The Grand National

If there is one event in the year that really makes my blood boil, it is the Grand National. I am fed up of being harassed by my family to place bets on something that I don’t even remotely care about. There are more important things in life than 50 long legged shitheads belting their way round a furlong long course. Really, where is the fun in that?

It’s kinda like Formula One in that the only entertainment comes with a pile up. Or when one of the horses tosses off the jockey and runs the wrong way around the track smashing into all of the other horseys.

It would be more entertaining if they held the Grand National in a city centre. That way the horses would actually face a challenge in the form of roadside protestors, articulated lorries and banana peels. What is the big deal with running around a field for 5 minutes hopping over what are essentially park benches? The horses fucking love it.

There is no real challenge for either the horse or the jockey. The jockies make it look like they are strugging just so they have an excuse to beat up their horse midway through the race.

I would place a bet if they actually gave odds on the horse that lost. I might even go over to Aintree and start hurling abuse at my tip. Horses are extremely sensitive creatures as you know and I believe that if I was given a seat in the front row I could reduce a stallion to tears, just by playing the right songs on the tin whistle. And by staring it in its big horsey eyes and mocking it so.

Tomorrow will be extremely depressing. I’ll try to tune in and watch some early morning cartoons and nothing will be on bar that cunt McCirrick listing out his tips for the day, which will never ever win. And the build up will continue well into the afternoon. I no doubt will be hungover as fuck and I’ll turn the T.V. over to BBC and Willie fucking Carson will be recounting his victory in Llallalalaalwwwfffdtuff, Wales in 1984 which was greatly inspired by his performance of Duran Duran’s Rio in acapella shortly before the start of the race in the stables.

The best we can hope for is about 15 false starts. A race that never was. Like the one about 12 years ago. That was hilarious.

Right, I think I’m going to go drink myself into oblivion and just pray that this weekend passes without me strangling anyone…