I think it was Sixties songbird and sandwich enthusiast Mama Cass who pointed out that the darkest hour is just before dawn.   And boy, she got that spot-on.  

Those of you collecting these columns in the luxurious leather-look souvenir Racing Post binder will know I recently had major surgery, as a consequence of which Morpheus deserts me some nights, so I'm all too familiar with the darkest hour.   On Saturday for instance, sleep obstinately refused to knit the ravelled sleeve of care, and not having a castle to skulk around like Macbeth, I resorted to the modern equivalent, watching TV.  

With four unforgiving hours to fill before Channel Four's Morning Line, I began to flip furiously, in a vain quest for something to distract me from aches, pains, and sleeplessness.     A 1970s episode of Sykes, on Gold, diverted me for about two-and-a-half minutes before I began to drift into the outer reaches of the remote - More 4 + 1, Fox HD, CBS Reality, those channels - where hawkers and hucksters rule the airwaves through the wee small hours.  

Those of you who routinely enjoy eight hours of the guiltless every night, will not have seen their 'commercial presentations,' so let me explain.  They're 15 or 20 minute programmes where a fast talking flim-flam man (or woman) demonstrates some 'miracle' device or fitness regime, followed by personal testimony from 'satisfied customers,' then he tells you about it all over again, bawls about the bonus 'free gifts' they send you, extra nozzles, attachments and the like, before putting the squeeze on you for £99.99 in three easy payments of £33.33.   They're what's on telly when you're asleep.

But who knew so many people were looking for a steam cleaner at four in the morning?   On at least eight channels, the X5, the 'incredible 5-in1 steam-cleaning machine,' was being flogged.  

They're very keen, these f-f people, on telling you about the 'revolutionary new technology' their devices employ.   In the case of the X5, the revolutionary technology is what we scientists call 'hot water,' or, as they put it in the pitch, 'the super-heated steam loosens the dirt while the micro-fibre pad locks it in.'

It's a mop, basically.   But it's a hundred-quid mop, so clearly needs to offer more than clean floors, and lo-and-behold it 'steams away the wrinkles in your clothes.'

Now, I'm projecting here but my guess is that if you are pacing the castle ramparts, or indeed watching More4, at the dead of night instead of lying abed there may be more on your mind than creases in your strides.  

Perhaps you're worried about unwanted hair.   If your bikini line were a little less unruly, maybe you would sleep easier in your bed.   In which case 'isn't it time you discovered for yourself why millions of women and men around the world have switched to No! No!?'

That really is the name of the device: No! No!   As a collector of gratuitous exclamation marks, I salute the No! No!   'No hair! No pain!' is its mission statement.   Its revolutionary technology would be the 'thermicon tips,' I suspect (finally we're getting some thermicon in our hair removal products), or possibly the 'patented buffer pads.'

Anyway, 'Emmy nominated actress' Kassie De Paiva claims to use it, and it's recommended by its producer Dolev Rafaeli and by 'magazine beauty editor' Tai Beauchamp, and they're all contenders in my annual Unusual Names awards, so that's something to consider.

I may have been less than alert by the time Morning Line came on, but while they covered in their review of the week Tony McCoy's nomination for Sports Personality of the Year - 'Get voting and lump on' said Mick Fitzgerald, sentiments I heartily applaud - I don't think they touched on the topic of corruption.   This was an odd omission in a week when Jamie Reid deservedly scooped the William Hill sports book award with Doped, the real life story of the 1960s racehorse doping gang - and tangentially, arrests were made in connection with match-fixing in football.

Jamie made a celebratory morning-after appearance on my Radio Leeds show, where I agreed with him that the book would make a terrific film, being full of fascinating atmosphere from a bygone era of spivs, cads, and smoky nightclubs.   You could see it having a similar appeal to those films that touch on the Christine Keeler affair or the Ruth Ellis case.   There are some of us unable to resist any movie where the police drive black Wolseleys, criminals have the decency to Brilliantine their hair, and the soundtrack consists of tinkly '60s pop tunes.

On which topic, I am sure someone told me of another notorious scam back then, when betting shops were cheerless, screenless places where you followed the race through expressionless commentaries relayed from the track.  

As I recall it, the way the sting worked was that one member of the gang was at the racecourse passing information to a cohort in the shop via a hidden earpiece, somehow getting ahead of the shop's commentary which was always slightly delayed, enabling the chap in the shop to place bets on horses that had in fact already passed the post.  

I admit it sounds unlikely, but I would welcome any specialist knowledge convincing me that this is a real memory rather than something I dreamt up in the dark hours, in a heavily medicated state between commercial presentations.