Goodness gracious me and grab my birdie num num until it chirps, but there was so much bad lamb khorma going around at Happy Valley last Wednesday.

(Source: MMC Millies House)

It was definitely an Unhappy Valley and not just because most punters were kicked up the Punjab by the results.

Yes, as Sophia Loren said to Peter Sellers, “Doctor, I’m in trouble, goodness gracious me”
what with even a fine for Darth Ferraris who looked absolutely dapper when I ran into him before the races.

(Source: Wallpaper Vortex)

I like Darth. He has his dark moments when he blows a gasket and doesn’t hold back, calls it like he sees it and makes vultures drop dead from fright, but he never resorts to that girlie man practice of petty politics and back-stabbing. More on this later.

(Source: Glogster)

On Wednesday, there were suspensions, bad vibes between the Zac Attack and Wayward Marwing- and Wayward should have less hairs after a new wayward ride- three red hot pots were well and truly rolled- Travel Guide, Genuine Leader and Galaxy Prancer- and there was the usual group of mealy mouthed backstabbers from 1 Sports Road talking through their ring pieces about those Jungle Johnny tweets and blaming my very good friend The Bitch for sending them. Nothing really new as their REAL gig seems to be bagging and biting the hands that feed them.

As for those tweets, there is a very thin line between satire and libel and as they were getting the real Jungle John’s khaki knickers in a twist, the account was wisely closed on, I think, Tuesday morning.

End of story one would have thought, right, papadums? But not in a small city like Hong Kong where the same group of samosas need something to feed on to liven up their tandoori dreary lives.

(Source: Food)

On Wednesday, the Bitch was hearing the same old mantra, first from a jockey and then from a leading trainer who should know better and became unnecessarily embroiled in this farce: “Everybody says it was you” was the mantra while Shaggy sang in the background.

Goodness, papadums, who are these birdie num num “everybodies” and busy bodies with nothing better to do but spread rumors?

(Source: The Cynical Girl)

Some say it is a blogging racing pundit. Others say it is a group of television pundit nehrus while some say, it is the chappati who looked at us on Wednesday like he had just swallowed a pork turd when we passed by him on our way to the races.

(Source: Search Engine Land)

Georgie Michael singing Careless Whisper ran through my blachan head as we nodded at each other while I thought of those who still think they’re living in the days of the Raj and dealing with Asian minions while marching through tea plantations in their Wellington boots and pith helmets and living the pukka expat life.

(Source: Assumption)

All I know is that being the wise old Guru, I figured who the masked tweeter was right away and who had the gonads to write to my good friend and pianist Winifried Atwell and owned up to the joke gone awry- Mitchell Beadman, son of The Dazzler.

(Source: Nine Msn)

What made him do something so silly and almost drag his father’s good name through the mud is baffling. Humor is a very subjective thing.

The legendary Darren Beadman has gone through enough. He does not need petty crap to deal with from those in a sport where there is no loyalty nor trust. Only two-faced twats.

(Source: Trans Talk)

The good thing is that Beadman The Younger has learnt an important life lesson: Talk softly and carry a big stick. And if you have no stick, say nothing and get on with your studies.

(Source: Mob Avatar)

As for the races tomorrow? Who cares?

Some will win, some will lose and others will try to sell horses to naive owners at huge profit margins while on a golf course in Hong Kong on Thursday, tongues will wag again and bitch, bitch, bitch.

(Source: Bully Busters)