Riding a winner at Cheltenham

And as you might guess by now, never a man to turn his back on a challenge, I happily agreed to help.

"Good man, Denny," says he. "I knew I could count on you. We will surely win now."

Anyhow, as a result, it has been a busy week for me here on the farm, as I prepare for the saddle, the bridle and all the formalities associated with it.

I, of course, had to remind my old pal in racing that I haven't ridden competitively in almost 50 years.

"My last mount," I recalled grimly, "was an old donkey called Ned, who I rode at a local gymkhana."

"Experience like that," says he "cannot be purchased."

"And did you win?" he asked eagerly, with all the enthusiasm of Willie Mullins.

"Err... no," says I rather sheepishly.

"Well now's your chance lad!" he barked excitedly, and with that backing, who was I to decline?

My training regime in the build-up to the big day has been intense and extreme.

For starters, I was forced to curtail my rampant eating of black pudding and Mars Bars in an effort to get under the race weight limit, for I am a long way from a snippet of a lad.

You'll be shocked to hear that pints too have had to be sacrificed, replaced with spirits and promises of good times ahead after the glare of race victory has dimmed.

My training schedule involves me running around the yard after the hens every morning, to build up leg muscles, and sitting in front of a roaring fire every evening, which I'm told is better than any sauna.

Prayers too, are being said around the clock for my good intentions.

So, if I don't win on Thursday, it won't be from the want of trying.

I will of course arrive early on race day in an effort to avoid the Cheltenham queues. I will be carrying a saddle and spare horse shoes, just in case they be needed.

The winner's enclosure, I presume, will be easy to find once I cross the finish line. l will probably just go with the flow, go with the heaving mass of support.

As I have been drafted in at the last minute, we didn't have the time to rummage out a proper jockey outfit, so I will be wearing my old football jersey, from my junior B hayday.

And as for headgear, I will be wearing a peaked cap on Thursday, as my old head is too swollen to fit into a regular jockeys cap.

But other than that, I'm raring for road.

"And what will I say to the queen mum or some other la-di-da who is handing out the trophy at the end of it all?" I asked.

"Say whatever comes into your head," my friend in racing wisely advised.

"The upper-crust have heard it all before. Nothing will shock them these days."

So now there is nothing more for me to do, only ensure that I'm on the boat before she sets sail.

And should you see me at Cheltenham over the course of the week, you'll know to put your money on auld Lehane.

And if you don't catch a glimpse of me until my big arse is up in the air and I heading for the finish line, please cheer me on.

'Tis rarely auld Lehane is first for anything (bar his dinner) so cheer on the boy from Kilmichael loudly, as I finally, hopefully, taste unbridled success.