AFTER 32 years this is my last column for The Irish Field. I seem to have made it through to 70, so I suppose that means I’ve been writing for a great newspaper for almost half my life.

I wouldn’t have had this job but for my predecessor Jonathan Powell, a good friend who recommended me to the then editor Valentine Lamb. I remember the interview at Wheeler’s fish restaurant in Soho quite clearly. “I hear you want to be the British correspondent there’s no money in it,” he said.

A good opening line, admirably concise. I wondered if there should have been a pause, a sort of verbal semi-colon half-way through, but that was the way Val spoke. By the time he told a couple of jokes over a long, bibulous afternoon I’d have worked for him for nothing. I still would. Well, it keeps a man out of trouble.

1987 was an interesting year. I also became racing correspondent on the London Daily News, a paper launched by Robert Maxwell, or Captain Bob as he was known. He had some grand ideas but, as far as jobs in this corner were concerned, the LDN fell 31 years and five months short of the Field. It’s just as well Hopping Around won an Edinburgh claimer at 7/2. It was the year Pat Eddery and Steve Cauthen exhausted themselves in the jockeys’ title race; Pat won on Hopping Around but Steve prevailed in the end.

PUNTING

I stopped what I’d call ‘serious’ punting well over 20 years ago. When Opera House got up on the line to beat Zoman in the Rogers Gold Cup at the Curragh in 1992 I thought it might be a good idea to step back from the edge.

The warnings you give yourself are the most meaningful and the 3am ones score double points.

I’ve freelanced since 1991 and The Irish Field has been instrumental in keeping me and mine afloat. I owe the paper more than I can say.

There are times to keep quiet, aren’t there? I had some stents put in my heart six years ago, a dead of night job with the surgeon, Dr Strange, following the ambulance up the A370 at frightening speed. It’s best to retain a sense of humour, I find. With preparations nearly complete, his number two, charming Eurasian chap, came around with a form to sign. Chances of anything untoward 1,000/1 etc. After a while he reappeared with another one, more details this time, tricky bit when the stent goes up through your vein and across your chest but no need to worry, 100/1 anything going wrong.

Dr Strange looked at me. “Everything all right, Mr Carnaby? You seem very quiet.” Well, it was late. Later than I thought, perhaps. “Fine, fine,” I said. “Actually I was just wondering if there’s a third piece of paper with the odds down to 10/1.”

You can never take the gambler out of the man, not entirely. Anyway, I did a talk at Newbury a few days later and felt a bit shaky but tipped three winners, so the procedure must have done me good. I only told a couple of close friends, no point in losing work over it.

So, there we are. As a man, almost certainly Irish, once said, “If I’d known I was going to live so long I’d have taken more care of myself.”

Well, I lasted long enough to see out my 32 years, which is about 25 more than any other job I’ve ever had. (Including one for an advertising agency looking for a name for a brand new laxative. I thought ‘Whoosh!’ was perfect but I see now that it probably hastened my departure.)

Thank you for reading and growing older with me and just think of all the wisdom we’ve acquired; I marvel there are any bookies out there still standing. God bless.