Look. There’s no need to thank me. The fact that I was correct is thanks enough. I refer, of course, to the fact that had you followed my advice and backed the unfancied Netherlands each way to win the World Cup you would be sitting on a tidy pile of cash as you read this. Like I say, no need to thank me, but a pint of Stella always goes down well…
I’ve always liked a bet, but it was never as enjoyable as when my chums Peter Baker and Paulie Inman took a stake in a racehorse – the inestimable Katy Nowaitee.
Peter ran one of the Public Houses that I frequented in Marlow – the Hand and Flowers – and one day he and Paul had taken an interest in a racehorse who would be running almost immediately. We were to await instructions on the punt.
18 months later we still hadn’t had so much as a quid on Katy. She was suffering from a bad back, apparently (or a cold, or a sore throat, or she was off her food), and quite soon we were thinking that a more enticing bet would be to open a book on how long it would take for Katy Nowaitee to end up in a can of Meaty Chunks. All this time Peter and Paulie were shelling out 75 quid a month to fund the horse’s wellbeing, all the while having to put up with the sniggers and jibes of a whole town.
However Katy prospered under the care of trainer Peter Harris, and finally four year old Katy arrived at Nottingham racecourse for her debut run in tricky maiden.
Literally anything could have won the race, and Katy’s price of 14/1 indicated that the bookies didn’t really expect it to be her. But I had 20 quid on her anyway, and put her in with the favourite as the last leg of the placepot. A couple of pints, and then down to Ladbrokes to watch the race.
Whilst I’d been in the pub, all manner of chaos had been ensuing at Nottingham, favourites had been tumbling and the placepot was offering a tidy sum even if the favourite saluted in the last. If Katy won, well...
The race was messy; the 14 runners taking an age to sort themselves out before, unbelievably, Katy Nowaitee stuck her little head bravely out, pinned her ears back, and took them on. She pissed it. She was only a small horse – and we already knew she was a bit frail – but she had the proverbial heart of a lion, fighting her way through the buffeting of her life to deliver a famous win. A win which netted me just under a thousand pounds once the placepot was divvied up. We repaired to the pub and toasted Katy Nowaitee long into the night.
Of course we were hooked on the little filly. We didn’t back her next time out on the advice of the stable – she finished a disappointing fifth at Pontefract – but we were all back on her when she led 21 other gee gees home at Redcar at odds of 11/1.
Three weeks later she failed on her return to Nottingham – costing the entire town a pretty penny – before being put away for the winter and a well deserved rest.
Katy Nowaitee was already a legend in the sleepy riverside town of Marlow, but the following year was to be unbelievable, feel-good film material – I’ll tell you all about it next time.
