Medical Students Who Couldn't Diagnose A Decapitation.