Almost exactly 20 years ago, an Abbeyside-born ex-army man named Mick O’Farrell, aka “the mad captain”, walked into the front office of the Munster Express and handed me a copy of Skint: The Diary of a Failed Punter, a third memoir tracking his fondness for horses and the myriad characters he’d met along the way. Mick was well connected (The Guardian, no less, ran his obituary) and much liked. None other than the great Con Houlihan called Skint “a lovely book” on the cover.

Sadly the author passed away just months after it was published — having sent me a gem of a handwritten thank-you note for reviewing it — but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me sharing this extract for the week that’s in it.

The last day of Cheltenham 1970 found me standing by the last hurdle getting a close-up look at the horses clearing the jump. Unusually for me, I’d been having a pretty good meeting, having backed several winners the previous day, but now my main tank was on Proud Tarquin, trained by Tom Dreaper, who had some pretty decent form.

The field began to string out as they turned into the straight and Proud Tarquin and another Irish horse, King Vulgan, trained by John Crowley, drew clear going to the second last. Huddled against the cold, I was beside myself with excitement, yelling “Come on Proud Tarquin” at the top of my voice but just then I heard a croak from behind me, “Come on King Vulgan”. In the midst of all the noise and bustle, the voice caught my attention because of its unusual timbre, the sort of harsh gravelly sound made by a corncrake in a meadow.

I watched with mounting excitement as the commentator Peter O’Sullevan called the race. “And now approaching the last, it’s Proud Tarquin and King Vulgan neck-and-neck, they jump it together, and it’s Proud Tarquin now with a narrow lead …” Again came the croak from behind me. “Come on King Vulgan, you bloody bastard, you’ve got to do it.” Then the tremendous battle all the way up Cheltenham’s long punishing straight, with first Proud Tarquin, then King Vulgan taking a narrow lead, me yelling for Pat Taafe aboard Dreaper’s horse and behind me the croaking support for Crowley’s nag.

Finally, to a crescendo of cheers, Proud Tarquin stuck his head in front on the line and took the prize by a head. I jumped in the air with a roar of delight but just then just from behind me I heard a gravelly growl: “Well fuck you! And Proud Tarquin!” I turned around to see who the possessor of such a unique voice-box could be, to behold this bleary-eyed young man of about twenty-five standing there. Despite the intense cold, he was wearing no coat and was clad only in three over-sized mangy-looking sweaters with big holes in them, with long strands of straggly thread hanging down here and there. He hadn’t shaved for several days, his straight blonde hair was plastered down on his head, and he smelled strongly of alcohol. We stood gazing at one another for a few moments. “Would you like a drink?” I asked finally. “Why not?” he croaked. “It’s the very least you could do.”

Over a hot rum or two, this strange-looking creature and I exchanged pleasantries. His name was Valentine Lamb, he told me, on a busman’s holiday from his job in Dublin, and he was staying with a friend called Nick who walked around town towing a greyhound on a leash. But unlike the majority of punters, they’d given Cheltenham a miss and gone to Southwell instead where they won some money and indulged in a liquid celebration. Over the next couple of hours we enjoyed a most enjoyable conversation and various exploits on the turf were recounted, and then we bade farewell, little expecting to see one another again.

Imagine my surprise when I opened the financial pages of the Irish Times the following week to see this familiar, blonde-fringed face smiling out at me, this time clean shaven and dressed in a most fetching dark pin-stripe suit. “The Guinness Millions,” screamed the headline emblazoned in bold type. “By Valentine Lamb, Financial Editor”. Shortly afterwards Valentine switched stables and is now the editor of the Irish Field [above inset], a far more appropriate vehicle for his eclectic accomplishments. Never judge a book by the cover.

Footnote: ‘Val’ Lamb retired as Irish Field editor the year Mick O’Farrell passed away. He died in 2015. 
Main photo: L'Escargot (No.5) and French Tan building up for their nail-biting finish to a great Gold Cup at Cheltenham 1970.