In this one-man comedy character study, Andy Linden (John the Watch in Count Arthur Strong) presents a series of short episodes in the life of struggling punter-tipster, William Baxter. It takes us through his highs (those tips winning big), his lows (a betting coup gone wrong) and introduces us to the characters that surround him – a guileless postman possessed of Nostradamusian foresight, a formidable trainer’s daughter (Baxter’s love interest), and an unlikely business rival in the shape of his landlady’s racing-disinterested nephew.

Linden is convincing as part of racing’s milieu. He’s perhaps more like the down-on-their-luck ex-jockeys/stable staff that you see haunting racecourses than any of the tipping fraternity, but that more poignant direction would not have offered up the laughs that this show seeks and mostly delivers. Some of its one-liners are a little over-wrought, but it all breezes along quite nicely. And the emotions he goes through willing his horses home are readily recognisable and well-delivered.

Unfortunately, the show has to wrestle with the problem all shows about racing have (indeed, that racing itself has) – its arcane terminology is lost on the general public. It’s hard to build dramatic momentum when your plot demands an explanation of how each-way terms work. And when you’re not explaining, you’re hoping that talk of a novice handicap chase at Kempton or a hurdler tackling fences for the first time gives colour to the piece, even if the audience doesn’t have a scoobie what the words actually imply.

A corollary of this is an over-reliance on tropes a generalist audience is familiar with – the seedy bookmaker, the chancing tipster, the coup everyone’s in on – even if they bear scant resemblance to the modern game. In real life, tipsters do not stroll into their local betting shop and get accepted for a bet to win £12,000 while verbally sparring with the manager. These days, it’s all dead-eyed addicts in the shops and numbers geeks trying to bypass account restriction algorithms online. Baxter admits that as a telephone tipster he’s something of a relic, but really, the whole set-up is based on the imagined betting world of 30+ years ago.

That artistic licence is of course absolutely forgiveable, even necessary, in a piece like this, but it does result in a simplistic, by-numbers set-up – is our plucky punter going to get one over his bookmaking nemesis? – to which there’s limited dramatic depth or unpredictability. A likeable piece, then, but one without the observational nuances that could fully round Baxter out and make you believe in him.