Ted struggles with his emotions as Gandhi's mother sweeps all

TV VIEW:MICK JAGGER was 36 when Ruby Walsh was born. We mention this chilling piece of information only because it struck us that the rather splendiferously marvellous headline in this very paper at the weekend – "Ruby Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday" – probably meant not a jot to the jockey. "The Rolling who?" he'd quite possibly ask.

He as good as confirmed these suspicions when he turned up on the Tubridy Showon Saturday night, revealing that he hears the tune Ruby in his sleep. But not the Stones' Ruby Tuesday, rather the song by the modern-day beat combo from Leeds, The Kaiser Chiefs.

We'd lay a fair wager, though, that Ted Walsh, Ruby's Da and the Jumpin' Jack Flash of horse racing on telly, would know his Stones from his Chiefs, and would respond to Channel 4's failure to throw John McCririck off the nearest cliff with a plaintively whistled rendition of You Can't Always Get What You Want.

Ted, of course, had a tricky task last week when he was on Channel 4 duty at Cheltenham, having to come over a bit nonchalant while his son passed the finishing post first almost twice as many times as Liverpool scored at Old Trafford. Which was quite a lot.

When Ruby had his sixth winner, on board – as us horsey people put it – American Trilogy, winning by a distance so lengthy we suspect his pursuers are still pursuing, Ted was moved to downplay Ruby’s achievement, as only an Irish father could.

“Mahatma Gandhi’s mother”, he suggested, would have triumphed on American Trilogy.

There was much chortling in the Channel 4 commentary box, and one voice finally emerged to declare, “I remember Mahatma Gandhi’s mother winning a couple of point-to-points at Bangalore one year, but it’s a long way back now”.

Come the Gold Cup, though, Ted couldn’t but admit that he was content to be related to Ruby.

“Delighted, proud as punch,” he said, chewing his bottom lip as it threatened to quiver uncontrollably.

As Mrs Gandhi’s lad put it, “When I admire the wonder of a sunset or the beauty of the moon, my soul expands in worship of the Creator”.

And that’s how Ted felt at that moment, although he’d still have chucked McCririck off the nearest cliff given half the chance. Warm, internal glows go only so far.

“Non-cooperation with evil is as much a duty as is cooperation with good,” the Mahatma also once said, which, in retrospect, we now take as a warning to steer clear of bookies.

“You’ve put a smile on the face of the whole country,” Ryan Tubridy told Ruby, which wasn’t at all true. Those of us who put a euro each way on one of the horses still chasing American Trilogy are moved, once again, to quote Mr Jagger when looking for a term to describe our pick: Beast of Burden.

Which takes us to George.

Hook, that is. We’d estimate that he had at least 19 nervous breakdowns before Ireland commenced battle with Scotland at Murrayfield, his apprehension ahead of the contest prompting the infinitely more confident Brent Pope and Conor O’Shea to declare: “Gimme Shelter!”.

Nothing but satisfaction in the end.

“And Peter Stringer comes back and he ends up as man of the match,” whooped Tom McGurk.

“He got man of the match because he set up the try – if he’d played like a drain they would have given him man of the match,” said George, as ever responding to a pleasant circumstance with only one thought: paint it black.

Over on the BBC, the reporter asked Declan Kidney if he’d given his players “a bit of a rocket at half-time”.

“No, not at all, no, no – I just pointed out that we were helping to keep Scotland in the game,” he replied, deliciously deadpan, to the point where you concluded, when contemplating Grand Slam matters, que sera sera, we’re safe in that fella’s hands.

Still on the BBC, John Inverdale was telling Keith Wood he had a feeling England would hammer France. Keith, like ourselves, said “ha, ha – good one!”.

Add to that tip, to form a rib-tickling accumulator, the forecast that Liverpool would score four against both Real Madrid and Manchester United.

Seriously, wouldn’t you have sympathy for the poor divil who blew his loot on such silliness?

There was as much chance of that accumulator bearing fruit as there was of Nemanja Vidic performing like Titus Bramble on an off-day.

As it proved, though, Madrid and United would have been better served by a defence-full of Gandhi’s grandmothers. Vidic took one look at Fernando Torres and, to quote Mahatma Gandhi’s grandmother’s grandson, said: “The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others.”

With that Nando scored.

By now United fans were in need of some emotional rescue, the Grand Slam looking somewhat less of a sure-fired thing than it did at 12.45 on Saturday afternoon. The precise fear being that it’s all over now. It’s up to Alex Ferguson to revive his little red roosters, so to speak.