I’VE always enjoyed a day at the races. When I was a kid, a trip to Redcar, Catterick, Thirsk, and even York was a special treat with my Dad.

They even made me a racing tipster on my first paper because I had such a passion for the sport of kings. Sadly, it ended in abject failure when I was sacked, having failed to tip one in the first three for six weeks.

Despite that blow to my confidence, I’ve carried on following the gee-gees but, after my latest trip to the races – York as it happens – my lifelong love affair may be over.

You see, I made the mistake of taking my wife and daughter. They know nothing about racing. And it was one of the most stressful days of my life.

From the moment we arrived, I became what is known in the trade as a “bookie’s runner”. My wife and daughter don’t know how to put bets on so I had to do it for them and the day got off to the worst possible start in the first race.

Ever since she was a toddler, my daughter’s nickname has been Binky. Don’t ask me why, it just has.

She, therefore, wanted £1 each-way on a rank outsider called Binky Blue.

The race was nearly off so I galloped to the nearest Tote betting window and asked for £1 each-way on Binky Blue. The lady explained that the minimum was £2 each-way which would have cost £4. I made an instant decision to make it £2 to win.

Binky Blue went on to defy his odds. With a furlong to go, he was out in front. With half a furlong to go, he was still a length clear. We screamed our heads off... only for Binky Blue to be beaten by a short- head at 33-1.

“Why didn’t you back it each- way?” asked my wife, who mastered the art of hindsight years ago.

The day got worse with the second race, when my wife announced a brilliant strategy for picking her horse: she decided she was going to back the jockey wearing black and yellow silks.

I patiently pointed out to her that there were two runners with black and yellow silks in the second race: number 6 had a black jacket with yellow stars; and number 12 had black and yellow stripes.

“Just put £1 each-way on the one with more black than the other,” she instructed, “It doesn’t matter.”

When a woman says it doesn’t matter, you know it’s life or death. I carefully weighed it up as the runners went to post. I’d have tape-measured the jockeys if I could have got close enough. It wasn’t an easy choice but I put the money on number 6.

I sweated for the whole seven furlongs and felt a sharp pang of fear when number 12 came in third, several places ahead of number 6.

“Anyone could see there was more black on number 12’s jockey,” said my wife as they went past.

This torture went on all day. I didn’t have time to pick my own horses because I was too busy running around, putting on their bets, worrying whether to bet each-way or to win, and trying to gauge the black and yellow proportions of various jockeys. I must have lost a stone in the process.

Oh, and one other thing. In three hours and six races, neither my wife nor my daughter gave me any money for their bets.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

AT a recent gathering of Castle Eden Women’s Institute, it was nice to bump into Marjorie Dollin again.

Marjorie reminded me that she featured in a Dad At Large column on April 6, 2001, and brought along the cutting to prove it. Thirteen years is a long time and the story is well worth telling again...

As a little girl, Marjorie was downstairs, looking after her little brother while their father – a tough Horden miner – was in bed after a hard shift.

“What time is it?” a voice boomed from upstairs.

Marjorie replied that she didn’t know how to tell the time.

“Where’s the big hand?” yelled her father. “It’s on the 12,” Marjorie called back.

“And where’s the little ‘un?” her dad persisted.

“He’s playing on the kitchen floor!” came the reply.