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Fuck me it was cold yesterday.

It was the sort of cold where you start to lose your survival instinct and serenely open yourself to the possibility of death. I very nearly did a Capt. Oates, wandering off with the final words, 'I'm going for a slash, meet you back here'.

If there had been penguins wandering around the only surprise would be that you don't tend to see them in the nothern hemisphere.

But in lieu of penguins there were some Irish people. Some Irish people in the way that there are some wildebeest in the Serengeti. There were also a lot of gangsters, wannabe gangsters, ne'erdowells, low-lifes, do-as-you-likeys and crapulous old men.

All of life was there, even if some of that life was clinging on by its yellow fingernails. And death too - three horses died in one race alone yesterday - and the winner of today's feature race was the rather appropriate War of Attrition.

It was also a truly shocking day for gambling. Over five races, four of us backed around 30 different horses and the only payout was an each-way place for Natalie, which only paid back the stake. For me that was a typical tally, but the Jolly Boys can usually be relied upon land a couple, even on a losing day.

But despite this, and despite that, and despite the other, it was a cracking day out.

footnote: Capt. Oates was born on this day in 1880 and died on this day in 1912. Happy birth- death- paddy's-day.