IF there is one moniker in racing over the past five years which has set my teeth on edge more than any other, it’s the once-ubiquitous “Faugheen The Machine”, an almost meaningless phrase which for a while passed not just as a nickname for the outstanding hurdler, but almost as a substitute for meaningful analysis of his achievements.

Every idiot came out with it as if was some pearl of wisdom from the ancients themselves, and it probably served as an icebreaker at awkward parties across Ireland when no-one could think of something witty or interesting to say. While Arkle inspired prose from Brendan Behan, and paeans of praise from Oxbridge-educated scribes, all the mighty Faugheen seemed to inspire was this polished turd of pseudo praise.