Untold’s Xmas works outing. Wild happenings. Men! Women! Horses! Drinking! Hairdryers! Billy the Dog!

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In the day before Christmas each year, the worldwide staff at Untold Arsenal come home to the editorial hub and join with the local hacks and associates from the Toppled Bollard – famed drinking den run by Billy the Dog McGraw – for a fun day out at Towcester races on the other side of our beloved county of Northamptonshire.

This year over 200 Bollardière (as the quaffing partners of our favoured watering hole are known) mixed with the crème of the race going fraternity for a solid day’s racing, laughter, repartee, wining and dining.

There was something of a slow start when upon arrival that the “racing” as it is quaintly known, was off due to the “snow”.  Oh how we laughed!   Of course Billy quickly showed them the error of their ways and in no time the course officials had licked the “track” dry, and we were ready for the first race, as they quaintly call it.

All went well until the third trot around the arena when one of those jolly little fellows who sit on horseback (jockey I think is the technical term) had a slight altercation with Billy over the delicate issue of whether the little chap had deliberately failed to win a race in which Billy had some sort of financial interest.

Now Billy has an excellent intellect and a keen mind, and he also knows more about dealing with obdurate Tottenham supporters than any man I know.   Indeed at 15 stone and 6 feet 2 inches he is not a man to mix it with.   However I am delighted to report that on hearing the diminutive chap’s protestations of innocence Billy merely looked down before turning to gather up as many of the company who were still coherent.   Deep and dark conversations ensued.

When the same horse racing fellow appeared bouncing up and down on top of a horse (for that is what they do) at the start of the next race, a roar went up from the Bollardière.  Suddenly a string of sausages flew out from the crowd and hit the jockey on the nose, quickly followed by half a turkey.  At the turn (as the bend in the track is called in racing circles) a box of Christmas Crackers landed on his jaw.  As the jockey glanced up three mince pies hit in him the side of the face.

These events took their toll and the horse dropped back down the field.   When a Christmas pudding settled on the jockey’s cheek and a bottle of sherry caught him on the chin, the animal (who I must say remained oblivious to the whole proceeding) was “reigned in” by said little chap on top, and eventually came in a sorry seventh in the proceedings.

The little fellow, I could tell, was annoyed.   He dismounted (again I use the technical term) and walked up to what I believe are called the stewards and announced he was putting in an appeal.   He had, he said, been well and truly hampered.

Happy Christmas from everyone involved with Untold, to all involved with Untold.   Editing the show is great fun and a great pleasure.   Thank you everyone (except of course that little toad who earlier this year called me a Tottenham supporter in disguise.  Billy is, even as I post this, on the way round.

Tony Attwood

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