The Sodding Grand Bloody National
Occasionally, I have dreams that I wake up from feeling entirely certain that I know something specific. Take the Rugby World Cup final in South Africa where everyone had written off the Springboks in favour of the All Blacks. No one at all thought South Africa could win, let alone would. The night before, I dreamt that I saw Nelson Mandela in his rugby shirt holding the trophy. And that's what happened. Dammit. Should have put a bet on. It's happened a couple of times since then, and still no putting the money where the mouth be. And it happened again this morning. I dreamt the number of the Grand National winner. Number 30 was what I woke up with and thought it was something to do with the betting odds. But I forgot about it and whatdayaknow? Number buggering 30, Silver Birch, won the goddamned thing at 33-1. Shit crackers.