Cheltenham Festival 2013: Channel 4 and Clare Balding are greatest team on Earth ... as long as you are winning The sport's many aficionados like to wax lyrical about the magnificence of the setting, the charm of the characters, the purity and drama of the combat, the richness of the stories: the very stuff that constitutes sport in its truest sense. Which is all very true. But the fact is that all this has merely the tiniest bearing on our enjoyment. The only thing that matters in that respect, of course, is what has just happened to our money. Even the grimmest, most godforsaken racecourse in Great Britain, with the rain pelting sideways and a gale smacking you in the face, can seem like the most beautiful place in the world when your 10-1 shot has just come in. Likewise, if you have just lost the mortgage on a dead-cert, then you could be in the Royal Enclosure supping Veuve Clicquot while dusky beauties fan you with ostrich feathers, and it would still fail to improve your mood one jot. And this rule applies whether you are jostling your way through a packed paddock, or reclining on your sofa with a mug of tea and a copy of the Racing Post. My Cheltenham got off to a bad start with the defeat of My Tent Or Yours in the opening Supreme Novices" Hurdle, and as Channel Four's extensive on-course team dissected Champagne Fever's triumph, I could think nothing but uncharitable thoughts about the smarmy Nick Luck, sitting alongside the charmless Jim McGrath and the inane Graham Cunningham, who seemed to be obsessed with race times. "It's 3.53.48, which shows it's definitely not heavy ground," he said, before drawing the exact opposite conclusion after the second race, the Arkle. Everything looked bleak during these expensive early hours. Reporter Alice Plunkett looked out of her depth, Rishi Persad painfully obsequious. Even the normally generous Clare Balding, icicles forming on her quiff in the biting chill, appeared to be revelling in my discomfort, her every warm chuckle like a dagger to the heart. But Hurricane Fly's storming triumph, wiping out my earlier losses, seemed to cast everything in a more pleasant light. The accomplished Luck, the insightful McGrath and the immaculately-prepared Cunningham paid fitting tribute to Hurricane Fly's feat, while the enthusiastic Plunkett conducting a fine interview with Ruby Walsh. By the time odds-on favourite Quevega came home, the comeback was complete. Balding was the best presenter on television, Simon Holt the most evocative commentator, the respectful and erudite Persad quite simply the finest specimen of man alive. This was the greatest festival on Earth and Channel Four had assembled the finest team on the planet to cover it. Funny, that.