Howya
Jaysus was I not after telling you that eejit JP Magnier was as much use as a condom on a fish? He had a double handful coming to the last on Rhinestone Cowboy but didn’t make a move until the winner was home and hosed. If the ape had made his move any later it would have been dark. I told Jonjo the boy could ride none and right I was too. If there’s an arseways of riding a nag then that eejit will find it.
Now youse may be thinking I’m a bit biased on account of how I lost a bundle on the Cowboy and youse wouldn’t be entirely wrong. I would gladly have drop-kicked the little gobshite over Cleve Hill if I could have got me boot on him. Jaysus. But there’s no getting away from the fact that he’d never have gotten his arse within farting distance of that horse if his ould fella wasn’t who he is. Little bollocks that he is.
Sure and it was another brutal day. When Moscow Flyer fell I could have sworn the Pope was a Protestant. How could they do that us what with it being St Paddy’s an all? Next time I see Barry Geraghty I’ll be after asking him for the money he owes me on account of him not being able to keep his arse on a horse. That’s one less present the O’Farrell chisellers will be getting this Christmas.
Our Vic? Inglis Drever? Jaysus. This betting malarkey is sure a pain in the jacksie. I can’t bring meself to tell youse how much I was losing before the last. Let’s just say I had a right does of the scutters at the thought of what Mrs F would do to me if she was after finding out. I’m sure it woould be involving a cutty knife and me poor old mickey. Jaysus.
Ah but wait. Total Enjoyment it was at the end of the day. I had even put me dinner money on the beast that’s how bad it was getting. Oh to see the nag come up that hill with every other nag viewing it’s arse. Deadly so it was. The thought of no scran last night was more than a working man should have to bear.
Sure and we had a couple of jars of the black stuff by way of celebration and a toast to St Paddy and Jimmy Culloty. The man’s a proper saint so he is. Mind you if he doesn’t bring Best Mate home in front today then he needn’t bother coming round my house looking for a bed the next time his missus gets the hump.
Last day lads and I’m feeling lucky. I might even go and nibble the ear of that little French dote that looks after Baracouda. Jaysus, if only she didn’t look quite so much like Baracouda. Still first I’m off for a spot of lunch.
Hungry? I could eat a traffic warden’s arse through a parking ticket.
See youse at the track.

Happy St Paddy’s to youse all but jayus lads, how bad was that yesterday?
The drink link has taken a bigger battering than Lisa Jones gives her gee gees. If Mrs O’Farrell knew how much cash I lost to those thieves on the rails then she’d have me large lad in her handbag and be taking it down the pawn shop.
Sure and it was a grand start too. Brave Inca nosed it and we thought it was going to be black stuff all the way. Me gobshite cousin Donal had been trying to tell me how Garde Champetre couldn’t lose but I’d had the whisper from Timmy Murphy that it hadn’t a baldy so I nipped on the favourite. Course and I could have told Donal but I never liked the ape anyways.
He and his crew had to haul ass out of town on account of being all out of chicken’s hash. After the first! Feckin eejits.
Mind you, maybe I should have joined them. Jaysus there were more outsiders than a loaf of bread. It’s me own fault after Conor O’Dwyer was telling me about a nag the night before but I couldn’t hear him right through the Guinness. Hardly useless I thought he said. Jaysus.
I’d fired a rake of money on good thing after good thing but the bookies satchels just kept getting fuller than McCririck’s knickers. Ah we’ll get it back in the last two I told the lads. Me arse and Katy Barry. Forties and fifties! Jaysus, is this game rigged?
Ah but we’re still fighting lads. I’ve managed to come up with a stake for another little bash at the books today. Rhinestone Cowboy in the Coral and we are flying again. I think I might have been a little fluthered last night on account of how I told Jonjo that he’d be better off with a trained monkey on the Cowboy’s back than that eejit Magnier. Jonjo said how he’d be better off not running it at all than have a fat beggar like me break his back. Cheeky gobshite.
Right lads, up and at em again. It’s St Paddy’s and there’s no way we can lose. I’m just off down the chipper to get me strength up for the day ahead.
Hungry? I could eat a clown’s arse through a circus tent.

Howya
Jaysus it’s bleedin deadly here at Cheltenham, so it is. There’s always something special in the air down here — probably the farts of ten thousand paddies after a night on the black stuff but who’s caring.
Sure and I had the chance to be riding for Jamie Osbourne at Southwell today but what’s the point of having me bleedin arms pulled out trying to stop some beggar from winning when I could be down here with the lads? Told the eejit that I couldn’t make it, said it was something I ate.
Ah and it’s roaring here. The craic is deadly, the Guinness tent is jammers and the drink links are busier than a hoor on St Stephen’s Green on St Paddy’s Day.
But if it’s tips youse are wanting then youse have to realise that I can’t be taking money for them. And don’t bother pretending to be them Arabian shieks an taking me off to Dubai and plying me with hoors either, I’m not as thick as that ape Keiren.
Mind I do hear some of the lads are sweet on Shardam in the Bill Hill and me cousin Donal says it’s full steam ahead on Garde Champetre in the first. Donal says he and the lads will be on the bus home Tuesday night if the Champetre loses. Bus? Shank’s bleedin pony more likely. I tell youse, if our Donal’s missus finds out how much the gobshite stands to lose then he’d be better off doing the Riverdance afore she gets her hands on him.
One of the Cork lads asked me last night if I fancied Beef or Salmon. Jaysus, I said, I’m so hungry I could eat them both.
If it’s a tip you’re wanting then youse could do worse than Rhinestone Cowboy in the Coral. Sure it’s a fine beast and it’ll take the beating but jayus it would be home and hosed if it didn’t have that ape JP Magnier on it. He may be the big man’s boy but he’s about as much use as tits on a bull. Dense as bottled shite too. If I was riding the Rhinestone then they wouldn’t see it’s arse for dust as we roared up that hill.
See, one of the advantages of being a fat beggar like me is that I can pick up the odd ride down here and I’m still hoping to get on something in the Bumper. In fact there’s a couple of stable of stable lasses I’m hoping to get on as well but don’t be going telling Mrs F. Sure the flat’s all very well but you can’t beat a good jump for a change.
Anyways all this talk of food is putting a right mouth on me and I’m off to look for some scran. Hungry? I could eat a teacher’s arse through a blackboard.
See youse on the rails.

Howya
Jaysus it’s a terrible time to be a jockey and it’s all the fault of that feckin eejit Fallon. I’ve been telling him for years that he’d get caught eventually but did he listen? Did he feck as like.
That’s the trouble wi these top jocks, they look up at a fat git like me and think I know nowt about riding. Me arse and Katty Barry. How do they think I keep getting rides when I’ve an arse the size of Lansdowne Road? Cos I use me head.
See, when it comes to cheating I’m the puppy’s privates. I might not weigh half a bag of sugar when wet but I sure as feck wouldn’t get a nag a mile in front of the bleedin field when it wasn’t supposed to win. Jaysus, if you are gonna do it, do it right. Give the fecker a wee shot of vodka or a packet of jaffas, twist its feckin bollocks before the off or just hold on to the reins until yer bleeding arms are near popping out. There are more ways of stopping a horse than Fallon’s had trainer’s wives. Learn some of them ya caffler Keiren.
And as for that eejit Sean Fox jumping off his nag at Fontwell, what a header. Dry your arse, Foxie ya dope. I could have fallen off a horse better than that in me sleep when I was a youngfella. By the time I was ten I could do the apache roll, the broken stirrup and the slipped saddle just like me old man taught me. Foxie jumped of that beast like Dettori after seven winners. Look at me, ma, I’m on the telly. Feckin ape.
These mentallers are amateurs and they are getting the rest of us a bad name. I’ve got a horse for Jamie Osbourne tomorrow that will take a bit of stopping if youse gets my meaning and now the Jockey Club will be watching as if it was a bleedin porno. I’ll need to fall back on a trick ould Georgie Duffield tells me just to work bleedin deadly in his younger days, just before the Crimean War. It’s not one you can do in front of the ladies but let’s just say the nag will thank you for it at the time. A quick shuffle or two of the wrist and he’ll be so bleedin shagged out he won’t have a baldy. It’s a savage good bit of cheatin but it doesn’t work so well with fillies.
Sure and I might be needing a rake of new dodges what with Keiren banned for 21 days and all. There will be plenty of spare mounts going and one or two trainers might just be looking for a man who knows how to be terrible unlucky. Sure and I can do it all arseways and look no worse than a thick Paddy who just went for the wrong gap. Yeah, in me brown I did.
Anyways I’ve still got nearly a full pack of diuretics and a session booked for the sauna in the morning. That means I can eat me way through a cod and chips and still be able to wash it down with a rake of cake.
Hungry? I could eat chips fried in Shergar’s pish.
See youse at the track.

Howya
Oh jaysus. Poor Keiren. He’s really gone and done it this time.
The Fallon fella was only doing his job and making sure his nag didn’t win when it wasn’t supposed to so that the one of Jamie Osbourne’s got over the line first. Where was the harm in that?
But the eejit had to go and get that horse of his so far out in front that his arse would have looked like a mouse’s diddy to the rest of them. Then he had to put the anchors on so heavy that you could almost hear the beast screeching to a bleedin halt.
Fair play, the man’s a fine jockey but for a crooked fella he’s damn poor at the cheating. Me, I would have eaten me way through half a cow and weighed the beggar down so much that he didn’t have a baldy.
To make matters even worse, the eejit only had to go and tell a couple of undercover reporters that his nag wasn’t going to win. The fella’s got a gob on him like an overworked hoor. A right bollocks he is.
Now the gits at the Jocket Club are all over him like flies on shite. And that means the feckers will be after the rest of us an all. Jaysus.
Ah sure and the Jockey Club are as much use as a cigarette lighter on a motorbike. I’m sure they don’t know the end that shits from the end that eats but they sure know how to make the working man’s life a bleedin misery.
All this hassle is bad for me digestion I tell youse. Sure and it’s putting a proper appetite on me.
Hungry? I could eat chips from John McCririck’s knickers.
See youse at the track.

Howya
Was youse watching the Oscars the other night? Blinding it was apart from that diddy bitch-bag Billy Crystal. You ever seen anyone more in need of a good kick in the bollocks? Me neither.
Anyways it minded me of that film Sea Biscuit about that ould horse that won all them races in America. Sound it was.
Mind youse, that little horse was so bleedin diddy that I’d have crushed the beggar. The only way it could have won with me on its back would be if it had a ton of rocket fuel up its jacksie. Actually that’s not as Irish as you might think. Jamie Osbourne has this stuff he calls arse ammo for the ones he wants to win. Bleedin deadly it is.
But even the ould movie nag’s name would have got me thinking of food. Sea Biscuit is it? If I see a biscuit I eat it. Ah custard creams, Kimberlys, bourbons, jammie bleedin dodgers. Lovely.
You can’t beat a pack of biccies for keeping your appetite down. A rake of choccy diggies and I can put off eating dinner for a good hour. At Wolverhampton last week I couldn’t eat lunch on account of having to ride a nag for Mr Lungo that had a bit of a baldy. Hank Marvin I was. So I got meself on the outside of a box of jaffa cakes and that fair did the trick.
Ah fair play, I had to eat. Without food in me I’m as much use as a lighthouse on a bog. Mind you I did get a right dose of the scutters just before the 3.30. A right reddener so it was. Youse can have no idea how skawly the trots can be when you’re wearing riding britches. Like an atom bomb going off in a can of beans so it is.
Still, blinding news. I’m on a winner at Lingfield on Saturday. Mr Channon tells me the only thing that can beat his nag is a bolter being ridden by Kieren. Now what Mr C doesn’t know is I was enjoying a bit of rock ‘n’ roll with a stable lass who tells me that Fallon’s nag is going to run a bit wide at the second bend and then get boxed in before heading for home. Dreadful unlucky that way some of Keiren’s horses.
So that means I’ll be due a right little wedge in a bonus from ould Channon and can get a nice little lift from Victor Swindler as well. Of course I could always tell Mrs O’Farrell about me little windfall. Yeah, in me brown I will.
Anyways I’m off to see a man about a one and one — cod and chips to you. Hungry? I’d eat a farmer’s arse through a blackthorn bush.
See youse at the track.

Howya
Being followers of the sport of kings as you are, you’ll have seen me name on your racecard and in your papers and here I am to write for youse every now and again. Me oul sweat Paul Pot gave me the gig and said I should tell youse all about the grand game and the twisters that run it. Well here it is.
These days I don’t really have what you would call a regular stable. One day I’m whacking the arse off a horse for Mrs Reveley then the next I’m holding one back for Jamie Osbourne. It’s the variety that makes it so bleeding deadly.
I suppose it’s fair to say I’ve had something of a problem with me weight. It’s me genes — makes me lard go up and down more often than a stable girl’s cacks. All it takes is a couples of pints of the black stuff and I end up looking like that fat fecker McCririck. The lads like to indulge in a bit of cheery banter by calling me Fat Fred O’Farrell, the Fattest Fecker in the Field. Ah the cheeky little gobshites, I hope their bollocks drop off.
Anyways I may be a couple of pints overweight but at least I can ride. Some of these midgets are as much use as tits on a bull. They may be as small as a mouse’s diddy but they can ride feck all.
Sure I’m partial to a bag of taytos and the odd swallow of Arthur’s but all it takes is a few days of starvation, pills, saunas and cocaine to get me down to the same weight as the tiddlers.
End of last summer I was on a nice two-year-old for Mr Cecil. Top nag it was as well. The sheiks had wanted Fallon on board but there was no way that Mr Cecil was standing that. Kieren has had one ride too many at that yard if youse gets me drift.
I wasn’t Mr Cecil’s first choice either but Mickey-Jo, Spencey and Darley were booked up, Frankie was getting his hair cut and oul George was in his scratcher having a nap. A right mentaller the oul fella is, still riding at 72 and all.
Anyway, nice horse this was and I’m pretty sure it would have bolted up if I hadn’t had all the strength crapped out of me trying to get down to nine stone. Those diuretic pill jobs are the business for losing weight but spending half the night on the pan sure shags the bejesus out of ye.
Oul Sheik Yermani wasn’t best pleased at his nag losing either and I don’t suppose he’ll be shouting for O’Farrell come the Guineas. Ah well, bollix to him.
Today I’m off to Lingfield and I’ve got two rides, one winner and one loser. The one that doesn’t have a baldy is up first so there’s plenty of time for me to work off that fish supper I had to meself last night before I get on one of Mr Berry’s “specially-trained” efforts in the last. I had to stop this nag winning at Southwell and it nearly pulled me feckin arms out. Today it will go through the field like an Eddie Rockets breakfast through a tourist.
Of course I’m not allowed to bet on this nag as it’s against the rules. Yeah, me arse and Katty Barry. Mrs O’Farrel and the little O’Farrell’s will be going without dinner if something goes wrong and this fecker gets banjaxed. No worries though.
Anways, I’m off down to see my accountant and invest the snapper’s college funds. And I should just have time for a bit of dinner myself before I’m off. Hungry? I could eat a baby’s arse through the bars of a cot.
See yous at the track.
Fred O’Farrell