My wife, Mrs Tips, likes to select her horses by their names and, if I'm being brutally honest, she can pick more winners at bigger prices than I can. Here's one example.
I have been going to the Wednesday's racing at the Cheltenham Festival for a number of years. Last year, as always, I spent a big chunk of the preceding week going through the form with a fine toothcomb. It's late on the Tuesday night and I've got my shortlist. Mrs Tips, sitting quietly on the sofa opposite darning one of my old socks, asks to see a list of the runners and within a few moments exclaims "I'll have Hairy Molly in the last!" All my selections fall by the wayside but Hairy Molly wins the bumper at 33/1.
Yesterday, which just happpened to be the day after Valentine's Day, Mrs Tips spoke again - "I like the sound of that Putitawayforayear in the 2.10 at Chepstow!" The horse finished unplaced.
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