John Gibson: The day I met him at Musselburgh

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Rings on his fingers. Don’t ask how many, I’ve lost count. And bells on his toes, I shouldn’t be surprised. John McCririck doesn’t know and doesn’t care. His breath reportedly is “high” and he’s not over-concerned about that either.

No matter. He will make a mint if he successfully sues Channel Four, their racing pundit until dumped unceremoniously last October, the stable door firmly bolted. If he’s short of a bob, has he considered renting out his sideburns to Brad Wiggins?

I stood within whiffy distance of him at Musselburgh, deciding against tugging at his coat-tails. He was casting an expert eye over the field. He loves big-chested women but appears to be more in love with himself.

Not everybody’s cup of char, Mr Mc. It’s well known among the racing fraternity he has his detractors. He scathingly dismisses them as “poor diddums.” What has to be said, alas, is that horse racing has become a drag with him out of the picture.

By the way, donkeys can be hired from Portobello beach this summer. Do they know at Musselburgh?

Get teeth into it There’s something out there capable of supporting life. I understand it’s called the NHS. And I feel it incumbent upon me, in the name of investigative journalism, to confirm if it’s a fact that doctors are doling out prescriptions for toothpaste to people on benefit. Wouldn’t surprise me. I must check with my GP, first having what’s left of my top set MOT’d.