Hereâs a true short story from long ago...... In the early sixties onwards, my father used to meet up with a fellow ex-cavalryman, Stanley Turnbull, in the local Conservative Club, Byerden House, in Burnley, Lancashire. I always laughed at the title of the club, since both of them were staunch Labour supporters. Nonetheless theyâd meet there every Sunday lunch and many Saturday evenings, no doubt attracted by the threepence entry for members; games of bingo; cheep booze; and the chance to talk horse racing and reminisce about their times in the army. Stanley was wonderful company - with his handlebar moustache and colourful tales from the past; like when he fought for the Cairo Police after the war, and faced the local insurgents armed with stakes and dustbin lids. One Sunday , I decided to join them and, soon after I had sat down, Stanley said to my father.. â Hey, Jack, you wouldnât believe what happened when I went to Manchester races. On the train on the way back, I sat opposite some toff whoâd also been to the races, and I said to him....Do any good today on the horses?â âNah, said the fella, lost the lot, but you wouldnât believe what happened.â âWhatâs that,â retorted Stan. âOn the train going there, I stuck my head out of the window, and my trilby blew off. When I arrived on the course, I saw there was a horse called Trilby running in the first race. Being a great believer in coincidences like that, I put all I had on it on the nose.â Now, ironically, Stan had missed the first race and, as he chuckled to himself, he said... â It doesnât work like that, does it ? Only afterwards. What won that first race, by the way?â â Oh! Some bloody French horse called Mon Chapeau!â
