THERE is something perverse about writing a Cheltenham Diary when spending your entire week sat at your mother-in-law’s kitchen table, talking to no-one else other than via WhatsApp, and when the television on mute most of the time, because, well it’s rude to smash your MIL’s telly with your boot.

That’s not to say that the TV coverage was poor, but you never know when a bit you’re not going to like is about to come on, and I’ve my blood pressure to think about as well.