When Rule The World crossed the finishing line at the Grand National on Saturday, a few lucky winners celebrated.

Meanwhile, millions of losers tore up their betting slips. The ripping was as loud as a sonic boom.

The bookies didn’t hear it over the cash registers. William Hill estimated around 35 million bets on the day - £200 million. That’s a lot of betting slips – a lot of disappointed hands.

The National, they always say, is anyone’s race. As were the Race Nights my Mum used to help run at Oxford United’s Manor Ground.

As a nipper, I got to select any one of eight anonymous films from round metal cans, and help load them on the projectors.

I caught the romance of horse racing early on.

Watching flickering films of unnamed horses, while sucking a bottle of strawberry Panda Pop.

I remain fond of the sport.

For gambling however, I have no such enthusiasm. Not even when Ladbrookes offer 200-1 on Jeremy Corbyn becoming the next James Bond.

First, my Nan put me off when we played Friday Night Bingo in Great Haseley village hall.

A full house could win you either a cauliflower, or a tin of tomato soup.

Having lost both her fifty piece pieces she issued a fierce warning against squandering hard earned cash. She was a dragon – but I’ll never forget her warning.

A bigger put off came when I worked alongside a former jockey. His was a proper habit.

Life teaches you harsh lessons. But some people sit there and daydream regardless.

This gambler could walk into the pub after work with hot tips.

Advise on doubles, trebles and all sorts of combinations of ways in which you could make a fortune.

He could occasionally show off pockets of cash. But he could never explain to his wife why their children were hungry. Or explain to us, his work colleagues why someone who boasted about all this wealth, still had shoes which were falling apart.

So the only way I can explain my shameless bet on the Grand National every April is that I’m buying into a great tradition.

British horse racing.

It’s a tradition acknowledged by 600 million viewers across the globe.

We should be proud so many pay attention to the sporting life of our islands. Surely, they can’t all be betting?

Horse racing history abounds with stories, bets or not.

Take Orville – winner of 20 races between 1801-1807. An engraving of him adorns our staircase. Orville went on to sire several winning stallions. Less successfully he sired two horses with five legs each, and one with no feet.

In 1806 he thrashed Sancho - owned by Harry Mellish, a man so gambling obsessed that he passed rainy days by betting on which raindrops would reach the window sill first.

Realising his debts were insurmountable he threw a huge farewell carnival at a borrowed house – and invited the Royal Family.

Ten to one they won’t turn up, he might have quipped.