ROYAL Ascot has been on in the office this week, and, as a valued member of the sportsdesk here at the Echo, I suppose I should be knowledgable on all things hooved.

I’m not. Not in the slightest. The only time I’ve been in a bookies was when I was a young lad, where I wriggled clear of the parental shackles and wandered into the bookmakers next door to the knitting shop which my mam was in at the time.

It’s the only time I ever remember being small – I’m 6ft 4ins now, think I hit a growth spurt from around eight and never looked back – and I remember ducking beneath the plume of cigarette smoke, which shows a decent knowledge of fire safety at such a young age.

The whole idea of throwing money after a horse has never appealed to me, although I’ve had the odd social flutter now and then, sticking a quid on a horse with a jaunty name, or odds so long that it seemed cruel not to show a little support – in the spirit of sticking with the underdog.

So when it comes to these big racing events – Ascot, the Grand National, Cheltenham – a crowd of punters often gathers around the sportsdesk to watch the races unfold on the big screen. It takes me back to that day in the bookies, minus the smoke, but with as much hot air as there was then.

I’ll often come out with a few phrases so that I don’t look like a complete idiot. My favourites are: “That’s a lot of horse!”; “He’s gone too soon!” “It’s been a good day for racing.”; “Go faster!”

I think I’ve got the others convinced that I’m clearly the next John McCririck.

IT COULD BE WORSE, YOU COULD HAVE BEEN MADE TO GO TO YORK

THERE was a sad old tale in this week’s newspaper about a few kids who were told by their school that, despite paying a deposit, they would no longer be going on a trip to Disneyland Paris.

It’s particularly disappointing that these youngsters were allowed to get their hopes up before having them cruelly dashed. However, if they’re fans of Newcastle, Sunderland or Middlesbrough, it could be argued that it’s merely preparation for life.

It reminds me of my old school residential trips over in the Lake District. Every year, without fail, the Year Eights would have a residential there, with the year group being split into two groups: one would be there Monday-Wednesday and the others Wednesday-Friday. The Wednesday bus would take the second half of the group over and bring the departing pupils home. It was a failsafe system.

Except our year group was massive. There must have been some kind of baby boom in 1983, as by 1996, the town was teeming with 13-year-olds. And there weren’t enough beds to accommodate everyone.

So, our form tutor, ever the one to look good in front of the school hierarchy, fell on her sword. We were denied our promised three days of fun in the Lakes, where we’d be gorge-walking, abseiling and generally being 13-year-olds. Instead, we went to York, where we stayed in a rotten youth hostel – which has since burned down – and spent three days walking. I had calves of steel by the end of it.

In hindsight, if they’d told us that we had the choice of going to York, or going nowhere, I’d have chosen nowhere. Because the last place you want to be at the age of 13 is a historic city famous for museums. It was 19 years ago and I still hold a grudge.

MY WEEK IN A TWEET