IF I was a cool kid, I’d have spent my teenage years listening to The Undertones and obsessing about girls, like normal adolescents. The truth is that the first music album I ever bought was a Chris de Burgh compilation and I spent a lot less time thinking about the opposite sex than daydreaming of riding a winner at Cheltenham and Aintree. I’d like to say that sheer bad luck derailed that particular dream, but it was potatoes that did most of the damage.

I wasn’t unhappy that my primary ambition was doomed to failure, as finding the Grand National winner was almost as exciting and, in the era before Cheltenham towered over all, the focus on unearthing the next Aintree hero was relentless. Every year hatched a new dream to brighten those long winter nights, and I cherished the opportunity to build up my hopes into the spring.