Goodwood! Goodwood! Goodwood!

Goodwood.

Goodwood, Goodwood, Goodwood.

I’m going to Goodwood, and you’re not.

Sorry. It is churlish and childish to mock the afflicted. It is not representative of my character. I wouldn’t challenge a man with no legs to an arse-kicking contest. I don’t routinely steal sweets from small children. Nor do I laugh at the lame and infirm.

But. I’m off to Goodwood. And you’re not.

I think the trouble began when I used to work for Aviva. I was responsible for making minor adjustments to the administration of investment products, on a decrepit computer system called Life70. This was exactly as thrilling as it sounds. I was 22 years old, paid the princely sum of £9.56 an hour, and had to clock on and off to go for a piss. I was depressed out of my tiny mind, and routinely eyed up likely-looking buses on my cycle to work, trying to find the one which might relieve me of the burden of breathing. We had a big telly on in the background as we worked. And some person put ITV racing on.

Glorious Goodwood shone out from the screen. It was glamorous and thrilling, so different from the rainy Tuesday in the crappy prefab office Aviva had incarcerated me in. Unlike Ascot, people were wearing clothes which didn’t make them look like melting penguins. Unlike Cheltenham, no one was dressed like Nigel Farage. The course looked beautiful, the horses looked sexy and the women looked well bred.

At that moment, I swore that I would never miss Goodwood again. Never. Rain, sun, hail, hell, high water. Nothing would come between me and the most beautiful course in the world.

Goodwood gave me the confidence to march up to Claire, my boss, and quit my horrible job. I ended up taking a 30% pay cut to go and work for a charity, a road which eventually led to working in London and the currency markets.

The next year, I was actually there, sweating in my suit. It was everything the telly promised it to be. My Uncle Colin picked me up from London, and we drove south on narrow roads through blazing sunshine. The countryside was a picture postcard, green through the trees and gold as the wheat ripened. Trundle Hill covered in picnickers. Where else in the world can you watch the best in the world for free from an Iron Age fort? The Downs dropping away in front of you, the sea behind.

Goodwood. Goodwood. Say it again. Goodwood.

Goodwood, Goodwood, Goodwood. GOODWOOD.

Glorious Goodwood. Sexy Goodwood. Sunny Goodwood. Sunshine on the Downs, and a glass of champagne. Tanned Goodwood. Panamas. Frankel. Canford Cliffs. Midday. That day last year when Master the World came up the rail, Ryan Moore a cool eyed gunslinger with delicate hands and brutal poise. And I had backed him.

The PG Wodehouse story where Bingo Little goes to Goodwood as a communist. Drinking whisky with my Uncle Colin at 10am beforehand, because Goodwood is a high day and a holiday. Steak afterwards. My Glorious Goodwood Advent calendar, a chocolate treat every morning to count the days down until I am back. The Nassau, the Molecomb, the Sussex Stakes. The Steward’s Cup. Stradivarius stretching his long stride. Everything in a handicap trained by Mark Johnston.

So you see, I can’t help it.

I’m off to Goodwood, and you’re not.