Dear Reader

Throw another log on the fire, pull up a chair and let me tell you a tale. In the dark and sombre land known as the East Midlands, a group of stout hearted travellers once assembled, drawn by the prospect of finding a mighty Warrior; a Warrior only seen once previously in the calendar year, a Warrior known to have amassed riches already, a Warrior expected to do so again.

Our band of heroes numbered just eight. From the chilly North came the Ormerwoods, the Packards journeyed from the East while the Gallaghers headed north from the heaving metropolis of the Capital. The fellowship of the Warrior was completed by those wise old heads, Vincent and Griffiths (you know, the one with the hat and the nice trousers), who had deigned to venture forth from the far more hospitable West Midlands where the streets are paved with gold and the natives gorge on milk and honey.

The East Midlands is an inhospitable place at the best of times but let me tell you dear Reader, that this day our band of heroes saw that murky region at its worst. Heading into the dark and festering heart of the forsaken territory, they headed to Leicester, a veritable welt on the skin of humanity. The elements poured forth all their scorn and filled the skies with wind and rain but nothing could stop them. Verily, most of our heroes did not even bother with umbrellas. Hardened professionals every one of them.

Some respite was afforded the plucky travellers when they realised that the inn at which they had expected to stay had been refurbished. Far from the nasty, dreary outpost which had greeted them two years previously (see chapter six of my earlier book - "Molly: The Early Days"), they were now met by a gleaming new outpost, replete with provisions and jugs of foaming ale. A rare smile was afforded but these veterans were not about to be distracted by such mere fripperies. Having supped four or five pints - just to check that poisonous skullduggery was not in play - it was time to get back to the mission proper.

Right on cue; there he was. From the distance he emerged, ruddy cheeks shining like a beacon through the murk and fog. The heroes whispered nervously - 'twas indeed him; Kittow, the trainer of the mighty Warrior and the only man known to have tamed him. Surely he would know of his whereabouts? Indeed he did but first he had matters to attend to. A horse he told us - in the third race. Rydal Mount was its name but it unfortunately floundered in the unforgiving Leicestershire mud.

The time had come and the band surreptitiously sneaked their way toward their appointed rendezvous point. A place called the Ring of Parade Kittow had told them - at half past the hour of four. Huddled under a tree as the elements pounded them relentlessly, they strained their eyes for a sight of the Warrior. "There he is!" whispered Vincent, his eyes drawn excitedly to the beast\'s claret and blue travelling rug. How he loved those colours did Vincent.

I tell you now Reader, there is no surprise that this horse is called Warrior. A king amongst mere mortals, a stallion amongst pit ponies, a Dom Perignon in a crate full of Cava (whatever that means). This beast is huge, well toned, with a jaunty step and a fearsome stare - with which he fixed the assembled throng of rain-swept locals. Having seen the way he owned the Ring, it was hardly a shock to see that five other horses had already declared themselves non-runners and fled the scene.

Just when everything seemed to be going so smoothly, our heroes were startled. Suddenly, tiny men started pouring into into the Ring. Ready for a fight it seemed, wearing helmets and armed with fearsome looking whips. Still unnerved by that recent trouble with the evil gnomes of Furbolg Mountain, our group were instantly on edge. Trainer Kittow came to the rescue though, explaining that these strange beings were members of the race of Jock-Kees. The one coming towards our group was apparently called Chris of Catlin. Strong and wiry but unfeasibly small, our heroes quietly doubted how much use he\'d be in controlling the mighty Warrior. Still, like all the other Jock-Kees, he was dressed resplendently in silk so he was obviously from one of the richer Jock-Kee families.

The Trainer muttered some quiet words in the ear of the Jock-Kee. "Get him out quickly," he said, "but keep him behind something." Suddenly, it all became clear. The Trainer, the Jock-Kee and the mighty Warrior - if all three came together in perfect unison, then a huge prize awaited our intrepid travellers; fair reward for their journey into the heart of darkness.

An arcane ritual followed. The Warrior and several other horses were held in numbered cages as a crowd of increasingly inebriated people surged towards a nearby rail. And then all hell broke loose. Someone released the horses from their cages. The Warrior catapulted forward from his cage on the far left hand side, a vicious outpouring of adrenaline and acceleration and he burst to the front of the pack.

A fearsome half ton of horse flesh was galloping towards the heroes in an awesome display of speed yet still the Jock-Kee restrained him somewhat and tucked the Warrior into the main group of horses. Mud flew up, sweat filled the air, expletives were shouted and out on the course, it was just as hectic. The early leaders set a frenetic pace but the Warrior bided his time, coolness personified as other beasts surged past on his left hand side.

But then a gap opened up and the Warrior surged through. Two furlongs to go till the prize was his and the Warrior was making his move. Helpless on the sidelines, our heroes screamed their support. With a furlong to go, the gap had been exploited and Chris of Catlin was urging his mount on. This was no done deal though and three or four horses headed for the sanctuary of the White Line with increasing alacrity. The Warrior could almost reach out and grab the prize.

But oh no cried the heroes - what's this?! Another horse, a blur of motion emerging at speed on the near side, making up ground hand over fist. The White Line would not come soon enough but soon enough time froze. A raised fist, a strangled gasp, the flash of a camera bulb; a split-second in which the horrible truth was revealed. A beast called Balakiref (reverentially called The Favourite by many stood nearby) had landed the spoils, surging a mere head in front the less favoured Cornus who, in turn, relegated the mighty Warrior to third. Breath was exhaled, time restarted and a disappointed sigh headed skywards.

Scrambling back towards the Ring of Parade and the nearby Enclosure of Winners, our heroes rejoined The Trainer and The Jock-Kee. Stripped of his racing wear, the Warrior steamed and sweated but barely looked out of breath as he pranced around the Enclosure. The Jock-Kee was telling The Trainer that perhaps the Warrior would appreciate another furlong or two. At the back of the party, Griffiths chuckled quietly. The four year veteran had heard that one before. Surely some respect should just be given to The Favourite he thought and his production of A Late Run - an old tactic but one which nevers falls out of fashion.

Disappointed but knowing deep down that the Warrior had produced a fearsome display of controlled running, and on a surface which some sages said may not suit him, the group prepared to disband.

With the dangerous path out of the desolate and blackened East Midlands still ahead of them, the Fellowship of the Warrior then took their leave and as they paid homage to their steed one last time, he fixed them with a steely gaze and said, "Please - just call me Muffin."

Herein ends our story Dear Reader but rest assured that another chapter will be written soon....