So who's for the melting pot this month? Maybe the overpaid and hugely over-hyped Rio 'I Forgot' Ferdinand or perhaps the big-headed Ronnie 'I don't realise how lucky I am' O'Sullivan, or is it Tony 'God, I've got to stay in the same bloody house for another five years' Blair?.

Nope, none of those deserving pain-in-the-backside bluffers, but a whole host of pompous-nosed gits who just happened to be at the hunter chase evening meeting at Cheltenham last month.

Now let's get this straight from the off: I just happen to be a supporter of the hunting fraternity. The job they do in curbing the fox population not only does the rest of the country a bloody good service, but it doesn't add a penny to our council tax.

And when you see the sheer number of scavenging, long-nosed, fluffy-tailed, four-legged feks wandering round our urban streets upsetting dustbins, only then do you start to understand why their disgusting breeding habits need to be kept in check.

Garbage disposal
Anyway, back to Prestbury Park. I went to the track for two reasons: firstly to try and pick up a posh-nosed cow and teach her the horizontal foxtrot, but more importantly to back two horses which I thought were stand-out bets.

On my way to the paddock I was accosted by two beautiful ladies sporting 'B.Liar' badges, one of which took my fancy - until she opened her stupid beak, that is.

'I say, young man, would you like to show your appreciation for us?' Sure bloody would, I thought! Whereupon she proceeded to tell me that this evening wasn't about horse racing but about the political injustice to hunts up and down the country. I tried in vain to tell her that I was really only here to win money, but along with her tremendously gifted and mightily big-busted friend, she just wouldn't let me go.

By this stage in the proceedings I could have done with a quadruple Vermouth with cranberry and ice and a hug from Jenny Pitman, but somehow I was able to carry on. Eventually it got to the point where I had to tell her where to get off, whereupon she called in her male heavies and demanded I apologise to her and her alpine friend. I told them where to go, and five minutes became ten - and the race was off in two.

For fox sake
To cut a long story short, I missed the race, a 10/1 winner and nearly ended up in a fist-fight.

My stance now is that I adore foxes - they are beautiful creatures of the urban night, and I plan to open a breeding farm for them on the outskirts of Elstree in Hertfordshire in a small white cottage with Abi Titmuss to help me get to grips with the multiplying process.

As for horses - watch out for old man Capricho. He ran an eye-catching race at the Guineas meeting and off his current mark I suspect he can land a nice seven-furlong handicap this year when the ground is on the fast side. He wasn't given a hard time, unlike me getting this month's column in to hardman Hipwell.

On Low Roller Patrick Kinghorn's level, Blue Tomato should land a low-grade sprint shortly, especially if he can get his toe in - this lightly-raced sort is becoming well weighted.