Handicapped

One of my relations used to call me a purple-faced spastic when I was stupid or displeased him; usually the former. He wasn’t woke.

When I was thirteen he invited me to “take a pew”. I was mystified as we were in his school study. Once he put his sister and me in an empty bath, turned on the hot tap and said the last one to jump out would be the winner. My cousin has looked a bit pink ever since. He was detailed to take me shopping for a shirt; hitherto all matters of my attire had been determined by my mother. He took me to the shirt counter at Austin Reed. I was flummoxed and asked him to choose for me. That was when, exasperated, he called me a purple-headed spastic. What happy memories of an unconventional childhood. Now he would call me handicapped because he’s not learned to say special needs.

Sorry, whatever that means, I went down memory lane when I really want to know why racehorses are handicapped. It seems to me stupid when there’s a race that the prize should not go to the fastest. Instead the most likely winners are given loads of lead in their saddle bags. The handicappers, like Albert Pierrepoint, have a job that will not make them friends. So, Tiger Roll has been withdrawn from the Grand National  because his owner, Michael (Ryanair) O’Leary, says he has been unfairly handicapped.

It is of course to please the Turf Accountants. To make racing like roulette; a game where the House always wins.