I should have listened to the mad old man on the top deck of the bus. His gouty feet enclosed in slippers, a dirty checked shirt buttoned tightly over his beer gut, spittle flying, he was shouting his selection for this afternoon's big race at Ascot into a mobile phone. 'Duke of Marmalade', he yelled, "Marmalade, marmalade, marmalade...' over and over again.
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