IF we happen to believe in such things, the fates came up with a well-nigh perfect script at Newbury last Saturday.

A.P. McCoy is neither vain nor self-aware enough to ponder the right setting, the right moment for an announcement which changes the face of National Hunt racing as we know it.

Therefore, some other power must have decided that 200 was a pretty good number, the familiar green and gold hoops of J.P. McManus a vital ingredient and the presence of the television cameras a rather handy bonus.

The great man’s impending retirement is not the ‘bombshell’ suggested by headline writers. A particularly nasty fall at Worcester in October and the polite but firm refusal of the Wetherby doctor to allow a prompt return had the iron man in reflective mood as a sombre bell, more insistent of late, reminded him that the body can finally cry ‘enough’.

Those listening carefully to him a few short months ago realised that he, and we, should make the most of the time remaining.

How does one begin to summarise a career that no one else will ever attempt to match?

When Mr Mole coasted home at Newbury, it was the 10th time McCoy had reached 200 winners and we are still less than halfway towards his overall tally.

Soon he will be crowned champion for the 20th time in a row, his pale, drawn features breaking into a smile as a thunderclap of approval erupts around him at Sandown, or Aintree, or Punchestown or all three.

He has been a hero, an indomitable warrior, an implacable, unrelenting seeker of perfection, a wry, dead-pan humorist, a survivor.

From the moment he arrived in Britain he was going to be a champion, right from the early days when Toby Balding took over the Jim Bolger role and Paul Nicholls, just starting out on his own illustrious career path, spotted his potential.

Inevitably, Martin Pipe came calling, the arsenal of talent at Pond House feeding McCoy’s insatiable appetite for winners, be they selling hurdlers at a chilly Fakenham or huge bonus-seeking handicappers like Blowing Wind amidst the throb and buzz of the modern Cheltenham.

The Pipe years offered the occasional insight into the very essence of McCoy’s nature. One day at the Festival, Pipe – an equally driven soul with an eye on the record books and little regard for the old-school methods of Lambourn’s finest – was following an intense pre-race schedule of tents, hospitality boxes, radio, television and the rest of it.

For whatever reason, McCoy missed one of these engagements and the trainer was not best pleased. Indeed, for a few minutes he was angry enough to consider the ultimate sanction. But, while four of a kind is a very good hand, it counts for little against a straight flush. One look at McCoy’s expression – phlegmatic, unyielding, ‘I’ve done my best so don’t mess with me’ – set the trainer straight. Only a madman would lose A.P. McCoy if it could be avoided; Martin Pipe is eminently sane, and the moment passed.

The saddest moment at Cheltenham came in 2002 when Valiramix, considered a near-certainty by the Pond House team, clipped heels and came down in the Champion Hurdle when moving like a winner. He broke a shoulder and was put down, leaving McCoy in tears.

At such times, he was unapproachable – silent and withdrawn, a shattered man wondering whether the whole carnival could ever possibly be worth the candle.

You can look for all the high-flown adjectives to describe him but, in the end, he is fundamentally a DECENT man, a man who can be hurt and whose decency unfailingly takes him to the bedside of a fallen colleague, even if the hospital happens to be in completely the wrong direction.

No wonder they love him in the weigh-room, as they do in the press box. When you get past the initial grumpiness – not as pronounced as it used to be – over choosing the wrong one or going down by a short-head in a big race, when was there ever a man more generous with his time? (He can also tell a lifelong, stand in the rain, committed scribbler from a flashy, big occasion Fleet Street johnny at a hundred paces, but manages to treat them both the same. Nearly.)

One day, with Punchestown in full flow and David Elsworth sadly losing Persian Punch at Ascot, McCoy followed his heart and went to work for J.P. McManus and Jonjo O’Neill at Jackdaws Castle.

It bothered him for a while, because daily winners were no longer guaranteed. Yet it was still the right move because, quite apart from anything else, Don’t Push It won the Grand National when that particular gap on his cv threatened to become a saga.

It was probably the happiest anyone had seen him on the racecourse and one of those days when you really didn’t mind backing a loser as long as the right horse obliged.

Comparisons are odious, they say, and fairly pointless. Yet in some ways he reminds this observer more of Lester Piggott than anyone else.

Far away from the spotlight and the sea of jostling microphones, the easy familiarity and the bonhomie of fair weather friends, the little matter of riding winners always mattered most.

And when it comes to complaining, it goes without saying that he and Lester could play out the goalless draw of all time.

A.P. will not find retirement easy. Restless and forever concerned with filling the unforgiving minute with tasks unlikely to include a spot of gardening, the contrast between doing and watching will hit him hard, though he is resourceful enough to find the right avenues.

As for the immediate future, he is far too modest to point out that we have him for a few more weeks.

We do, though, and by golly we should make the most of it. There will never, ever be another jockey like A.P. McCoy and we are privileged to be around at the same time.