Witless

This book is perhaps the silliest one ever penned. It features an infantile plot that is both predictable and uninteresting, and the ending is even worse. The characters are also lacking in depth and charm. Enid Blyton attempts to write a murder mystery, but it turns out to be even more dated and out of touch than her usual work. The crass snobbery and elitism present in the story are offensive enough on their own, and when combined with the frankly insane plot, it makes for a truly糟糕的 reading experience. If a feminist were to come across this book, she might well be so enraged that she would fall down dead. There have always been rumours that Francis didn't actually write his own books, and after reading this drivel, I have to admit that it seems almost impossible to believe that the same person could have produced decent works like Whip Hand or Come To Grief. This book is a prime example of what not to do when writing a novel.

Another of the old Francis books,

although not as good as High Stakes,

is still well worth the read.

What makes this particular book stand out is that there is even a touch of romance thrown in,

which is quite unusual for his works.

Francis is known for his thrilling and action-packed stories,

but this addition of a romantic element adds a new dimension to the plot.

It gives the reader a different perspective and makes the characters more relatable.

The romance is not the main focus of the story,

but it is a nice subplot that adds some warmth and depth.

Overall,

this old Francis book is a great read for fans of his work

and those who are looking for a thrilling story with a hint of romance.

I have always derived great pleasure from reading a good Dick Francis novel.

His works are remarkably clean, with language that is not overly complex or offensive, and there is a scarcity of explicit sexual content.

On occasion, I even find myself rereading these books, as it feels akin to reuniting with an old friend whom I haven't seen in a number of years.

I truly relish the diverse cast of characters he creates, and I am also enamored with the series he pens.

Although I am not a gambler myself, I have a genuine appreciation for observing the lives of those involved in the gambling world, both in reality and on the screen.

There is a unique sense of excitement that I am unable to discover in many other literary or visual mediums.

It is this combination of engaging stories, well-developed characters, and a touch of mystery and excitement that keeps me coming back to Dick Francis's novels time and time again.

When I was growing up, specific names were an integral part of the book landscape. In the library, on those book-of-the-month club ads, and in magazines, I would constantly encounter the same names: Christie, Simenon, Francis...

For some inexplicable reason, I never picked up any of their works. This is rather strange because my interest in horses began earlier and endured longer than for many other kids. I'm certain that if I had actually checked out Francis' books back then, I would have devoured them all, just as I did with all the ones I could find in the 1980s.

I decided to start from the very beginning, and since this book was written in the year I was born, it felt almost like "fate." Nah...not really. But I've always wanted to say that. It was a decent read, similar to all of the earlier Francis novels: clean-cut heroes, pretty girls, rubbing shoulders with and sometimes even being one of the very rich. It was upper middle class wish fulfillment stuff, but at least in the earlier novels, there wasn't an excessive amount of sex and violence. Later on, though...but we'll get to that. Right now, I just need some mental popcorn as insomnia has once again reared its ugly head in my life.

If I'm not mistaken, this is the first racing thriller by Francis. While the foreshadowing is a bit clumsy in certain spots, it is still a decent read. The "chase scene" was at least original, and in Francis' world, of course a killer (even a bespoke one) has to be insane. There has been some debate in the past few years as to "who wrote them, Francis or his wife," but whoever was responsible, they did a decent job of it.

I had never delved into the world of Dick Francis novels before. So, I decided to take the plunge and start with one of his highly acclaimed works. However, to my dismay, I'm not entirely convinced that it reflects positively on the rest of his extensive catalogue. The story itself was well told, with engaging characters and a plot that held my attention. But alas, the ending was a major letdown. I'm a sucker for books that keep me guessing until the very end, where the villain turns out to be the last person I suspected. Sadly, this one followed a rather predictable pattern, straight out of the Scooby Doo school of detecting. I managed to figure out the culprit early on and hoped against hope that I was being deliberately misled. But as the story unfolded, my hopes were dashed, and I was left feeling disappointed.

On the brighter side, the book did have its redeeming qualities. The writing style was straightforward and easy to read, which made it a breeze to get through. The narrator, despite being an old colonial toff, was someone I found myself rooting for in his pursuit of justice. Additionally, the book offered an interesting insight into the world of horse racing and dodgy cabs, which was quite fascinating. However, the age of the book was evident in its 'stiff upper lip' style. For instance, the revelation that the narrator was only 24 came as a shock to me - he seemed much older, closer to 54. Moreover, in today's age of mobile phones, the events that took place in the book would have been highly unlikely. In particular, the pursuit sequence towards the end of the book would have been impossible. But then again, that's not necessarily a bad thing. It adds to the charm and nostalgia of the story.

Alan York, a trader in the family business from Rhodesian, lives near London with Major Bill Davidson, his wife Scilla, and their children. One day, Major Bill Davidson's steeple final jump is sabotaged by a wire stretched across, which only Alan York later sees. He reports it to Maidenhead racecourse and then to the police. Alan York is second to Major Bill Davidson, and the police suggest that he could want either or both his wife and the first position in amateur steeple jumping, as Major Bill Davidson is Alan York's best friend.

Admiral was supposed to be a dead cert, but Major Bill Davidson ignored a warning to lose and died. His death was not the aim but to help lose the race. Alan York meets Kate, whose uncle turns out to be short on money and masterminds the whole setup of a protection racket with the Brighton Taxis and then a bookmaker above the taxi business in Brighton. Alan York is also knocked out by a wire, and his father comes to visit from Rhodesia. Next, cheating Joe Nantwich is knifed. Another pal, a poor but honest and handsome Dane, competes romantically for novice owner hot Kate. An angry whisper masterminds a racetrack fraud and a protection racket conducted by Marconicar radio taxis. Blue Duck's new innkeeper Thomkins was a soldier and is now organizing local resistance, including guard dogs.

The final showdown comes when Alan York is chased by taxis and people with guns as he escapes on Admiral, now given to him by wife Scilla of Major Bill Davidson. He knows the criminal from the first. Teasers vary in importance but effectively hang us over a cliff at the end of chapters, such as "a lot of things became clear to me. But not enough." Eight-year-old Henry Davidson, son of Davidson, does not hold the answer in either his habit of overhearing phone calls or betting slip collection, so why the wide-eyes? Stopping for lunch at the Blue Duck provides a clue early, but the mass countryside chase would have given the cabs' involvement away eventually. A stolen custom tie from a horse box encounter early on, worn by one of the attackers, added a clue to know the pickup police were fake. When Alan remembers who kicked him unconscious and takes revenge, the step outside the law is troubling. The reunited friendship with the romantic competitor is hopefully permanent. Pete Gregory, the trainer, asks after Davidson and the fall. Rider Mason looks suspicious and is the initial contact for Kate's uncle. He knew Fletcher of the taxis. Reported JN by David Stemp to his father, one of the Stewards. The Dane helps unseat Mason at the book end in a race, giving the initial informer his own medicine. Kate falls for Alan York finally and forgives him for unmasking her uncle. He gives the uncle his gun back in the taxi place so he can shoot himself and save everyone a heap of trouble. Aunt dies soon after. But Kate is reminded of the school children having to be protected from her uncle's goons.

I was truly torn between awarding this book 3 stars or 4. However, in the end, I settled on 4 stars because the cliffhanger ending was actually rather excellent.

At first, I was a bit disappointed in Francis' writing. Overall, considering the relatively small size of the novel, the pace is quite slow. Nevertheless, around the halfway mark, it starts to pick up, and there are some really great descriptions of horse racing and dirty gambling tricks that I thoroughly loved.

I also really enjoyed delving into the world of British betting and handicapping. It was very interesting, a little bit dirty, and just a tad intriguing.

I would have preferred to see a bit more focus on life on the British back side rather than so much emphasis on the love story between Alan and Kate. I wasn't really a big fan of her character. If there had been more exploration of the lives of jockeys and racetrackers, the book would have easily been a solid 5 out of 5.

I'm still not entirely sure if I will read any more of his books or not.

This book was truly a turning point in my life, although I was completely unaware of it at that time. I was just 14 years old when I read it and was once again "on the run" from school (I was a habitual truant). I can still vividly recall the first line... "The mingled smells of hot horse and cold river mist filled my nostrils." It immediately captivated me and I devoured the book in one sitting.

If you'll excuse me for not summarizing the plot like a typical reviewer - as others have already done that quite well - I'll instead share with you what Dick Francis and Dead Cert did for me.

In the following weeks, time seemed to simply slip away as I dedicated myself to reading every Dick Francis book I could get my hands on. Once I had consumed them all, I realized that they had, in turn, consumed me. Horse racing became an all-consuming passion, and I began scouring for anything related to the sport. This fascination even led me to lurk around the doors of my local betting shop, despite being five years short of the legal age.

I skipped school even more frequently to go and work (unpaid) as a "lad" in my local racing stable. The consequence was expulsion from school at the age of 14, without a single qualification to my name. All I knew was how to read and calculate winnings on bets.

There is so much to tell about what Dead Cert led me to, and perhaps it's best presented by pasting here a blog article I wrote a couple of years ago.

Seventeen years ago today, I was having breakfast in Winterborne Cottage, where I was living at the time. It was the shortest commute I'd ever had, nestled in the trees about a hundred yards west of the winner's enclosure at Aintree racecourse. Aintree's 270 enclosed acres held a few properties, and I was fortunate to live in one, paying a peppercorn rent. I had left SiS the year before to become Aintree's first marketing manager.

At 8.20, my mobile rang. Aintree MD Charles Barnett, with his perfect diction as unruffled as ever, said, "Joe, Red Rum died this morning. He's on his way here. We want him under the ground before telling the press. Can you meet me by the winning post in half an hour?"

It was a job. I didn't stop to reflect on my life or the role Red Rum had played in it, or the path that had led me from a pit village in Lanarkshire to the best racecourse in the world. I was a working-class boy, a mongrel, whose habitual truancy had led to a note from the headmaster to my father eight weeks before my fifteenth birthday: "If your son dislikes school so much, tell him not to come back." (Oh, those pre-politically correct days!)

And I never went back, considering myself expelled at 14. I rejoiced and headed out into the world without a qualification, but armed with a twenty-two carat romantic view of life gained from all the books I'd read, huddled in the corner of warm libraries when I should have been at school.

The only teacher I ever paid attention to was one I'd never met, Dick Francis. I'd been devouring a book of his a day.

On a patch of old farmland behind St Pat's school in my village, an optimistic farmer named Jim Barrett trained a dozen horses. I never thought then how incongruous it was, these ten acres or so, surrounded by steelworks and abandoned pits. I never noticed the smoky industry; I saw Uplands, Saxon House, Seven Barrows. But no Lanzarote or Bula was housed there.

Still, third-rate thoroughbreds were racehorses, creatures of unlimited potential, and I'd be there on many frozen dawns to groom and muck out, and sometimes ride and watch the stable jockey, three years my senior and better known in the village as the son of the owner of the fish and chip shop. His name was Len Lungo, and a couple of years later, he headed south to ride Martin Pipe's first ever winner, Hit Parade.

The Guv'nor (oh, how I loved calling him that) used to weigh me once a week, and I'd starve in the previous twenty-four hours, hoping that the next day he'd tell me I'd make it as a jockey. But he never did, and I never stopped growing. Jim Barrett died a relatively young man, and I was left adrift, looking for some way to stay in "the sport."

The best I could manage was a job with Ladbrokes the bookmakers. By the time of Red Rum's first National, I was nineteen and managing a busy betting shop in Hamilton, cursing Red Rum not just for catching the magnificent Crisp in the dying strides of that wonderful race, but for being the best bet for many at 9/1 joint-fav with the runner-up.

Those were the days when settling was done without machines. We worked furiously through around 5,000 betting slips as the queues of happy punters snaked around the shop and out the door.

That was the first of Rummy's Nationals. It was the first of mine as a bona fide worker in the betting industry. That race, that finish, the participants were all to play a huge part in my life - unplanned, never knowingly sought. Had someone told me that day how it would all pan out, even at my most romantic and optimistic, I'd never have believed it.

Twenty-two years later, breakfast abandoned, I sat in Winterborne Cottage drafting the press release to fax to my great friend Nigel Payne, who had recruited me to SiS and had been instrumental in my getting the job at Aintree. The plan was to give the old horse a quiet burial without the media swarming all over the track. One of the reasons for the secrecy was, I suppose, the fact that it is almost impossible to bury half a ton of thoroughbred in a dignified manner.

Walking toward the winning post on that fine dry morning, I passed the place where I'd stood with Red Rum on the day of his 30th birthday, five months before.

May 3rd was to be just another meeting at Aintree. We were down to five meetings a year. In the 60s, Aintree had staged about 17 meetings a year, flat and jumps, but as the course fell further into disrepair, Mrs Topham gradually surrendered meetings until we were left with just a handful.

Anyway, preparing for that May meeting, I noticed in Red Rum's Timeform essay that he'd been born on May 3rd 1965. I suggested to Charles Barnett that we call our meeting Red Rum's 30th Birthday Meeting. Charles, always open to ideas, said "Crack on."

I rang Ginger to see if the horse would be well enough to attend, and, as always, cheery and helpful, he said, "Of course he will, old son." It didn't take long to create a buzz. The BBC and ITV asked if they could send news teams. We were getting calls from the international media, and I got a bit carried away and told Charles I was going to create a special racecard and order 10,000 of them. That May meeting had seldom attracted more than 3,000 racegoers.

"You won't sell them, Joe."

"We will. Trust me. I've got an interview with Ginger in there, a special portrait of Red Rum on the cover. Timeform have agreed to let me publish their full essay on him from Chasers and Hurdlers!"

"There's no way you'll sell close to ten thousand."

"Trust me, Charles!"

He smiled and gave one of his shrugs (think Hooper in Jaws trying to dissuade the men in the overcrowded boat "They're all gonna die!")

When the track emptied after the meeting, I was left staring at a stack of unopened boxes holding about 7,000 racecards. But CB never ever said "I told you so," and the fact that he didn't meant a lot to me.

Anyway, on that May evening, I'd walked out with Red Rum and his handler from the old stables. We came across behind the stands, Rummy looking splendid in his coat in the fading sun, ambling along quietly. But just as we came around the end of the Queen Mother stand, about thirty yards beyond the winning post, Rummy raised his head quickly and pricked his ears. His eyes became brighter, and he stood very still for what seemed a long time, just watching. Lord knows what he was remembering, but I will never forget that image.

Twenty-four weeks later, he was back close to the winning post he loved so well. This time, he was lying on his left side, head toward the red and white disk above him, eyes closed, breath gone. No pallbearers, no coffin, no shroud.

Ginger was on my left, Charles on my right beside the only other man there, Bob Dixon, head groundsman, whose precious turf had been gouged by the shovel of a yellow JCB, which scooped out more than enough earth to make sure there'd be no embarrassing "rehearsal."

Charles turned toward Ginger. Ginger looked at his oldest equine friend one final time and nodded. Charles raised a thumb to the JCB driver, and the shovel was lowered to slip slowly below the spine of the finest Grand National horse that had ever galloped those acres since the first National in 1839. Slowly, slowly, slowly, Rummy was pushed toward the edge of his grave until gravity took over. Ginger walked forward and threw in a handful of fresh earth. I turned and went to my office to place an order for his headstone and to write his epitaph for it.

It didn't take long for me to figure out that a square yard of marble was never going to be enough on which to do justice to a true equine legend, and I settled for the simplest of words. I showed them to Charles and to Ginger, and they agreed there was nothing more to say.

A couple of weeks ago, on a beautiful morning, another player in that 1973 National sat with me on Fred Winter's memorial bench outside his old yard Uplands, the place I'd dreamed of as a teenager. Richard Pitman and I published our first novel 20 years after Rummy's first win and Richard's heart-rending defeat on Crisp.

I'd wanted to go there with Richard. Next year is the 40th anniversary of the great race. From that famous yard behind us, Crisp had been driven north to Liverpool. He came back having endeared himself to anyone who had a heart. His jockey came back with the memory of an experience no other human being would ever have. Richard never claimed to be a great jockey. He wasn't, but he has always been too modest. There were few who could get a horse jumping the way he could, and even fewer who would blame themselves for losing the most famous race in the world when giving 23lbs to what turned out to be the greatest Grand National horse in history.

Sitting on that bench, Richard explained to me, "It wasn't so much picking up my stick before the Elbow that was the mistake, it was taking my hand off the reins to use it." He has had almost 40 years of being tough on himself. I have had 40 years in a sport I love. I never knew the touchstone for me would turn out to be the 1973 Grand National. I helped bury the winning horse. I wrote novels with the man who rode Crisp. I have not sat on a racehorse these past 40 years, but it has turned out a great ride through life for me - no skill required from the pilot, carried safely round the course by Lady Luck.

Joe McNally

DAME AGATHA CHRISTIE AND HER PEERS
Book #47
Francis has a tried and true formula that he seems to return to frequently. However, the world of horse racing is so vast and full of intricacies that I have a great deal to learn. It appears that Francis has an inexhaustible supply of engaging stories set in this domain.

CAST = 3 stars: Bill Davidson, a young and talented jockey, meets a tragic end in the opening chapter, killed during a race. His best friend, Alan York, who is also a jockey and in the same race, believes he witnesses how the accident, which may be a murder, occurs. Alan is determined to seek justice, and of course, he is also smitten with Kate (Francis doesn't dwell on lovers pining away). His friends, Sandy and Dane, may or may not stay by his side, especially since all the jockeys are completely in love with the enchanting Kate (whose Uncle George and Aunt Deb seem a bit suspicious). But this novel focuses more on creating a certain atmosphere (and a thrilling finish) rather than fully developing the characters.

ATMOSPHERE = 3: The book is filled with detailed information about horse racing and steeple-chasing. Francis shows us the rules through the actions and events rather than simply telling us. That being said, there are some comments and terms that I had to research to fully understand the on-and-off track mischief.

CRIME = 3 stars: Having read four novels by this author, I found this crime and murder to be the most brutal and intense so far. I would never have imagined such a thing could happen, so there is an element of originality. However, it is a bit too dark for my taste. I prefer this genre to be more on the cozy side, where the crime is relatively less graphic.

INVESTIGATION = 3: Alan is very young and naive, and he has no idea what kind of dangerous people he is up against. These are people who are willing to kill both humans and horses for a small amount of money. And for most of the story, he is on his own. I kept thinking, "Alan, call the cops. Do it right now. Call anyone!" But Alan is too confident and hot-headed to listen to my inner pleas.

RESOLUTION = 5: The double-climax is a masterclass in storytelling, beautifully executed. These final chapters are the kind that can make an author famous overnight, and in this case, they did.

SUMMARY = 3.4. I can't believe I overlooked this author for over 50 years. Francis in the 1960s is definitely as good as Dame Christie during the same period, although they are almost impossible to compare directly. Still, a mystery novel is a mystery novel, whether it is set in a country house manor or on a racetrack. We have a victim or victims, villains, and a cast of characters ready to come to the rescue if needed.

Dick Francis, a renowned author, showcases his profound knowledge of horses and steeplechasing in this book. Having been a jockey himself, his passion and expertise shine through. His ability to vividly describe the racing world and speak authoritatively on the subject makes the story both realistic and engaging. Unlike some authors who either over-research or under-research, Francis strikes the perfect balance, making it accessible even to those without a background in horses. Well done!

However, the time period in which the book is set, written in the 70’s, seemed a bit ambiguous to me. References to cable wires and telephones, along with mentions of WWII and the Edwardian era, left me somewhat distracted. I was curious to know the exact setting, but ultimately, it didn't detract from the overall story. If I had to guess, I'd say it was set in the late 1950’s. This ambiguity was the reason I gave the book 4 stars.

What I really liked about the book was that all the elements of the mystery were presented early on, challenging the reader to piece them together. I also appreciated that the murder occurred right away, rather than waiting several chapters. This allowed us to get to know the characters as the story unfolded. Additionally, the main character, Alan, was a refreshing departure from the typical armchair detective. He had a day job and a hobby, neither of which involved detecting. Overall, I enjoyed this book and would recommend it to mystery lovers.

See my full review here.

Two stars might seem rather severe when it comes to the plot. In fact, as the first in the series, it is quite ingenious and well-conceived. The typical tropes of the Dick Francis thriller are present here, although perhaps at this stage they are still in their infancy.

One aspect that is truly lacking in this book is our hero's struggle against a massive physical penalty to the extent that later books tend to have.

However, in my opinion, Penguin has really made a misstep by leaving the N-word in the text. If it were used directly by a character as an expression of their personality within the context of race being significant to the plot, I might be able to accept it. But in this case, a character casually uses the 'in the woodpile' phrase (yes, this book is 60 years old). Anyway, it was extremely jarring to come across it near the end of the book, and I don't think it does anyone any favors to leave it in.

I remember this book from many years ago when I was a teenager and used to regularly check out the unabridged audio version. Honestly, I don't ever recall hearing that. Possibly, a 1980s audio version was more progressive than the publisher (or perhaps my memory is failing me over 30 years later, which is also a possibility).

The main character in this story is supposed to be an amateur Sherlock Holmes, but he does far too many idiotic things to make the reading experience enjoyable.

The story begins with Alan, who has a great relationship with his extremely wealthy father and thus doesn't need to work. He spends his time as a jockey riding steeple chase horses and lives with his friend Bill and Bill's wife and children. In a race, Bill is riding the lead horse when a bad guy strings wire over a jumping fence, causing Bill's horse to fall and killing Bill. Alan, who is right behind Bill, sees the wire but doesn't know what it is at the time. He then decides to investigate Bill's murder. However, someone wants him to stop and threatens him.

The reviewer has several issues with the story. For one thing, there is too much illogic and stupidity. For example, Alan sees the wire that killed Bill but doesn't immediately go to the authorities. Instead, he spends hours at the hospital with Bill's wife and then later goes to the race course to investigate. When he sees the wire again, he doesn't take a picture or bring a witness. By the time he brings someone back, the wire is gone. Also, the reason the bad guy waits hours before removing the wire is not logical.

Another example of stupidity is when thugs attack Alan and threaten him to stop investigating. He expects the bad guys to put up a wire in another race to take him down, so his plan is to stay in front and take the wire himself to protect the other jockeys. This is extremely stupid as he is wealthy and could easily hire a private investigator or bodyguards to prevent such things from happening. Instead, his horse hits the wire, he falls, gets trampled by other horses, and is then kicked in the head and ribs by a bad guy, resulting in amnesia, a concussion, and broken ribs.

The story also has an incomplete ending. Alan has a scuffle with a bad guy, and the bad guy gets injured, but the book ends without saying what the injury is or whether the guy is dead or alive. There is also no mention of whether there will be evidence to put him away.

In addition, there is an unsupported romance thrown into the story. Alan meets Kate, thinks she is beautiful, and has two dates with her. He kisses her once and then tells her he loves her and wants to marry her, even though there is no character development about her and we don't know what they talked about or what made him love her.

Despite these flaws, the reviewer did like the story about Tompkins, who owned a local bar and was beaten up and had his property destroyed by thugs who wanted weekly extortion money. Tompkins took smart actions to protect himself and worked with other local shop owners, and his story was the reviewer's favorite part of the book, although it was only a minor side story.

Finally, the reviewer had some issues with the narrator, Tony Britton. While his British accent might be okay for British people, it was hard for the reviewer to understand, and they had to concentrate and pay careful attention, which took energy. Some reviewers also complained about his voice for the drunk character Joe, and the reviewer didn't like it either, although it was only in a few scenes. Overall, the reviewer will probably avoid this narrator in the future.

The unabridged audiobook has a reading time of 8 hours and 9 minutes. There is no swearing language or sexual content that the reviewer recalls. The story is set around 1960 in England and was copyrighted in 1962. The genre is mystery suspense, and the ending is happy although incomplete.