Something has to be done about Get Well cards.   When I was in hospital in the Life and Death ward, a whole bunch of the most meretricious, pointless bits of cardboard anyone ever squandered two-and-a-half quid on arrived.   Of course, one is delighted there are friends, relatives, readers and listeners even, who wish you well.  

But, I ask you, when you're in intensive care, with all your vital bodily functions being performed through tubes and nurses keeping a 24-hour watch on the machine that goes 'ping', a cheery cartoon of a recumbent penguin with a red nose, and the legend, "Hope you're back on your feet soon," seems to me to be in rather poor taste.  

"Hope you don't die" or "Hope they don't run out of morphine" might have been more appropriate.   I think the most asinine message of all was "When nothing goes right, go left," on one of those middle class cards trying to be clever.   What does that even mean?   How would I follow that advice?  

The problem is that Hallmark and their cohorts in the cardboard message business are so busy inventing yet more spurious occasions to hawk their trash - Grandfathers Day; Congratulations on remembering to put the wheelie bins out; Hope you can get into your new roll of toilet paper without tearing the first few sheets, that kind of thing - that they are missing an opportunity staring them in the face.

Because of advances in medical science, of which I was certainly a beneficiary, there are more people than ever surviving conditions that in the not too distant past would have had the medics shaking their head and giving you three months maximum.  

Now these poorly people pulled from death's door, and in the throes of fairly gristly recovery - let's not beat around the bush, it's me I'm talking about - might find the suggestion on one card I received that I'll be "skipping around again in no time," a hollow, rather sick joke.

What we need, Hallmark and co - and I offer this million dollar idea for free - is a Seriously Ill range alongside the standard Get Well cards, bearing slogans such as "Going out? Hope you can find a disabled toilet," "Congratulations on walking 50 yards and back to the local newsagent," "Best of luck in getting off the couch today."

The last one is particularly pertinent for me, as I am currently inhabiting what the great A A Gill described as "the sound-down, rubber-knicker, no-sharp-objects land of remedial daytime television," which prompts another possible slogan for the Seriously Ill range, "Hope you're not that sick you find yourself watching Alan Titchmarsh."

The racing, which despite what some say I still think Channel 4 makes a pretty good fist of, saved me from the dreaded Titchmarsh towards the end of last week.   The St Leger festival at Doncaster is not quite Cheltenham or Royal Ascot, but the sequences of stout Yorkshire ladies in tight dresses and silly hats caught perfectly what festival atmosphere there was.

I just wish their tips were better.   There's a sequence in the undervalued Woody Allen film Stardust Memories in which he encounters some aliens, and asks earnestly what he might do to contribute to the good of mankind.   "Tell funnier jokes," is the reply.  

Well, when Channel 4 is deciding what steps it might take to make its racing coverage more of a crowd pleaser, my advice is "Tip more winners."

I don't blame Channel 4 entirely for my disastrous investments.   I have to share some of the blame for setting up an Ethernet connection by my bed, primarily to enable me to tweet semi-amusing thoughts during X-Factor, but also allowing instant access to the online turf accountant industry.   The problem is, when you're backing losers online it doesn't feel like real money.   If I were handing over tenners, it'd be a different matter.  

Anyway, I managed to get through four days of the festival without a single winning bet.   I did, however, tip Charlotte to win Celebrity Big Brother.   If you keep these columns in the special Racing Post souvenir binder, you will note that two weeks ago when Charlotte was 7-2, 4-1 in places, I recommended her to you, following equally astute advice on the Eurovision Song Contest and the Rugby League cup final.

In view of this, I was hoping this fine newspaper might change my by-line from "the renowned critic" to "the man who knows," but I may have to keep away from the horses before that happens.

Predictably, I failed to put money on Charlotte, and I am wondering whether this is a common phenomenon among gamblers; the ability to pick winners when there is no financial impetus, and a corresponding uselessness when the hard-earned is invested.  

Sometimes I name the winner of a race, the horse duly obliges, and my son says, "You should have backed it," to which my response is invariably the ludicrous, "Well, if I had put money on it, it probably wouldn't have won," as if there were some god-like presence, ignoring the really serious issues; Syria, world poverty, Alan Titchmarsh, simply in the cause of doing me a bit of no good.

It's a notably brainless belief, held I suspect by quite a few fellow mug punters.   Although interestingly for me, recent medical horrors might possibly lend it a bit of weight.   Skipping around again in no time, indeed.