AND ANOTHER THING…
WE ALL KNOW you should not attempt certain ventures under the influence of drink. Driving is top of the list – trying to chat up the opposite sex features highly, as does betting and attempting to write a column. Not guilty on the first two; unfortunately, woefully culpable in the last two cases.
I am in Paris: Longchamp to be precise. They run the first – a Listed event – as lunch is served. Everything in France stops for food so we don’t really notice the victory of Never Forget which, given its name, seems inappropriate. Instead, there are discussions concerning the merits of the claret and the beef. I have a glass of wine. It is typically French, that is to say too nice and too cheap by our standards. One glass becomes two, becomes three and thereafter four. I am drowning in grape – sunk, all willpower drained.
Over a trip that is barely five furlongs, Marchand D’or cannot win the Prix de Saint-Georges. Paradoxically, he does. The seven-year-old defies the claret, meaning it is time for another glass to clear the head.
Today is all about international racing. There is the Group 1 Singapore Airlines International at Kranji and the 1,000 and 2,000 French Guineas at Longchamp. The British contribution consists of Flat racing at Ripon. There is also jump racing at Market Rasen and Stratford, featuring horses I have not heard of. Some jump – others don’t. It is run-of-the-mill stuff. There is a tip for Florentine Ruler at Ripon. Some tips win – others don’t. This one does. Needless to say, no-one in our party backs it.
On a topsy-turvy day, despite floppy weather forecasts, it is raining in England but dry in France. Conditions are steamy in Singapore where it is kinda hot (to quote Paul Theroux), humid and wet. On rain-softened ground, Lizard’s Desire slithers by ever-consistent and gallant Gloria De Cameao to reverse Dubai World Cup form. At the time, those of us that know it all stated the World Cup was sub-standard. That form traversed a quarter of the globe here. Lizard’s Desire is a strange name for a Group 1 winner. What do you suppose would head such a reptile’s list: an insect on its tongue, a rock, a hard place, a member of the opposite sex? The claret is taking over again…
Back to Longchamp: quoting and translating Sophie Ellis-Bextor, it was not quite Meutre a la Discoteque, more a question of Murder on the Racecourse in the next. In a scrum of a race, having grabbed the English 1,000 Guineas in the Stewards’ room, Special Duty, possibly deciding this is an easier option to Group 1 success, repeated the feat in the French equivalent. In truth, given a poor and over-confident ride today, she looked the best filly but benefitted from carnage up front. They disqualified whatever was first past the post for hampering another runner, thus allowing Special Duty to win back-to-back Classics. I am turning into Rory Bremner now; a brown horse leads with a brown horse in second place, followed by a darker brown horse etc… Ce la vie!
Lope De Vega – named after a famous Spanish playwright – beat Dick Turpin, named after a famous British highwayman, in the French 2,000 Guineas. Siyouni got no run but did not look good enough in any case according to the claret.
AND ANOTHER THING…
MONDAY; bright but windy; deceptively colder outside than it looks from inside. The first day of the working week is invariably a strange one. Those in racing could argue theirs is a seamless occupation; those of us not constrained by official employment have to make time for ourselves when we can.
We enter a new week with a couple of last chances on the horizon. We witness the dying days of a Labour Government. As it becomes increasingly clear that the Conservatives and the Liberals are to reach agreement, Saturday’s Mail poured scorn on such a process. Nevertheless, their constant sniping at everything means, as a newspaper, they have become the equivalent of the boy that cried wolf. According to the Mail, nothing is right; the world is on the brink of all that is unsavoury. However, they did carry a picture of Samantha’s greeting to David Cameron on his return home. Cameras penetrated the glass panes of the front door as Samantha planted a kiss loaded with a combination of passion, pride and affection on the cheek of what is likely to be our next prime minister. With eyes closed, one hand round his neck, the other outstretched with fingers delicately about to snap the lock on the door, it could have been a painting by Jack Vettriano. A touching snapshot before the couple retreated to the privacy of their home with Samantha gently alleviating the weight carried by her tired husband. Some pictures do indeed say a thousand words; this was one of them. David Cameron is looking more like a statesman with each passing day – his wife more like a statesman’s wife. Suddenly, after so many years as a Socialist, I find myself wishing them well.
If the politics of this country have reached a temporary cul de sac, so has the path to Epsom. The Derby print is fuzzy. After the victory of Midas Touch yesterday in the Beresford Stakes, more a piece of work than a race, some are redirecting the spotlight towards stablemate St Nicholas Abbey.
looking very fit, he was a stone below any form shown last year. Even if making the kind of improvement necessary, this did not look a strong renewal of the season’s first Classic, leaving him vulnerable. Lastly, I am always sceptical about Montjeus as he fails to sire robust offspring. Prejudice in racing can be costly, but those of us with an opinion need to tell it as we see it, risking being lynched when wrong
There are several reasons why I doubt St Nicholas Abbey will win the Derby. Firstly, he does not look to have flourished physically since last year. Lean, lightly framed and on the small side, I will be surprised if he can regain his juvenile dominance over Classic rivals. Secondly, he was never moving like a winner at Newmarket in the Guineas where, . The noose hovers but St Nicholas Abbey will not do for me whatever rhetoric I hear from Ballydoyle over the next couple of weeks.
We are entering the final phase of the Derby build-up. This week all eyes will focus on the Dante at York. The O’Brien team will know better where they stand after the race. I think it entirely possible they lack their usual firepower. It could be work by St Nicholas Abbey – against sub-standard rivals – has misled. I understand there is at least one major word for a horse likely to make the Dante line-up – a horse that could shake the market up if he performs as expected.
For now, as with politics, although developments may be nearby in terms of time, resolution stretches into the distance.
It seems a week is a long time in politics. It is also a long time in racing.
Watch this space…
AND ANOTHER THING…
THE EMAIL ARRIVED JUST BEFORE David Cameron said a few words. Given a free hand, I can imagine the few words he might have chosen. Much the same as mine in fact as RUK informed me that tomorrow offered a betting bonanza with the screening of twenty-seven races.
We get these weekend emails from RUK and ATR, treating us like kids about to embark on a school outing.
Oh good goody gumdrops! Why, I can hardly wait! Maybe I will call their bluff and turn Saturday into a betting bonanza day. I had planned to cut the grass and tidy up the garage in the morning but now am not so sure.
ATR will presumably be inviting me to guess the draw at Ascot and reminding me that Lingfield stages its Classic Trial card. From a betting point of view, Ascot looks awful with its big fields and tricky handicaps.
Lingfield looks as if it might contain a few nuggets. Nothing too clever, but then a winner is a winner and, bogged down by work, I have watched several of those go unbacked this week.
Golden Stream looks to be of interest in the first at Lingfield. Despite a middle-distance pedigree, this seven-furlong trip should suit after running well enough behind subsequent winner Equiano at the Craven meeting.
Henry Cecil looks to have the two trials wrapped up. Timepiece and Bullet Train will both appreciate the step up in trip and should prove capable of providing Warren Place with a double. Those assuming Tranqil Tiger can make it a treble may find the weight concession of a stone to Alianmaar thwarting their plans.
Mia’s Boy could be the answer to Haydock’s 2.00, particularly if there is further rain.
So maybe it will turn out to be a bonanza after all.
AND ANOTHER THING…
SO BRITAIN has made its mind up. Well, not exactly; it isn’t sure. Reluctant to unconditionally hand the reins of power to the Conservatives, voters not caught up in rainy queues (did they think someone was dishing out freebies or Harrod’s were conducting a sale?) sent a negative message to the Labour Government.
This morning we have an awkward situation for all concerned. The losers have to be Labour. Whatever they say, this Government is dead in the water. It seems likely Gordon Brown will attempt to cling to power by his chewed fingertips but there is no way back for him after this defeat. He is the boxer knocked to the canvas three times. To rise for a fourth is inviting further punishment. The longer he lounges in No.10, the more desperate he looks. Of the three party leaders, Brown is in the worst position. Even an alliance with the Lib Dems will not guarantee Labour power in the House. If Labour wish to slug it out, they need to replace Brown. If the Lib Dems want to hitch their wagon to a winning team, they need to link with the Tories. If they prop up a flailing Labour Government thrashing in bubbling waters, the electorate will not forget and possibly not forgive. However, this is the chance for electoral reform, something the Liberals – quite rightly from their perspective – have always hungered after.
For their part, Conservatives need to hold their nerve and say as little as possible. I know such action is an anathema for politicians but nothing is likely to blow up in their faces in the short term. Neither Labour nor the Lib Dems have sufficient firepower. An uneasy alliance with Nick Clegg appears to be their best bet.
As for plugging the financial black hole, I have a few suggestions to whosoever is at the helm of this holed ship we sail. Herewith my budget:
Firstly, drastically cut our expenditure on failed foreign ventures. Afghanistan must be at the top of the list. We must either insist our European partners share the burden of policing the place or withdraw. That should save a chunk.
Help to fund the NHS by siphoning money from the Lottery and from Lucky Dips and other stupid scratch cards. You know those things at the newsagents, bought by those making you late for work.
Stop issuing British passports to asylum seekers or other would-be residents in this country. Instead, hand out temporary passports, renewable on a yearly basis at a fixed cost that exceeds the current one. That will raise further revenue and makes immigrants traceable. Those failing to renew such a document would be here illegally.
Raise taxes indirectly. Increase road tax on all vehicles over 2,000cc and put ten pence on a bottle of wine and spirits. Smokers will have to bear a similar brunt. Broadband is ridiculously cheap. Tax it! Sorry, but it is better to give the electorate a choice how they contribute to the Exchequer than rob them at source, often resulting in hardship.
Phew! That’s a load off my mind – world politics solved in about three-hundred words.
I am wasted on racing!
Is that the sound of a lottery-funded ambulance I hear?
AND ANOTHER THING…
YESTERDAY, BEING SATURDAY, I bought the Racing Post. Big deal I can hear you say. Well, since the Post increased its price and produced its “new and improved website” I haven’t bothered with them too much. I am glad they are clinging on to their “new and improved” price of £1.90 for the Saturday edition, but suspect it will reach £2 before Royal Ascot. For that sort of money I feel we should have a balsa-wood model of Sea The Stars included. Then we can collect parts of his anatomy – a leg here, an ear there – before assembling him piece-by-piece in his glorious entirety at the end of the season. That way, after the clocks have gone back, we will have something to look forward to during the long dark evenings.
I resent paying so much for a newspaper, particularly when much of its content is superfluous – at least to me. Yesterday’s paper contained twenty-seven pages of sport. Most of it was football. Sporting Index inserted a whole page advert, featuring two men at a game eating hamburgers. Wide-eyed with surprise and incredulity, they looked as if they had witnessed a UFO-landing or even Ashley Cole ‘in flagrante delicto’ mid-match. Actually they were ostensibly at the Emirates Stadium, sampling the sort of adrenalin rush only experienced after betting with said firm. Such a feeling has nothing to do with Arsenal actually playing then.
There were bits about snooker, tennis, speedway, cricket, boxing, rugby, darts, athletics and the election. I suppose that is fair, even though the paper is the RACING Post.
Some of the racing content was dull. It is not the paper’s fault; there were seven meetings, four of which we could have done without in my view. However, you know what they say about pleasing all of the people all of the time. The front-page headline was flat; but just what do you say faced with the same scenario on a daily basis and the feature race is the uninspiringly named Bet365 Gold Cup? All the same, racing is grateful for such sponsorship. I suppose the clue is in 365. Therefore, it’s Bell To Hit The Right Note at Leicester, Laheeb To Maintain Progress At Sandown, Tamirinbleu Catches The Eye. I suppose there is not much else you can do with such knotty names. Tom Segal’s other Pricewise tip could have contained the strap line: Nostringsattached to untie tricky Bet365. But it didn’t so what does it matter. It was more a case of Church Island delighting the Sandown congregation – at least those that backed it. I am making light of a serious subject. After all, backing winners, according to Sporting Index, is a matter of great import. It is more crucial than life itself. That is why those two characters at the Emirates Stadium had paid good money to eat dried-up, shrivelled hamburgers and were agog. That is why Blue Square encouraged us to ‘Grab a piece of the action’, why 888sport listed the runners and their prices before posing the ubiquitous question: Who will win the last big staying handicap chase of the season? Stan James employed journalise with: Is Air Force One Mann enough? Betfred must have made some kind of history, their ad failing to feature a picture of Fred. Does any one know if he is ill?
The other major group of advertisers are the tipsters. Henry Rix continues to remind us we could all be living in Bermuda if we had subscribed and listened to his advice. It is about time David Nevison ditched his slogan: A Bloody Good Tipping Service. I am not hinting that it isn’t – I have no idea what it is – but is not the chosen name for such a product somewhat coarse? I wonder if the UKIP banner: Sod The Lot was Nevison-inspired. Nick Mordin warns us not to bet until we have heard what he has to say. There is Tommo in a tired suit. There is a very serious-looking man giving the impression a court judgement has gone against him, advocating the prowess of his computer-based selections. The list goes on…
I am vaguely intrigued to know how these clever men fared on Saturday. Were Saturday’s tips tomorrow’s losers? Did they advise Church Island, Paco Boy or Glass Harmonium? Perhaps they went for I’m So Lucky or Exemplary at Leicester. I wonder if their predictions were more accurate than those spouted by weathermen telling us to expect temperatures of 72 degrees on Sunday, suggesting we could fire up our barbeques.
At least there were the Classifieds.
Panbet were advertising for Live Traders. I can see how they would prefer their traders to be live as opposed to dead. They did not specify that too much else was required of candidates. There was no mention they should be capable flute-players, live in a forest or be conversant with the value of unicorn tokens.
A Farm Manager was required in Doha. I have passed through Doha airport a few times en route to Abu Dhabi or Dubai. I believe it to be a dry state. That is something of a handicap for most of us – a blessing for some. We are all told to drink responsibly these days, which can be tricky. My tip is to make a colourless spirit your chosen tipple. That way it looks as if you are topping-up your gin or vodka with a mixer, when in truth you are topping-up your mixer with spirit. Having a beer fridge in the garage is equally responsible. You can just pop out with a glass for a can, wolf one down, refill the glass and no one is any the wiser. Two for the price of one, surely that is responsible!
There was a job advert for an apprentice in Scotland. Now there is a novel contrast: The frozen plains of Scotland or the dry but warm dunes of Doha. Okay, you get copious amounts of drink in Scotland but at what cost. There is that nonsensical language that features wee and aye a lot and plates of suspicious-looking food. No wonder they drink too much. Then there is the SNP. Alex Salmond is fine, but isn’t he taking his party’s exclusion from the debates a little too much to heart? After all, what does the SNP have to do with the majority of the country?
Michael Dods needs an assistant to work alongside his yard manager. That sounds interesting, something confirmed by Mr Dods in his advert. There is also the benefit of a 2 bed cottage. In these days of repossessions, that is interesting. Unfortunately, the killer blow is that first-class references are required. The only such references I can provide come from a booking clerk somewhere in Bombay that once secured me a seat on an overnight train bound for Mapsa. I doubt that will do.
Somebody in the West Midlands wants a Head Lad – presumably, that is a racing job. Don Cantillon needs stable staff whose weight fails to exceed ten stone – not much chance there then. James Moffatt in Cumbria also requires stable staff although does not stipulate weight. A Yard Person is required in Newmarket and that would seem the best bet. Newmarket is a decent enough town so long as you are on its right side. That is to say not on the wrong side – which can be near Mildenhall, Fordham or Haverhill. You get to drink Banks and Adnams beer in Newmarket, and if you fall over on the way home, it largely goes unnoticed. Add to that the incentive that I suspect the position of Yard Person is attainable and we may have a winner here.
There is no sign of any one scouting for a bashed up and washed-up writer I suppose. Next week, if I can cobble the money together and galvanise my legs into sprinting to the paper shop, as it is Guineas weekend, the job opportunities may conceivably be more promising.
That just about sums this game up – we live in hope.
AND ANOTHER THING…
UNLIKELY THOUGH IT MAY HAVE SEEMED a fortnight ago, the two televised political events leading up to the general election have drawn fourteen million viewers. Ten million tuned in to the ITV event last week, the figures were understandably down yesterday with the debate screened on Sky. A figure of four million still outstrips a re-run of Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased) and Ice Cold In Alex.
That is two ninety-minute debates – the equivalent of two football matches in terms of screen time – attracting a sizeable slab of the viewing public. The format is a feast to make programmers salivate. They provide a venue, three podiums, an audience, a presenter and three politicians turn up and discuss the issues of the day. There are no expensive locations, no overpaid and temperamental actors involved, no stunt men and no directors and their assistants or editors to pay.
Television viewers have demonstrated the unwatchable can become watchable if correctly marketed. In truth, not much marketing has been necessary. Both debates, whilst not riveting, have provided excellent television. To a degree, they have driven a coach and horses through tradition. What they do is to allow the electorate access to the party leaders in a different setting from the scrum that is the House of Commons. Now the three men that aspire to the highest office in British politics have to work for a living in the real world. Their only prop is a lectern. The camera searches and scans their features for any weaknesses, as candidates are required to struggle for public approval rather like contenders in The Dragon’s Den, all desperate to promote the big idea. There is the cut and thrust of live debate; the drama uncertainty contains, as three men discuss policies in unknown territory without the smokescreen Westminster affords. There is no hiding place: questions have to be answered or fudged.
If the sight of three men representing one of the most unpopular groups in the country pinging and ponging questions and answers can attract such viewing figures, what can racing learn? Even the excellent Sky presenter Kay Burley referred to the Grand National as part of her election link, stating that the horse that was sweating the most won the race. This comment was in response to a remark that HD picked up flecks of perspiration on Nick Clegg’s face at some point during the debate.
Horseracing has its work cut out to compete with the big events that crop up in other spheres on a regular basis. The Grand National, Derby and Royal Ascot aside, racing’s problem for the uncommitted is that daily it looks pretty much the same. Granted the names change. Horses spring out of the paper as guaranteed winners in the morning, often confirmed by messages containing superlatives, only to disappoint in the afternoon. For every Alainmaar – the 11/8 winner of Wednesday’s City And Suburban – there are two equivalents of the never-going-to-win Dizziness today. Bookmakers are alert to these messages to such an extent you feel sometimes they have tapped your phone. They slash prices about horses that are expected to win until, whatever the message might indicate, such horses become unattractive betting propositions. Knit one, purl two; win one, lose two, and even a novice at maths can work out that at an average 11/8, you lose.
Without betting, racing has little to offer. The better meetings always captivate the aficionado; however, to quote Patrick Veitch, either in his book or in a conversation I once had with him – I cannot remember which: Racing is merely horses running across a field. Once unleashed on a racecourse, horses can rewrite the formbook; they are not always what that list of form figures leading up to the moment of their next race states. They can boil over, they can fail to stride out on the ground, a loose stag can join in – you name it, horses, with a perverse magnetism to trouble and mayhem can attract it in all its various forms. Those that cannot afford to spend time on following the form as closely as it requires inevitably find themselves disappointed by their appraisals. Back too many losers; be taken to the cleaners on the prices too many times by the layers and punters will find more attractive ways of spending their money.
So can racing ever stand hoof to toe with the slow build up of test cricket, a ninety minute football match, indeed what has been the case over the last two Thursdays – the political equivalent of Meydan in the first three months of the year – the political debate? Present evidence suggests not. The fact racing viewing figures are eclipsed by politics is something of a blow to our sport.
Possibly those ghastly Racing For Change people could take a look at the present phenomenon that is the political carnival. People are eager to watch because it contains so many ingredients. Firstly, there is the opportunity to see politicians stripped bare. There is the chance to assess answers to questions without the usual prevarication. And many are determined to vote in the May election and welcome an opportunity to be enlightened. Of course, such a recipe would wilt in time and there is only one debate remaining. It would be unrealistic to expect sustenance of interest beyond the General Election, but after the first week in May we have the World Cup build-up and racing will find itself reverting to shadows it seldom steps from.
The point about the unexpected interest in the debates is that people were eager to see how they played out. Racing struggles because it is all talk and very little action. There is too much predictably inaccurate pre-race speculation from racing pundits about what might or might not win an event that is over in a flash of time. Even the Grand National only takes ten minutes to run – considerably less from a punter’s point of view if his selection exits early.
To use an appropriate analogy, you can take a horse to water but you can’t make it drink. Those that see racing as a sport peppered with propping up the bar and leering at the ladies will not be educated or convinced there is more to it. Some of the crackpot ideas unearthed by RFC do little to encourage a different mindset. Racing is what it is. Tinkering with its composition, staging so-called bullet races, staggering times, publishing the full names of jockeys on racecards, trialling bigger number cloths, are an irrelevance. They are only components presented to an audience already present.
At the risk of repeating myself, there is too much racing, the sport suffers from overkill and the tail – in the shape of bookmakers – is wagging the dog.
I am not paid to rack my brains in order to think about such matters in depth, but am certain a prescription for ailing coverage and interest in our sport exists. It is just that without firing up and capturing potential racegoers and followers of the sport, the likes of Lesley Graham, Derek Thompson and even John Francome will not generate much excitement by giggling and talking endlessly about matters that largely fly over the average viewer’s head.
AND ANOTHER THING…
IT WAS A LONG TIME AGO: Thirty-nine years to be precise. The ink has long since dried, newspapers turned to yellowed parchment.
There were two moon landings, strife in Vietnam, Northern Ireland, Bangladesh and Pakistan. The UK went decimal causing prices to double overnight. Joe Frazier beat Muhammad Ali at Madison Square Garden in the first of three titanic struggles between the two legendary boxers. Walt Disney opened a theme park in Orlando. There was the forming of the United Arab Emirates.
We listened to Led Zeppelin’s iconic Stairway to Heaven and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen, thinking velvet words could slice through the thorny paths of corruption and lies. Carole King released Tapestry, Joni Mitchell Blue, Rod Stewart Every Picture Tells A Story. There was Imagine from John Lennon, My Sweet Lord from George Harrison and Brown Sugar from the Rolling Stones. There was Jackson Browne and the Eagles, Yes, James Taylor and Tom Rush.
We watched Love Story at the cinema, along with Dirty Harry, The French Connection and A Clockwork Orange. This was a new age – a real time for change. Forget the sixties – froth – a precursor for the serious stuff that the early seventies brought.
Petrol was 33 pence a gallon, the price of an average house £5,600. This was 1971, the year Gary Barlow was born, as, coincidentally, was Clare Balding.
There was a three-year-old horse that year called Mill Reef, trained in Kingsclere, a sleepy, leafy avenue of a village with a church, three pubs and two main streets. If you drove your Ford Cortina out of the village heading west, you climbed a steep hill that overlooked Watership Down, something it still does. On a summer’s day there were only two colours then, as now: a cobalt-blue sky and the rolling green of the hills.
Mill Reef took leathery morning strolls up the banks and hills to the gallops from where he breezed amongst the Ian Balding string like a ghost in the morning mists. He gulped the Hampshire air deep into his lungs. It fired and fuelled an engine within a small frame that was powerful enough to carry him to victory in the Derby, The Eclipse, The King George and the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe in one glorious season. He gave his owner and breeder, the American Paul Mellon, the ‘best day of his life’ on the first Wednesday in June when he won the Derby. All that is history now, folklore almost, but some still remember.
Ian Balding remembered today in the winners’ enclosure at Epsom and the memory moved him to tears when interviewed by Nick Luck on RUK. In truth, I doubt there is a day that goes by without Mr Balding thinking about that little son of Never Bend. There he was, turning back the clock, exposed to the camera and standing in the very spot that had meant so much to connections of Mill Reef and all Derby winners – the haloed winning circle. The occasion got the better of him in the nicest possible way, and those that shared the memory along with him gulped back the tears. It was a very long time ago and not all of us have made it. Those that have stopped for a moment to remember. Mill Reef was just a horse, doing what he knew – in truth that was all. He won four races in a golden season whilst all around him the world was changing and turning: rivers were running red with blood, skies scrawled with the vapour of bombers as the architects of change plotted an alternative. All this meant nothing to Mill Reef and those that sought refuge in the joy he brought. It is a joy that horses – correction, some horses, bring long after they have departed and are represented by grainy ancient film.
In the middle of April 2010, Epsom staged its first meeting of the season. There are no fences at Epsom. There are ever likely to be. When you see a card there at this time of year, you are aware of spring – of the swallow and cuckoo – the promise of summer. The Epsom camber is the same: a sloping plain of Pisa, inviting horses to run across the course toward the rail. It is a slippery switchback of a course that climbs and plunges before sliding away from the legs of horses. That was how it was today: as it has always been. The Esso signs are gone along with those belonging to Ever Ready and Vodafone. It is all about Investec now. But the winning roll of honour continues. The names swell with each passing year. Some names stand out – the greatest of the great. There is Sea Bird, there is Nijinsky, Sir Ivor and Sea The Stars. For an instant, for those that recalled that day in June, there was Mill Reef. Small in stature but big enough to invoke tears from those that were there, that shared a hair of his mane, that cashed the winning slip, that returned home on the coach, in the car or on foot to the train that in those days departed from Epsom and took them to Victoria.
He was just a horse. Mill Reef was his name.
NEWBURY – SATURDAY APRIL 17th
LIKE A MONSTER WITH INDIGESTION, a piece of angry rock is apparently spewing a black mass of ash into the atmosphere. There is no evidence of this three-mile high cloud. The sky is blue. The sun is bright. Beneath this canopy it was business as usual at Newbury. The message in the maiden that opened the card was for Tenessee. Like the spelling of this son of Nayef, the message was probably almost but not quite right. Having apparently been working with Dansili Dancer, Tenessee turned to jelly quickly, but not before he had attracted significant market support. Sometimes you wonder how authentic these messages are. Is someone making them up? If they are, I trust they are well paid. Ritual, a fine example of Cape Cross, was another to make a rapid retreat, leaving Colonel Carter to pounce inside the last furlong. Significant Move made a highly satisfactory debut for Roger Charlton, whose yard appears to be finding its stride. Latansaa was an encouraging third for Marcus tregoning – another stable that is in form.
Two of last year’s leftovers, in Harbinger and Manifest, dominated the Dubai Duty Free John Porter. Regarded as Classic contenders at various stages of their three-year-old campaigns, neither actually made it. Harbinger seemed to suffer some sort of setback, whilst Manifest, considered a St Leger candidate until beaten on his third start, was possibly too big and immature. Both looked different propositions today. Harbinger had the finishing kick to settle the issue but Manifest showed a great deal of promise. Both should figure in this sort of company throughout the season, although Harbinger could be a Coronation type. Claremont ran with promise in third, just ahead of Polly’s Mark and the lightly raced Blizzard Blues who, as stable mate of better-fancied Manifest was unconsidered, should make his mark soon. Purple Moon appeared to blow up in the closing stages and this run should have put an edge on him. Despite excellent form at home and away, he is not an easy horse to win with.
Cityscape ran very well from top weight in the Spring Cup. His mark is presently 108. It may be raised to 110 after today but a big handicap could well be on the agenda.
Puff did a magic dragon when blowing away Habaayib in the Dubai Fred Darling. Lady Of The Desert looked all set to collect when taking it up a furlong out, but one has to conclude she failed to stay and that her dam, Queen’s Logic, has more influence on her genes than her sire, Rahy.
It was again a case of stamina – or lack of it – being responsible for the result of the trial for colts, the Bathwick Tyres Greenham. Despite pulling away two out, Canford Cliffs ran out of petrol quickly. He lugged badly left, but was on empty in the last half furlong as Dick Turpin robbed him of the prize. Presumably, Canford Cliffs will revert to sprinting now. Arcano failed to replicate his form from the Prix Morny in third, never threatening to play a part. It is difficult to construe a Guineas case for him after this.
They changed the ground to Good to Firm before the following maiden which, showing a high knee action, Tactician did extremely well to win. A son of Motivator, he possibly outstayed the opposition to an extent; even so, he had every chance to down tools. He may not have beaten too much but has plenty of scope and providing this run has not taken its toll, looks to have a future.
Fair Trade justified the decision to come here in preference to Newmarket but the ground was no better for him. Once in front it was clear he would be better with some cut but he held the fast finishing Colour Scheme. Well entered and already having shown signs of ability as a juvenile, it remains to be seen what route he now takes. There is certainly more to come so long as his sights are not set too high. Colour Scheme should have no trouble in winning before long.
NEWBURY – GREENHAM MEETING Day One
One of the better early two-year-old events of the year opened the card, dominated by the February foals, the speedily bred duo, Klammer and Royal Exchange. Klammer collared Royal Exchange from off the pace to shade it close home. The winner is by Exceed And Excel, the runner-up by Royal Applause. Royal Exchange was expected to open his account in this, which looked likely until the winner’s late rattle. He should soon gain compensation. Third was the once-raced Shafgaan who is the benchmark to this, Novabridge having failed to advertise that Folkestone form at Thirsk ten minutes later.
Meezaan landed something of a gamble in the following Class 3 handicap. A winner of a Lingfield maiden, there is plenty to like about this son of Medicean who has plenty of presence and a good turn of foot. He won this comfortably from what in hindsight was a generous mark of 87, and should be capable of progressing further. A quote of 20/1 for the Guineas, however, looks optimistic – something confirmed by Richard Hills in his post race comment that the immediate target is the Jersey. This looked a proper handicap. Runner-up, the fancied High Constable, looks decent enough, with Gramercy emphasising the current wellbeing of inmates from the in-form Michael Bell stable. It is hard to know what to make of the favourite, Rebel Soldier. Admittedly, he lost the race at the start, but he should have made some headway if his advance billing was accurate. On this showing, it was not. Once again, Planet Red went out like a light. It could be six is his trip, but on his two efforts so far this season, he has given little cause for optimism.
Blue Jack provided the perfect start to his new trainer in the Class 2 handicap, producing a finishing burst that split the opposition apart. Elnawin was travelling like the winner approaching the final furlong but it looks as if this five – a trip he has never won over – was too sharp. A return to six should do the trick.
Several lined up for the Class 3 Conditions Stakes armed with stable confidence. Yarmouth winner Admission, locally trained Rasmy and recently Derby-supplemented Bullet Train were the colts in question. Bullet Train is a fine physical specimen that appears mentally immature. He travelled strongly on the outside for much of the way, taking a long time to master the leaders. Nice type though he undoubtedly is, he does not appeal as Group 1 material as he lacks a turn of foot. No sooner had he headed a weakening Rasmy, who probably failed to stay, than Myplacelater swept by to steal the honours. After High Heeled last year, this was another success for a filly in this event. So far confined an all-weather campaign, this was a massive step up on anything so far shown by Myplacelater. Two weeks ago, she had finished behind Pipette at Kempton. Bullet Train should win a race or two, possibly a decent handicap at Royal Ascot, whilst Admission has confirmed his Yarmouth win was no fluke.
All of a sudden, the mood of the day changed. There was the discovery of subsidence on the track at Ayr. At Newbury, Ayam Zainah ran amok in the paddock before the Bridget Maiden Fillies’ Stakes, causing what looked like a serious injury to Kieren Fallon. What with ragged starts at Thirsk, this is a timely reminder to the likes of Racing For Change that this sport concerns highly-strung animals that have not read any script. Whatever way RFC feel they can tinker with this, that and the other (not much sign they are doing anything at present except spending racing’s cash) they should bear this in mind. Today was the perfect example of there being too much racing. Kieren Fallon was stretchered away from Newbury whilst RUK could barely keep up with the action, carrying on regardless, keeping racegoers in the dark as to the jockey’s plight. If he is injured, Fate has played a cruel trick on Fallon that he does not deserve. The race – for unraced fillies – went to the well-grown Funky Lady who knuckled down well to finish nicely on top of Qudwah and Titivation once she got the message.
It was fillies again in the Robert Sangster Maiden. The form horse, Pink Symphony, put her experience to good use. Mujdeya threw away her chance by hanging at a crucial stage and giving her rider little in the way of help in the last furlong. She finished well but there has to be a question about her attitude. Bakongo made eye-catching headway in the last quarter of a mile.
There was not much to be gleaned from the Class 4 handicap over two miles won by Satwa Gold. Devil To Pay looked the winner down the straight but, not for the first time, produced only a limited response when it mattered.
Not for the first time, those that tried to outwit the formbook ended up with egg on their faces after the last. Gertrude Bell had finished in front of Nouriya when they were both behind Timepiece last season. Of course, Nouriya was entitled to reverse as she was having her first run at the time. However, it was not to be as Gertrude Bell strode right away to win the second division of the Robert Sangster Maiden with Nouriya unable to deliver a serious blow.
NEWMARKET CRAVEN MEETING – DAY 2
IN THE CLASS 4 MAIDEN FOR FILLIES, Richard Hannon bagged yet another two-year-old event with what looked a smart filly by Royal Applause, Penny’s Pearl. Although the well fancied Golden Shine was undoubtedly unfortunate, the way Penny’s Pearl stretched when asked suggests she may well have won anyway. Credit is due to the stoutly bred Yarooh in second, whilst clearly Golden Shine (green and buffeted around in running) should win next time. Apparently, she is Mick Channon’s best juvenile at this early stage of the season. The first three look useful in a race that was above average.
As always, the Wood Ditton took punters into unknown territory. There were three messages – for Soviet Secret, Diescentric and Chiefdom Prince. The last-named had been keeping yesterday’s winner Desert Myth company, giving him what appeared to be the best claims. Looking sharp enough to do himself justice, he pulled too hard early, only moving well in the middle part of the contest and therefore failed to finish. A drop in trip may be required. Diescentric is a good-sized colt that will improve for this having won with something in hand. Soviet Secret is on the small side and may not be much better than this run indicates. The third, Squall, was just about the paddock pick. A strapping son of Dubawi, he looked as if he badly needed the outing. He stuck on and looks like one to bear in mind next time when he should strip a lot fitter.
It has been a long time between drinks for Equiano who returned to winning ways in the Listed Abernant Stakes. On first viewing, in a desperate head-bobber, it appeared Mullionmileanhour had claimed him; however, the replay showed otherwise. Headed a few strides short of the post, Equiano fought back under a strong Michael Hills drive to snatch victory out of defeat. On his day, Equiano is a decent sort although nominating his day is not always a straightforward task. Lightly raced Mullionmileanhour would seem the obvious horse to take from this after what was only his fourth run. Providing he stands up to training, he should gain compensation. Golden Stream belied her breeding [Sadler’s Wells – Phantom Gold] in finishing a close up sixth. Six is probably too sharp but this will have blown away the winter cobwebs and she could be a different proposition next time.
RACING POST CRAVEN STAKES (Group 3): The meeting revolves around this race and this year’s renewal did not disappoint. Elusive Pimpernel, beaten only by St Nicholas Abbey in last year’s Racing Post at Doncaster, made the perfect start to his second season. As was the pattern last year, he hit a flat spot at halfway but once shaken up found his stride to power clear. Looking to be carrying condition, he has the size and temperament to improve for this run. The time was good, the opposition second-division. By Elusive Quality out of a Sadler’s Wells mare, Elusive Pimpernel has the pedigree to stay a mile-and-a-quarter at least. He may lack the killer kick to win a Guineas but is a solid prospect. Dancing David replicated Doncaster form with the winner in second and Critical Moment confirmed this is his ground rather than the soft he encountered when disappointing at Newbury last backend. He also indicated that the Barry Hills stable has turned a corner.
Sri Putra upset a couple of better-fancied rivals in the Group 3 Earl of Sefton Stakes. First Palavicini then Tranquil Tiger seemed to throw away the opportunity, both becoming overwhelmed in the closing stages. Apparently cruising, Tranquil Tiger lugged to his right, whilst Palavicini hung in behind. Tranquil Tiger has a make-up well known to us. Newmarket, with its wide-open spaces, is not ideal; tighter tracks bring out the best in him. For that reason, he could be appealing at the Chester May meeting.
Eldalil justified market support in the Class 4 maiden, a race often responsible for fillies destined for better things. A most attractive daughter of Singspiel, seven furlongs looked a minimum both before and after. She travelled smoothly throughout, eased to the front with two to race but in the end had to find extra to hold Dance East. Although the margin was narrow, Eldalil was always going to win and will come in to her own over further. She looks like a filly to follow.
A handicap that has featured some illustrious names of the past closed this two-day meeting. Wigmore Hall won in a slow time without being asked a serious question. On the face of it, this looked impressive but caution is advised. The field may not have been as strong as in recent years and his winning mark of 88 means he needs to improve if he is to make the leap from handicap company. Right Step and Tamaathul occupied the places with Official Style showing promise in fourth.
NEWMARKET CRAVEN MEETING
SO DESPITE THE GRUMBLINGS of RFC, the Craven Meeting went ahead. If they have their way, Racing For Change will dispense with this fixture. Let us hope someone has a word. The Alex Scott Maiden instigated proceedings. As usual, there were messages; as is often the case they did not win. Won by twice-raced Balducci – his two runs had been on the all-weather – the race did not look out of the ordinary but should contain a winner or two. Harvest Dancer came there but, as feared by those from the yard that backed him, blew up. It is premature to write off Esaar who travels well in his races but has so far failed to finish off to maximum effect. Making excuses can be costly, but after a wet and desperate winter, the Barry Hills stable has yet to strike form. The way Esaar kept on I am not convinced he failed to stay, which would make him an interesting proposition in a handicap. Of the rest, the desperately green Safwaan is highly regarded and we should expect improvement.
Two-year-olds held court in the next, an event won by Monsieur Chevalier last year. The market pointed to Retainer and this time was spot on. Although only officially two tomorrow, this well grown son of Acclamation knew his job. Speedy, he quickened when shaken up, drawing away in the final furlong. This was another success for the Hannon stable that are currently farming juvenile events. A bold show was expected from runner-up Sikeeb who stayed on in the manner of one that will appreciate a sixth furlong in time. The rest may struggle to make an impact just now. The oldest in the field, the Royal Applause colt, Early Applause, is on the small side and looked hopelessly at sea from the outset.
They raced for serious money in the Tattersalls Timeform 3-Y-O Trophy where the first of plenty of Michael Stoute gambles over the forthcoming months surfaced in Longliner. It is worth stating that if you follow messages from this yard you are often destined to take short prices about unproven horses. Longliner was a 16/1 chance on the book, but when the Stoute team make a move it can be folly to ignore it. Beaten in two minor events last season, Longliner, a son of Dalakhani, is a fine physical specimen that has thrived over the winter. With a dubious head carriage, he looked fazed by events today. According him the benefit of the doubt, his turn should come. Despite looking the winner when shooting clear, Ameer was inched out in the closing stages by the ex-Peter Chapple-Hyam-trained Coordinated Cut. A rare white-faced Montjeu, it could be Coordinated Cut has not inherited any of the negative qualities sometimes associated with his sire. He stuck on strongly for Jamie Spencer as Ameer reached the end of his tether. Hot Prospect was a distant third, just ahead of High Twelve who looked fit but has not grown much since last year and looks unlikely to better this effort.
There was a time when The Free Handicap could throw up a Classic contender but it seems to have lost some of its glitter in recent years. Red Jazz seemed an unlikely winner beforehand but, small enough to be produced fit after an absence, he broke the losing run of the Barry Hills yard. Bounced out, he made all to hold Quadrille, winning from a mark of 107. A quote of 20/1 for the Guineas seems ludicrously short about a colt not certain to stay. Although effectively finishing third of the four with pretensions to scoring, the maiden, Mata Keranjang, should open his account before long. He will improve for a step up in trip (slow early pace did not suit), has developed nicely since we last saw him, and will improve on today’s third.
For the benefit of those associated with Racing For Change, perhaps I might explain what the Nell Gwyn, amongst other events at this meeting, is all about. Such races are designed to pinpoint possible highflyers of the future: those that can progress to Listed of even Group company later in the season. What you do lads, is to watch the race before coming to a conclusion based on what you have seen. It is rather like going to a movie and deciding if you like it. However, if you don’t watch the film you will never be able to form an opinion. Got the idea? So did we see a Guineas winner in Music Show today? That is a tough call to make, but what we did see was a pretty good filly defying two obstacles. Firstly, she had to concede 3lbs to the entire field; secondly, on a day that favoured those up with the pace, she passed the complete field to win. Blue Maiden pressed her on the run to the line but Music Show, whose only blemish was at Ayr in September, was too good despite reportedly being in the need of the outing. This looked a strong renewal with Principal Role (dismounted after the race) an unexposed third, highly thought of Safina a most promising fourth and the strong-travelling Hafawa fifth.
From 1,000 Guineas clues, it was time to turn attention to the Oaks. Taking on the colts in the Feilden Stakes and saddled with a 3lbs penalty, Timepiece had to show plenty in order to justify her position in the second fillies’ Classic. Not out of place against the colts on looks, in a race where nothing went right for her she showed enough to keep the dream alive. Although only fourth, we can expect improvement from Timepiece particularly over further. Rumoush continued the current excellent run of the Marcus Tregoning yard, sweeping past Timepiece two out before lugging right. She has come a long way since winning a Lingfield all-weather event in November. We have seen stronger Feildens than this so improvement from the principals will be required if they are to take on better company.
If we needed any reminding that this meeting can be a graveyard for the message horses, it came directly with the eclipse of widely touted Lunar Victory in the Class 4 maiden. Desert Myth, described as a decent sort by his stable that would improve for the run, won nicely from solid yardstick Deauville Post. Winner excepted, it is a struggle to take too much out of this. There are possibilities for Awsaal and maybe Out Of Eden, whilst Lunar Victory ran poorly and is presumably worth another chance.
Pastoral Player went within inches of restoring the status quo in the last, a race often farmed by trainer Hughie Morrison. With the field split in two, it was the stands’ side that held sway in a photo as Mister Hughie (an appropriate winner) caused an upset at the expense of the well backed Pastoral Player, Sunraider and Racy, who looks the sort to be placed to advantage shortly.
AND ANOTHER THING…
SO NOW WE KNOW THE SECRET! Prolific Pricewise selector, Tom Segal does not just rely on the formbook according to today’s Daily Mail. No, apparently Tom is something of a roué that finds solace and inspiration in the company of ladies. It appears Mr Segal, subject of a current lawsuit, is accused of keeping sex slaves – two young female Russian “attendants” being on call twenty-four hours a day to satisfy his desires.
One Kayden Nguyen, 23, measurements unknown, claims she was treated as a ‘sex toy’ after applying to be Mr Segal’s personal assistant. It’s a wonder Tom has any time to rifle through the formbook; but then maybe that is a task entrusted to one of his “attendants”.
But, wait a moment, this is not about the Racing Post’s Tom Segal after all as these allegations concern an actor, star of Under Siege, The Patriot and A Dangerous Man, amongst many other movies. Therefore, I am wrong on two counts here. This article refers to Steven Seagal [different Christian name and different spelling of surname]. Any vision of Tom Segal boning and boning up simultaneously is of course pure fiction. Sorry Tom.
As for Steven Seagal, although doubtless he enjoys the company of the opposite sex, he looks like an unlikely ‘sex slave baron’. Over the years, he has endeavoured to put his fame to good use. He has lobbied vigorously on behalf of PETA, an organisation concerned with animal welfare. He has devoted energy to drawing attention to the cruelty of the fur trade, the plight of baby elephants in Thailand and in India. A deputy Chief Sherriff in Louisiana, Steven Seagal, an advisor on the James Bond film Never Say Never Again and a tough guy with a black belt in karate, seems an unlikely loser in what looks like a series of trumped-up charges.
Talking of matters legal; what on earth is going on with this former female soldier, Tilern DeBique or Sexy T as she calls herself? It beggars belief that she may receive half-a-million of taxpayers’ cash in compensation for transgressing Army rules. She has trotted out the usual claptrap associated with the supposed put-upon in this compensation culture we find ourselves living in. Like most that pursue huge sums at our expense, she seems an expert in bending the truth. She could start by rebranding her ‘Sexy T’ MySpace image. If the picture of her in today’s paper is anything to go by, plain ‘T’ would seem more appropriate.
I know this is not a political column. However, I do like the UKIP poster, featuring Messrs Brown, Cameron and Clegg, proclaiming ‘Sod The Lot’. Whatever the polls may say, I sense most of middle-England have yet to make up their minds which way to vote. This election may turn into the Mon Mome Grand National in terms of result. In the belief that when push comes to shove many will conclude the present government cannot hide behind the façade open to the Tories that, “The Economy Is in Such a Mess We Have No Alternative but to squeeze the Country like a Lemon”, I have backed Labour to win this forthcoming election. After all, many electors, faced with an unknown alternative and propped up by the current government, may opt for the known over the unknown.
2010 was heralded as a new beginning. One way or another, this seems likely. On the racing front, Racing For Change continue to batter all that is sacred, claiming we should do away with the Craven meeting, allowing the Flat Season to kick off with the 1,000 Guineas. Are they mad? Don’t bother to answer, I think we all know what they are: overgrown public schoolboys on a collective massive earner, attempting to tinker with a sport they appear to have a limited knowledge of. I have a remedy: get rid of RFC and remember where the money to appoint such a quango comes from – The Punter.
Those that advocate Tony McCoy should win the BBC Sports Personality may be missing a crucial ingredient. Normally, the politically correct machine that is the Cooperation leads the public into voting for someone perceived to have achieved success for the UK. Winning a horserace is unlikely to break into this mould.
Those that know Tony McCoy are understandably delighted. He is a great ambassador for the sport and one that contributes considerably to charity. After the famous victory of Don’t Push It on Saturday and Tony McCoy breaking his National hoodoo, comes the welcome racing news that Zenyatta has extended her run to sixteen, equalling Cigar and Citation. The daughter of Street Cry, who has a bigger world-wide fan club than any so-called “Sexy Soldier” or politician, recorded this monumental feat at Arkansas in The Apple Blossom Handicap at Oaklawn Park. A six-year-old mare by Street Cry, named after a Police album, Zenyatta is likely to run once more, but thoughts are turning to her impending stud career. It is possible she will be mated with Sea The Stars, in which case surely favourite for the name of her first offspring has to be taken from a Carpenters song: Interstellar Policeman.
GRAND NATIONAL DAY 2010.
I WATCHED THE FIRST IN THE NUDE. No, I have not become a naturist, or a streaker. With the sun out, I frittered away the morning – cleaning the car, pottering in the garden, fully clothed I might add, and then, all of a sudden, realised racing was imminent. A quick shower later and they were off for the John Smith’s Mersey Novices’ Hurdle. Dripping on the carpet, I watched Peddlers Cross and Jason Maquire ride into a tunnel of noise approaching the last two flights. As the well-backed favourite eased his way to the front, you could sense the packed stands collectively gulp on the run to the last. Peddlers Cross met it untidily but maintained his gallop, extending his winning sequence for the season to five. His win bloodied the bookmakers’ noses on this most important of all days for them, and gladdened the hearts of spectators. After his Cheltenham win, taking a short price about Peddlers Cross may not have been the smartest move but it paid off. This has been a tremendous season for Donald McCain Jnr, consolidated by this prestigious win.
It’s okay, you can remove that vision from your minds now. Appropriately dressed this time, I maintained a hundred percent record for the Flat season when throwing a few quid at Celtic Sultan at Lingfield. In fifth, he ran better than his price suggested he would – maybe I am getting there in time for Newmarket next week. Maybe not! One swallow does not make a summer and all that…
On his Arkle form, Osana should have won the Grade 1 novice chase that came up next at Aintree. A winner of two chases at Navan, it seems fair to say he often places rather than wins on the big day. And any hypothesis had to disregard Tataniano who had been beaten last time at long odds-on at Newbury. It is always dangerous to write off the Nicholls-Walsh combination, as it proved here. Well suited by this quickening ground, Tataniano popped the fences to scoot clear of Osana. This was another favourable result – the best two backed horses occupying the first two places. Bookmakers, sachels swelled by earlier success during the week, had taken another blow but were still standing.
The quality keeps coming. Time flashes by on days like this. Now it is the Grade 1 Aintree Hurdle – won last year by Solwit. The extra half mile can make this a tricky contest as it invariably contains major Champion Hurdle contenders. This year was no exception with only the winner missing. The second, third and fourth re-oppose each other. Zaynar looks to have the call over Celestial Halo and Khyber Kim. Forget the thesis about Khyber Kim being best fresh, forget the slide rule, the formbook is vindicated once again. Champion Hurdle runner-up Khyber Kim gains Cheltenham compensation big time. Celestial Halo takes a crashing fall two out. He defies fate, struggling up on wobbly legs and cantering clear. Ruby Walsh does not look so fortunate. Zaynar was always under the hammer and, not for the first time, Muirhead failed to find what he promised. So it was a case of three well-backed horses obliging in a row.
Part of the dark art of bookmaking is to wait in the shadows. Bookmakers know that all it takes is for one good result in a high profile race to swing things in their favour: they pay; they wait. Bottles of lifeblood arrive for the next three events: tough handicaps – including the Grand National. White teeth glint in the sunlight.
After such an analogy, how fitting that a horse named after a Tarrentino movie about zombies takes the listed handicap chase. From Dawn To Dusk quickened on the run to the last to beat three better fancied rivals in Dom D’ Orgeval, Rare Bob and Wogan. Although 12/1, the winner was not unfancied and will have drawn blood. Bookmakers are not haemorrhaging the stuff but drops are visible. Punters are rocking and rolling. In a city made famous by The Beatles, there are no cries for Help or Please, Please Me.
With everything in their favour, it is little wonder bookmakers battle for business on a day such as this. A Mon Mome or Foinavon-style result can re-balance audit sheets for a complete season. In the Grand National, they have the runners, changing ground, a wide-open contest with no obvious handicap blot, no Red Rum, so, after a day tilted in the favour of punters, layers step from the shadows, sensing and smelling their quarry is ripe.
As an event it is spectacular. It can be cruel. Winners need luck, to race on a golden strip of turf: courage, agility, dourness, inexhaustible reserves: luck, luck and a bit more luck.
Considering we are supposed to be in the worst recession since the last one fifteen years ago, Liverpool is packed. Racegoers are vocal; there looks to be a party atmosphere amongst the designer clothes and the foaming bottles of champagne.
King Johns Castle outwits us all. He takes one look at the scene, deciding it is not for him. They go off too fast, hurtling toward the first. Remarkably, there are limited fallers on the first circuit. After The Chair they start to flag, it is as if riflemen are taking pot shots. You get to spot the principals from Becher’s. Turning for home only Hello Bud is there boxing for the bookies. He is the first of the four that are clear to wilt. Now it is pay, pay time whatever wins. It is the horse that ran Denman to half-a-length as a novice – Don’t Push It. Awash with sweat beforehand, like many a quirky character, Aintree brings out the best in him. He takes to the fences, carrying Tony McCoy to the front at the last. He has a raw battle with Black Apalachi but once in front, McCoy rides as if life depends upon it. Backed from 20/1 to 10/1 favourite, Don’t Push It, at last realises his potential. Now a ten-year-old, it has been a while. Punters should not assume this trick that will work again next year. However, this is a famous victory for AP and JP. It rights wrongs for Jonjo.
Their chance gone, bookmakers wince. The winner is bad, so are the places. Black Apalachi, State Of Play and Big Fella Thanks were all popular. After two days of profits, bookmakers have pushed their luck too far. With the welcome news that all horses have returned safely, bookmakers are the real casualties. Whatever happens in the last two races, they are on the canvas. Possibly, I am relishing their misfortune but they dominate racing, or at least try to, without any thought or concern for the sport itself. There was a time when, to a degree, I would have stood in their corner and defended them. After their constant manipulation of all racing matters, those days are gone.
Dee EE Williams failed to alleviate misery for layers with his victory in the next. The success of Megastar in the bumper delivered the knock-out punch.
AINTREE 2010
THE FIRST RACE WAS PIVOTAL FOR MANY. Favourite backers latched on to Cheltenham winner Menorah, who posted the best figures after that win in the Supreme but faced a different test here. As a result, he drifted from a skinny morning price to odds that were more realistic. The profile horse was La Sarrazine, a mare on the upgrade that had by-passed Cheltenham. The formbook described her two wins as a mixture of ‘clever, easy’ and ‘smooth’. These are not attributes always essential for Aintree winners; often they are more likely to come in handy for writers, tennis players or makers of luxury chocolates. Perhaps La Sarrazine will undergo a career change. She ran okay in the John Smith’s Grade 2 Novice Hurdle but lacked the strength to land a blow against the geldings. A casualty at the first hurdle in the Supreme at Cheltenham, the nibbled at General Miller got up on the run-in to deprive Menorah in the closing stages. A faster pace would have suited Menorah, for whom it has been a long and hard season. He and La Sarrazine attracted serious money, so once again the bookmakers had the punters on the ropes early.
Many in the huge crowd seemed impervious to the intricacies of the horses; some momentarily of the opinion Captive Audience had won the opener as he passed the post first with a circuit left to run. The turf was beautifully striped in two shades of green, making me wonder if those responsible have weekend jobs, and if not if they would like ones. It was Ladies’ Day, making legs a major distraction. Horses have four to look at. Their front ones are different to the ones at the back, but most sets look pretty much the same. Ladies only sport two. No two are the same; most on a day like this are stunning. It would come as no surprise to learn bookmakers have planted hundreds of leggy fillies on the track to distract punters. It seemed there were plenty to distract – most of Liverpool, Manchester, and Cheshire had taken time off to attend.
This made Ogee (derivation of ogle he said in desperation – actually, it is an arch) the topical tip. Some of us thought we knew better than Nicky Henderson and opposed Sun Alliance runner-up Burton Port in very different conditions in the Mildmay. After all, Cheltenham and Aintree are chalk and cheese, but Burton Port has the right name to accompany cheese. Despite sweating beforehand and pulling fiercely on the way to post then taking a long time to find his stride in the race, he won comfortably, completing a first season over fences that has seen him bag five and finish second on his remaining two outings. This is an enviable record. Burton Port has the right kind of attitude to take him to high office.
I am watching this at home as I can’t be trusted at Liverpool. Although I have edged my way to the soft suburbs, I am a Londoner at heart. Even so, I have never heard the expression ‘bangers’ – as in bangers and mash – rhyming slang for cash. Gary Wiltshire certainly has. He earned his gravy, tripping it out to great effect before the Melling Chase, reporting someone had placed 20,000 Bangers on Forpadydeplasterer. That looked money well invested two out, but the son of Moscow Society wavered, running on empty before plugging on from the last. Albertas Run is at his best on this sort of ground. He stayed the trip well and kept on strongly to win a thrilling race.
A tough day was set to get tougher. The omens for those behind with their betting were not good with the onset of the John Smith’s Topham Chase, the first of two double-hard handicaps, a tough looking Sefton and a bumper. Colleen Rooney was unfazed. She revealed the secret of backing winners: it is to go for horses ridden by jockeys in matching tops and bottoms. I am not sure what constitutes a matching top and bottom. I know jockeys can talk out of their backsides sometimes, but surely, all bottoms look the same in breeches. However, no doubt Mrs Rooney knew what she meant. Whatever it was, it apparently stands her in good stead year as she backed Mon Mome in last year’s National and Albertas Run today. I wonder if Tony McCoy is aware his bottom matches his top. Come to think of it…
They thundered round the Grand National fences in the Topham, led for most of the way by Frankie Figg who looked tired when ejecting his jockey two out. The winner, Always Waining, had form figures akin to a coded message received by cipher clerks at Bletchley Park. Two Fs and a P figured, there was an 8, a 5 and a 7. Available at 40/1 with Ladbrokes in the morning, an SP of 22/1 inferred not many, but possibly some, made much sense of his claims. Scotsirish was a brave second from top weight, conceding 2lbs short of two stone to the winner. With carnage on and off the track, BBC cameras tried not to dwell on fallers. Some of them looked, and indeed proved to be, as bad as possible. Cash Point machines were doing brisk business according to Gary Wiltshire. Day Two was swinging in the favour of bookmakers.
Whatever the jockeys said, the ground was encouraging horses to travel a stride too quickly. They motored round the Mildmay course at a kamikaze pace for the three mile Sefton Novices’ Hurdle. It was a very long last furlong for trailblazer Western Leader who, after blasting from flag-fall, fizzled desperately from the final flight. Winning jockey Dougie Costello prematurely dismounting from Wayward Prince, action that is commendable, demonstrating quick thinking in the thick of triumph. He reported he felt the horse to be at the end of its tether.
Adjusting to a schedule that fell behind, BBC allowed their coverage to overrun. Cynics might conclude those looking for clues for tomorrow should take a lead from the programme that was to follow – namely Pointless. However, Gary Wiltshire told us that The Package is an almost certain steamer after lumpy and informed money – or possibly bangers – for the Grand National.
A lucrative day was capped for Jonjo O’ Neill (great tie) and Tony McCoy (average bottom) when Ringaroses won the handicap hurdle. By now, what with all the distractions, I suspect most punters were acting on autopilot – if at all.
Aintree seemed to be buzzing for the last. No doubt alcohol had some influence. It was a mares’ bumper, won by Big Time Billy. Had someone been alcohol fuelled when naming a filly with such a masculine name. No matter, Aintree specialises in fairytales. She provided a double for Peter Bowen, who had won the Topham earlier. Her price suggests this was not a golden end to the day for punters but, hey, pass the bottle this way…
AINTREE 2010
IF IT’S EARLY APRIL, snowdrops are peeping; lawns are squaring up to their first brushes with lawnmowers: it must be Aintree. It can be a funny old place, especially after dark, but from a racing point of view, coming on the back of Cheltenham it presents punters with a perennial problem: will Cheltenham form stand up? That can be tricky. As a rule, horses having had hard races at the Festival should be treated with caution.
Aintree can be as shocking as an electric storm. In the opener, Big Buck’s faced six opponents trying to ensure lightning struck early. It didn’t. I am not sure who backs horses at 30/100; those that did collected; not without some consternation though as Big Buck’s appears to have a sense of humour. Always travelling powerfully, he needed rousting from the turn to pick up the bit, but it was eventually plain sailing.
Orsippus, a Musselburgh winner that had only a slender chance in the Grade 1 on Cheltenham form, defied the formbook when winning the Matalan Anniversary Novice Hurdle, returning to a stunned silence. Sanctuaire, who had beaten Orsippus comprehensively at Cheltenham, loomed at the last but emptied surprisingly quickly. He had won so easily at Prestbury Park that it seemed unlikely anything that had finished behind him there would be capable of overturning the form. Racing thrives on the unlikely and the unlikely turned up in a major way as Orsippus beat the Triumph Hurdle runner-up in Barizan and the Fred Winter winner in Sanctuaire.
If there were to be a surprise, most people’s idea of it was in the Totesport Bowl Chase, a race with a chequered betting history. Results indicated that Imperial Commander was an unlikely winner. Desert Orchid, Denman and Kauto Star were amongst past failures after Cheltenham. Imperial Commander added his name to an exclusive list with a lack-lustre display. With the heavy-hitters staying clear, the Gold Cup winner drifted to what threatened to look a generous 6/4 in places. The owners of the Gold Cup winner were reportedly reluctant to push their luck. Nigel Twiston-Davies insisted they should run. Whatever transpired, the ‘told-you-so’ brigade was armed and dangerous for the post mortem. Results make us all clever in life; however, circumspection appeared lacking in the trainer’s decision to run-and-be-hanged. Although embarrassingly clear on all known ratings, Imperial Commander was never travelling, knocking lumps out of the fences on the far side until eventually depositing Paddy Brennan. As Grade 1s go, this was questionable. What A Friend, 22lbs and three lengths behind Denman in the Hennessy, drew clear of Carruthers who had finished thirty lengths adrift of Imperial Commander at Cheltenham. What A Friend has improved since Newbury, winning a Lexus since and now this after what has been a light season. Whether he has improved 22lbs is dubious, but he is on the upgrade. He still has ten pounds to find to develop into a Gold Cup prospect, but only seven; it would be unwise to assume he cannot progress further.
Baby Run consolidated a miserable day for the Twiston-Davies team when falling in the Fox Hunters’ Chase. In fact, most of the runners fell or departed from their riders one way or another, leaving twelve Misters and one Miss to return with green breeches. Twenty-one went to post, nine returned, headed by 50/1 chance Silver Adonis. Tally Ho!
After a 40/1 and a 50/1 winner, it was the turn of a 20/1 chance in round five as first-time visored Chaninbar bolted away with the Red Rum Handicap.
Faced with a handicap to end the day, punters attempted to fire their way out of trouble in the Grade 2 Manifesto Chase. Stepped up to two-and-a-half miles, a trip likely to be more suitable than that of the Arkle, all Somersby had to do was to replicate Cheltenham form to win. Enough said! Sweating at the start, jig-jogged before the vets; on quicker ground, on a faster track, Somersby clouted fence after fence, failing to lasso the giant Mad Max.
Ainama and Wishfull Thinking were the two expected to win the concluding handicap. Neither obliged, nor did they look likely to do so. Ainama appears to be a bridle horse. I was forewarned that Sir Harry Ormesher was fancied but, in typically shrewd style, decided to ignore such advice. The rest as they say…
Who needs 16/1 winners anyway?
Just in case you were not aware of it, there was Flat racing. Slugger O’Toole will be entered into plenty of notebooks after a highly promising effort from a generous mark at Leicester.
At Maisons-Laffitte, the ground was squelchy. No such description exists but it looked extremely testing. It was not surprising that the short-priced favourite for the Group 3 Prix Djebel, the Elusive City colt Bolcity, floundered in the conditions. In complete contrast, as a son of Dubawi, Makfi handled heavy ground without any problem. Dubawi was possibly Dubai Millenium’s best son – certainly at stud. Dubai Millenium was a son of dirt performer Seeking The Gold so the omens were good for the winner and poor for the favourite.
Sensing an imminent bloodbath, punters shied away from the clear form pick, Special Duty, allowing her to start at only marginal odds-on in the Prix Imprudence. Such caution was repaid. The Cheveley Park winner looked well, moved well, but the finish was missing. She was far from disgraced in defeat and will be a different proposition on better ground. It would be premature for those with ante-post vouchers for this year’s 1,000 Guineas to fret.
AND ANOTHER THING…
APPARENTLY, IT’S A BANK HOLIDAY BONANZA. I am afraid you will have to excuse me for not joining in with the fervour. I agree it is a Bank Holiday; I am questioning the bonanza bit: bonanza for whom I wonder. Ask not for whom the bell tolls – it tolls for thee etc.
At the time of writing (such a cosy phrase as it gets any writer off the hook), there are nine scheduled meetings in Britain and Ireland. Paramount amongst these is the Grand National card at Fairyhouse. Here again I am found wanting. Thirty horses will attempt to plod round and plough across heavy ground on a course hardly tailor-made for such a cut-and-thrust long-distance race. Past results suggest this is not a punter-friendly event, nor is it particularly horse-friendly. Unlike Aintree, which has a course specifically designed to accommodate thirty horses charging in all directions, Fairyhouse is just another track. Cube-shaped, it is hilly in places, has tight turns and is often the scene of carnage – at least on Easter Monday, which brings us full circle.
To give it its proper name, the Powers Whiskey Irish Grand National Chase is run over the same trip as the Whitbread, or Betfred, or whatever it is currently called, at Sandown. It is worth a hundred and forty thousand Euros, which is pretty much the same a being worth a hundred and forty thousand pounds these days I suppose. Competition is varied and fierce. To use an oft-tripped out phrase, it is an eclectic mix. Proven contenders with established form face those ascending the ranks. Nevertheless, it is not for me. I admit I like the first part of the title. I have never tried Irish whiskey, mainly because I do not drink whiskey, or indeed whisky; unless it is bourbon, but I am told the Irish variety should be sampled. Perhaps on another day – possibly at the Curragh for the Irish 2,000 Guineas. As for today, I think I will give it a miss. I cannot solve the race, I admit to having no conception of understanding its complexity, let alone a chance of selecting its winner. I suspect it will look like something from a scene taken out of How The West Was Won, with horses careering all over the place and riders taking spectacular tumbles. Tom Segal and Mark Winstanley have had a stab at it, but then are paid to do just that. Good luck to them and all who sail with them.
We mortals have to confine our attentions to matters of less import. Here, possibly, I find myself influenced by Professor Brian Cox’s excellent program Wonders of the Solar System, which concluded yesterday. Actually, it ended without coming to a finite conclusion, but presented the viewer with some thought-provoking pointers about the possibility of the origin of life and the possibility of its extension beyond this planet. It looks as if the Irish National provides punters with a similar puzzle as that set by the pattern of that swirly starry life above the upper atmosphere, and all that Messrs Winstanley and Segal can do is make educated guesses. Some questions are just too baffling so best left unanswered. However, the paradox is that whilst I am tempted to think Ladbrokes have been too generous about their offered 11/10 for Donnas Palm in the preceding race – a Grade 3 hurdle – I am in such appalling form that even this assumption is likely to be wrong. This opens the way for either Segal or Winstanley to produce a veritable rabbit from the Jameson hat whilst I gaze on in stupefied admiration.
Such is life – at least on an Easter Monday bank holiday with nine meetings and not a winner in sight.
AND ANOTHER THING…
AFTER THE JOLLY JAPES of April Fool’s Day, I am having difficulty shuffling fact from fiction. The disarming point was that a proportion of the ‘silly’ stories appearing in most areas of the media yesterday did not look out of place. We live in mad times. Anything, no matter how ludicrous, seems possible – indeed likely. The more ludicrous, the stronger the chance it will surface.
The Daily Mail reported that AA men were to be fitted with jetpacks that could fly them above gridlocked Britain in order to repair broken-down vehicles.
The Sun invited readers to lick (presumably as opposed to drool over) a page of its newspaper as they had perfected a process of impregnating the paper with flavours.
The Mirror and Express (an unlikely combination) carried an identical story: That the Queen booked herself onto an easyJet flight in order to cut travel costs.
The broadsheets were only slightly more credible. The Telegraph claimed Virgin Media had recruited ferrets to help install broadband to rural areas. The Independent ran a story that a second Hadron Collider was being considered for use in the tunnel of London Underground’s Circle Line. The Guardian weighed in with the best effort: that in an attempt to cash in on Gordon Brown’s tough guy image, the Labour Party was set to introduce billboards bearing slogans including: ‘Vote Labour – Or Else’, and ‘Step Outside Posh Boy.’
On the sporting front, there were stories revealing an aerodynamic jacket for greyhounds; of the supply of a pink West Ham strip by Ann Summers, and that the European Union was insisting the 2,000 and 1,000 Guineas should be renamed the 2,331 and 1,165 Euros respectively to comply with current EU Law.
After the craziness of the past and present, some of these reports needed a second read before spotting the flaw. Right now, we have RMT leader Bob Crow seemingly intent on calling a strike to the run-up to an election, hoping to thwart the socialist government with whom he and his membership are closely affiliated. That does seem odd. Also odd is the fact that in his likening of this action to pugilism, Crow, using a boxing analogy, seems to think heavyweight championship bouts are still decided over fifteen rounds.
Tony Blair returns to the political arena in a half-hearted way to endorse his old adversary Gordon Brown. As he speaks, Blair sounds like an American on a whistle stop holiday. The content is vintage Blair. Hearing the old master, the architect of a Brave New World that turned out to be new but not particularly brave, was refreshing, but right now, the country is not in the mood for politics or politicians. And there is a ripple of thought that Blair, as the man presiding over the country at the time, was largely responsible for the mess we now find ourselves in. That is a problem because, in general, we, the electorate, are clueless. All we do know is that most politicians have taken us for fools and continue to do so.
And this morning – and this is not a political point – we awake to the news that on the eve of Good Friday of all days, Israeli jets strafed suspected Hamas targets in the Gaza Strip.
You may have noticed there is no racing today. A quick glance through the card at Kempton tomorrow offers no obvious reason for optimism, however, in a business that changes in an inkling it may be a different story twenty-four hours from now.
A brace of Grand Nationals wait next week: The Irish version at Fairyhouse and the ‘real thing’ at Aintree next Saturday.
After that it is the Craven meeting at Newmarket and then it is a case of heads down for the foreseeable future with night racing, Classic trials, the races themselves hitting us before we know it and hopefully a brightening of the weather. The long-term prediction that we are in for a hot summer would be nice but, rather like those April Fool articles, no one is counting on it. Just a summer devoid of endless rain, flooding and misery would do. Oh, and perhaps some results we can forecast.
In short, a little more fact and a little less fiction would do.
AND ANOTHER THING…
SATURDAY MARCH 27th: They have taken away the obstacles – well the ones they have to jump anyway – this is the first day of the 2010 Flat Racing Season. It is the first of 210 such days according to me as I hobble across my desk to consult my William Hill diary. I suppose I better qualify the hobbling: I have somehow managed to ‘do my back in’. I believe that is the near-medical phrase; at least it is as close as I am likely to come. Pained retrieval of the diary is retribution for unkind comments made about David Hood of William Hill in one of my Cheltenham pieces I suppose.
210 days, or thereabouts, of preponderance about draws, ground and third run for a handicap mark and whether Richard Hills is aboard the right Sheikh Hamdan horse amongst other impeding puzzles. If only it were as simple as that. It won’t be, but right now, Flat racing provides the besieged punter with fresh hope: the beginning of a new dawn, hopefully, not a false one by mid-May. Thoughts of grey foggy autumn – of the St Leger, Dewhurst, the Racing Post, the Cesarewitch et al are as far away as icebergs on the North Pole.
We open this new beginning beneath the greenish glass of the Meydan stands, which are bigger than a brace of Royal Caribbean ocean liners. Then comes the Lincoln meeting from Doncaster and the Roseberry from Kempton.
Meydan draws first blood on World Cup night. One suspects it is blood drained from punters. A seven-year-old from Hong Kong wins the Group 3 Sprint at 12/1 from a 33/1 shot. Calming Influence – at 14/1 – upsets better-fancied Godolphin representatives in the Mile, providing Mahmoud Al Zarooni with his first winner. Better and more predictable results surely await – perhaps in the shape of Spanish Moon and Twice Over at the other end of the card. Musir strikes in the UAE Derby to provide a famous one-two on behalf of Mike de Kock; his UAE Oaks winner, Raihana, boosts the form of that race in second with Mendip losing his unbeaten record in honourable fashion back in third.
Irish Heartbreak strikes back for punters when landing a gamble in the nineteen-runner Spring Mile at faraway Doncaster. He is punted down to 4/1, wobbling past the line on weary legs, fuelling the draw debate for the big race – something that apparently engenders more opinion than the race itself. The first three here are all drawn high. Possibly the drawn high/drawn low deliberation is a form of diversion by punters. Trying to call the side from which the Lincoln winner emerges is akin to ramifications about the weather in the butcher’s shop. Second-guessing the significance of the draw provides the perfect cop-out for actually indulging in the serious business of trying to nominate its winner – something most of us will achieve no more than four times in a racing lifetime.
Hitherto largely shunned Kempton kicked off their staggered Easter card with the Class 3 Conditions event. Overnight there is a different standard of racing and, as a result, runners. Indian Skipper had a prior engagement, reducing the field to five in the opener. The ex-John Gosden-trained Prohibit outstays Elnawin to win at odds of 6/1.
By now, to quote the racing presenters, the action is ‘fast and furious’. We forget how rapidly races come round on the Flat. Runners go behind, mess about, are off; there is a split screen, an advert for Go Compare, who must be making a fortune to screen so many commercials; it is all happening…How soon we forget a change of gear is required for the next thirty weeks. It takes a little over a minute for Redford to supply me with my first loser of the new season. He has earned a living and a reputation as a flatterer-to-deceive. Actually, he does neither in the Listed Race. Six furlongs may have been on the short side but, after a reasonable effort a fortnight ago, this showing was abysmal. No wonder Michael Bell let him go!
A horse with chequered form figures – two Ps and a slash – ridden by an amateur that dons orange colours with black stars (perhaps he is on his way to a party tonight) wins at Newbury at 25/1.
Perverse is the name of this game. Something comparatively unconsidered wins a five-runner race at Kempton. A horse that is supposedly drawn on the wrong side of the course and is apparently ridiculously short in the betting wins the Lincoln. Penitent’s work companion, South Easter, takes the Magnolia at Kempton. It is not exactly the Derby – one of his targets last year before a setback – but it is testament to the training technique of Willie Haggis.
I abandon Newbury and Stratford, not to mention Naas or should that be Navan? The fast and the furious is beginning to get faster and more furious, the pain in my back more acute and my brain slower. An advert for Gordon’s gin makes me wonder if a good slug of that would have more effect than Ibuprofen.
The first of the juvenile events, The Brocklesby, goes to an Elusive City foaled on Feb 10th, making him one of the oldest in the field. The first three are all February foals – a system that still performs even though you end up with a shortlist of ten in two-year-old races at this time of year. Twenty minutes later at Kempton, an April foal, Takeway, who is not even two yet, beats a May foal in Beach Patrol. So that’s another well-thought out system down the plug hole!
Al Shemali wins the Dubai Duty Free at a massive price. It was bigger than 33/1, smaller than 50/1. It may have been 227/1 for all the chance the average punter had of finding it, unless of course they had a dog named Al Shemali, which is equally unlikely. The argument rotates full circle. Let’s have another Lincoln Handicap!
Just as racing in this country starts to taper, it is time for the first of the two big events in Dubai. It is Sheema Classic time, the aperitif before the World Cup. Ryan Moore has to be any punter’s buddy as he does so little wrong. He gives Spanish Moon a great ride from a bad draw. William Buick defies Newton’s Law in similar fashion when pouncing on Dar Re Mi from an even wider box. Her win is a compliment to last year’s Arc form. Produced at the right time, Spanish Moon cannot contain the mare. Winning jockeys always give horses good rides but this is a major triumph for young Buick who keeps his head to cement a blossoming association with John Gosden.
The World Cup is a first. It is a first for Meydan as a racecourse, Nad Al Sheema now ploughed into the desert, and it is a first for the surface known as Tapeta, that contains a magic ingredient – wax. At least the track will look shiny.
The sun has gone down. The moon, sometimes bone-white, sometimes a deceptive orange as it reflects the burning sand, is hidden. There are fireworks, a giant imitation falcon hovers, there are Emma Ramsden’s legs.
Equine legs take over. There are fifty-six in a field of fourteen. None of the legs matches Emma’s but one set will earn over £3million. That set belongs to last year’s runner-up Gloria De Capeao, narrowly beaten by Red Desire over this track last time. It is something of a turn up. Most viewers feel Lizard’s Dream snatched it in the last stride. Allybar makes it a three-way affair. The prices reflect the result. Twice Over is disappointing, so is Gio Ponti.
That’s almost it from Meydan. Santana and Elton John are about to rock this particular part of the Emirates. The dream that began with Cigar is still smoking. Fifteen years later it continues…
AND ANOTHER THING…
THESE DAYS MUCH IS MADE of our vulnerability to pleasures of the flesh. There is nothing wrong with that – we all need a safety net at times and temptation is making a robust living out there. The truth is most of us, excluding those in monasteries, but sadly not all ordained into the church, have a problem with something. It could be one of the big four: smoking, drug-addiction, alcohol or gambling. Pornography along with eating and shopping to access are less precarious habits, but are still potential life-wreckers.
The trouble is everything is now on tap and at large. Today’s hobby or bit of fun becomes tomorrow’s obsession. We walk a fine line between being users and abusers.
With that in mind, I thought I would have a go at Gamcare’s Fact or Fiction Quiz, designed to highlight a potential problem that could be about to affect, or is affecting, those that gamble.
There are twelve questions, each requiring a Fact or Fiction answer. Herewith the questions, GamCare’s answers – most of which are predictable – then mine along with my final score. You might like to join in:
1: Gambling is an easy way to make money.
GamCare: Fiction: Gambling is a form of entertainment where you pay to play. It is not a reliable way to make money.
Me: Fiction: There is no easy way to make money unless you are an MP, Paris Hilton or Davina McCall. Attempting to make money at gambling – assuming you choose a field where some degree of expertise is required – means spending half a lifetime honing and maintaining that expertise. If I had spent the same amount of time on studies that I have on horseracing, I would be married to Antonia Fraser and be living in Knightsbridge with a winter retreat in Florida. Easy it most certainly is not!
SCORE: 1
2: If a gaming machine in a casino or betting shop hasn’t paid out for a while, it will soon.
GamCare: Fiction: In games of chance there is no such thing as a win being overdue. The outcome on a gaming machine in a casino or betting shop is entirely random.
Me: True: There is no black and white answer, but I have to address the posed question. Calculating odds on games of chance are based on past results and mathematical probability. For example, in a pack of fifty-two cards the chances of flipping over the King of Hearts, or any other named card, are 51/1 so long as the pack is shuffled before each turn. After, let us say, eighty random turns, resulting in the absence of any named card, it stands to reason that unless the unequivocal odds are wrong from the outset (which they are not), the chances of restoring the status quo with the appearance of the red king improves with each negative turn. The mathematician will contend the odds never vary irrespective of results. In that case, what odds will he lay on a reversed proposition? That is to say, is he prepared to lay 51/1 on the king after a hundred negative turns?
SCORE: 1
3: Some people are luckier than others.
GamCare: Fiction: It may seem that you, or someone you know, is luckier than other people. But chance-based gambling is completely random, and everyone is equally likely to lose, or win.
Me: Fact: Again, the answer is framed to suit an incomplete question – no mention having been made in the posing of the question to chance-based gambling. To answer the exact question: for sure, some people are infinitely luckier than others are. This extends to financial transactions and affairs of the heart. Much of life is based on chance and being in the right place at the right time. However, the adage that we all make our own luck is, to a degree, true. The harder we work, the more we put into a venture, the more we believe in ourselves, the luckier we will become. Equally, some people walk on water at times while the rest of us drown.
SCORE: 1
4: The House always wins.
Gamcare: True: Gambling operators have a ‘house edge’, or advantage on every bet you make. The longer you play, the more likely you’ll end up losing overall.
Me: True: In this case it is assumed the House is a casino or Tote-based operation. Here, in the case of a casino, the equivalent of the Zero on the roulette wheel ensures an edge once in every thirty-seven spins. With pool-based layers, a similar but more obvious advantage exists as they extract their profit before announcing a dividend.
SCORE: 2
5: ‘I’ll win the money back.’
GamCare: Fiction: Continuing to gamble after losing will not help you win back your money – in fact, it may lead to even bigger losses.
Me: Fiction: Expressing such a belligerent view suggests you are already desperate. There is nothing wrong with optimism and confidence in your ability to recover a losing situation. However, in gambling, losses are part and parcel of the deal. If they have made such an impact, you have bet either too heavily, or beyond your means. It augers badly to make such a statement.
SCORE: 3
6: My lucky numbers increase my chance of winning the Lottery.
GamCare: Fiction: Using lucky numbers or wearing a lucky shirt will not increase your chance of winning. The truth is that the numbers you choose have exactly the same chance of winning as any others.
Me: Fiction: For reasons expressed. Cut out the rhetoric and assume you will not win the Lottery whatever you wear, do, or think, and get on with your life.
SCORE: 4
7: A number which hasn’t appeared for a while must be due to come up soon.
GamCare: Fiction: The chance of a number coming up in each game is the same as any other, regardless of how many times you play. The result is completely outside your control.
Me: True: Referring back to question two, although largely random, a pattern exists in every spin of the wheel or turn of the card. Just as odds can become warped and out of kilter, a moon titled from its axis will inevitably right itself. This is a mathematical pattern as constant as the proposal that each spin of the wheel means identical odds for every possibility. The mathematician will tell you the odds against dying in a game of Russian roulette are 5/1. But logic along with probability strongly points to these odds failing to apply if you play the game long enough. However, the serious gambler should not be playing such games because little or no skill is required. They merely provide the participant with a blast of adrenalin – in which case they are already in need of help.
SCORE: 4
8: I’ve got a system – this horse is unbeatable.
Gamcare: Fiction: For some people the thrill of gambling is beating the system, but there is always a chance of losing no matter how closely you study the form guide. A lot can happen in a race – for example, a horse can get injured, or weather conditions can change.
Me: True: This is another badly worded statement. Systems do not work so as a proposition this is nonsense. Those that employ systems are wasting their time and passing the buck for inspiration. But in the second part of their answer GamCare introduce the possibility that the selection is the result of form study. The only system that works is to follow the form as diligently as possible, in which case there are times when it is feasible to believe a said selection will prevail. The name of the game is gambling and most punters are aware of the risks they run. They also know that despite fighting talk before a race, plenty can go wrong. Saying a horse is a certainty and believing it are two separate issues; however, those without faith and consumed by all that can thwart them would never bet.
SCORE: 4
9: You are just as likely to win the Lottery using numbers: 1,2,3,4,5 & 6 as, 4, 11, 23, 31, 37 & 41.
GamCare: Fact: Many people think that the first set of numbers would be impossible to get. But because the Lottery is a game of chance, one set of numbers is just as likely as any other.
Me: Fiction: We are back to the old chestnut of the stalwart mathematical solution, turning the highly improbable into the impossible. Just look back at the results of the Lottery. Has a spread of consecutive numbers ever come up? I reiterate – playing the impossible is for fools. But if you must indulge, at least give yourself a chance.
SCORE: 4
10: If I win my problems will be solved.
GamCare: Fiction: Winning is unlikely to solve your problems and continuing to gamble and expecting to win will probably add to them.
Me: True: These are the words of a gambler rather than informed or shrewd punter but, undoubtedly, just as a windfall from the will of an unknown aunt in Australia will change your life, so will a major win. Unfortunately, it would appear the person depicted here will find them self back in an identical situation before too long though, so in part, GamCare are right; although, as winning is the principal objective of betting, I cannot concur with their overall judgement.
SCORE: 4
11: I almost got the jackpot.
Gamcare: Fiction: Some people view a loss as a ‘near miss’, that is when a gambling outcome falls just short of a win (e.g one number missing from a lottery ticket, or the reels on a gaming machine almost matching up). This is an illusion. A ‘near miss’ is a loss – nothing more. It does not mean you will win next time.
Me: Fact: Most of what Gamcare say here is true if applied to stupid lottery games and Lucky Dips. But if related to horseracing and, for example, the punter has successfully named five out of six in a Placepot or a accumulator, it shows they are in form, on the mark and if they continue in the same vein but set their winning sights a tad lower, success should not be far away.
SCORE: 4
12: A person can have a problem with their gambling even if they don’t gamble every day, or seemingly can’t afford it.
GamCare: True: People don’t have to gamble every day to develop a problem. If the time you spend on gambling affects other aspects of your life, like your health or relationships with family and friends, then you have a problem.
Me: True: Gambling is a heady concoction. It needs to be taken with a great deal of water, particularly if you are playing pure games of chance or are unable to devote the necessary time to events requiring skill.
SCORE: 5
The conclusion from GamCare based on my answers is:
ROOM FOR IMPROVEMENT: ‘You got more answers wrong than right. It is important that you find out more about how gambling really works so that you can make an informed decision about taking part. This website has lots of helpful information on gambling responsibly.
Thanks, but do you know anything for tomorrow?
Seriously, GamCare is there to help. If you think you have a problem, give them a call.
AND ANOTHER THING CHELTENHAM DIARY…
WE WAKE TO GREY SKIES, cash haemorrhaging from our bank accounts while we slept. If you listen carefully, you can hear the drip, drip, drip during the still of the night. Expenses are like a bank statement in reverse. Just as there is always less in your bank than you figure, expenses are always higher than you thought.
There is the hotel with its drinks and meals – not to mention the breakfasts. Those chits carelessly signed at all hours – the forgotten bottles of wine, the plundering of the mini-bar, entrance fees to the races. This is day four at Cheltenham. I am here in the Cotswold drizzle. I could have gone to Florida, returned with change, a topped-up suntan and a photo taken with a giant Mickey Mouse.
On the plus side there was a night with a lady in a midnight blue dress; there were laughs with The Goose, DJ and The Tinman; but, now, approaching the final day and that solemn printout at the hotel reception desk, there seems no chance of recovering any of the money spent without effecting my credit rating.
We knew it would be tough, but it has been Mike Tyson-tough – fifteen rounds with Muhammad Ali tough. It is a case of last man standing in Crazytown. I suspect that man might be DJ after he blasted Menorah in the opener, knowing that if required, what with all the offers, it could turn out to be a free bet. It was not required and set him up for the week.
Breakfast is a quiet affair. Leather luggage sits at our feet like obedient Labradors; laptops in bags drape over chairs. The cards in the morning look no better than they did last night. There is no way anyone is likely to come out on the right side today unless an angel sits on their shoulders.
DJ advances claims for Dee Ee Williams in the 2.05 but grumbles that it is Pricewise, meaning an automatic shortening in odds. Shrugging off the horse’s early exit on Wednesday, he claims Quel Espirit is contesting the race that should have been his target all week in the 2.40. DJ appears to be the man we should listen to. Unlike the rest of us, he has approached this meeting with a lack of levity, devoting time to the formbook late at night whilst we have been acting the fool. He goes on to declare he has taken the 20/1 about Pause And Clause in the 4.40 and had a saver on Balthazar King. This is fighting talk: a strong shot of vodka from DJ, demonstrating he is off the ropes in a battle most of us have conceded. We listen with reverence. We all admit to being clueless about the Triumph. The Gold Cup promises to provide a stirring showpiece but offers no betting opportunities. There are a couple of seven-year-olds in the Foxhunter and one eight-year-old but the rest are as old as fourteen. The handicaps are potential death traps. It looks like a day to watch.
A little after Burlington Bertie, we load the cars and trudge leisurely to the course to watch. Alice Plunkett approaches. She is dressed in black and white with a cap that has a slashed peak. She looks like a member of the Russian Secret Police or the old Stasi. For a moment I fear I am about to be arrested for loitering without intent, or worse. She breezes by in search of bigger fish.
There is a spirited cheer as they start the Triumph Hurdle. Barizan sets off, chasing a typhoon, and is clear for much of the way. It must be heartbreaking for connections to see him finish in slow motion. Soldatino cuts him down from the last with inevitable ruthlessness, supplementing Zaynar’s win for the Henderson stable last year.
Marodima scatters the seagulls as he sets off with his customary gusto in the County Hurdle. The only fish here are plated in exotic sauces, or wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper. As there is no nearby ocean, you wonder what seagulls are doing at Prestbury Park. A lady in purple tells me their arrival inland is a sign of bad weather. A couple of hurdles later it starts to rain. I contemplate asking her what she fancies for the rest of the card. The crowd shuffles her away and a man in a squiggly suit is stroking the arm of her coat, so I think better of it. Katie Walsh completes a double at the meeting on Thousand Stars and is greeted by wild scenes in the winners’ enclosure. DJ and Pricewise almost pull one out of the fire as Dee Ee Williams crosses the last in front and hangs on for third. Such a run confirms there is nothing like a team in form. Confidence begets confidence, just as doubt and hesitance forebodes failure. I fear I belong in the second category at present.
They are in the rain for the Grade 1 Hurdle. It is driving down hard and all of a sudden the ground looks loose and testing. Watching without vested interest, my heart goes out to connections of Restless Harry who, having clung on in front with evaporating strength, is squeezed out by his two main rivals and takes what looks like a bad fall at the last. Screens are erected – the worst feared. No one needs this right in front of the stands. To a huge cheer, Restless Harry gets to his feet and walks away in a cloud of steam.
All of a sudden, the Gold Cup is upon us. This is potentially a big moment for racing. There are no Kicking King blue skies; more appropriately, it is War Of Attrition grey. There has been hype, the race billed as a boxing match between Kauto Star and Denman. Each has its supporters, whether matched by cash only time will tell; nevertheless, for this snapshot in time, racing has moved from the back page. It is the sort of occasion to make true followers of the sport hold their collective breaths. However, unless related to Houdini, such action is ill-advised as it takes a little over six minutes to run the event.
Umbrellas are up; eyes trained, there is a crescendo of noise as the runners break. On a day loaded with emotion, a day when fortune balances on a razor blade, Denman takes chances, standing off too far at several fences. AP holds him together. Kauto Star breasts the fence at the top of the hill first time and it becomes clear the script is out the window. It is hard to know what effect a jolting mistake like that made by Kauto Star has. Is it like a knockdown in the ring? Probably. Ruby Walsh tries to creep back into contention, but Kauto Star is already beaten and cannot regain his equilibrium when falling four out. Denman is in front but the danger wears black and white and is not Alice Plunkett. Imperial Commander stalks Denman before running him down in the straight. This is a great day for Paddy Brennan and trainer Nigel Twiston-Davies who demonstrate their glee. There are long but brave faces too. It may not have been the dream result racing wanted but the race was loaded with tension and excitement.
Breath back and it is the Foxhunter Chase. This is one for the specialists. I gather Baby Run provides a famous double for the Twiston-Davies team. Horses walk up the hill; I suspect the stewards may have a word with the winning rider.
With two races left, we are almost at the touching gloves stage. There are too many tips in the following handicap hurdle, named in honour of Martin Pipe, to take any notice. The changing ground encourages me to have a very small bet on DJ’s saver, the King’s Theatre six-year-old, Balthazar King. Another lesson has to be learned here: if you are to ride someone’s luck, do so completely. Balthazar King falls – Pause And Clause wins. I am pleased for DJ, he did the work and it paid off; but disconsolate for myself.
It is a dark and rainy end to the meeting. Just the nineteen line up for the Grand Annual Handicap. There is no point in me attempting a bet. I have reached the stage when I couldn’t back a winner armed with tomorrow’s paper. My luck is so bad I am expecting my windscreen wipers to pack up on the way home. Pigeon Island wins the last. It goes without saying that DJ put it up to me half-an-hour before the race! Anyone like his number?
So that is it: one of a multitude of Cheltenham 2010 views. The circus is about to leave town, much to the relief of most locals who can have their roads and hostelries back. Only those with a vacant room or a dry shed will be sorry to see us go; the rest will rejoice to see the back of us. For some, the countdown starts all over again. What is it now…361 days until Cheltenham 2011?
AND ANOTHER THING CHELTENHAM DIARY…
IT MUST BE THURSDAY. I wake in a different place. At first, with last night’s memory of Irish revelry uppermost in the mind, it could be Limerick or Sligo – it seems a long time since I heard an English accent. With the sun streaming through the windows it could be Monaco. I cannot hear the throaty roar of Lamborghinis or Ferraris; there is no whiff of the sea or the idle tick of passing yachts; so perhaps not.
If this is Cheltenham, and at this stage it may not be, the Met Office has backed another loser. There is no sign of the predicted rain. I could be on another planet – on a galaxy far, far away – the planet Inebriate to be exact. Toward the end of yesterday’s festivities, I introduced a new factor into the proceedings – a pacifier known as gin. Still grappling with my whereabouts, gin is in my thoughts. At a little after six in the morning, that can’t be healthy can it? I am thinking that of all the gins in the world (no, I am not going to launch into a line from Casablanca) none can match the taste of Gordon’s.
Other than that, I cannot recall too much about Wednesday night; however, I fear what could be shady events will return piecemeal to haunt me as I gain awareness. I know I started on the gin at the racecourse. The great thing about the juniper-based drink is that it is sociable with mixers and can be staggered. You can intersperse gin and tonic with just tonic. And it doesn’t leave you wrecked in the morning. I daresay your vital organs know they have had a night on the town, but you can bounce back from its intake. I had to bounce back from a night in the Queen’s Hotel. The hotel looks like a presidential building from the outside. Inside it gives the impression of hosting a moveable function. Visitors come and go. Glasses clink, perfectly manicured ladies in high heels glide in and out of the bar in rustling dresses and crackling stockings.
The gin was meant to be my secret weapon for today’s betting. I felt a transfusion would bolster my diminishing confidence. I think it did something else, which, recalling a lady in a midnight blue dress that concealed matching underwear, I ought not to elaborate on.
You don’t want to hear about the first part of the morning, any more than you want to know about the last part of the previous night.
I reconvene with The Tinman, The Goose and DJ. No one says too much at first. It is as if we all possess DVDs of each behaving appallingly, revealing dark secrets. There is an air of embarrassment until DJ breaks the spell by drawing our attention to the fact that there is a horse appropriately called Reckless Venture running in the 4.15 Hexham.
We gingerly eat breakfast then get down to business. We conduct our own version of The Morning Line. Bookmakers are crowing, but the meeting is a long haul and such jubilation could be premature. Winning and losing is often a case of timing. Imagine Queveca won the first on Tuesday rather than the last, and Sanctuaire the third yesterday, in which case layers would have struggled with much higher liabilities as punters would have been playing with their money. That’s the kind of spirit we need. Now we are gently sizzling like the bacon on our plates. William Hill spokesman, David Hood, a medical marvel in that his foot is where his mouth should be, condescendingly states his firm is warming to the idea of a five-day festival. That is big of them! Since when does William Hill have the deciding votes on such matters?
I put up Barbers Shop and Karabak as the bets of the day. The boys agree. They are good judges when sober and not too bad when drunk. Although DJ did once buy a racehorse after demolishing a caramel-coloured bottle of what looked like whisky, despite the vendor attempting to dissuade him. Needless to say the horse was no good and without it DJ could have been driving a Mercedes for a while.
We have a strong message for Ainama and an okay one for Barbers Shop. Opinion is divided about Ainama, but in our wisdom we feel Barbers Shop has an easier and more unambiguous chance. Reading some of these Cheltenham handicaps is akin to tackling a hieroglyphic parchment.
The gin has worn off by the first. I have a coffee from the Expresso Bar and feel clear of head and sound of mind – illusions both. I have two small bets in the Jewson: Lenabane (Weapon’s Amnesty form times two) and the once-useful hurdler Nicanor. The roar is louder today as the field is despatched – punters seem to be dusting themselves down and squaring up to the bookmakers. Nicanor is horribly hampered at the first and soon tails off. Lenabane falls a few fences later. There is incident aplenty; fallers, hampering, unseating It is a case of déjà vu for Messrs Johnson and Hobbs as, having opened the meeting with Menorah, they add to their tally with Copper Bleu. It is Ladies’ Day. Mrs Sarah Hobbs is perfectly turned out for the occasion in a grey coat cuffed with pink and wearing striking black pointed boots. As it is not gentleman’s day, husband Philip hasn’t made much of a sartorial effort; for him it is a pullover beneath his usual tweed jacket.
I decide to leave the next. DJ likes messages and backs Ainama, taking The Goose with him. Two out they must be counting their money and I am rueing my timidity. In a cruel twist, Ainama fails to stay, turning to jelly in Tony McCoy’s hands on the run to the last. Triumph goes to the David Pipe-trained Buena Vista who makes all to win at the not outrageous price of 16/1 for such a complex contest. Chester Barnes looks well – David Pipe as if he has grown an inch or two overnight.
Punters are still waiting. Their chance could be in the offing with the next, the Ryanair Chase – a race that seems to concern three runners. This excludes the winner, Albertas Run, who repeats course wins to punch a hole in the best thought out plans. Tony McCoy looks in some pain after his first race spill (has an event ever been so minimised by such a phrase) as he dismounts. We cannot say Jonjo didn’t tell us about Albertas Run, but how many listened? Poquelin runs best of the main contenders in second. Soft ground mare J’Y Vole is third ahead of Deep Purple. Tranquil Sea underperforms, as does Barbers Shop who never looks happy. This trip was supposed to be ideal but he faded as usual. Something is wrong. Perhaps he is looking for the missing apostrophe. His sire, Saddlers’ Hall had one although not where you would expect to find it. Like Barbers Shop, Albertas Run is minus the punctuation mark but it doesn’t seem to offend him. Betting carnage continues…
Now it is the World Hurdle and time is running out. If we cannot solve relatively easy puzzles like the Ryanair and this, we have no chance in the last two, which are knotty handicaps designed to perplex.
It takes Paul Nicholls and Ruby Walsh, ably assisted by Big Buck’s, to pull one back for the heavy-hitters. There is no semblance of the talked about flat spot, no sign of the ground being too fast. Big Buck’s – another struggling with an apostrophe in a strange place – may not have been on my shopping list, but lights up Cheltenham and vindicates those brave enough to dig deep in shrinking wallets. Cast-iron each-way selection Karabak finishes a laboured fourth as Big Buck’s get the Chicane treatment for the third time.
The wind is up. Flecks of rain are in the air for the twenty-four-runner Grade 3 Handicap. Assuming they have capacity on their side, bookmakers have a cocky look about them as they lay, lay and lay. They just get away with it, the tips – and there are plenty of them – are all beaten. Great Endeavour clings on to foil a major gamble on J.P’s Sunnyhillboy.
Out of interest, I watch Reckless Venture run at Hexham. Despite his rivals doing their best to hand him the race on a plate by either unseating, falling or blundering, he cannot pass the one that puts it all together – Simply Smashing.
I hang around for the last for reasons unknown. A brown horse wearing a noseband wins it. He is called Ballabriggs, is trained by the McCain yard that had a winner yesterday and owned by Trevor Hemmings who was responsible for Albertas Run. That’s Cheltenham: highs for the privileged few – lows for many.
The weather, already closing in, is supposed to change tomorrow according to the Met Office. However, they are hedging bets sprinkling their forecast with words like ‘could’ and ‘might’, making you think they know about as much about precipitation as I do about Cheltenham. I leave the course with the words of a song ringing in my ears. It is one of many containing clever lyrics by Randy Newman: I Think It Is Going To Rain Today.
AND ANOTHER THING CHELTENHAM DIARY…
YESTERDAY I could have been standing in the wrong place, but Cheltenham seemed more subdued than usual. Possibly the Irish were shell-shocked after the defeats of Dunguib and Captain Cee Bee, or most of us were still trying to get to grips with racing starting at an unprecedented 1.30pm, shaking off the cobwebs from the night before. Somehow, things were not quite the same. The ground looked firmer than described; there was that early start and the shifting of the final flight of hurdles by seventy yards. Racing folk like to rely on similitude. This was a festival containing unwarranted change. There were mutterings from supporters of Get Me Out Of Here that he would have won the Supreme had the final flight been in its original position.
There was an almost clinical inevitability about proceedings after the first. Cash was peeled from wallets as results swung the wrong way, getting worse until the last race when no one had any money left. At least Zenyatta won at Santa Anita over the weekend; although Rachel Alexandra gave further proof that this game has a conspiratorial look to it at times when beaten at odds of 1/20 at Fair Grounds.
Even the town seemed quiet last night, except for at apparently around five o’ clock when, already a potential bottleneck, Cheltenham became clogged with slow-moving cars.
To quote Scarlett O’ Hara: Tomorrow is another day. Today we start another day with an air of resignation. A cloud of impeding doom hovers. There are three very tricky handicaps loaded with possible winners, three Grade 1’s that might not be as straightforward as they look, and an infernal bumper.
The town wakes slowly. The cash machines and banks are soon busy. Money travels in one direction – that is to say, out of accounts rather than in. It seems that normally focused punters are clutching at straws. Some are declaring an intention to blast out of trouble with Master Minded. Others are pouring over prices for the 2011 Champion Hurdle, Champion Chase and Gold Cup either with incredulity or to prevent getting ensnared into the day’s activities.
Some of us meet in a café, stirring the foam on top of our coffees too much as if extras in an old David Lean black and white movie. We flick through the Racing Post, all agreeing that Tom Segal’s tips are the ones to ignore. After 12/1 and 40/1 winners yesterday, he is next likely to be in the Cheltenham winning enclosure around 2015. We mull over one or two reasons why horses will or won’t. There are no girls present so no one advances an argument that they like a name. The Tinman says he really likes Rite Of Passage as a horse. The Goose cynically suggests if that is the case he should buy a picture of him and have it framed, or ask Rite Of Passage if he fancies a pint after racing. Liking a horse is not a reason to back it.
We kind of agree Master Minded might be a lay, that Long Run does not jump well enough to win the RSA and, in any event as we all discovered to our cost yesterday, this is not a course where inexperienced riders can be expected to shine. This sparks an argument. I say Barry O’Connell gave Dunguib the only ride he could under the circumstances; that those backing Dunguib knew an amateur was the pilot and the horse did not jump quickly enough when it mattered. This livens up the café but our heated discussion means we are in danger of being thrown out.
The Tinman is intent of making the most of the offers made by bookmakers. One firm is refunding money on any hurdler that falls. Paddy Power are doubling a £50 bet to a £100. They have also somehow planted a Hollywood-type sign on Cleeve Hill. Of course, the firm in question knows all about The Tinman who, unable to bet with them directly, wishes to enlist the services of his wife back at home. I turn on my phone and immediately see I have a message for Lucky Redback in the 7.20 at Kempton and Air Force One at Down Royal. I turn it off again.
The betting ring is understandably quiet before the first: an eighteen-runner four-mile chase for amateur riders. The action begins to a muted cheer. I have to say I still have the taste of breakfast in my mouth – I cannot seem to adjust to this early start. I miss the first circuit, catching up with the action as they turn away from the stands. At least the ground looks okay. Considering hardly a bet has been struck in anger, there is plenty of noise from spectators as the field turns into the straight. At 14/1, Poker De Sivola foils a couple of well-supported rivals. Tom Segal nearly pulls off another coup when Becauseicouldntsee looks all over the winner until the last hundred yards. Perhaps the man has befriended an angel. Possibly, I should check his tip in the next. There is a gamble of sorts on Mobaasher. I think he finishes fifth. Doubtless, some bookmaker or another will be paying out.
I make the next between Rite Of Passage, Quel Spirit and Manyriverstocross (Gold Trophy form boosted yesterday) but Tom Segal tips Summit Meeting. Quel Spirit falls at the second, badly hampering Manyriverstocross. There is further drama at the second last when Sleepy Hollow ducks out. The Irish begin to herald what looks like victory as Rite Of Passage, going strongly, creeps closer. A win for a heavily backed Irish favourite on St Patrick’s Day might ignite the place, but Rite Of Passage cannot sustain his effort although keeps on to snatch third. Staying wins the day and it is Peddlers Cross – backed by some – that finds the most up the run-in to maintain an unbeaten record at the expense of Reve De Sivola. Summit Meeting is an honourable fourth, continuing Tom Segal’s excellent run. Tom Segal is a nice, unassuming man that it is hard to dislike. But no one likes a man in form, especially when they are out of it.
Now we are approaching the third race. In bygone years, we would be ordering a gin and tonic, having watched one race. Now the third – the RSA Chase is almost upon us. I have been with Burton Port all season, having backed him at ante-post odds of 25/1. With the ground nowhere near as fast as feared, I feel obliged to stick with him. This is the wonky piece of logic attributable to a man on the skids. The Henderson camp are adamant Long Run is their best with Punchestowns a close second in the pecking order. That means Burton Port is the least likely winner from Seven Barrows. Mr Sam Waley-Cohen partners Long Run. Plenty of others and I are worried about the word ‘Mister’. As well as looking as if he could use a haircut, Mr Waley-Cohen is pitched against top jockeys in a Grade 1 on a horse that can dive at a fence or two. This means he should be fine at the water, but that does not make him betting material. His round is peppered by awkward jumping but he is cantering on the turn, only to empty like a barrel of Guinness in a Dublin pub. Burton Port is always struggling with the pace but keeps finding for Tony McCoy to finish an excellent second. I am astounded. I sample the unusual flavour of a winning wager. For those in a similar boat, after that initial euphoric flood, it tastes yeasty and sweet with a hint of bitterness. The feeling that whatever has been won could have been increased causes such bitterness. Weapon’s Amnesty sprints away up the hill to provide another result for the bookmakers. This has often been a race for the slogger rather than the show boater. Its changing complexion flattens both Long Run (didn’t appear to stay) and Punchestowns (far from ideal preparation), whilst Diamond Harry makes a succession of errors.
It is just after 3.15 and we have reached the fourth event – the last of the Graded races – the Queen Mother Chase. I am tempted to lay Master Minded, who I feel is facing tougher opposition this year and is too short in the betting. However, I am not in the mood to play the hero – a role best left to Russell Crowe, Mel Gibson or George Clooney. They are not in town.
There is more joy for the layers. Big Zeb outguns Forpadydeplasterer with Kalahari King third. Master Minded struggles to cross the line a weary fourth.
To give Coral their due they do sponsor the Eclipse; but largely bookmakers tend to concentrate their sponsorship on impossible handicaps. Little surprise then that the Coral Cup turned out to be harder than it looked. Several gambles went astray. I was tempted by Quantitativeasing; although, fearful there would be at least two or three lurkers in the field, resisted. He travels well throughout but the honours go to stable companion, Spirit River with something at 80/1 placed. I see 33/1 and 50/1 figure so reckon I have made a good decision.
By now, grateful to be clinging to the edge of the cliff by my fingernails; I decide discretion is the better part of valour. Two races remain. Despite feeling the Fred Winter is between Hunterview and Sanctuaire, I cannot believe solving this handicap can be so simple. Therefore, I let them take their places without my involvement.
Off the hook, I try a gin and tonic. It costs too much but I can recommend it. Nothing refreshes like a G&T, even if you are paying over the odds. I have another as Sanctuaire scythes through the field to absolutely bolt up. How perverse can this game be? One of the hardest races of the meeting supplies its first winning favourite.
There are no obstacles for the last. For a moment I imagine I am at Newmarket’s July course. I fear an unreported gin and tonic – or two – may have been taken. This is the race won by Dunguib last year. This year it was won by the Tizzard-trained Cue Card, a four-year-old by King’s Theatre that restored the betting status quo by winning at 40/1.
I shall attempt to regain my nerve before tomorrow, a day I thought contained some promise. All is not lost.
AND ANOTHER THING CHELTENHAM SPECIAL…
So here we are: no days to go! It’s here! Let’s be having you, etc, etc. After 361 days, the Cheltenham Festival is back.
It starts with the arrival of the Racing Post, secreted within is what appears to be a personal and possibly intimate message from someone called Ruby. It comes in the form of a letter that promises to provide me with a hot tip. The piece of paper hoodwinks me for a second – own up – I can’t be the only one to think Ruby was angling for a date or better! Of course, it is a mass-produced piece of merchandising on behalf of Racing UK. The Ruby is Ruby Walsh. At first glance, it looks authentic – which it is – but it is no handwritten note. There is a ring of what appears to be coffee in the bottom right-hand corner, but it could easily be Caffery’s.
The Racing Post also features offer after offer by bookmakers that we have been told are experiencing a lean patch. Ladbrokes promise to double your stake if you are a new customer by providing you with a free bet equivalent to the amount wagered. This does seem a bit harsh on customers that regularly bet with the firm and only have a dog-eared diary to show for such loyalty. I get the best price offers, the pay out on the fifth home, but Betfred are boldly prepared to refund losing bets in the opener in the form of a free bet. Paddy Power offer to refund all losing bets if Dunguib wins. Dunguib fails to win, finishing third to well-backed rivals. Does this mean Paddy Power have won or lost on the race? I guess, as potential backers of Dunguib would have backed the horse with Betfred, it means they have lost. But then, they would have had stakes refunded, so, maybe it was clever ploy after all. I am struggling with the concept to be frank as, if a layer takes out the favourite without the parachute effect of a Rule 4, how is it possible for them to win?
The sun shines and they start the Festival forty-five minutes earlier than usual at 1.30pm, meaning less time in the morning to battle to the course or to peruse the form. The true professional should have negotiated both obstacles in advance; however, time is a big enemy for the serious punter.
Shades of an earlier article come back to haunt me as Menorah, the selection of my fictitious trainer’s wife, clings on to win the Supreme Novice Hurdle from Get Me Out Of Here. Dunguib fails to jump quickly enough in third.
Captain Cee Bee becomes the second hotpot to disappoint. Unlike Dunguib he gives supporters little in the way of hope, never looking happy in the Arkle, beaten after only two fences. The all-important rhythm is missing; he struggles over the obstacles and on the ground. Those including myself that thought he could break the hoodoo of the formbook, once again had to suffer the lesson that one day we might learn. That damn book does not lie! Whether Captain Cee Bee would have beaten Sizing Europe at Leopardstown is only opinion – he could not get anywhere near him today. A later statement announced Captain Cee Bee had broken a blood-vessel – something he had also done when strongly fancied at Aintree two years ago. However you unravel it, Sizing Europe, again the pick of that trainer’s wife, vindicates the Leopardstown form and wins from a game and relatively inexperienced Somersby. With Osana in third and Mad Max fourth, this year’s Arkle reads like a Champion Hurdle of yesteryear.
Some of us are in a corner now. Beforehand, the first two races looked solvable – which they were – but somehow, it was a case of there being none so blind as those that refuse to see.
There is a strong word for Excellent Vision in the 2.30 at Southwell – as if we have come all this way to back a horse on sand! In all the excitement, Excellent Vision is fortuitously forgotten. That is just as well as he goes off at 8/11 and beats two home.
The William Hill Handicap illustrates just why bookmakers are prepared to make Dirty Harry – come-on-punk-make-my-day offers. Chief Dan George wins at 33/1 from some heavily backed rivals. The Package tries but cannot quite close, Ogee is third, a full of running Bensalem falls two out.
There is muttering in the stands. Rules have changed. Dust is flying, the ground is quick, the final hurdle seventy yards closer to the line, prejudicing strong closers – something demonstrated in the tight finishes so far seen – favouring the likes of Go Native and Starluck in the imminent Champion Hurdle. Best-laid plans flounder; considered opinion is in freefall.
Two out it looked as if whatever won the Champion would strut into the winner’s enclosure making most of us eat our words. First, it looked as if Celestial Halo would lead throughout, then that Punjabi would pick up, or Starluck or Go Native would slice through the pack to play the speed card. Then you see the green-and-gold colours worn by Binocular, a horse that has for so long failed to deliver what he has promised, cruising and pouncing. He has come from being a nowhere man – a virtual non-runner only a fortnight ago – to blitz his rivals. Those that claimed Cheltenham would not suit Go Native were right; Solwit looked unsuited by the ground, but his preparation meant he stared defeat in the face from the minute he left the plane from Ireland. So it was Binocular, the horse described by A P McCoy as the best never to win a Champion Hurdle, that righted that wrong. What made the difference: The ground, the easing of a back that had apparently plagued him for much of his career? Whatever it was, Binocular stepped from the shadows to win his big race after all.
The Cross Country Chase is run at a fast pace. It supplies another big priced winner, this time in the shape of A New Story. Fred, William and Paddy are rubbing their hands. I must be hearing things as well as seeing them. I think there is an announcement that the ground has been changed to Good to Soft all over. This is mystifying. The ground was Good to Soft (good in places) at the start of racing. There has been no rain, the times are fast, dust is flying, yet Cheltenham claim the ground has eased. Unless a group of Magnier-soaked Irish racegoers have relieved themselves on the track, I am cracking up completely. Heads are shaking; in fact some of them are on the ground after the last race.
There is one contest remaining. It is for mares. There are tips for Queveca, Sway and Voler La Vedette. Queveca wins, as she did last year and Voler La Vedette finishes third. Easy this racing game is it not.
So Day One has vanished. Over before it started. This would seem like a good day to have dreamed through but it is real enough.
Maybe Miss Ruby is waiting in a bar somewhere in the heart of Cheltenham after all. I hope she doesn’t mind going Dutch!
AND ANOTHER THING…
IT WOULD APPEAR THERE ARE NOW TWO DAYS TO GO… If you were a visitor from outer space seeing that headline, you would assume something on a momentous scale was imminent. Possibly a solution to global-warming, a giant leap in scientific terms meaning the launch of a rocket to Ursa Minor, the finals of X-factor. As we racing folk know it is of course more important than any of those aforementioned possibilities. They can wait for another occasion. It is, as I write, two days to Cheltenham. Tomorrow there will be one day to Cheltenham, and then on Tuesday no days at all because it will be upon us. But for those that delight in countdowns, they can start all over on Saturday as there will be 361 days to Cheltenham 2011.
The Festival – as it is known – is many things to many men. To true National Hunt aficionados it is the Olympics of jump racing. To certain celebrities it is the chance to wear a hacking jacket. To others it is the opportunity to reaffirm they have survived the winter, are still alive, and warming up for bigger and more winnable battles.
This time last week – when there were, what, nine days to go – the possibility of winkling out a Cheltenham banker looked somewhat simpler. That lynch pin: the Cheltenham banker – arguably two words that should not appear in the same sentence – appeared to be Solwit in the Champion Hurdle. However, if a week is a long time in politics, it is an eternity in horseracing. Horses delight in throwing a sicky when it matters most. Snug in a warm stall, fed and exercised on a regular basis, Solwit has had an easy winter, possibly easier than most of us. How does he repay this kindness? He waits until the week before Cheltenham to start feeling under the weather. He scopes dirty and runs a temperature. Solwit – I always knew no good would come to a horse with such an easily transposable name into something so much more unkindly – chooses this moment to let his supporters down. These racehorses all seem to be playing the same game of confusion: It is a case of will-he-won’t-he for Binocular: Weird Al has exited entirely. According to current downbeat bulletins, Solwit may turn up but cannot be supported with any confidence. Punchestowns is playing cat-and-mouse with the vet. What’s next? Is Edward Gillespie about to succumb to a bout of mumps? At least the weather appears settled so there is little chance of the tented village blowing away or wind reaching such speeds to deem racing as dangerous.
So we are all set then. Well Alastair Down certainly is. He lives in Cheltenham so we see quite a lot of his windswept face at this time of year. I think he wears a wax jacket with the famous hill in the background. Alastair is a very nice bloke that will talk to anyone between cigarettes – that even includes me – and he likes jump racing rather a lot. This is his week and I doubt he would pay much attention to extra-terrestrial visitors over the next few days. Indeed, should Gordon Brown have been so unwise as to call that election for this week, I doubt whether Alastair and most of the spectators at Prestbury Park would know its result. Try them on the first six home in the Supreme Novices’ Hurdle though and it would be a different kettle of horse.
Talking of the opening race, featuring that Irish banker Dunguib, there has to be a doubt about his price being correct for such a frantic contest. Firstly there is his dodgy jumping – a doubt that has been extensively documented. And there is his name; it does sound rather like a squib of a firework don’t you think? I guess his connections would respond to a piece of such apparent irrationality with the statement: We will let him do the talking. I am not sure whether he speaks fluently or not, but it has to be said that is not how he jumps. Maybe he is a horse to lay or back in running.
The second favourite for the Arkle, Somersby, is unbeaten over fences, accounting for three rivals last time and four the time before that. Defeating a total of seven opponents is not exactly what one is looking for before a test like the Arkle. Captain Cee Bee should be unbeaten over the bigger obstacles but for a last fence capitulation at Leopardstown when looking all set to beat Sizing Europe on Boxing Day. Earlier in the month, he made a good impression when beating seventeen rivals at Naas, a course he then successfully revisited to make his tally two from three. He has always been very highly regarded, is a Festival winner over hurdles, and despite a shortish price, could be the real deal.
The Champion Hurdle is probably best left alone as far as betting is concerned, although if there is an emerging new star on the block it is surely Go Native.
Maybe Thursday is the day to provide the meeting’s best bets. Barbers Shop, a horse whom Her Majesty decided to lighten in terms of digits by losing the apostrophe, surely runs over his optimum trip in the Ryanair Chase. He was not disgraced in last year’s Gold Cup before stamina ran out and this looks an ideal event for him.
Then in the Ladbrokes World Hurdle, surely on this quicker ground, Karabak has a chance of reversing form with Big Buck’s, but will at least place even if failing to beat the odds-on favourite.
Those are my thoughts with; let me see, two days almost to the minute to go. My wellbeing, those of the intended participants, and of course crashing spaceships permitting, that is how it looks prior to my last Sunday lunch before Cheltenham. Come to think about it, allowing for my current form, it could even be the last Sunday lunch I have the pleasure of. I would like to say it is roast beef, pork or even chicken. Things are tight. It is sausage and mash and a glass of red wine from the remnants of a bottle I opened last time I backed a winner. I am afraid it is a little cobwebby…
AND ANOTHER THING…
GIVE ME A MINUTE…It’s all a little hazy but is becoming clearer. This has been a long day, being as it was the first of the Cheltenham Festival. You know how it is, that last minute packing, the turning back two miles up the road because I had left my lucky suit behind along with an extra tie. Stupid really, I put them on a hanger overnight – you would think I would remember…must be my age. I have reached that time of life when everything needs to be checked and rechecked. I am breaking out of the village and I have this dread that I may have left my wallet in my desk drawer. So I fumble in my overnight bag until I feel the wallet’s comforting bulk – which I knew I would – but this is the thing, once an idea is implanted you have to follow it through before you can relax. Having pulled off the road, I look at the vacant strap above the rear seat, realising the suit and tie are missing and return home.
It all takes time and on the re-run I am mixing it with the morning traffic. People going to work – don’t they know there is an important racing meeting on? I get through the snarl that is Newbury with ten minutes to spare and am on the M4 heading west with the build up behind me. Now I am motoring. These days I have a Volvo. It is a temporary measure. The sports car was too expensive and impractical for the winter, as well as being too big to fit into the garage. So is the Volvo but it stands impassively outside the house like a piece of hardware from The Hurt Locker, impervious to the weather. The Mazda used to shrink in the frost and snow, spluttering when I turned the key. The big chrome grill of the Volvo sniggers and the car springs into life without my foot hitting a pedal.
There is the usual tailback at Swindon but I am already on the A419, heading for the A417. There is that bloody tricky roundabout after Birdlip leading to Crickley Hill. It’s easy going into Cheltenham on that route but it catches you out when you are leaving – the amount of times I have taken the wrong turning and ended up on that dark winding road that is the A436 heading for Oxford! However, that is a worry for later – much later. And when I can’t trust my own befuddled judgement, I have learned to follow a horsebox – preferably one of Alan King’s.
So I make it nice and early. I have missed the hordes, been spared the toxic jams, the slow-motion scenic route through Cheltenham. I stop for coffee and some sort of pastry concoction that will have to sustain me for the rest of the day: no point paying Cheltenham prices and then busting my bladder while I search for a lavatory with a vacant stall. That’s it – I am ready.
Yes, I know it is March 9th to you, but you see it is the 16th to me. They open the gates as I arrive. I park the trusty Volvo and stroll toward the turnstiles. I buy a racecard and look knowingly at the turf. I haven’t a clue how it is riding but the description is good. That will do me. It looks good; well, to be more precise, lush, green and good.
There is a chance for a premature dribble in a lavatory. I will be so glad later. Apart from the early blip with the suit, things are shaping well. I climb the stands and watch the racecourse fill up. It happens at a pace. Perhaps there is word that a tidal wave is about to engulf the rest of the country, so this is the only safe place left. The devil’s airship, masquerading as belonging to Ladbrokes, floats blood red above us.
The hacking jacket and Harris Tweed brigade are rubbing shoulders in the stands in their checks and flecks of heather. Some of them look like extras from Braveheart.
I engage a Flat racing trainer’s wife in conversation. She is in a black coat with fake fur trim. I am glad it is fake fur although I know she could afford the real thing. She is here because her husband asked her to come. She doesn’t like the cold too much, preferring Newmarket in July. We have something in common and I ask her about a couple of her husband’s horses without coming on too strong. She says she would like a brandy and I volunteer to buy one. She accepts. Now the day is taking a dangerous turn, but going racing is always dangerous. What the hell; we adjourn to the Members Bar. We are not badged-up but slip the man in the blazer a score. He lets us in as he recognises the lady, although gives me a dodgy look. I am used to that by now. She has two brandies in as many minutes and I have one.
We decide Danguib does not jump well enough to justify support in the Spinal Research Supreme Novices’ Hurdle. Before the off I am thinking that maybe it should be called the Brain Research Supreme Novices’ Hurdle as everyone else regards Danguib as a banker. Danguib falls at the top of the hill when cantering. There is a unanimous groan emitted from the stands, followed by the slippery gulp of Guinness from the bars, signifying the metaphoric tidal wave has extended to Cleeve Hill. Menorah wins as we thought and we are off to a flying start. Now remember that – Menorah wins the opener. There is no sign of the trainer’s wife’s husband. She gives me a peck on the cheek, leaving a ring of lipstick on my face. We have a brandy to celebrate, although I prefer the cherry taste of her lipstick, which I can just reach by using my tongue like a gurner from the West Country that has drunk a flagon of cider.
Despite reservations on my part, we play up some of our winnings on Sizing Europe in the Arkle. He is in with a chance two out but Captain Cee Bee is too quick and storms away up the hill. Disconsolate Irish are back in good cheer as Captain Cee Bee was another banker for them. They forget vanquished Danguib as they cheer in the victor. So now you have the first two winners at this year’s Festival. There is more to come…
There are only five runners in the Champion Hurdle. Don’t ask me why. Khyber Kim had a headache, Zaynar stepped on a frog the day before and Celestial Halo grazed his knees when tripping up on a road. In a last minute decision, they re-routed Starluck to the Winter Derby. That left Punjabi to follow up last year’s win in another close finish, this time with Go Native.
Now things get a little blurred. You see, we had another brandy and I had a beer, which was admittedly stupid but, Jenny – I shall call her Jenny – was so jovial I felt obliged to match her mood. I think they ran a handicap next – the William Hill Trophy I believe – won by Exmoor Ranger, who is, I think, supposed to like soft ground. Perhaps it had been raining whilst we were in the bar.
Then they ran some sort of cross-country event. I have a feeling Monkerhostin won it but things were definitely a little blurred by then. It was either Monkerhostin or Sizing Australia – I know that either Philip Hobbs had a double or Sizing Australia made up for Sizing Europe’s earlier failure. But just do the pair of them, by now you should be so far in front it will hardly matter.
Quevega easily won the David Nicholson Mares Hurdle but she was favourite to do so and you don’t need that.
Jenny and I had a portion of fish and chips from that van outside the course and went back to my Volvo, succeeding in making it stink like Billingsgate. It mattered little as by now we were steaming up the windows with passion. I have never been kissed like it. It’s a wonder her husband can get up in the morning, let alone train a string of racehorses. As her tongue slithers in and out of my mouth, Jenny says Nicky Henderson has told her Quantitativeasing will win the Neptune Novice Hurdle the next day. I say I can’t even spell the damn thing or say it, but am past caring. At least she laughs.
Then she throws back her head, removes a wig and begins to look like Johnny Depp. Water laps at the sides of my impregnable Volvo and starts to gush in through the doors and sills. Suddenly it is evident we are alone – the car park has emptied and is awash. The car floats down Cheltenham High Street until it reaches something approaching Iguasu Falls, also known in Argentina as the Devil’s Throat. I don’t know why I mention that. We tumble in a surge of white water but not before I have time to see Alan King’s horsebox sail safely on its way toward the A417.
It is Wednesday March 10th – six days to go. The red squares on my alarm tell me it is 6.40 am. There is racing at Wolverhampton, Lingfield and somewhere else. There is an inspection at another place. The Volvo is grinning on the drive. The heating has yet to kick in. I am no nearer to solving anything that might or might not happen next week.
But that first part, before it all turned incoherent, when Menorah and Captain Cee Bee won their respective races, that seemed real enough.
Maybe, just maybe…
AND ANOTHER THING…
I KNOW IT IS NOT FOR EVERYONE – Meydan that is. Even Flat fans blanch, claiming it is a waste of time. It is difficult, tell me something connected with this game that isn’t, but it is far from impossible. And it is precisely because so many people shun betting there that value can be found. That said, like any other type of betting you have keep your wits about you, always remembering it is a moveable feast.
It shifted slightly today. What ought to be borne in mind is that the carnival that is Dubai packs its racing into a concentrated period. Many horses peak and slide backwards; some less than others, but just enough to prevent them from holding their form long enough to reproduce their best.
Today was Super Thursday. It started with Mendip continuing his ascent. Looking more like Rocky in training each time you see him, he is getting stronger, lasting longer, it is The Eye of the Tiger all over again. He was a powerhouse today in the Listed event. He still has a way to go before we can acclaim him as a Kentucky Derby winner, but he sure looks like a contender. Vale Of York on the other hand failed to settle and therefore to stay. His win in the Breeders’ Cup Juvenile looked slightly suspect at the time in that the draw played a massive part in the outcome. His seven-pound penalty here was the final nail in a coffin already closing fast.
War Artist had posted a mighty speed figure three weeks earlier but could not repeat it. He travelled but failed to pick up, leaving Desert Party and Mutheeb to fight out the spoils in the Group 3 over six furlongs. War Artist is now seven and by Orpen, a stallion who regularly throws up hit-and-miss progeny.
Skysurfers bounced to the Moon and back. There was talk of him contesting the World Cup but there was also that niggling suspicion that his latest blitzing success appeared to have taken his stable by surprise despite its apparent solidarity. A combination of the two factors meant he failed to place in the Group 3 won by Cat Junior. He is unlikely to return to Southwell, but he has a few bridges to repair.
Campanologist lined up fresh and well for the Group 2 over an extended mile-and-a-half and just held on as the Turkish challenger, Pan River, closed him down with every stride in the last hundred yards. King Of Rome continues to perplex, but closer inspection reveals all his best form of late is on a synthetic surface.
It was heartbreaking for Gloria De Campeao followers to see their selection gobbled up close home in the Group 2 over ten furlongs. Having made the running and fought off challenger after challenger, he stretched a willing neck out only for the Japanese filly Red Desire to burgle his lead in the dying strides. Delivered at a crucial moment by Olivier Peslier, she had the form to win; it was just frustrating for those of us that thought we had pulled one out of the fire.
Finally, Alexandros, considered a Godolphin banker despite a hat trick, eased into the lead early in the straight in the Group 2, apparently all set up to win comfortably. This time it was the turn of Presvis to sprint past him and win going away. Some of the shine was certainly lacking from Alexandros this time. It could be his stamina gave out in what was a more strongly run affair than he encountered last time.
We do it all again tomorrow when the card holds possibilities – none more so than Gallagher in the 3.05. I might even give it another try…
AND ANOTHER THING…
IS IT REALLY FIFTY WEEKS SINCE CHELTENHAM 2009? Three hundred-and- fifty days and change since we saw the meeting kicked off by Go Native: the three-way dash up the hill for the Champion Hurdle won by Punjabi; Master Minded in the Champion Chase; the rising star that was Zaynar; the comeback triumph that belonged to Kauto Star and everything in-between and after.
Cheltenham is the most eagerly awaited meeting of the year. The Flat spoils us. There is Newmarket, Newbury and York in the spring; Epsom and Royal Ascot in the summer, the big mid-season all-aged contests of July – the diary overflows. It is a different story for fans of the sport known as National Hunt. Of course there are a couple of pre-Christmas Cheltenham fixtures, the Hennessy, Kempton on Boxing Day, but it seems all roads lead to Cheltenham in March. It is, as described, a festival – a celebration of the season.
For some, rather like the Chinese New Year, the calendar begins and ends mid-March. That means a long time between drinks. The last fifty or so weeks may have been tough for many, good for a few: one thing is sure; most of us will have made mistakes over the period. That is the way of life – just when you think you may have got the hang of it, along comes a reminder that none of us is exempt from error. Mistakes are inevitable. Everyone makes them, especially those that take chances. And it pays to remember that those that never take chances never succeed.
Cheltenham is a chancy affair for the punter. It is probably the hardest meeting of the year. The vagaries of the track place an emphasis on a certain type of animal, meaning it is not always the best that succeed. With that in the back of the mind, punters can often overlook the obvious – assuming there must be easier ways of backing a winner than taking a short-price in a race like the Gold Cup or Champion Hurdle. It is a spiral of deception. We sniff out the value whilst the obvious unfolds under our noses. We back the obvious and witness the unconsidered zoom by up the hill. It is possible to zigzag through Cheltenham without backing a single winner. I cannot think of another meeting where such a scenario is likely. Naturally, we can select winners – but they only pay on the ones we actually put our money on.
Becoming swept away with the euphoria and excitement is easy. Horses with realistic chances are attractive prices. Like the well turned-out woman, they distract from what lies beneath the skin.
There will be any number of forums during the run-up. Erstwhile pundits will quaff wine from large glasses, in some cases coherence diminishing as the evening wears on.
This year may be harder than usual. A desperate winter means we cannot believe all we have seen. Hopefully, the worst of the weather has been confined to the depths of the coldest season. A change is long overdue.
We shall be taking a more in-depth look at the Festival over the next couple of weeks. What we need is a banker around which we can construct the meeting. Kauto Star fails to count. It strikes me, without obvious Irish/ English formlines, the novice events may be very hard to decipher. The Gold Cup looks a re-run of last year. The Triumph Hurdle is a mystery, the handicaps are bound to be thorny, but it is too early to write off many of the other contests.
The Champion Hurdle looks a first-class affair this time round. At the risk of offending, I feel it surpasses last year’s contest. For that reason, I would not be surprised to see Punjabi fail to place. Solwit has impressed in all departments this season. He has improved physically since last term and jumps his obstacles with great accuracy. The fast pace that is ensured will suit him and he is my idea of the winner, although his Irish compatriot, Go Native, has to be respected after what has been a season that has seen him go from strength to strength. Those suggesting he will not come up the hill seemed to have forgotten his win in the opener last year. Solwit could be the golden nugget of a banker that I am looking for. I am not forcing this opinion; I have held it all season after begrudging him his Aintree win last year. Whatever he represented then, he looks the real deal now.
The Royal and Sun Alliance Chase looks another event that bursts with talent. The obvious selection is the fleet-of-foot Punchestowns. However, can he win a slog over an extended three miles at Cheltenham? This race has claimed many a similar contender. Now, were it to take place at Newbury…perhaps Punchestowns would be the good thing he looks at first glance; but it does not and he may not be. The qualities required for a race like this differ from those that ensure victory at park courses. Gritty stable companion, Burton Port, may lack the flamboyance of the favourite, but he stays, he digs in, is tough and can quicken. I feel he is only 25/1 because he stands in the shadow of his high profile box neighbour. For once, housed in a different yard from that of Nicky Henderson’s, his price could be considerably shorter.
On a damp Sunday, a fortnight before the final countdown, I have fired a couple of warning shots across the bows. It remains to be seen who is warning whom. One thing is for sure, after a sodden season, those of us intending to step into the ring in a couple of weeks time need to put in some serious homework between now and then.
AND ANOTHER THING
Feb 2010
AFTER SOMETHING OF A SOJOURN, I stepped back into the ring on Thursday, betting at Meydan. I had identified what I thought were three winners on the card, kicking off with Midshipman. It was a good start. Of course, there was nothing clever about the horse as a selection, but the important things were that I was prepared to back it at a short price because I considered the odds appropriate and, psychologically speaking, the selection won.
I like betting in Dubai because most races contain plenty of dead wood. The Balanchine was a case in point. Only two could win it: Aspectoflove and Zirconeum. I chose Zirconeum. There turned out to be two flaws in this argument. Aspectoflove had already beaten Zirconeum on identical terms and, repeatedly, the formbook is upheld in such circumstances despite all the so-called evidence beforehand that indicates the contrary will be the case. Therefore, Aspectoflove comfortably confirmed earlier form before being mugged in unfortunate circumstances right on the line by last year’s winner – the dismissed Deem – meaning I was wrong on two counts.
My final selection was Swop but by now, with a red line scrawled across the ambitious treble, confidence was waning. Swop is a seven-year-old and was drawn wide – two points that in my pre-race arrogance I had chosen to ignore. The extra furlong was in his favour but, once again, all he could do was plug on at the end, looking as if he wants ten furlongs.
This is a hard game on all levels. When you are winning, it seems easy. However, to win consistently you have to put in a lot of work. This can be hard. Working flat out and then paying for the privilege when you lose means you have to shrug off reversals and keep going. Most people succumb to the temptation to change their approach. They work less and concentrate more on messages. It is a common fault – passing the buck to someone else. It might appear to be the easy way out but it fails to work in the long run. It means ultimately you will be backing the same horses as the rest of the racing world, taking under the odds and therefore, as your strike rate falls, you will lose.
These are crunching times for everyone. Unless you are fortunate enough to have a proper job that pays well, or possess a rare sought-after ability, I am convinced working for yourself is the best way out. The days of selling your labour to someone else are numbered. Working for the man means you will once again take under the odds (or equivalent in pay) as the next in line is always waiting to fill your shoes.
Meydan gave me something of a wake-up call on Thursday. Picking winners is not just a question of looking at the paper and stabbing the card with a pen claiming: ‘That will win that;’ there is much more to it.
Right now, I am the footballer that has been on the sauce, the snooker player that is out of practice, the boxer that has neglected his training before the big fight. In true gambling tradition, I am putting a positive spin on my reversal. I can become the Comeback Kid but it may take a few weeks. Most of all, to be successful at anything, you have to enjoy it and be prepared to go that extra mile, whether in reality or metaphorically.
AND ANOTHER THING
Feb 2010 – Valentine’s
TOMORROW IS ST VALENTINE’S DAY. There is also racing from Exeter, Hereford, Kempton and Naas. On the racing front, I suspect that adds up to a day off – especially if there is a partner in your life; in which case it is a combination of roses, chocolates, underwear (if you are foolish enough), champagne, a meal out and of course, a card.
I have a problem with cards as I resent buying something that is mass-produced in China proclaiming my undying love to someone that refuses to wear thigh boots with a high heel because her toe is playing her up.
It strikes me that the best possible card is one you construct yourself with your own hand; however amateur and basic it may be. Why rely on Fu Chong Wong to express whatever feeling you may or may not have. Surely, a plain card with a heart drawn across its centre with accompanying appropriate words is preferable to a detached commercial sentiment from the Far East. Apparently not! So we buy cards that are emblazoned with the words: To The One I Love, or To The Best Girlfriend/ Boyfriend In The World. How many best girlfriends/boyfriends are there? Basic English suggests there can only be one so it is perplexing that Clintons sell any number of such cards.
Then there is the stupid sentiment that suggests that I will love you more tomorrow than I do today and twice as much the day after that. Cut to the chase why don’t you. Send a card when you feel you have reached the zenith of your love for me. The card you sent me last year means at that time you loved me approximately 365 times less than you do now and will do next year, assuming we make it that far.
You see it is all rubbish – commercial rubbish. And after Valentine’s Day we have Easter, surely a period of reflection if the holiday is to mean anything, as that was the period when Jesus was crucified and then rose from the dead. We celebrate this monumental feat by sending chocolate eggs to each other because that is what convention demands and who are we to defy convention.
Tomorrow is a day to endure. If we play the preordained game, we will either have to whisk our partner to Paris and pay six Euros for a cup of coffee as we overlook the Seine, and three times that for a passable bottle of wine in the country that is the second largest producer of the stuff in the world, or wait patiently for a table at our local eatery. Then we suffer the ignominy of scooping a semi-warm meal from plates just recovered from the dishwasher, having been the receptacles for the previous diners only minutes earlier.
The solution is to stay in, buy a bottle of cava from Tesco and cook your signature dish. That way you might even get to watch a race or two between courses. You must do the washing up, but mercifully that means supervision and eventually your female partner will take over claiming you have made the tea towel greasy and put the plates in the rack the wrong way round.
After lunch, you could try putting on a DVD. Avoid James Bond, Batman, Spiderman and There Will Be Blood. Don’t attempt to show anything remotely intelligent. She will prefer something starring Ben Stiller – he specialises in appearing in daft films – or better still a love story of some kind. That narrows it down somewhat. How about Casablanca, The African Queen, Brief Encounter or Annie Hall. It doesn’t matter if she has seen it before; this will be your film forever, or at least until next week when they race at Ascot. All the better if you have seen it too, as should you momentarily lose concentration, you can always quickly pick up the plot.
Tomorrow is a day of survival and only those prepared will make it. Stumble out of bed in the morning with a hangover and you are as sunk as the Bismarck. You can forget the boots, the stockings, the lacies and the afters in general. They will be reserved for the next man in line who, if he has played his cards right, is down the pub with his mates waiting for a chump like you to foul up so that he can make his move next Wednesday.
AND ANOTHER THING
Feb 2010
IT WOULD BE NICE TO WRITE SOMETHING UPLIFTING. At this time of year, having just paid the heating bills and shivering in the barren waste of the afternoon beneath a hostile sky threatening to dump who knows what, such a task is difficult.
Yesterday, at Lingfield and Southwell, horses acted out a dress rehearsal for a production about the Somme. The ground at Lingfield looked lumpy or cloddy; however, no such official description exists. Suffice to say it was desperate, virtually unraceable; but if horses could drag artillery and provisions through the killing fields of the First World War, they could race in Surrey. They were not so much races as endurance contests won by the last animal standing. Among those passing the auditions were Sarando and Bakbenscher at Lingfield, and the day’s most classy winner, Burton Port, who could be the first Sun Alliance winner to emerge from a race staged at Southwell. We should not underestimate his convincing victory carrying a double penalty as he jumps, stays, and has always looked a natural. There may be those with seemingly better qualifications in the RSA but Cheltenham is unlikely to faze Burton Port.
Today was marginally better with Southwell reverting to Flat racing and Market Rasen at least looking like a racecourse. Fairyhouse and Sedgefield resembled churned up battlefields. Winners came and went, slip-sliding over obstacles, ducking the bullets where possible. I was told to keep a close eye on the last at Southwell – a two-horse race featuring a 1/7 favourite. Such an event seems a long way away at present. And I am not sure what it is I am supposed to be watching. Maybe all will become clear a little before five this evening.
Newbury represents a glimmer of hope for the weekend. The course executive has promised to lay ground covers in an attempt to preserve the turf. Monday started with some promise but quickly turned bitterly cold. Tuesday started cold with the threat of purple war clouds overhead, interspersed with patches of icy blue. At least it was too cold for snow, increasing prospects for a Tote Gold Trophy green light on Saturday.
Trying to pick a winner at present is unappealing, although plenty of well-fancied horses seem to be obliging. Repeat numbers come up on the roulette wheel but they do not inspire confidence. As far as the Tote Gold Trophy is concerned, the useful Spirit River aside, knowing nothing and ignoring form, the two with profiles making them the most likely winners considering trends are Manyriverstocross and Get Me Out Of Here. The former looked a good novice on his debut at Chepstow but has failed to impress in the same manner since and the latter, although boasting an impressive list of ones in his form figures, has yet to encounter anything approaching this class. I suppose with all the obstacles that have to be overcome to stage the meeting, Manyriverstocross has an appropriate name, whilst Get Me Out Of Here would be a fitting winner for the pessimists that may be tempted to conclude betting in these kind of conditions is asking for trouble.
In the time it has taken to write these few words, white shreds of cloud have replaced the black and there are deep pools of blue in between. With three clear days remaining before Saturday, anything is possible. Largely we have ducked the worst of the weather so far, so those relying on seeing top class action at the Berkshire venue should not give up hope. Unfortunately, the village weather guru feels racing has to be doubtful. According to him, winter sweeps back from tomorrow onwards. Then again, somehow or another, he has used up a sizeable dollop of luck today. Firstly, he procured two free tickets for a football match that takes place tomorrow, then, inexplicably, having stated the day held no promise whatsoever, he won two grand punting. Maybe he has used up his luck and judgement in one go. Those are the rules after all are they not. No one is allowed more than a slender ration of good fortune – it is only fortune of the bad kind that is unlimited.
On the plus side, we are halfway through February and it is five weeks to Cheltenham. That means March: the Dubai World Cup, the start of the Flat, Aintree, Easter and all those DIY jobs that have accumulated over the winter. Maybe we will get through this after all…
AND ANOTHER THING
Feb 2010
I FINISHED THE LAST OF THE GIN at 11.00am on the day of my departure. A bottle inside a week sounds bad I know, but this was Egyptian gin – about 15% proof – powerful enough to knock you over if you gulp it down in one hit, but a good slug is only the equivalent of a strong lager. Not that I am advocating drinking copious amounts of alcohol but the bottle (retails for about £2.00) was a gift; one it seemed rude to ignore. Admirel (sic) Gin is an acquired taste; a taste I quickly acquired.
But to start at the beginning: I had gone to Egypt in search of some sun and relaxation. I had chugged down the Nile. Then, in the best traditions of movie-land – where actors eager to secure a part should never claim they are unable to wrestle a crocodile, ride a camel or jump from the Eiffel Tower if the script requires – comes a request to file a report on a subject I am not over-qualified to comment on – that of football. It is the competition known as Nations of Africa Cup. I am no expert, but this was a case of being in the right place at the right time. In a big game, Egypt was to play Algeria in the semi-final on the Thursday and it appeared I was the only guy in town.
Luxor is agog. Flags deck the city. I should be in the streets soaking up the atmosphere; maybe in front of a television shop with all the sets left on; instead I am with the Egyptians at the Sofitel, watching the game in front of a 32-inch LG. There is the gurgling sound of the hubble-bubble pipes, the haze of perfumed smoke, the raw tang of tobacco, the popping of soda cans.
A Paul Robeson look-alike referees the match, which is appropriate as we are on the banks of the River Nile. The referee look like he knows somethin’ but not everything. He awards Egypt a deserved penalty but don’t see the taker hesitate, confusing the keeper, before striking the ball. So the ensuing goal fools the keeper under dubious circumstances. The Egyptian fans know their football. They are jubilant but sense this is no way to win such a prestigious match. Then Zidan breaks and belts the ball into the net to make it two and the hubbles stop bubbling as the fans erupt. Algeria responds by trying to hack their way out of trouble. They are reduced to ten men by the dismissal of one of their star players, Halliche. Ol’ Man River keeps on rolling out the red cards. Algeria loses two more players, including their goalkeeper. They also lose the match by four clear goals. Egypt are set to play Ghana in the final on Sunday.
By now, the locals have taken me to their hearts. We congratulate each other and they mistakenly believe I am a soccer aficionado. We agree the goalkeeper, nicknamed High Dam, is outstanding. We jointly heap praise on Zidan (not to be confused with the French footballer Zidane, or the horse trained by James Fanshawe).
I write up the piece, fooling myself I am actually knowledgeable. No doubt those that visit Old Trafford or Highbury on a regular basis see through such a ruse.
The final on Sunday is dramatic in the way sport can be. To my surprise, a place is reserved for me at the Egyptian end. The Egyptians clap me on the back, some claim I am lucky for their team; others smile and speak broken English. Such open generosity is staggering and I respond with even more broken Arabic. The atmosphere at the Sofitel is softly steamy.
The match gets underway. Both sides are hungry for victory, there is no quarter given or expected. It is Zenyatta’s Breeders’ Cup Classic, Muhammad Ali V Joe Frasier. It is Death on the Nile for Egypt, Heart of Darkness for Ghana. They play in the heat of Angola. The stands are a cocktail of colour. There are voodoo visors, painted faces; straw masks the size of shields. This may not be the best game of football ever seen but it crackles with tension. There is an ever-present thump of drums as both teams spearhead attack after attack at opposite ends. Ghana is quicker but less precise. Egypt slows the pace then surges forward in an arrow of red. Ghana defends then counter-attacks. It is deep into the second half – in the eighty-fifth minute – before Geddo scores a perfect winner for Egypt. High Dam shadows the precious space of Egypt’s goal and makes a match-winning save as Ghana launches a final assault.
My new friends are ecstatic. A score line of 1-0 fails to tell the story. This game has taken players and spectators to the edge. At its best sport provides unsurpassed drama. In a world threatened by drastic change, amid the tragedy that is Haiti, for a while this is the best on offer. There is a chink of guilt, largely felt by many, at such enjoyment when so much suffering haunts a different stage. However, this is Egypt’s moment – they should not reproach themselves for relishing its sweetness.
AND ANOTHER THING
Jan 2010
ANOTHER WHITEOUT DAY – another chance to discover how many friends I have. It seems I have two. Normally, not that I court it; my phone is busy in the mornings. Since the landscape underwent its backwash of white, both my lines and my mobile have been largely quiet. I don’t mind, but it does illustrate that when the going gets tough only true friends stay the distance. Of course, there has not been much to discuss. I have learned that the Nicky Henderson yard cannot wait to unleash a batch of the best novices they have stabled in a long time. A good judge from there agrees with me that Quantativeasing is possibly the best of the older brigade, but does not rule out a couple that are equally good, if not better, emerging once turf racing resumes. Bumpers are notoriously difficult to evaluate, but, here again, the squad at Seven Barrows is reportedly strong. Maybe other big yards will be crowing in a similar fashion, but there is no doubting we have already witnessed firsthand the power that the Henderson stable houses.
So how have you been spending your time during these bleak and blank racing days? I hope that you have not fallen for the carefully laid traps at Southwell and the other all-weather tracks. There was a time, when directed at me, that I scoffed at such comments. All-weather can be profitable I countered. Follow it closely; look for patterns and you can win. Now, something has changed. Possibly it is me. Perhaps I am not putting in the hours so am missing the nuggets and only seeing the dirt. I don’t know. Cobbled together cards, chocked with unreliable and out of form horses are tricky. Some of the participants look inordinately well treated, but that is often merely because they are not the forces of old and have slipped down the ratings as a result.
Green Park is down to run tomorrow at Wolverhampton from an all-time low of 69 – if you take his rider’s claim into account – yet he is far from certain to cash in on such an apparently lenient mark. It does not seem that long ago that we were piling on him in a competitive handicap at the Chester May meeting. In reality, it wasn’t; it was in 2008 – eighteen months ago – when from a mark of 88, he suffered the fate of so many public gambles by getting beat. Bertoliver was the culprit; but now, illuminated by a backdrop of snow, Green Park races off a nineteen-pound lower mark after an abortive attempt at unsuitable Southwell last week. Suited by a tight track, he ought to win really, but the globe might have rotated too many times for Green Park to stage a renaissance at the age of seven. He won twice last year, once in October, once in December, so the spark is still there; however, the question is, can it be ignited to order? This kind of puzzle faces those drawing up what appear to be the best-laid plans just now.
Slumdog Millionaire is on television tonight; Kerry Katona has exited Fat Camp, Danni Minogue is pregnant and some Russian piece of tottie called Katia Ivanova was reduced to tears on Celebrity Big Brother after her fellow inmates claimed she was only on the show because her claim to fame was that she dated guitarist Ronnie Wood. Apparently, Vinny Jones was one of many to say: Wake up Katia I think I got something to say to you. It was all too much for Katia who presumably still finds being jeered at on public television preferable to working at MacDonalds, or back in Moscow’s branch of Spud U Like but WeDon’t Have Because Of a Potato Shortage in the Urals.
What else has happened? Well, David Beckham has found room on his torso for another tattoo; Hannah Waterman has begged Ricky Groves to give her a second chance (to do what I know not) and Tobey Maguire has quit Spiderman. In other words, nothing of any import.
On the weather front, I can pass on what is likely to be the most accurate forecast for the following four or five days. There is a man in our village that was once the undisputed local idiot before I challenged him for the position. Whatever his shortcomings – which include once telling his wife he was popping out for a Chinese and sending her a postcard from Spain three days later – he can predict the weather with uncanny accuracy. His forecast is for a gradual thaw interspersed with a smattering of snow today [Wednesday], followed by a bout of freezing fog in places tomorrow, which will keep the temperatures down. Then it is rain by the weekend, turning the snow to slush, prompting floods in certain areas, but initiating the green shoots of a recovery.
So racing could resume early next week. Oh yes, and, sorry to rub it in, I may be able to catch my planned flight next Wednesday to Egypt. I might even have some money to spend should Green Park win tomorrow.
AND ANOTHER THING
SO THAT’S IT THEN…no more ‘11/8 the field,’ or ‘15/8 bar one.’ There is to be a phasing out of the quirky fractions that have survived for so long in the betting industry. Just as horse-and-carriages, trolley buses, steam trains and trams are now defunct modes of transport, so the colourful odds system that has spawned so many phrases from the layers will soon belong in the past.
The world turns and change happens. You know you are approaching middle age and beyond when you resent it. Fractions were ideal in the days known as pre-decimalisation. Once taught at school, people understood that to convert a fraction you divided the numerator by the denominator – or was it the other way round? No, you divided the bottom into the top. Therefore, 11/8 becomes 11 divided by 8, meaning it represents 1 and 3/8ths – a little over 5/4 and a little less than 6/4. From a bet-settling standpoint, 11/8 is evens plus a quarter plus a half. Yes, I see what the wretched people at Racing For Change are getting at. You are not following me are you? It is gobbledegook isn’t it?
In defence of the beleaguered 11/8, 13/8 and 15/8, there used to be eight half-crowns in an old pound, so using an eighth as a measure was not so daft in the days of Oliver Twist. Then, 11/8 to a pound stake returned £2 and 3 half-crowns, 13/8 £2 and 5 half-crowns and 15/8 £2 and 7 half-crowns, or two pounds eighteen shillings and seventeen-and-a-half pence. A half-crown was serious money in those days – why you only got a shilling and several tots of rum if inducted into the Navy.
And if you think that grasping odds against is tricky, imagine the slippery pole that is odds-on. For a start, whilst offering to ‘Lay You 5/4’ at odds-against, bookmakers ‘Take 5/4’ when inviting you to bet at odds-on. And from a settling point of view 8/13 is akin to a figure on Einstein’s blackboard; although it is merely a half plus a quarter minus a thirteenth. Keep up at the back Simpkins!
Okay, it is cumbersome and those of us that understand such formulaic mumbo-jumbo are a vanishing breed – either ironed out by too much racing or heart attack victims: a result of waking up before we go to bed in order to keep pace with the game, whilst faced with ever-spiralling costs. It pains me to admit it, but decimals seem to be more appropriate. For racing is not only for domestic consumption any more, to reap its just rewards it needs to stand on the global stage, and imagine what punters in Sha Tin or Belmont Park make of 10/11.
Every group has its own vernacular. Politics speaks a lingo seldom fully understood, but the code is crackable, as is that used by car dealers and poker players. Racing, however, is full of hidden signals. The calling of a cab, the buckle-end, the taking and laying, the horse that is short, has blown up but leaves no trace of its innards on the turf, the one that has bounced; the list is seemingly endless. Football is a sport that has managed to avoid the web of secrecy racing has spun for itself. Understand the offside rule, when the goalkeeper can touch the ball, and the difference between a penalty and a free kick, and you are on your way to comprehending a football match.
Racing needs half a lifetime’s apprenticeship before the spectator can fully appreciate what the hell is happening. Attendance is expensive; the average punter is a winner behind before having a bet. I am not convinced that any immediate change should commence with the tinkering of the odds system, but accept it is bound to be on any itinerary.
Those of us representing the old guard will just have to get used to 9/11, 9/5 and 13/10. But with no middle-ground between some odds, it is an understandable worry that the disappearance of prices like 15/8 and 85/40 (should be 17/8 in my book) will mean a further squeezing of returns. Whereas odds fluctuate by a half a point once we get beyond 7/2 under the current system, these new proposals offer the opportunity for intermediate easing from 4/1 to 9/2. Horses will slide in stages by the use of 4.1, 4.2 and so on. Then there is the question of each-way betting, something bookmakers would dearly love to abandon.
It is no use complaining. Ben is back. If Ben wants to bet in decimals, his wish will be granted. Just as newly-elected prime minister, Tony Blair, was right to denounce Labour Attorney-General Shawcross for having stated, ‘We are the masters now,’ after the election in 1946, and that the people should control politicians rather than the other way round, so racing ought to be accountable to those that support it. Professional gamblers and bookmakers are contributing but only because it is forced upon them. No one group owns racing or can lay claim to it. Horseracing has been severely mismanaged in the past; we will have to see if it can be put back on track.
As a body, I feel Racing For Change is an overblown, overpaid collection of whiz kids that wouldn’t know Sea The Stars from See The Stars, or why he was called such. No matter, because change is coming and RFC is about to become rich as a result. Change comes to everything if you wait long enough; it appears the scrapping of the old friendly fractions is inevitable. Maybe it is the tip of the iceberg. Change could bring cheaper admittance prices and better food at racecourses, surely the two biggest and spurious issues those attending tracks face.
It may take some time for fractions to disappear altogether. However, an agenda is in place. Assume metres will replace yards, furlongs and miles, and that before long there will be cheerleaders wearing baseball caps in the paddock on big race days.
The show will continue. The trouble is it will continue as it has done without any grass root alteration. On Saturdays, racecourses will still be full of drunks that have too much time on their hands between races. Unsupervised horses will continue to be horses. They will wriggle out of starting stalls, or bolt at the start of National Hunt races, unshipping jockeys as they career down the course. So-called racegoers will become bored after two races, congregating in the bar in rowdy gangs. We will put up with an overdose of racing that threatens to engulf the quality of the good meetings in order for bookmakers to perpetrate the casino mentality they know pays the bills.
Much of the mechanics of racing will be secret. How many infrequent but keen followers of the sport know how to read a formbook? How many know how many lengths a second represents over five furlongs, or how many pounds two lengths equate to over any given distance? How many know the importance of the draw at certain tracks? How many understand the significance of a stable jockey rejecting one horse from that yard in favour of another? Simple examples for those of us used to playing Sherlock Holmes as we attempt to decipher race cards; but a minefield for those tackling the task of trying to find a winner without such knowledge.
Such information should be readily available, not locked away like a State secret waiting to pass the thirty-year rule. There is much to achieve. RFC are yet to convince they are up to the task.
AND ANOTHER THING…
RACING IS A RISKY BUSINESS at all levels. Cheltenham took a massive one on New Year’s Day, first by giving a tentative go-ahead to their meeting at 9.00am; then by confirming, after a second enforced inspection at 11.30 that, as originally stated at the removal of the covers, racing was on. Throughout this process, there was a growing contingent of doubters. Predictably, Tony McCoy, who in a former life would have been in the forefront of the Charge of the Light Brigade and would race on a frozen lake, was one of the big names to advocate racing should take place. Others shook their heads and many trainers voted with their feet by withdrawing runners.
They ran the opener – a novice hurdle – won by the Nicky Henderson-trained Radium. It was clear throughout the race that the going description – heavy with soft patches – was incorrect. Horses were racing as if on ice, which at times they were, as parts of the course had not thawed. Most jumped with caution; few strode out until asked to do so in the closing stages. Notably, the winner was not exempt from this comment but, as a novice, possibly that could be expected.
Immediately after the first, there was disquiet. There followed a lengthy – much too lengthy – inspection as a deputation, led by Nicky Henderson and Barry Geraghty, stalked the course. For the best part of forty minutes, it seemed as if the sight of various officials poking the ground with sticks and attempting to dig heels into the turf was likely to be the zenith of the afternoon’s drama. Richard Johnson hammered the heel of his boot on the track, Nicky Henderson dug at the surface, McCoy and Geraghty confusingly shook their heads and nodded; the Cheltenham executive strutted until, against all expectations, reaching a decision to continue. To the observer, the process was ludicrously laboured and protracted. It seemed that the course was unsafe, something declared by several experienced jockeys and reinforced by wholesale withdrawals. Nicky Henderson took out his potential star Punchestowns and Ainama, but left Sentry Duty in the feature event of the day, the Freedom Hurdle.
Half the field for the next, a 3m 2f chase, defected. The seven participants set off as spectators held their breath. Seven started and seven finished. The decision to stage this race was either brave or stupid. Those that made it pulled it off. Politics played a major part in comments made by several leading trainers. Henderson and King praised and commiserated with Cheltenham in equal measure. Different ground conditions suited different horses and justified withdrawing intended high-profile runners. To any viewer from the comfort of the stands or the warmth of home, it appeared the scales were tipped against the wisdom of racing. Had it been my call I would have abandoned.
By the third event, reduced to only two runners by the defection of Punchestown, the decision to stick it out seemed correct. In the novice chase, Seven Is My Number out jumped Pigeon Island, who runs in snatches under any conditions and, thankfully, both finished apparently sound. Although hardly tropical, temperatures had risen just enough to shift some of the slivers of ice that had caused such concern. The following event was a handicap chase, reduced to twelve participants from seventeen. Three fallers at one of the notorious downhill fences reduced it further, but their exits had nothing to do with conditions that, although far from ideal, were by now acceptable. What must have been a knife-edge call, filled with subsequent tension for those sitting, or pacing in earlier judgement, was effectively over as the famous Chicane greeting for the winner blasted through the loudspeakers across the track.
Making decisions in any sphere is a movable feast, liable to criticism after the soup or before the main course by those on the sidelines. Vindication is due to those that made this one, getting the meeting back on track and completed despite such a delay.
Nevertheless, racing faces an ongoing and difficult situation that needs tackling. At this time of year, with daylight quick to evaporate thus meaning there is little time for frost, snow or ice to thaw before darkness returns, borderline decisions have to be made early. I have long thought we should abandon fixtures if conditions mean it is unraceable at a certain time (decided universally and on a sliding scale as the nights draw out). Under such a rule, Cheltenham’s New Year’s Day meeting would never have taken place. Radium would not have won the novice hurdle; there would have been no extension of Seven Is My Number’s current winning run. The crowd would have been denied two exciting finishes in the handicap chases and the cliff-hanger that was the handicap hurdle won by Wolf Moon. After all that, was the theatre provided by Katchit, Mr Thriller and finally the assassin that was Barry Geraghty on Sentry Duty in the Freedom Hurdle.
Those that withdrew their charges probably by and large made the correct decisions, based on their knowledge of their horses’ capabilities on the ground as they viewed it.
Cheltenham have to be congratulated for holding their nerve and getting it right. Okay, fortune may have smiled on them, but so it does in all successful tight calls.
Possibly, we should look at preventing such a situation from reoccurring but in the light of the outcome today, and the vagaries presented to racecourse executives at this time of year when there is a thin ration of daylight, the decision-makers got it right. And that, from Julius Caesar through to Nelson and Stormin’ Norman Schwarzkopf on the battlefield, to the comparative trifle of what has to be decided at sports venues, is what counts.
AND ANOTHER THING…
RACING IN THE RAIN is like attending a stage show nearing the end of its run on a bad night. You have tickets so feel obliged to go. The players are tired and wish to move on to another project. Yet on both sides of the stage, the raised actors and the sunken audience stick it out.
Newbury on Tuesday was wet. On arrival, the tops of the grandstands were silvery slick, shining in rain that, due to its relentlessness, turned the buildings black and porous-looking by mid-afternoon. But before racing started the course looked cleansed and new.
I went to be sociable, to meet a few friends, to escape the house and give the car a run. It was a mistake. No matter how clean and fresh you are when you leave, an afternoon in the rain results in you feeling dirty and soiled. The cuffs of my shirt became discoloured, my shoes soaked, the leather cold and the heels and soles muddied.
Racing started early. I met my friends in a pool of water by the paddock. We hurried to the bar, exchanged Christmas stories – which did not take long – and watched the first on TV. They drank brandy and beer. I abstained. Going racing only to watch television is illogical, particularly when it is possible to watch it in the warm and dry at home.
Horses raced because they are largely compliant and used to doing our bidding. They looked resigned and miserable, as if required to engage in one last military charge. Water dripped from their flanks and withers. Even the jockeys, understanding the rules and what was at stake on such a richly endowed day, gave the impression a hot bath would have been preferable.
Ruby Walsh and Take The Breeze splashed home in the first, winning by a long way on a day when form threatened to become oblong and distorted by extended winning distances. We all agreed this was not betting weather and the usual snippets of information were ignored. We let Hunterview run in the second but he looked the winner for a long way, jumping well and creeping closer from the home turn. In the end, an ex-Flat horse, he struggled in the ground but finished strongly enough without being able to get to the French import Orzare, a horse that had not been on any list compiled beforehand.
We stepped outside before the next into rain from which there was no shelter. If it did not fall on you directly, it dripped from a strip of guttering, an eave or someone’s umbrella. Early gloss gave way to a dousing as the rain took on a different aspect. What had started as an inconvenience became a nuisance. Rain stung our faces, dripped down the back of our collars, plastered hair to our heads. We retreated to the bar where rain lashed the windows of the restaurant, water bobbling in crowded mercury blobs as it streamed down the glass. Outside it was wood-rot wet. Horses and jockeys trudged to the start of the Mandarin Chase in a filmy haze as if viewed through a liquor-coated brandy glass. The sky was a purple mouth, spewing out rain.
It was still early. I found myself staring at a lady’s bosom. She caught me, wondering if she was standing next to a pervert. I muttered that I was admiring her necklace. She gave me a weak smile but I bumbled on, sounding rather like Lord Oaksey on that famous occasion when he had trapped himself into comparing two ladies on a podium as they presented a prize. The more I said, the worse it sounded. Fitting then that Oaksey’s Carruthers sloshed away with the Mandarin.
Quantitativeasing floated over the sodden track to win the novice hurdle in impressive fashion, making it as difficult for his rivals to land a blow as it is for those who try to spell his name correctly. He looks a top-notch hurdler; even so, Tony McCoy is reluctant to award him five stars. Maybe this brother to Asian Maze has taken him by surprise; maybe he has told JP he is not as good as Belvano, but he sure looked like it in between the rivulets of rain streaming down the steamy windows of the grandstand.
Going racing can be a strange experience for the aficionado – being there but hardly knowing the finishing order and, to a certain extent, not knowing other results. I saw Solwit win at Leopardstown as I thought he would. There was a time when I would have backed him even at the short price, but I am not punting just now. He looks like a serious Champion Hurdle contender.
The Challow Hurdle produced the closest finish of the day when Reve de Sivola slogged it out from the last to outstay Restless Harry and to, a greater extent, Finian’s Rainbow.
By now, the day was a washed out pale rag. Races seemed to come up quickly, making me feel guilty from the comparative warmth of the bar as they kicked off for the Long Walk Hurdle. Rain was still falling, slanting in the faces of scowling racegoers, pinpricking the heads of horses and jockeys alike. Big Buck’s wins but is not keen. He struggles on the ground, runs in snatches, but his strength is evident at the finish. Connections shrug off his apparent reluctance, responding with great patience that he always runs that way. Karabak has sent out a strong signal that he can win a decent prize before the season ends. He travelled best of all for a long way, looking as if, in this ground at least, the trip beat him.
Two races followed. Doctor Pat won the handicap, landing something of a gamble in the process. A big horse wearing yellow colours won the bumper – or he might have finished second – by now, I had stopped paying attention.
We should have left after the Long Walk but lingered too long. The grandstand looked dirty, the turf churned up like a ploughed field, the car park awash – the exit queues were long.
It was a stop-start drive home. Someone had turned on the light at the end of the world, which glimmers in the distance, its faint beam running like a watercolour left to wash itself into the canvas of the day. I head for it in the twilight. Parts of the roads are flooded beneath spindly, shivering trees cowering in the rain.
The car radio is on and there is talk of imminent snow. The racing has been heart-warming but it is too early in the winter to endure such cold and wet. Maybe the weather forecast will prove wrong. Cheltenham on New Year’s Day has to be in some doubt, but the executive there seem confident. I decide it is a meeting to witness from afar.
AND ANOTHER THING
I SHAN’T BE SENDING New Year wishes this time round. No Auld Lang Syne or Happy New Year from me! I did it last year and it made no difference. It is another perfunctory seasonal greeting. Wishing something does not make it so.
Instead, my suggestion is we all analyse what might make our lives better in 2010 and act accordingly. We can achieve this by refusing to act on cue when prompted by those with most to gain. We do not need to Call Now, Vote For Our Favourite Now, or, more poignantly, Bet Now, especially at cramped odds that are advantageous to bookmakers. Just because our betting activity keeps Derek Thompson and a host of racing presenters in business, we do not have to bet at all if it does not suit. I am tired of the betting hype surrounding racing, which suggests that if you fancy or support a horse, you are obliged to back it. Is it not possible to watch and enjoy a horserace without financial interest?
From racing’s point of view, 2009 had its moments, lit up by performances from January onwards in Dubai, and culminating at Santa Anita in November when Zenyatta won an extraordinary Breeders’ Cup Classic. In between there was Kauto Star at Cheltenham and Sea The Stars – a horse that gives the younger generation something to remember.
Racing apart, most of us struggled through a grisly year. It may be difficult at times but, in the long run, it is better to be good to ourselves than to others. I don’t mean we should stop helping our friends or giving blood, but so much of our lives can be spent entangled in events and dramas that we have no wish to take part in or are not of our making.
Dirk Bogarde once told the story of how Brigitte Bardot had cultivated the knack of merely responding to an unwelcome request by saying, ‘Non’. No excuses, no paraphernalia in her refusal, just a curt no. It works and is the perfect antidote to cluttering one’s life with baggage others have chucked our way. If you don’t wish to attend a function, a party, or play the designated corporate game, say no. It is not necessary to quantify rejection of a proposal, like the old sign used to say – Don’t Ask for Credit, As a Refusal Often Offends. A simple no will suffice, and if it doesn’t, then that is a problem for the dim-witted proposer to deal with. Time is rationed – spend it wisely.
On the global stage, politicians need to wake up and smell the coffee. They fail to see – or chose not see – so much that seems blindingly obvious to the rest of us. They still don’t get the expenses scandal. Telling us they acted within the rules is not the answer. If the rules allow them to claim for a second home then avoid capital gains tax when they sell it on, the rules are wrong and those exploiting them should not be in office.
Telling us to stumble around in candlelight whilst office blocks are ablaze like Christmas trees is absurd. We will not prevent global warming by individuals cutting back on travel or switching off the odd light, when one exploded bomb can do more environmental damage than a day’s scheduled flights from American Airlines.
The West has to stop this ridiculous obsession with changing the Hearts and Minds of the bewildered in Iraq, Afghanistan and any other country that has a name ending with ‘Stan’. In those countries, they have their way of living – we have ours. End of…
The argument that we are in Afghanistan to keep the streets of this country safe from terrorists is another piece of nonsense that fails to hold enough water for a cup of coffee. The way to keep terrorists off the streets of our cities is to deny them entry to this country in the first place. That is so simple Aleksandr the Meerkat could have worked that out, with or without coffee to smell. The other pro-argument for our presence is that we are controlling the production of the world’s heroin. Not too successfully it would appear, as consumption in the UK has increased by five percent over the past twelve months. Take heroin – you are likely to ruin your life and eventually kill yourself. That is your choice. With too much time, energy and public money spent on trivia, is that message plain enough?
We are told that without our soldiers, extremists will flood back into Afghanistan; something I admit is a major quandary. However, better we know where the bastards are than be faced with them dotted all over the globe like rats in lairs, waiting to spread their vile doctrine wherever they can. Why, we might even capture Osama Bin Laden, which was the premise for invasion in the first instance.
Immense challenges confront the world; meanwhile time trickles away. We have to shift our way of thinking or else what could be the last century of this planet looms. The biggest problem is one of overcrowding. Allowing a woman in America to turn out eight artificial babies and then to pay her for the dubious privilege is madness. If we continue at this rate, we will eventually exhaust food supplies. There are only so many animals to farm: only so many fish to drag from the sea. Such a shortage might start at Heston Blumenthal’s dreadful Fat Duck restaurant at Bray, where his latest concoction includes whales’ vomit. Before long, it will spread to the real people, whose only wish is to put a meal into their bellies. If Blumenthal wishes to be an alchemist to the idle rich, let him work in a chemical plant.
Eventually, acquiescence on a global scale to our ills will result in either the need for a hard-line totalitarian-run planet by someone of Stalin’s persuasion who can make the necessary decisions, or one that crumbles before the eyes of future generations. Solutions to the world’s problems tripped out by politicians – who postpone rather than cure – are no more effective than the swatting of a single mosquito in Africa in the belief such action will alleviate malaria.
All this occurs whilst we, the masses, consume our own particular brand of opium: playing on Nintendo, fiddling with X-Boxes, breathing every breath of the contestants on X-Factor and Strictly Come Dancing; screaming for football teams and, yes, attempting to decipher what is often the indecipherable, masquerading as racecards, as if winning and losing equates to life and death.
2010 could be a turning point for the world. We are the fortunate children of the universe – the ones that live just the right distance from the ferocious power that is the Sun and generates life. We can still achieve much, apart from improving HD-ready TVs and Blue-ray. It is not too late to solve some of the mysteries that lie beyond the stars we can see and perhaps those we cannot. For, surely, beyond the velvet void, are the answers to life itself. We have become immune to such knowledge, impregnated and immersed in trivia. In the West, we chase the pound, dollar and euro. In the Middle East, there is a hankering to convert the rest of us to Islam. Both parties waste their time. We know what happens to those that hunger for a clutch of ill-gotten gains – they sacrifice the quality of real life. Those that attempt conversion by placing indoctrinated morons loaded with explosives on planes are even worse. Surely, such a lesson was learned back in the Middle Ages with the Crusades.
For sports fans, put the excellent Nick Luck, Steve Mellish, Lydia Hislop, Matt Chapman, Kauto Star, Arsenal, Liverpool and Manchester United where they belong – in the background. Recognise that issues that are more important need tackling. There is a place for following racing, football and indulging in pleasures of the flesh. I suggest it should not be at the top of any prospective list. I have spent the equivalent of years watching horseracing. It is time that could have been better used doing something more worthwhile. It is too late to take back now, but at least I recognise when being taken for a fool, something I would like to prevent in future.
You may think expressing such earnest and intense issues on a horseracing website exceeds my brief. You may label me as a being akin to a deluded bible-basher revelling in the comfort a pulpit provides. You may be right; and I am not exempt, no doubt being as guilty as most readers in my approach to all I have touched upon. I drink too much – something I am rectifying – already drive a petrol-guzzling car and yet wish to trade it in for one of a higher spec that, frankly, I may want but don’t need. I spend too much time in the air; in short am as selfish as those I am targeting.
The start of a new year is often a time to reflect. A month and a holiday down the line and we all get back to the slog of tackling the next eleven months, for the most part playing the part mapped out for us by others. It need not be that way if enough of us say, ‘Enough, I am not going to take it any more’. To quote the late Michael Jackson, we could start with The Man in the Mirror.
For those of you that have made it thus far in the piece – one you were doubtless unprepared for after a weekend containing so much racing – congratulations are in order along with my thanks. Those nice people in the white coats will be taking me back to the home shortly. From my barred window, after tomorrow, I am likely to see copious amounts of snow; those of you in the Midlands might even be marooned for a while. Maybe, like an ache somewhere in the body, this unforeseen and somewhat unseasonal weather should serve as a warning…
In conclusion, I hope 2010 is a good year, but not so much for us as individuals, but for this blue rock we share. That can only happen if jointly we take stock and react. The lead does not have to come from those in power, many of whom would struggle to operate an ice-cream stand on a beach.
AND ANOTHER THING…
It’s Here…
IT’S HERE THEN! Christmas seems to have hung around for a long time this year. Perhaps it is something to do with the weather or the attempt by retailers and the media to panic us. Whatever the reason, it does seem we all go to a mighty lot of trouble for just one day.
It starts with cards: the decision as to whom one should send to. Then the frenzy when a card from that couple you met on holiday two years ago drops on the mat. Surely they have moved on by now; but no, so you send one back, keeping a long-distance relationship alive and leaving an unanswered question open for next year.
Presents are tricky, but I feel I may have cracked it. Whatever you buy will probably be wrong; after all, just think of your reaction to some of the stuff you receive. So make it something classy (that doesn’t necessarily mean expensive) from a good quality store where the recipient can swop it at a later date for something they would really like. If you are buying a watch for a man, leaving aside the obvious on the price scale ranging from Omega down to Seiko and Citizen – Police and Diesel are your best bets at around hundred quid or possibly less. There are other makes and their watches are fine, but not for the fashion-conscious. The same applies to watches for women, who will probably appreciate affordable French Connection, Betty Barclay or Oskar Emil more than they will some of the more obvious makes.
I do feel sorry for women on Christmas Day. This is the one day when they are expected – totally unreasonably – to put on a one-woman show in the kitchen. Cooking a turkey is no fun, let alone conjuring up all the accessories: the devils on horseback, the sauces, gravy, perfect roast potatoes, sprouts, trifle, pudding; why a nightmare awaits them in that steam-filled kitchen where any lack of precision is punished by the sabotaging of the complete dinner. And why should they be pressurised into walking on this high wire above the range and hob that are waiting to sizzle or roast them alive in the event of mistakes or mistiming?
Chances are the people they are making this sacrifice for will be out of their heads by the time the turkey arrives on the table. The Stella and the Rioja will have seen to that. The dinner could just as well be a Kentucky Fried Chicken. I know I am letting my own sex down here, but us men really do not behave terribly well at Christmas. Assuming our faces don’t fall into our plates of Christmas nosh, our idea of helping is to open copious quantities of wine, find a job to do five minutes before dinner is served, or be in the lavatory as the gravy is beginning to lose some of its steam in its sauceboat. Why do men feel it necessary to absent themselves from the table at a crucial moment?
Having swum through the fog of cooking, the lady of the house is left to call everyone to order and sit them down so that the so-called ‘head of the household’ can carve – or mangle – a perfectly cooked turkey in between slurps of wine from a second bottle. All the precision, the care, the attention to detail, resulting in a feast fit for King Henry VIII, is invariably washed down and away with the taste of grape and grain, until the males in the household sleep through the Queen reading her speech to the nation. The kitchen goddess is lucky if she sees her other half in his true light (or perhaps, if this is a new relationship, she has seen him in that guise and is only just realising what she has let herself in for) until Boxing Day. Then, if he is a racing man, cards of a different type to ones with robins and snow-covered rooftops dominate the day.
This year’s racing fare looks outstanding. It starts on Saturday with the traditional Boxing Day feature at Kempton, along with Grades 1 and 2 at Leopardstown: graded races at Wetherby and Limerick – weather permitting – and gallops on through Sunday, again at Kempton, on to Chepstow and the Welsh National on Monday, and a programme at Newbury on Tuesday enhanced by the inclusion of the Long Walk Hurdle postponed from Ascot. If that is not enough, there is a host of supporting meetings, planned from places like Sedgefield, to keep the homeless, witless and brainless occupied over a concentrated four-day period.
Some of the racing is actually very good. Sizing Europe, Captain Cee Bee, Binocular and of course Kauto Star lay Cheltenham claims on the line. Kauto Star’s task this time in the King George may not be as straightforward as he has faced in preceding years. I keep questioning Kauto Star, which is nonsensical, but I cannot help it – I have caught an incurable disease. As in our dealings with humans, we often form on-the-spot decisions about horses and, even when logic dictates they were wrong, are reluctant to alter them. Kauto Star has proved himself a champion repeatedly and yet I am still trying to get him beat. I am looking at the seemingly much improved Deep Purple – who is surely overpriced, both to win the race outright, or to be the winner ‘without Kauto Star’.
In the Christmas Hurdle, I am not convinced about Binocular who, for whatever reason, fails to deliver on the big occasion. Similarly, I cannot forget the sight of Sizing Europe turning to putty in his rider’s hands at Cheltenham in the Champion Hurdle.
Maybe I shall dream a few winners after a turkey and Rioja overload on Christmas Day. More likely, is a likening to the man that featured in a classic Sir Clement Freud joke…
A man is in the habit of going to the local pub on a regular basis and returning home drunk. As he sets off on a particular Christmas Eve, his wife – who has reached the end of her tether – warns him that if he returns in a drunken state she will leave him. The episode in the pub is a re-run of so many that preceded it. Eventually, so drunk that he vomits over himself, the man sobers quickly, realising the magnitude of the situation he finds himself in. Confessing his predicament to a sympathetic landlord, mine host suggests the man places a crisp £20 note in the inside pocket of his suit. He can then falsely report to his wife that some other drunk splattered his clothing, insisting on presenting him with the money for his suit to be dry-cleaned. This sounds like a fair idea to our man who returns home, zigzagging his way to his front door. Once inside the hall, he is faced with his irate and dispirited wife. ‘No, no,’ cries our man, ‘it is not what it appears.’ He then launches into the rehearsed tirade, ending his speech by fishing inside his pocket to produce the proof – the £20 note. However, he finds himself clutching not one but two such notes.
‘So what’s the other £20 for?’ asks his wife.
‘Aah, that’s from the gentleman that shat my pants,’ replies the drunk.
God bless Clement. Let us hope he reached heaven before the Devil realised he was dead.
Have a good one…
AND ANOTHER THING…
CHRISTMAS SPECIAL!
HAPPY CHRISTMAS
‘CAPTAIN CASH’ of Gilt Edge Racing was in the process of a avoiding a fine from the Inland Revenue; he was attempting his tax return. He did not need to file a tax form to know what sort of year it had been. His shiny trousers and threadbare socks told that story. He had sold his prized Saab cheaply to Mouse – that weasel of a car-dealer in Hayes – and was drinking cava instead of champagne and Spanish brandy in place of cognac.
Things could have been different at Newmarket in July if a short-head decision on a 16/1 shot had gone his way; likewise at the September Ascot meeting about a 10/1 chance that was inched out at a crucial moment. They were his two big potential moments – both sabotaged by fate. Otherwise, it had been a case of one step forward and two back. Naturally, there had been a trickle of winners, although bookmakers, seemingly sniffing out the live ones these days, ruthlessly cut prices to the bone.
Cheques had fluttered through the letterbox, overwhelmed by brown envelopes and curt notes that accompanied dwindling statements from the bank. Gilt Edge Racing had started 2009 in better shape than it currently faced.
Alexandria sat, legs crossed, at the other desk in the small office where she had thumped one thigh over the other so that it swelled invitingly. Captain Cash, or to be more precise, Norman Prince, or to be exact, Norman Whittle, knew a thing or two about Alexandria’s thighs, they being one of four items that had tempted him into hiring her a few years back.
Alexandria had striking legs. A lifetime ago she had been a dancer on a cruise ship. Now she was under no illusion about the way time was burgling her looks. She could no longer compete with the young things on the streets that tottered on flamingo-thin legs to agency after agency for the modelling jobs or the positions in entertainment. Nothing ages a woman’s appearance more quickly than fading face powder, which accentuates the creases and lines it settles on. Mid-afternoon and Alexandria’s make-up was melting, her features almost wolverine: high and bony, slight strain showing through shiny cracks that widened as the day progressed. She had found her level for the time being, but still hankered for a chance to return to something slightly more adventurous than working for an old soak who ran a racing tipping business. She was a long way from the high-life of the luxury liners but Alexandria – aka Sandra – had learned to adapt. The work required a minimum of clerical knowledge and she found the perks (trips to the races, sometimes abroad – even the Breeders’ Cup in California one year) outweighed the downside of her position. She was Norman’s companion during working hours and occasionally away from them. She let him paw her from time to time and once, when she had overdosed on mint julep in America, something more. It only happened that one time and in truth, as neither of them ever referred to the incident, she was not convinced Norman actually recalled its occurrence. Alexandria made the best of working for Gilt Edge Racing. Norman was not a bad soul, so she dressed to please him, doing her utmost to supply what little glamour she could to penetrate what was otherwise a bleak, ship’s cabin of a room that had a darkness of its own; a darkness that settled like dust that was hard to shift even in the bloom of summer. Her skirts were invariably an inch too short, her hair tidy but with a hint of wildness and she always wore high heels.
For Norman, who himself had seen better days, being with Alexandria was like acting out a play on a daily basis. She moved and spoke on cue, leaned across him when he was at his desk, bending down low, or reaching up high when tackling the filing cabinet, bosom tantalisingly close, stockings crackling, filling his senses with perfume tinted by promises of yesteryear. She was Micky Spillane’s Velda, turning Norman into Mike Hammer. Often, when he was with her, he spoke like an American private eye. He even kept a bottle of old scotch in his drawer although he disliked the stuff – all that was missing was the trilby.
‘Don’t look good, baby,’ he said, perusing a balance sheet tipped heavily against him. ‘We lost most of our customers in August and never replaced them after that bad run of losers at York.’
Alexandria was filing a pincer of fingernail. She knew things had to be bad. They were always verging on the desperate when Norman assumed his half-cocked American accent. However, it seemed this was a constantly changing business. One minute it was roses and champagne, the next it was brown ale and a silver container of Chinese takeaway.
Horses were just names to her, much the same as the passengers had been on the liners as they came and went, put their arms round her, had their pictures taken and were replaced two weeks, two months, whatever, by the next intake. It seemed horses were the same. Only the names changed, like the passengers, they all looked pretty much alike. She swivelled her chair to allow Norman a full on view of her legs, an act she found was invariably the best antidote for most of his ills.
Not this time though. Temporarily impervious to her, Norman stared at the figures before him, wondering how he managed to pay the rent on this shoebox of an office in Hammersmith. The answer, which he knew perfectly well, was that he couldn’t afford it – at least not under current conditions – unless he turned the business round in a major way. The problem was he did not have enough clients. That said, on Boxing Day at Kempton Park, he expected to collect on a juvenile hurdler that an informant had told him was a certainty. What he really needed was enough punters to back the horse and pay him a percentage of their winnings to make the deal worthwhile. Yet, as he glanced through the list of possible paying customers, he could hope for no more than six at the most to send him a cheque should the animal oblige. A speedy influx of new people was essential if he were to capitalise on this nugget of news.
The question was, as this was the Monday of Christmas week and Boxing Day was only five days away, how could Gilt Edge Racing expect to recruit a sufficient number of new customers to allow Norman a much-needed payday?
With only one more racing day left before the holidays, time was crucial. There was of course only one solution. Tomorrow, racing came from Bangor On Dee and Southwell. Somehow, Norman realised, he would have to spin a winner out of the last day’s racing before the big day on Saturday. He would place an advertisement in the Racing Post, offering new subscribers a free tip for tomorrow in return for their agreement to back the juvenile for him on Boxing Day at odds of, what, £50? Was that being greedy? He decided not. Asking for any less might jeopardise his authenticity in the eyes of possible recruits and, in any event, this was a desperate last throw of the dice. Those that responded were receiving a free tip and if it won, they would be up for the Boxing Day bonanza bet. Norman decided he would worry about what to tip once he had placed his advert.
He sketched his plan to Alexandria who put her legs away, popped a piece of gum in her mouth and fluttered her eyelashes in his direction. She rang the newspaper whilst Norman feverishly flicked through the Post until he came across the runners for tomorrow. He began looking for suitable candidates.
Three hours later, with all thoughts of completing his tax return put on hold, Norman had eliminated Southwell and, having scrutinised the declarations from Bangor, was feeling edgy. The racing was poor and nothing stood out.
Alexandria had typed a couple of invoices, forlorn reminders to non-payers for the last winner, which was in November, filed a few crackpot letters, and was in the process of re-emerging from an envelope of steam having made two cups of coffee. Norman had decided she made bad coffee, but then he had not hired her for her skills with the kettle.
Norman had scoured the card at Bangor. Each time an interesting horse appeared something stood in its way. There was the one that had not run for eighteen months. The race where a trainer was doubly represented, the stable jockey apparently on the wrong one. There was the horse that had never done the distance; the race that contained a useful ex-French Flat performer – the meeting was a box of tricks straight out of a Christmas cracker. It was also a minefield of mediocrity.
Beyond the window it was dusky, city lights crackling in a false fairground darkness. Norman sat back in his chair, desperation creasing his brow. He dismissed Alexandria for the day; they agreed to meet back at the office at 8.00am, when, he said, he would have a winner for the prospective callers from the advert. Norman unscrewed the cap from the dreaded whisky bottle and took a generous swig. It was cheap whisky and burned its way down his throat. Before he had time to taste it properly he took another mouthful, grimacing as the first swallow came back to hit him.
Cold gripped the streets. Norman chose to walk, knowing it meant a slog to his flat. But he wanted to clear his head so turned away from Goldhawk Road and toward the river. The rawness of the temperature dealt him a resuscitating slap as he felt the rippling cold of the river stirring below Hammersmith Bridge. Slow-moving cars congested the bridge. Norman used the walkway, hands in pockets, giving him a hangdog look. He paused halfway across to lean over the barrier. Behind him were the constant sounds of car engines and of footsteps. A bitter wind carried the noise away, punching a hole in the night. He figured it wasn’t possible to get any colder – it was a cold that gusted clear through him.
He looked at the dark waters below. Lights from the bridge rippled on the black surface. He stared at the oily water, looking for his reflection and in search of some inspiration, wondering where the free winner – the incentive for his Boxing Day coup – was going to come from.
There was no reflection, no inspiration; only darkness and a film of lights in the lapping blackness. He tossed a rare half-smoked cigarette into the void, Mike Hammer style, watching it flicker down to a liquid grave.
AFTER several more drinks the night before at his local, Norman was groggy the next morning but he made it into the office on time. Alexandria was already at her desk, Racing Post open at the advert. She made tea in silence whilst Norman stared again at the Bangor card as if at any minute a sign would appear from the paper, nudging him in the direction of a winner. He drank the tea, which tasted unusually bitter, and waited for the jangle of the phones. By 8.17, all remained silent. Part of him wished the phones would continue idly on the desk. In his desperation, he even contemplated unplugging them. But he knew that before long they would ring, especially in a business where anything that is free is snaffled. Unable to bear the silence and tension any longer, he folded up his paper and turned to Alexandria.
‘I need to go out for a while,’ he said, as if at confessional. ‘Maybe you could take over. To be honest I haven’t a clue what to tip; but we have to give them something. Tell them McCoy’s in the opener and be done with it.’
With that Norman left, promising to be back after the race, at which point he would pay Alexandria off and she could get on with her Christmas.
Norman knew the game was all but up. He would have to squeeze the remnants out of his bank account to pay Alexandria her wages and include a small Christmas bonus. It was only fair, as it seemed he would be unable to offer her any more work after today. He wandered the streets for a while, had a chat with Jaffa the greengrocer and Tooth-Thirty the Chinese dentist. He had coffee at Bogarts and had all but emptied his bank account by mid-morning.
Racing started early. Ladbrokes was busy as he watched Tony McCoy come a distant third at Bangor on what looked like a horse that was as slow to finish as a plumber being paid by the hour.
On the way back to the office he tried to think of a hundred reasons why it didn’t really matter. It was that old game of trying to make the crime fit the punishment rather than the other way round. Racing was not the same. There was too much of it; bookmakers were creaming what money it generated, it was turning sour. And anyway, he had lingered, like an unwelcome lover, for too long. It was time for a new venture. Still, he felt sorry for Alexandria who would face the New Year without work. However, with those legs, something would turn up – it was not as if she was forfeiting a job of substance.
He could hear the phone ringing as he climbed the stairs to the office. It would obviously be someone complaining about the tip. It would be best if he had the phones disconnected and gave the Boxing Day horse to his ‘special clients’ from his mobile.
AS far as Alexandria was concerned, Norman had left her in the lurch. He looked yellow and fatigued when he arrived first thing and was, in her opinion, on the verge of being sick when he threw her his scant instruction before shutting the door behind him. Scanning the paper, Alexandria found the horse she presumed Norman had meant. McCoys was its name and it ran in the first at Southwell. It was a big price in the paper but was the only horse she could find with such a name so, when the first caller rang just before nine, that was the name she gave. She did the same with the man with a wheezy voice that sounded as if he had phoned by mistake and was in search of a sex line. Then came the cockney, a woman (unusual) from Gloucester and a man from Bethnal Green then a Manchurian. She wrote down their names and addresses as best she could, knowing that in the majority of cases she was wasting her time as they were unlikely to ever pay for a winning selection further down the line; however, if only a small proportion of the number of callers returned, the exercise was worthwhile. That was so long as McCoys won or at least went close. She did not know much about racing but that much she did know!
In all, Alexandria took somewhere between fifty and fifty-five calls. There was a point just before midday when it became so hectic she lost count and was unable to take details.
Southwell was on the free-to-air channel (the bill for RUK having proved beyond Gilt Edge Racing’s capacity some months previous) so she watched the race. McCoys broke somewhere in the middle of the pack, where he stayed until, with less than two to race, the leaders seemed to be going up and down on the spot. Conjuring up what looked to her like a sprint, but what was in reality no more than a sustained run in the cloying sand, McCoys hit the front close home to prevail in a thrilling finish. Even more thrilling was the price – 20/1! Somehow, old Norman the Groper (as she called him) had come up with a barnstormer!
As Norman entered the office, shoulders stooping with the affectation of defeat, pockets laden with the final withdrawal from Lloyds, he heard Alexandria mystifyingly telling a caller that it was her pleasure and to be sure to call back on Boxing Day.
Maybe she was doing a deal of her own thought Norman, working something on the side, although he knew whatever it was it could not be associated with horses. The only horses Alexandria knew were the ones that went up and down on a fairground roundabout!
Then, almost immediately, the phone rang again. In fact, it was the woman from Gloucester, pledging life-long allegiance to Gilt Edge Racing and insisting on sending ‘a little something in the post’.
A dumbfounded Norman asked what was happening and when Alexandria, with the innocence of a nun, told him that she had merely followed his inspired instructions, he put two and two together before slumping in his chair to digest the irony of the situation. A sea pounded through his head. First thought was – say nothing. There was no point in handing the accolade to Alexandria who might expect a bonus if she knew what she had done. He loved Alexandria in his own fashion – always had done – but he also knew their relationship could never be more than convivial in her eyes. Even so, there was this overwhelming temptation to kiss her but, recalling what happened last time he did that, he thought it better to do nothing. Sometimes, if you can carry it off, Norman reasoned within the ocean that washed through his brain, it is better to keep quiet when fortune has looked your way.
There was a prickle of sweat on Norman’s brow as Alexandria took another call, flashed him a wink and then scribbled some notes on her pad. Meanwhile, Norman attempted to compose himself.
Once the activity on the phones subsided, Alexandria totted up the amount of callers – give or take – and presented Captain Cash with a full report. It appeared they could expect at least fifty new customers on Boxing Day – more like forty they both agreed – but at least it went a long way to achieving their goal, which was to have a sizeable amount placed on their behalf on the novice hurdler at Kempton. Including the punters that had survived the rocky year, it would mean a sum in the region of £2,500 being wagered without risk.
Norman shrugged, having difficulty breathing let alone containing the whooshing in his head. In all the excitement it seemed Alexandria had failed to notice his astonishment, meaning a quick change in demeanour was all that was required. He murmured something about not feeling too well, in exchange for what he took to be a quizzical look from his assistant.
Alexandria fished in her bag for some Aspirin whilst Norman willed himself back to normality. There followed a hurried set of arrangements. He paid Alexandria all he owed her plus the planned bonus. Within half-an-hour, the drama of the day was locked away in that little office along with its battered furniture, Victorian toilet that only half-flushed, and accompanying cracked basin, as the office door closed and the two of them went their separate ways, agreeing to meet up on Boxing Day morning.
Like jealousy, envy and lust, greed is a strange animal that only sheds its skin when experienced. After the events of Tuesday had sunk in, Norman realised that by whatever means you could apply, he had actually given away a 20/1 winner to a set of strangers, many of whom would simply take the money and run. Of course it was a sheer fluke of the most bizarre kind, but the knowledge that such a thing had happened kept him awake. There were times when he wished the horse had finished second – beaten a short-head like the others that had really mattered. That way he would have demonstrated his skill and connections without actually providing the fortunate callers with a free Christmas present, the like of which was unlikely to be forthcoming for a long time. Now, for the first time, the thought occurred that without the Boxing Day winner nothing had actually been achieved. It was to be a long three days for Norman as he scrutinised the cards for Saturday. The horse ran early in the programme at Kempton and, as with all things earnestly anticipated, Boxing Day morning rushed by.
Norman was at the office before Alexandria who, on arrival, looked as if she had gone without sleep for the run-up to Christmas. She turned up in a Pineapple tracksuit and trainers. The phones were silent for some time. There was a call from someone in Kent just after eight, followed by little action. A little after eleven the phones sprang into life as call after call stacked up. By the time the race was due it was estimated that calls had exceeded expectations – somewhere in the region of sixty – something of a mystery but one Norman did not question.
The horse was well supported in the market, opening at 2/1, closing to 5/4 at the off. He jumped the first couple okay, racing in mid-division, moving up down the far stretch. He ballooned the fourth-last but appeared to lose little impetus. Turning for home he was third, travelling every bit as well as those ahead. Straightening up to face the final two flights, his jockey began to niggle and all of a sudden, as can happen with jumpers, he went from moving smoothly to flattening out. His brown nose gradually eased out of the close-up picture on television and when the long-shot picked him up he was fourth and retreating into the mists of Sunbury.
After the race, a starchy quietness settled over the dusty Hammersmith office. It was as if Norman and Alexandria were an old married couple recovering from a major argument.
For Alexandria it meant a wasted day – she had no conception of the vagaries of horseracing. To her mind if Norman could nominate a 20/1 winner with little known chance, he should have been able to select a short-priced one that performed better than this much-awaited prospect.
Much to Alexandria’s displeasure, Norman lit a cigarette. After she had left, Norman lit another and began emptying the whisky. The phone jangled a couple of times but he let it ring out…
An unexpected 20/1 winner and a certainty that turned out to be a 5/4 loser and nothing to show for it except bills that couldn’t be paid and an office filling with a blue haze of smoke.
Happy Christmas muttered Norman before draining the last of the whisky. It was his last coherent sentence before December 27th.
AND ANOTHER THING…
Dec 2009
I AM BACK. I left in the rain – sloshing through Rangoon, only it was the M25. Conditions were so awful I could barely peer through the windscreen. They were so bad that, concentrating on the way ahead, I missed the Gatwick turn-off ending up at Clackett Lane services.
Time was dribbling fast and I had to get back on the orbital motorway, heading in the other direction competing with much slower traffic. I know it is no excuse – all of a sudden I was reduced to one of those Easy Jet would-be travellers from Airline, expecting to fly after the closing of their flight gate. I had always thought only idiots miss planes. I welcomed myself to the nonexclusive Club Idiot as I limped back the way I had come, watching the minutes tick away, crawling at speeds of less than twenty miles-an-hour at times. In addition, yes I admit it, that was me on the hard shoulder by the side of my car relieving myself. I take no pleasure in this admission and apologise to anyone offended by the sight of a grown man peeing in public. If it is any consolation that is one of the obligatory tasks for members (no pun intended) seeking acceptance into Club Idiot.
I approached a queue-less check-in desk convinced I would be sent back home. I was not intent on advancing my claim to travel, as I was three-quarters of an hour late. I had paid for the tickets a month previously and therefore known what that involved. After all how much notice do we need?
Faced with my bedraggled form, the girl took my bag without much comment. Even if my Samsonite ended up in Bangkok and I in Morocco, I was at least leaving the ground – it mattered little.
The airline exacted retribution on my dim-witted behaviour: the plane was an hour late leaving due to a faulty starter motor. Again, apologies are in order, this time to the remainder of the passengers on the flight, as it was of course my fault. We sat, precious flying time ticking away in our cramped seats, fidgeting whilst an engineer fished about in the spares department for a 737 starter motor. I felt I should have owned up that I was the Jonah responsible. Everything had gone wrong from the moment my alarm had beeped. I had blundered away not one but two opportunities to reverse my navigational error. Even when I had found Gatwick, I missed the long-stay car park bus bound for the terminal by a minute, meaning more of a delay, at which point I was beginning to wonder whether I should be allowed out alone. Stranded in Nottingham, I had once changed a starter motor in an old VW Beetle in the growing dark (my solitary mechanical success to date). I fixed it and heard the car spark into life as the last of the light slipped away. So I was prepared in a sort of: is there a doctor present way to volunteer my services. Thankfully, they were not required.
Four hours later we were in Marrakech. It was raining – my fault again – but nothing as bad as in England, or Rangoon for that matter. I was not expecting much in the way of weather; just warmer than here, but rain spattered the windows of the transfer coach to our hotel.
It was dark when we disembarked. They gave me a fruit punch, which I managed not to spill down my shirtfront, some instructions, a room key and a welcome pack. Later I drank something stronger than punch, and ate a portion of roast turkey. Then I wandered into the theatre to see the entertainment. Little did I know I was it! They yanked five of us from the audience, hauling us upon the stage to perform a series of ludicrous but amusing stunts for those enjoying the luxury of looking on. We were required to don a hat and coat and use a skipping rope, before kissing as many members of the audience as we could without receiving a black eye – double points for kissing someone of our own sex. One of the resident dancers demonstrated Michael Jackson’s moonwalk, which we had to impersonate. Then it was a case of standing up in turn to sing ninety seconds worth of any song. Now, this is tricky: I was back on the M25, hypnotised by conditions, unable to find the exit, or in this case the entrance. We all think we know a few bars of some song or other, but try singing it with the right words. All sorts of vague renditions ran through my head as my fellow contestants fumbled through Frere Jacques, in the case of the Frenchman, some Welsh coalmining song from Taffy that could have been anything; I cannot recall the others; I was too busy trying to ensure I did not dry up. In the end, I found myself belting out Maggie May. For a minute and a half, I became Rod Stewart, at least in my mind. Ronnie Wood was on guitar and Maggie was ‘a pain I could do without’. Two balloons and a Widow Twanky-type outfit followed this, but I have revealed far too much already. A word of warning to would-be X-Factor contestants: everybody looks big on stage; it is how you look away from it that matters.
The next day the sky was as blue as a blue painting. Temperatures forecast to skim the high sixties at best in fact hit the middle-seventies. This continued for a glorious week. Six hours a day of unbroken sunshine in what is dubbed as the Beverley Hills of Marrakech. Off-white skin crisped to toffee.
When the sun went down at the Palais des Congres there was the ninth International Film Festival of Marrakech (FIFM). Fifteen films from such diverse countries as South Korea, Japan, Malayasia, Uraguay, Egypt and even Tajikistan scheduled to flicker on giant screens to compete for the Golden Star. However, this is no parochial exercise, Morocco has always been an important location for film, emphasised by visiting Sigourney Weaver, whose movies, Gorillas In The Mist and Aliens, are among those shown. Christopher Walken is honoured. Orson Welles filmed Othello in nearby Essaouira, where a statue in its square commemorates him. Star Wars and Hitchcock’s The Birds were other notable films shot in Morocco. The Birds is one of several Hitchcock films to light up the amphitheatre in the square. For those of us of the non-beautiful variety, not possessing passes but keen to savour celluloid in the souk, the gauntlet has to be run with the local sellers, thrusting their ‘special price for you my friend’ best bargains in our faces. Persistent sums them up. A persistence that is both intimidating and insistent as they tug at sleeves with all the subtlety of Rottweilers as a thousand eyes look on, keen to take their piece of flesh. John Lewis this is not.
There are two works by Joseph Losey also. There is The Servant, which is excellent, but probably mystifying to a mainly non-western but eager to appreciate audience, and the less exacting The Go-Between. Ridley Scott’s Body Of Lies was to have been screened but a copy is unavailable for viewing for whatever reason, although his association with Morocco goes back some way.
Visitors to Morocco should not expect a crater in the desert. This is a thriving city, full of the modern and the new. Art is represented strongly; both created on canvass and sculpted naturally in the shape of the Atlas Mountains that stand guard, seemingly blue as the San Gabriel range on the outskirts of LA. Marrakech may not be Hollywood yet but it is getting there.
It has been a magical and glorious week. With the internet, anything is possible just now. Most of the time we can live a cyber existence, playing make-believe, travelling the world from the comfort of self-constructed high-backed chairs in front of slim computer screens.
Maybe I am fooling myself after all. So much seemed to have happened during the past eight days, possibly I never actually escaped from that wheel that is the M25. Maybe I did miss the flight and, unable to slink home in disgrace, spent a week eating at Clackett Lane services interspersed with bouts on a laptop. But, no, I have the suntan to disprove this. It may not last much more than a week but the week spent acquiring it will remain.
Maybe this is all an excuse to stray away from racing for this particular piece, but it is difficult to write about a subject you have temporarily divorced. Clement Freud used to take refuge in food and life in Marylebone and got away with it for years!
David Ashforth can pen pieces on ice cream at Salisbury and life in Kentucky. It is a trick writers cultivate from a young age when faced with the task of writing about subjects like – my summer holidays by unimaginative English teachers. Then again, maybe they are sorting the wheat from the chaff, spotting those that can turn round content to accommodate what they wish to address.
I am not comparing myself with those two laudable writers; possibly after another twenty years of practice. Knowing the technique and practising it are deals of a different variety.
Apparently, whilst I was trying to escape from London’s orbital route, the lads had it off at Sandown on Saturday with Eric’s Charm.
Cheltenham in the wind and or rain is on the menu this weekend. I haven’t a clue what is running but intend to catch up. I have had my Andy Warhol moment. Green Wadi – a topical selection – looks worth a second look tomorrow at Kempton.
AND ANOTHER THING
NEWBURY HAD SOME OF ITS FINEST MOMENTS over the last three days.
It started on Thursday with a blizzard of a finish in what was probably only a modest mares’ novice hurdle, but the drama provided by McCoy and Thornton on their respective mounts, Midnight Queen and Miss Overdrive, set up what was to be a not-to-be-forgotten meeting. Riverside Theatre gave us quality in the beginners’ chase.
On Friday, Royal Mix impressed in the opener; Rivaliste proved himself a well-handicapped chaser when winning despite failing to be foot-perfect. Lie Forrit was one for the purists in the Pertemps Handicap Hurdle; then it was back to quality with Punchestowns giving a flawless exhibition in the novice chase. He made it look easy, hopping over his obstacles and winning with consummate ease. Bellvano took the novice hurdle that concluded the afternoon; however, there is work to do with him if he is to realise lofty aspirations. He does not appear a natural but the ability is there.
So to Saturday: Finian’s Rainbow pulverised the opposition in the novice hurdle. It is testament to the talent housed at Seven Barrows that the Nicky Henderson team consider him an embryo chaser. Big Buck’s sauntered away with the Class 1 Long Distance Hurdle under a motionless Ruby Walsh, looking as if he could win an Ascot Gold Cup.
Then came the miracle. It was not just the weight – such a burden has been carried to victory in this race before. It was so much else that Denman had to overcome. For a start, he had to concede lumps to very good handicappers. There was the fibrillating heart, the ignominy of Aintree where he had suffered a fall that made spectators hold their breath for a long few seconds as it looked debatable whether he would stagger to his feet. There were those that thought we had seen the best of Denman. Paul Nicholls was adamant Denman was back and that the fire was burning. The glint was in Denman’s eye, but even so, Nicholls was worried. The fire ignited to a blaze during the race as Denman put his rivals to the sword. They closed, threatening to carry him out on his shield. Not once, but three times, Denman looked beaten; each time he pulled out more. The fire in the eye was reduced to an ember by the end of a gruelling ordeal, but you could still see the glow as a weary Denman returned to the enclosures. If Denman was fire then Ruby Walsh was ice. One of the best jump jockeys of all time, he held his nerve, judged the pace, empathised with his mount and coolly achieved what so many – including himself – thought was unlikely. Newbury was blessed with a glittering array of stars over this, their three-day Winter Festival meeting, and each one shone as brightly as they knew how.
At Newcastle the defeat of Binocular in the Fighting Fifth caused another wave of seismic proportions in the Champion Hurdle betting. Yes, the pace was slow, but if anything that should have helped the speedy Binocular. He is a lightly framed individual that looked very fit. Expected to win, he failed to quicken as Go Native accelerated past the field. Solwit should not be written off just yet, as he has done really well physically since last year. A faster pace will certainly play to his strengths. Binocular has yet to actually bag a big race and it could be the window of opportunity is closing fast in a year when the Champion Hurdle will take a great deal of winning.
Unlike Bellvano, Quantitativeeasing may not have beaten a strong field in the novice hurdle, but unlike his stablemate he looks much more the finished article. He flicks and flashes over his hurdles before producing a final killer turn of foot. He will improve naturally and although he may not be the equal of Bellvano at this moment, come the end of the season it would be no surprise to see him his superior.
But this was a day that belonged to the tank known as Denman. Forget comparisons with the other great weight-carrying performances this race has engendered: those of Arkle, Burrough Hill Lad, Mandarin, Trebolgan and Diamond Edge. For those that saw the Hennessy that he won, witnessed it live or on television, saw the tears in Paul Nicholls’ eyes and marvelled at how kind the gods can sometimes be, this was a day to savour, to say, I saw and I remember. It’s all we can do in this poly-cling-wrapped little world that we have created called racing.
Saturday November 28th 2009: Denman Day.
AND ANOTHER THING….
A BIG WEEKEND LOOMS IN THE GLOOM. It is a month to Christmas or the Boxing Day feature at Kempton, whichever you please. Saturday is Hennessy Day. The crispness of a day about to fade into a smudgy duskiness will twinkle around 2.40. Lights will spill from the stands and glimmer in the odd house by the line of trees that form the boundary along the back straight at Newbury racecourse.
To be precise it is Hennessy Cognac Gold day but the race has achieved that golden seal of approval with the public, that is to say it is known simply as the Hennessy. Others have tried unsuccessfully to dub their name to a race, but this event, perhaps because it is Britain’s oldest sponsored horserace, has eased its way into the Calendar as just that. Hennessy is not part of the title; it is the title. A race run over three-and-a-quarter miles at Newbury is associated with the Irish-French manufacturers of a caramel-looking liquid, which is pure cognac. For some, cognac burns its way into the pit of the stomach, for others it melts its way down the throat and spreads its golden hue through the body like enriched syrup. There are other brands, but Saturday is Hennessy’s day. To borrow an idea from another well-known advert: this is not just brandy – it is cognac.
Oddly, despite limited advertising in diverse fields, Hennessy is a name that others have run with. Rappers in particular seem to like it as a brand. Kanye West, Eminem and 50 Cent have used its title in lyrics. They are not alone. A host of names, all unknown to me, have rattled the Hennessy barrel. They include Nate Dogg (I assume that is rude) and then a cast familiar to only those that could re-programme a DVD player after the digital switchover.
The Hennessy Gold Cup was first run at Cheltenham in 1957 when Mandarin immediately set the standard. Three years later the race was transferred to its present venue in Berkshire, but not before legendaries such as Kerstin and Knucklecracker sealed an event that was destined to become the top steeplechasing handicap of the season. After Knucklecracker had won the inaugural running at Newbury, Mandarin took his second gulp of cognac in 1961.
1963 saw one of the most dramatic contests for the prize. It featured the clash of the titans that were Mill House and Arkle. Both camps were adamant they brought champions to the track and both insistent they would win. Mill House and Arkle were chalk and cheese. Mill House was a big old-fashioned chaser that was nevertheless lightning quick over his fences. If anything, in his heyday, he was probably slicker and faster in the air than the smaller more athletic Arkle. Racing down a foggy straight in the black and white days of television, Mill House established a clear lead, but Arkle was still on the bridle and closing when spluttering over the last ditch three out. There was a groan from his supporters in the stands as Mill House opened up and, to the delight of the local crowd, Fulke Walwyn’s chaser powered away with the prize. Mill House was crowned king, but his reign was short-lived. Those that chose to see detected that Arkle had barely engaged fourth gear when making that howling mistake. The Irish returned home, licking their wounds but with confidence that there would be another day. There was – it came in an epic Cheltenham Gold Cup later that season that saw the two of them duel over the fences that could have been constructed of plywood. They danced over those tricky obstacles, each daring the other. After a breathtaking display of derring-do, it was Arkle that jumped the last three lengths in front. Mill House, on whom Willie Robinson had dropped his whip, valiantly tried to peg back Arkle’s lead. Those that cried rematch were groping on the turf for Robinson’s lost whip. It was over! The Mill House dynasty was halted, prompting Sir Peter O’ Sullevan to exclaim as Arkle began that searching haul up the Cheltenham hill, that ‘This is the champion – the best we have seen in a long time’.
Arkle returned to Newbury to snap up the next two Hennessy’s carrying 12st 7lbs each time. In 1966 he narrowly failed to concede 35lbs to the following year’s Cheltenham Gold Cup runner-up in Stalbridge Colonist, who went on to be beaten only a short-head by Woodland Venture at Prestbury Park.
Not every renewal contained such a hallowed cast but other names to grace the Hennessy role of honour include: Spanish Steps, Charlie Potheen, Diamond Edge, Bregawn, Brown Chamberlin, Burrough Hill Lad, One Man, Suny Bay and Denman. These were all great chasers and this is no ordinary handicap!
This year we see a strange affair. You could argue the card contains false messages. Denman has to carry 11st 12lbs having failed to look the same horse since winning this race in 2007 and the Gold Cup later that season. Those banking on him returning to his best may be relying on the magical wand waved by Ruby Walsh. Grand National winner Mon Mome is an unlikely winner and Barbers Shop has yet to convince over this trip. Perhaps the way is paved for an outsider. Perhaps a forgotten horse – like Denman a ghost of season’s past. It could be the 2006 winner, State of Play, who is bouncing according to his trainer, but only if the ground dries out.
Sticking to 2006 it could even be War Of Attrition – winner of the Cheltenham Gold Cup that year and now only carrying 10st 6lbs. It was not a strong Gold Cup he won, but at the age of seven War Of Attrition had the chasing world at his hooves at the time. Niggling problems have besieged him since, but he did not run like a has-been behind The Listener last time and in fact has never looked as if the glint of battle has been extinguished from his eye.
And 10st 6lbs for a Gold Cup winner that is still in there trading the blows with the heavyweights if not knocking them out and is 25/1; it makes you wonder. Doesn’t it?
AND ANOTHER THING…
THERE WERE NO PALM TREES, no mountains of blue or unbroken skies; there were no million-dollar purses. There was rain, mud, purple clouds and an ever-present chill in the air. This was Great Britain in November. We watched jump racing.
The stars came out and they shone like Take That said they would. As a dreeck Saturday, a world away from the Breeders’ Cup, it could not have been more different, yet it was a day to savour.
Zaynar confounded his stable and those that said a four-year-old could not concede weight to his seniors. He routed the opposition with superior jumping and a lion’s heart. Not the most popular inmate at Seven Barrows, what he lacks in social graces at home he makes up for on the racecourse. They said he was not fully fit. The form pundits said he was incapable of beating the likes of Katchit and Karabak. Zaynar was not supposed to win the Triumph Hurdle either; but then he is not a horse to follow the script. He pounded all the theories into the Ascot turf: jumping, fighting and winning like a very good horse. He and Celestial Halo are part of an exceptional crop from last year’s juvenile hurdlers. Already both look like serious Cheltenham contenders for 2010.
Those that doubted Zaynar ate their words. Those that doubted Kauto Star did the same in a race that will surely go down as one of the best of the season. On ground conditions far from ideal, Kauto Star jumped with ease but looked beaten twice down the Haydock straight. Just when Imperial Commander’s stamina had seemingly run out like sand in an egg timer, Kauto Star went on and jumped the last with the race in apparent safe-keeping. Imperial Commander rallied and in a desperate slog to the line failed by the narrowest of margins to deprive the Gold Cup winner. This was the sort of stuff they write in Hollywood. No one could begrudge Kauto his win, although commiserations ought to be extended to connections of Imperial Commander for taking the champion to the edge of defeat.
It is time for doubters like me to remove the stone from the shoe that serves as a false reminder that Kauto Star has only beaten average pretenders to his throne. It is time to applaud him for what he is. Notre Pere never looked happy in the race. Whatever dawn he represents, it seems like a false one.
There was more. There was Planet Of Sound’s brave revival from a mistake that appeared to cost him the Amlin Chase, won by a revitalised Albertas Run. There was Mr Thriller overhauling a leaden-legged Starluck in the Timeform Hurdle and Ultimate skating away with a juvenile hurdle at Huntingdon.
There was Tranquil Tiger at Lingfield, but essentially this was a day that belonged to the jumping fraternity. The old campaigners, and the new, thrilled the crowds as only they can. It was a day to dream of Cheltenham and Aintree and Sandown and the Boxing Day meeting at Kempton. It was a day to warm the dank, rheumatic hearts of the followers of the winter game. It was a day that promised a glimpse of sun in a winter landscape.
AND ANOTHER THING…
ERSTWHILE PEOPLE TELL ME THAT under certain circumstances the Tote Scoop Six is a good bet to strike. Their reasoning appears to be woolly and based on the premise that at times a rollover creates an artificially high pool. I have heard this argument from gamblers that should know better.
Devised as an alternative to the Lottery, The Tote Scoop Six fulfils its function. More in optimism than hope, small punters fill in tickets that offer a big hit for a minimal stake. Realistically though, the chances of nominating six winners in six different races are high – virtually impossible without the cushion of a massive perm – but still outstrip the chances of winning the Lottery. X marks the spot on the coupon; you pay for the wager and give it no further thought. You have performed one of those little rituals that make up a Saturday morning.
Yet there are those that think this a system they can beat. They form syndicates on the occasions when rollover cash is sloshing in the pool, laying out huge sums, sometimes tens of thousands, in the hope of scooping several million.
For those of you that fail to see the flaw in this logic, allow me to present my case. Firstly, if you lay out £10,000 in the hope of winning, let us say six million, you are betting at odds of 600/1. You must remember that even if you are successful in producing one correct line from your £10,000 stake, £9,998 is sacrificed to obtain that golden win. Of course, there is also always the chance you will lose your entire stake or that the dividend will yield less than you wagered. The stakes are high, the potential return not quite so large when that is considered. After four losing weeks, assuming you still have a bank, if others have snapped up the rollover you could be betting at overall odds of 2/1 or less.
Because the Scoop Six requires you to crack the hardest races of the day, success is dependent on massive permutations of selections. Some handicaps are so feverishly difficult that it is necessary to cover almost the entire field. Obviously, this increases the staking plan until you are almost buying every horse on the card or cards in order to stand any chance of winning. Somewhere along the line you have to rely on solving a race with one or two selections; and because the races are not of your choosing, there is a real chance that the nine-horse race you thought you could boil down to the three form selections does not go according to plan. For the bet to work on all levels the unexpected has to happen. Given six races, it will. Master Minded has to fall at the last and bring down Well Chief leaving Mahogany Blaze to drive a coach and horses through what looked a two-horse event. Now, I know this failed to happen last Saturday, but it can and does.
In short, the Scoop Six is a minefield that offers no value whatsoever to the professional punter on a long term basis and is best confined to Aunt Dolly and her hatpin.
If you think you can back six consecutive winners in an afternoon, any afternoon, not the one that contains the hardest races of the week, then do it! Pick your own races; try it with four races if necessary and confine your stake to a more manageable 50pence or a £1 a line. Devise your own permutation and be content with the returned odds.
On a normal Saturday, the SP odds of a successful accumulator on the kind of races chosen by the Tote for this bet average between two-and-a-half and two-and-three-quarter million to one. That is because there will invariably be at least two chunky priced winners in amongst the roll call. Win and to a £2 stake, you pick up in excess of £5million. Value, what value? Great if you can machete your way through horrendous sprint handicaps or twenty-runner chases, but we all know how improbable that is.
As a society, I fear we are in danger of becoming so manipulated by those that wish us to do their bidding that we no longer function independently.
Vote for your favourite act now!
Press the red button!
Bet now!
Live the lives of people you do not know and who care nothing about you and your ilk!
Pick up a lottery ticket!
Don’t forget the Tote Scoop Six!
We all know YOU and I cannot win the Tote Scoop Six. Those that organise syndicates stand some sort of chance but greatly diminish their odds because they cover so many perms. Someone somewhere will win now and then but it will never be someone you can name. We are back to the monkey and the typewriter analogy. Eventually he will type a few meaningful words but it does not mean he can write.
With all due respect, you only have to look at the individuals that have won the Scoop Six to realise skill was not part of their strategy. There was a nice lady that just went on names, someone else that backed Frankie because he always did in the big races. Without irrational selections haphazardly mixed in with those that make sense, you will never pull off a bet like this.
As I said earlier, if you feel you can name four, five or six winners given enough shots at target, pick the races yourself and perm any one from a hundred for a stake of your choosing. At least if you win you will not be playing a pool system. Tote or Pari-mutuel betting puts the punter at a disadvantage from the start. The tote cannot lose as it deducts its dividend from all stakes received and shares out the rest. It is like the man organising the sweepstake on the Grand National. If there are forty runners and he takes ten pounds from each of his workmates or colleagues and promises to pay the winner £350, who is the overall winner? Okay, one person in forty will receive winnings and perhaps his horse was only a 12/1 chance so has almost tripled what a conventional bet would have yielded. However, a 200/1 chance that fell at the first or refused at the fifth could just as easily have been drawn.
As with the Tote Scoop Six, the only real winner is the person that risked nothing – the stakeholder who, having kept back some of the money taken, will always walk away richer whatever the result.
AND ANOTHER THING…
THIS WEEK HAS CONTAINED SOMETHING OF THE UNEXPECTED.
It started prematurely with David Haye beating the Russian man-mountain that is Nikolai Valuev in a twelve-rounder for the WBA heavyweight crown in Germany. Outpointing a man that has a seven stone advantage is not easy even if he is as slow as a tree.
Gordon Brown spent the week honing foot-in-mouth tactics that seem to be paying off. People now feel so sorry for this leaden political equivalent of Valuev, he is picking up the sympathy vote from a nation famous for its treatment of the underdog. In a week that confirmed Brown is directionless and devoid of leadership skills, we also learned he is close to being a dyslectic. Apparently, a word like ‘great’ is beyond him, being one of many ludicrously misspelled in his letter to grieving mother Jacqui Janes. What with that and his tactless behaviour at the Cenotaph, Brown is becoming the Norman Wisdom of Westminster.
Cheltenham put steeple-chasing into the spotlight on Friday, the first day of their Open Meeting. According to the weather forecasters, this was a fixture doomed to perish beneath, first seventy, then eighty mile-an-hour winds. And if the wind did not blow the fixture across Cleeve Hill, the rain would wash it clean into the high street. As usual, the weathermen were not right. You could say they were half-right if you wanted to be generous, but neither wind nor rain arrived in the foreseen proportions.
So they raced. John Francome and Emma Ramsden bought Christmas presents from the tented village; Alistair Down, back on his home turf, cheered up considerably, particularly as his principal Gold Cup hope, Notre Pere, had crashed out of the Grade 1 Chase the week before at Down Royal. Loosen My Load looked something special in the Grade 2 novice hurdle on Friday. He is big but handles himself as if smaller. He jumps economically and packs a powerful finishing punch – unlike Valuev. In defeating fellow Irish challenger, Some Present, he beat a strongly fancied candidate and looks a horse to follow. Tito Bustillo would have probably been third but for some sloppy hurdling when it mattered. Once his jumping is addressed he remains a fair prospect that should not be underrated.
Saturday’s card was a real box of tricks. There were six races and six winners although nominating them was somewhat elusive.
Brazil beat England in the heat of Doha. Nothing too surprising there, as the Brazilians are the best footballers in the world. Despite that, outclassed and with backs against the wall, England played with credit. As is so often the case our team is at its best when facing opponents that are a notch too good. Although several notable names were missing in our line-up, this result confirms what those of us with long memories have known all along – England will not be winning the World Cup next year.
Sunday saw two notable scalps taken. Master Minded failed to sparkle in the cloying Cheltenham ground, losing to Well Chief, to whom he was attempting to concede ten pounds, but still finishing behind Mahogany Blaze at levels. This represented Master Minded as being a stone below his best form.
It was a similar story for Hurricane Fly at Punchestown, who could only finish third of four in the Grade 1 hurdle. Solwit – whose first three letters have been substituted by frustrated punters in the past – sprinted away from the last to leave the Champion Hurdle hopes of Hurricane Fly in limbo.
Now it is Sunday night and all that remains is for there to be an upset in the X Factor. Apparently, Strictly Come Dancing went pretty much to plan. It seems plain to all that tonight’s evictee should be Lloyd Daniels. But we are dealing with a public vote, so anything is possible…
AND ANOTHER THING…
BREEDERS’ CUP 2009 – SATURDAY
IT IS MORE OF THE SAME. More cloudless skies, that same wobbly haze above the blue mountains; a buzzy atmosphere, less ties round the collars of the locals but one horse on their lips – that of Zenyatta. But this is a quarter before eleven, her appearance is eight races and five hours away. Five hours before the girl has to Go, Go, Go to satisfy the crowds spilling onto the lawns. The palm trees waver, the shrubs blaze yellow and green as horses come out for the Juvenile on turf. Across town, cars cruise nearby Hollywood Boulevard where the back streets are eerily quiet now the working girls are taking a late breakfast. Shutters rattle up on the Rodeo Drive stores; residents in Beverley Hills are taking dips in their pools. Beneath the mountains, the stalls clang open. The Americans get the betting right. It is a re-run of last year. It is Gosden and Dettori, this time it is Pounced. The Americans plunge, maybe because Pounced looks like a film star. His coat gleams and he is big. Dettori secures the golden strip on the inner; Pounced engages a long stride and runs down Bridgetown to record a third success for Europe. Awesome Act lunges late for fourth. Dewhurst fifth, Buzzword finishes fast to occupy the same position. This is the second time Pounced has beaten him, confirming this form is no fluke. Four runs on from a defeat at Ascot by Sea Lord, and Pounced wins the big bucks, grabbing a Grade 2 at the Breeders’ Cup. Frankie is in the zone.
A mint julep later and the sprinters are on the track for the Turf Sprint. This is a tough one to call. The Americans are daunting in this department and they peel off the dollars big time for California Flag. He flashes out of the stalls like a forest fire is licking at his hooves and makes all. He is clear at halfway, picking up flakes of plastic from the favoured far rail. He holds on as the pack frantically try to close. California Flag breaks the Breeders’ Cup record. Gotta Have Her (by Breeders’ Cup hero Royal Academy) slices through the field for second ahead of Royal Ascot second, but American owned and trained, Cannonball.
The pace quickens for the Grade 1 Sprint on Pro-Ride. It after mid-day and hamburger time in town. With form firmed up by the run of Delta Storm behind California Flag, there is money for Gayego, who challenges Zensational for favouritism. Zensational is a blitzer: Gayego a closer. Zensational blitzes but can’t last. Gayego is at the rear, threads through on the inner with what looks like a winning run, but in a finish of heads is only fourth. Dancing In Silks supplies a boil over, inching out Crown Of Thorns and Cost Of Freedom. The prices are big. The result makes no difference to the pool-based Pari-Mutuel, but, after two heavily backed winners, bookmakers heave a sigh of relief. Joel Rosario rides the winner. He talks to the camera however, coming from the Dominican Republic, his English is broken, particularly under such emotional circumstances. He says plenty but we understand little. Come to think of it, isn’t that what most jockeys do!
Pressure is building along with the temperature. Americans that wear ties are loosening them. They seem to have trouble with ties. Most don’t bother; those that do look as if they have picked them up in Century 21 – the equivalent of what used to be C&A. They wear plain ties or ones with obvious patterns, unless they have shopped at Rodeo Drive, where entering a store costs you twenty bucks. Bob Baffert makes a reasonable effort with a pinkish number. His Lookin At Lucky is favourite in the Juvenile but the Devil had a hand in the draw. He is drawn thirteen of thirteen but this apparent disadvantage does not detour punters. This seems crazy in the light of previous results. Lookin At Lucky runs a gigantic race from the outside, closing, closing down the straight, but Vale Of York is perfectly positioned by young Ahmed Ajtebi, making the most of the rail before being switched close home to win for Godolphin. And they have done it with a British sired animal – Vale Of York is by Invincible Spirit. Vale Of York’s victory is also a boost for the form of Elusive Pimpernel and St Nicholas Abbey. Some have called Ajtebi a camel jockey. Some camel – some jockey! Vale Of York has thwarted the American favourite to win at odds of 25/1. Grey Goose, manufacturers of vodka, provide the purse. Many in the stands feel in need of the sponsor’s produce right now.
We are halfway through but if you are British, nearly six thousand miles from home, jetlag is kicking in. The best is yet to come. Three wins for the British over the two days, four for the Europeans and some big shots left to fire. We have arrived at the Breeders’ Cup Mile. It is Goldikova, Zacinto, Delegator. There is Gladiatorus, bidding to become the second Godolphin bus to arrive quickly after such a long wait. Goldikova becomes a queen of Santa Anita and has Freddie Head in tears. Drawn widest of all, she pounces down the stretch under Olivier Peslier who probably knows her better than his wife. It is a great success – Goldikova takes them apart in a sprint finish after a furious pace. The Godolphin bus temporarily fails to show. Gladiatorus runs too freely, Delegator does not stay and Zacinto appears to finish lame. The filly has prevailed against the colts and Goldikova’s success only fuels the fire that is smouldering in the crowd – the thought of a scorching win for Zenyatta. For now it is what would have been at one time an unprecedented five wins for Europe with the threat of more to come.
They have a racing telephone service in America known as The Hammer Line. You call it when you are losing and losing bad. You call The Hammer and he turns your life around by telling you what to bet. I am losing bad and need The Hammer, but The Hammer is a television presenter and is on air. I am eating turf after Zacinto and Gayego today and House Of Grace and Sara Louise yesterday, and cannot pay my hotel bill. It is the Dirt Mile. It is not run on dirt anymore, it is on Pro-Ride. Midshipman won the Juvenile last year on Pro-Ride and came back to form at Belmont last month on dirt. Does that give him a double advantage? I think he will win, but when you start to lose confidence, your judgement goes too. Now I am not sure but it is too late for a rethink. Midshipman runs well but they don’t pay you for running well. He makes the running, quickens twice, but they catch him inside the last furlong. Furthest Land strikes late as he and Ready’s Echo overhaul a tiring Midshipman. This means Ladbrokes and I prove correct in opposing Mastercraftsman. Unlike Ladbrokes, I walk away from this particular piece of strategy empty handed.
This is the Breeders’ Cup. It is not about a whingeing pom, or limey in the USA, bemoaning his fortune or lack of. So it is on to the Breeders’ Cup Turf. Conduit is a confident call from those closest to him. He only has two to beat: stablemate Spanish Moon and Dar Re Mi. On paper it looks a simple assignment. He was in front of Dar Re Mi in the Arc and surely the stable know which is the better between Conduit and Spanish Moon. Put the race through a computer and Conduit will win it every time. Punters and computer alike get it right. Conduit has it tough. Jersey Boy, Presious Passion goes off at a terrific lick, establishing a long lead. He appears to be on borrowed time as they close him down approaching the stretch, but just when a normal horse would have slipped through the field, Presious Passion finds more, taking Conduit to the edge of the pain barrier after he had stumble bummed his way round the final turn. The first two have put in terrific performances.
Now the Classic, the race they have come to see, almost 60,000 spectators. Zenyatta is named after an album by Police. The Americans are sharing every breath she takes. You can feel the crispness of tension spreading over the track as they pack the stands and the lawns. With $5million in prize-money at stake, this is not about greenbacks. Zenyatta is a racing hero, unbeaten in thirteen races and a wonderful looking mare that is sheer Hollywood. She struts from the paddock to the parade. She looks calm, aware she is the star attraction. According to the pundits it cannot be done. She is a mare taking on colts and geldings for the first time. She races from too far off the pace – it is mission impossible. That is how it looks throughout the race after the drama of a double-load. Zenyatta is dead-last after a hundred yards. At no point can she win. She lobs along from a mediocre pace fifteen lengths off the leaders. Then something happens. Turning for home, without her jockey Mike Smith making a move, she closes. She closes and some. She cannot go the easy route so makes a run on the outside. She strolls past one horse after another and hits the front with her ears pricked. It is the most incredible horserace I have seen. Zenyatta finishes as she started. She is a champion in any language. She even eclipses the blue mountains that for a few moments appear to retreat into the haze in homage. I am writing nonsense; it is only a horserace isn’t it? Go girl!
AND ANOTHER THING…
For the first time in a while, I bought the Racing Post yesterday. On the front cover was an unflattering picture of a double-chinned Peter Chapple-Hyam in need of a haircut, and on the back page one of a track-suited Paul Hart, who is apparently the manager of Portsmouth FC and should not be expecting any offers from modelling agencies in the near future. He shared this position with the well-dressed manager of Hull, a certain Phil Brown. Inside was the usual format: racecards – too many for my taste – dog programmes from Hove, Monmore, Romford and some places I had no idea held greyhound racing, like Doncaster, Harlow and Kinsley (wherever that may be). At least there was a picture of a greyhound called Deanridge Ammo, stretching out under the lights in pursuit of a synthetic never-to-be-caught hare. If Harry Findley has anything to do with this particular dog then Deanridge Ammo will make a better name for a horse than Bab At The Bowster. There were the results from Thursday’s cards, a few letters bemoaning the plight racing is in or nearing (I can talk); in all not much had changed since I last had a flick through the paper.
I repeated the dose on Saturday and bought the Post again. This time I got mad. The headline was unimaginative in the extreme: Young Guns Go For It – the title of an old song by that colossus of all eighties pop groups, Wham. The strap-line was not the only thing that belongs in the past. Friday’s paper cost me £1.60 – Saturday’s was £1.90. I know the Saturday paper is always more expensive than those published during the week. But at a time when we are having to tighten our belts, by increasing its price by almost five percent the Racing Post is pushing its luck. More and more companies seem to think they can charge their way out of this recession rather than actually increase standards of service.
A new era was being ushered in according to its editor, a chubby-faced Bruce Millington, yet to be introduced to a razor if his picture represents him fairly. Oh good! What’s more Mr Millington welcomed us to an even better, brighter Racing Post, full of colour and new look racecards with extras like the repositioning of silks on the page, and so much more too numerous to list, it is just like, well, Christmas. I cannot recall the readership of the Post asking for any of this added information. They certainly did not request a price hike.
Of course that is what all the changes are about – being able to justify charging more for the paper. Changes can come and go but one thing that never seems to be static is the price, and it seems to me the Racing Post is reaching its zenith in terms of that. When you add it up, buying the Racing Post every day costs over £60 a month – nearly £900 a year if you have it delivered. That is over four times what it costs to have Racing UK beamed through your television. Quite frankly, that is too much.
We now have a situation where the only daily betting trade paper is hovering around the two-pound mark. By the start of the Flat, one assumes that will be its price – just to round up the numbers neatly you understand. Two quid for a paper without any pictures of near-naked girls within is surely pushing it!
Maybe you are happy to pay the extra. Maybe you don’t mind donating the price of a holiday to the Racing Post. I do. I decided some time ago that its purchase every day was not necessary. I cancelled a standing order at my newsagents and am now capping the amount I am prepared to spend on the paper each week. I don’t care if it is in colour; I don’t care if it comes with a CD of horses telling me when they are going to win. The most I am prepared to part with per week for this publication is £5. That means some weeks I will buy two copies, some weeks three, some weeks none.
Rather like the current strikes being organised by the Royal Mail union, this policy from the Post is outdated. There is such a thing as the internet now and various sites – those run by The Sporting Life and At The Races for example – offer pretty much all I need in the way of horseracing information and they are free.
Businesses such as newspaper publishers, or bookmakers rely on customers becoming creatures of habit, never questioning what they are spending their money on. ‘I always have a bet on a Saturday,’ or, ‘I can’t do without the Sunday papers’ props up many a concern. But when consumers feel they could be taken for a ride and are faced with a newer and brighter priced article, they can turn. And once they turn, they turn in a big way. The Racing Post is not an indispensible tool for punters, it is merely a help. It is possible for us to survive without it – it does not work the other way round Mr Millington!
AND ANOTHER THING…
A BIT LIKE THE NORTH-SOUTH DIVIDE, there is a definite partition between those that follow and like Flat Racing and those favouring National Hunt.
Flat Racing is cricket, with its tented lawns beneath cotton wool skies. Panama hat-wearing clientele sip Pimms as ladies in summer dresses swan around the enclosures, faces shadowed by wide-brimmed headgear, holding long tall glasses of cocktails aloft and entering best-dressed competitions.
National Hunt Racing is rugby. It is dirty, mud-splattered – participants wince in collisions; there is the crunch of bone, the bruising of flesh. Rain spears down, darkness is always close, there is a touch of the brutal beneath the hot toddies and brogues. Horses steam in the cold weather, sometimes returning from races at the point of exhaustion. Down a course pitted by hooves, flattened hurdles need repairing as do fences, holed as if hit by hand grenades. Horses finish at long intervals, plumes of breath misting the air. Worse, there is the ever-present threat of the erection of the green screens. Those that care hang around on grandstand steps, stamping their feet in an attempt to stave off the rod of cold that travels from the concrete, as they watch what is happening a couple of furlongs away, hoping to see the removal of the giant bat wings as a horse struggles to life on trembling legs. The turf is often Passchendaele – brown and crusty. For a while, not all is quiet on the Front. What had started out a few hours after the rise of a watery sun, glinting with the colour of morning, has become a desolate, hostile place for those about to die. Many will return, not all will live to fight another day. Not all injuries are obvious.
Where Flat racing can be graceful – a summer garden party of an occasion – jump racing is raw. Regular race goers know this. They sacrifice the pain for the glory. There is the same edgy tension appreciated by the boxing fan witnessing the ceremony of the lights dimming, as fighters face the lonely moment in a fast-emptying ring after the preliminaries.
To many I will appear as the Nick Griffin of National Hunt racing for such a portrayal. At its best, on a day speckled with sunshine at Sandown or Cheltenham, the sport can supply moments of magic. Slick, fast jumping by proficient, well-schooled performers, partnered by the best jockeys, can draw gasps of admiration from onlookers as they flash over fence after fence. Those witnessing performances from the Kauto Stars of the game, trading blows with rivals from some way out, find it transcending profit and loss accrued from betting.
Horses are christened with nicknames; invariably abbreviating names so that Kauto Star becomes Kauto and Denman plain Den. During the action, there is a kind of hushed suspense from the stands as those negotiating obstacles form a serpent in the distance. Even at the furthermost point of the course, when the snake is only a silhouette, sound carries. Those in the stands (as opposed to the bars) can feel the crunch of the punches; see the birch and timber as it flies like boxer’s sweat, hear the dreaded crack of the killer shot.
Jumping is not for the faint-hearted. Tragedy peppers the winter months. Triumph too. For most, it is hard-fought. As a spectator, you need to be an enthusiast to attend. Often meetings are abandoned on arrival – victims of frost, a deluge of rain or a blizzard. The die-hard jump fan can take it so long as the bar is open and the SIS screens are showing racing from elsewhere.
National Hunt racing is pure sport. Meant to be fun; for Flat fans it is the sort an Inuit has fishing through a hole in the ice. It is often said some horses jump for fun, but few show it when they make the climb to the line. To attend you need a strong constitution and a stronger bladder. It helps to have warm clothing, preferably a cape, mufflers and stout shoes. With few exceptions most course spectators attend to be part of the day’s spectacle. Unlike Flat racing, people don’t go jumping to be sociable. In the depths of winter, with the creeping ghostly onset of evening waiting in the shadows, it is too cold, too inhospitable from two-thirty onwards to stand and talk: a nod, a pat on the back, a shrug after a loss or a thumbs up after a win is the norm.
Without the golden carrot of a spell at stud at the end of a racing career, the only function of a jumper is to race. They ‘earn’ their places in the line up for gruelling contests such as the various Nationals and the ultimate glory that is Cheltenham. For those betting on such contests, a different mindset is required than that employed for Flat racing. Those with a delicate disposition need to divorce themselves from what happens on the track at times. It will happen anyway. Spectators are powerless to alter the inevitable.
It is not my intention to bash National Hunt racing. With the turning back of the clocks on Saturday, the sport gathers momentum in a major way. Flat racing is fizzling to its conclusion. There is a final Newmarket meeting, the Breeders’ Cup and the November Handicap. The stage opens up for the jumpers with a full program between now and Christmas. There is the Charlie Hall, the Hennessy, two excellent meetings from Cheltenham and the Boxing Day extravaganza from Kempton.
Those following the winter game have to shift their approach. Some feel it is easier to win backing jumpers than those racing on the Flat. It is a question of what suits the individual. Last year was a vintage one for jumping. We lost a few campaigners but that is the codicil inscribed on the tablet.
Here’s to another season that thrills and excites with the minimum of casualties. It’s time to exchange that glass of Pimms for a dumpy one holding brandy – preferably Hennessy, whose continued support of one of the season’s major events is much appreciated by all that follow our sport.
I may even have a bet!
HE CAME, HE SAW, HE CONQUORED…
IT STARTED ON MAY 2nd at Newmarket in the Guineas and ended on October 4th at Longchamp in the Prix De L’arc de Triomphe. In between there was the Derby, the Eclipse, Juddmonte International and the Irish Champion.
At distances ranging from a mile, to a mile-and-a-half, Sea The Stars won six Group 1 races, beating rivals trained to the minute to lower his colours. One by one, like gladiators in an ancient coliseum, they lined up. There was Delegator at Newmarket, Fame And Glory at Epsom, and again at Leopardstown, Rip Van Winkle at Sandown, Mastercraftsman at York, and finally those not already carried out on their shields in the Paris sunshine, headed by Youmzain, Cavalryman, Conduit, Dar Re Mi and, once again, Fame And Glory.
Sea The Stars did not build a reputation by beating the same rivals each time – he wore the laurel leaves by beating each in turn. This was no ordinary champion (if that is not an oxymoron); Sea The Stars was a special champion – no right horse on the right day – but a true champion, the like of which draws his sword only once in a while. Comparisons with Nijinsky, Dancing Brave, Mill Reef and Sea Bird are appropriate.
Those that wrestle with the ratings in an attempt to sort out the best of the best waste their time. It is difficult to compare generations, what is not difficult to appreciate is that to win six consecutive Group 1 contests in a single season requires a horse with an extraordinary constitution. Just as success begets success in ordinary life, greatness in sport is equally contagious; in Mick Kinane and John Oxx, Sea The Stars had the perfect partners. Immaculately campaigned by Oxx, brilliantly and confidently handled by Kinane, Sea The Stars was favoured to have such a professional and dedicated team behind him. Oxx was always quietly confident of his charge, Kinane arrogantly aware he was astride something special and one was always conscious of his genuine respect and almost adoration for his mount.
A big handsome son of Cape Cross, by the Arc winner Urban Sea, Sea The Stars never failed to impress in the preliminaries, even outshining the imposing Rip Van Winkle at Sandown. A beautiful athletic mover that cruised toward the head of the field with shark-like ease, Sea The Stars won eight of his nine races, losing only on his debut as a juvenile at the Curragh.
He is gone from public view. His progeny will appear on the racecourse in 2012 when we can expect to see names akin to Moon On The Water, Silver Sea, Light From Afar; maybe We Three Kings.
They have plenty to live up to…
AND ANOTHER THING…
IN THIS BUSINESS, THERE IS NO GOOD TIME TO GO AWAY. That said, sometimes it is a necessity. So I chose to leave for a week’s vacation last Friday, missing the Middle Park and Cheveley Park along with a star-studded weekend card from Newmarket and of course the awesome success of Sea The Stars on Sunday.
I suppose in taking such action I was making a statement about the way I am feeling just now about horseracing in general. The need to get away was greater than the drug of keeping abreast of form at all costs, as the year had slipped from beneath my grasp some time ago. Perhaps my lack of success this season is my own fault; maybe it is due to the fact bookmakers are tightening the prices, thus putting us all in a position when it is harder to win because the percentages are stacked against us. I don’t know, maybe your story is different.
Returning from an endless blue sky to a kind of porridge that spat rain, I was still glad to be back. I suspect I shall find it hard to pick up the threads now that I have lost the habit of betting, at least for now. Looking back on the past week, I doubt I would have made any money to speak of; I would have won a bit, lost a bit more. For now, I have stepped from the treadmill that governs so many of our lives and am in no hurry to get back on. I am sorry to have missed Arc Day – one of the occasions of the season – but I have seen enough to survive without allowing the first Sunday in October to revolve around events in Paris. Sea The Stars does look exceptional and I would have liked to have had the opportunity to have seen the Marcel Boussac and the Grand Criterium – which seemed to be below par this year – but, like being in the bathroom after a good meal the night before, it is kind of irrelevant now.
I understand that Delegator might be stripped of his win in the Celebration Mile, which will come as a blow to Godolphin. There is a big rumour that one of the major bookmaking firms is about to fold. A name has been floated, but it would be unwise in the extreme for me to repeat it here.
The show goes on, picking up where it left off. There are some impossible handicaps at York, some equally hard ones to solve at Ascot and tonight, in a dress rehearsal for the Breeders’ Cup, some of the possible leading lights from the home-team limber up at Belmont Park, Santa Anita and Keeneland. Zenyatta still has that brick wall of form figures that features only 1’s. She should win the Grade 1 beneath the blue mountains of Santa Anita that I shall only be glimpsing from my television screen once again this year.
Having dabbled in an art deal whilst on holiday that nearly came off but from which, as the figures rose, I figured I was swimming beyond my depth, I am back to earth with today’s fare. Maybe I have nominated a winner or two on Bush Telegraph, maybe not.
Politics aside, I cannot believe that Labour should be 14/1 to win the next general election. The Conservatives may be romping away with it on paper, being as they are so far clear in the polls, but as we all know, saying one thing and doing it are two very different propositions. Faced with the choice of electing a party guaranteed to hit the middle and working classes hard, as against the Captain of the Titanic that is Gordon Brown, it is questionable how many voters will actually opt for the grim option of the Tories. Ghastly though the prospect might be, Brown is somehow finding the capital to keep us afloat even if it does mean Britain will be in hock for generations to come. William Hill’s 14/1 about Gordon Brown surviving the slings and arrows of Westminster looks way too big to me. He has too many people on his side, bribed if you like, by the handout system created.
So I start again. Disillusioned, battered; determined to put certain things in my life before racing. Our game is one of trivia. The real stuff takes place in the other world we only read about in the newspapers. There is Iraq and Afghanistan – where certainly in the case of the latter – money and manpower are being poured into an unwinnable situation. It was unwinnable in the forties when the British attempted to defend the Khyber Pass, the story was the same when the Russians tried their hand and could not wait to get out, it is the same now. It is this century’s Vietnam and the sooner we accept that the better.
That has nothing to do with a column about racing. I am sorry there is not too much of that within. I have been away. I may be some time…
AND ANOTHER THING…
THESE ARE EXCITING TIMES, at least according to Racing Uk’s Nick Luck. Tomorrow we have the unbelievable tension of the draw for the Ayr Gold Cup, which means we will know what runs, what will have to target the Silver Cup and what is to be relegated to the Bronze Cup. The draw for the big sprint will be shown live on television. Does it get much more exciting than this?
Imagine it, officials will pull the names of horses out of a box and trainers, or their representatives, will nominate the stall such runners will occupy. Forget X Factor, Strictly Ballroom or Masterchef, this is reality television stretched to its taughtest.
Is it me? Probably! But somehow the words: dry, paint and watch come to mind. This will be a long process. There will be a room full of people dressed in tweeds and riding gear, some in suits, others looking as if they have yet to brush the morning straw from their Puffas. Many of them will try to absent themselves from the whole process to have a quick fag outside.
Those watching this non-spectacle will be witnessing Bingo or the National Lottery but without any clear-cut result. There will be lots of names coming out of the box and there will be a big board on a wall that will gradually fill up with said names and their matching draw numbers. I don’t suppose the officials will call out ‘legs eleven’ or ‘unlucky for some’ and no one will shout House! Similarly we will not be informed that this is the third time since records began that the top weight was called at the fourth time of asking.
Ayr is not a course that places an emphasis on draw unless there has been artificial watering or storms of seismic proportions. So after this ritual we will be none the wiser as to where you want to be on the track, let alone any closer to being able to nominate the winner of any of the Cups in question.
As a spectacle, the draw for the Ayr Gold Cup is unlikely to quicken any pulses. Is this really the best racing can offer? With a Gold Cup, Silver Cup and Bronze Cup – why surely our cups runneth over.
Perhaps I ought to be led away and quietly disposed of for not joining in. I am like the sulky kid in the playground that refuses to pick up the ball. This Ayr Gold Cup hysteria seems to have passed me by.
Desperate to sell the sport at all costs, we have a situation where it is attempting to whip up tension over a process as mundane, as boring, as run-of-the-mill as which horse is drawn where in a set of races only those with a direct line to the Almighty, or have plotted one up for four years and got its weight down to a stone below what it should be, have the remotest chance of solving. I know there will be those that will nominate the winner or even winners of these puzzles. They are will be Daryll Brown, Patrick Veitch, if Hogmaneigh figures, or those that have died prematurely and been revived with the knowledge of what happens a few days after their planned demise.
I cannot bend spoons, predict Lottery numbers and contact the dead. I do not have a runner that I have spent years grooming and scheming over. I have no chance of backing the winner in any of these events so have little interest in where the participants are drawn, and what’s more have no desire to hear those on the Morning Line banging on about it for half-an-hour on Saturday morning.
No, sorry, I know I am a spoilsport, but I can’t get enthusiastic. All I do know is that bookmakers are rubbing their hands in anticipation of a profitable few days and I need to paint that windowsill on the side of the garage.
Do they really bet?
YOU MAY HAVE NOTICED THIS WAS ST LEGER WEEK – a big week for ATR who have the coverage rights to Doncaster. How did they do?
We have to remember that ATR are a free to view channel; well, sort of. I mean you have to have a Sky package to receive them, but that aside they cost nothing when incorporated with the History Channel, The Science Channel or Red Hot Babes. And receiving ATR does provide a good excuse for those quiet moments alone in the den when you are ostensively viewing the must-have coverage from Philadelphia as far as the other half is concerned when in fact it is the latter channel that your eyes are feasting upon. Yes; not all that panting and sighing is a result of the defeat of the last favourite from Saratoga.
In a galaxy far, far away, known as Great Britain in the seventies to be precise, when we listened to every word and syllable from the likes of Genesis, Yes and Pink Floyd, there was a time when people used to hitch-hike. Now, that seems a crazy concept now, the sort of thing that is liable to result in your limp body being reduced to a pulp and discovered in a hole in the ground somewhere in Norfolk. But hitch-hike we did, well some of us. For those unfamiliar with the practice it involved sticking out your thumb on a busy highway, which invited a motorist to stop and give you a lift. If you were trudging your way along a distant road in, let us say Birmingham, hoping to end up somewhere in Surrey, you would think a lift anywhere south of Northampton would be a result. Once inside the vehicle with a driver actually heading south, the expectations of the hitchhiker would rise. Asked where he was headed the answer would be south. Asked where exactly and it would be, anywhere near Guildford. The driver would reveal he is actually going to Guildford, prompting the freeloader to realise there is a higher being after all. On arrival at Guildford, the hitcher would press his luck. Once content with being dropped off anywhere that was closer to Guildford than Birmingham, he now wishes to be dropped by the fifth lamppost somewhere along Onslow village.
Possibly we are guilty of playing the same trick on ATR. Grateful to receive coverage of racing at all, we make it our business to criticise the actual content of hitherto forbidden fruit.
In truth though they are not very good. Obligatory breaks either prefix or suffix their programming. They call them breaks but they are adverts. We can press the red button to stop them but that only leads to a squashed screen and a frantic attempt to regain the full picture to prevent us playing virtual poker. Meerkats rule along with Paul Whitehouse, insurance companies and an ex-actor from Eastenders or The Bill that instructs us to Bet Now with Bet 365. He tells us it is easy. All we have to do is keep betting and Bet 365 will keep paying. It’s funny how these actors all seem to end up telling us what to do. Whoever this vaguely familiar man is, he is not Robert De Niro. Chris Hoy is a cyclist that eats Bran Flakes, British Airways offer a service to Mumbai and Ladbrokes sponsor the whole shebang.
I actually watched a part of an advert this morning showing me how to build a wall using some sort of plastic appliance that measures the amount of required cement and levels off the bricks. I wish…I cannot even hang a picture on a wall. I cannot work a drill or change a tyre. Build a wall – like, yeah, right; even if I could get to grips with this miracle device, what about the foundations? I would end up with a leaning tower or a barbeque that only worked when the wind blew in a north-easterly direction.
I can cope with the adverts, banal and stupid though they are. But do the presenters in the betting booth have to be so condescending? The answer is yes of course, because they have been told their audience are idiots. We are supposed to believe that Enzo (is that his name?) has just laid one horse and backed another and is quids down on the day but is still impartial in his summing up of the race. He has done all this whilst juggling with extremely expensive and sensitive equipment and reading out infantile emails. Of course he has not had a bet. His contract forbids it. But he is right – we are idiots. Idiots for listening. Spend a day with Paul Whitehouse, Michael Parkinson, Enzo and the like, and if you weren’t an idiot before you started you will be by the end of it.
We get the dreaded sentence that the action is fast and furious. It is quantity over quality every time. Why is it ATR seem to think something has to happen at every available moment? Bet now, lose now, build a wall whilst the adverts are on, go to Confused Dot Com, vote for your ride of the week.
ATR had a chance to produce a quality piece of programming this week from Doncaster but they messed it up. We saw a few horses in the paddock but not many. We had the absurd situation of having to endure a split screen at one point as racing from some obscure meeting in Ireland shared its coverage with Doncaster. Enzo told us he had lost money on Mick Kinane in the Park Hill but that it was okay because he would have lost more if Kinane’s mount had won. Enzo did not seem very bothered about any of this, but if pulling in a five-figure salary I suppose he wouldn’t would he?
And why all the adverts for insurance on the racing channels? Punters don’t need insurance, at least not the kind that is being offered. I suppose, going back to the perception we are inherent idiots, it shows what a con insurance really is.
I got to see a renaissance by Godolphin in between messages for Clearasil and Play Stations and all the rest of the nonsense. I glimpsed a few horses going in and out of the stalls and before the action became fast and furious, I even saw a few replays. Jason Weaver said a few words although not enough, the same can be said of Zoe Bird.
I do not really know how ATR got on today as I reverted to Channel Four. At least I saw a few more horses, listened to some banter from Francome and McGrath. There were adverts but different ones.
I think I backed a winner but I am not sure. I am confused dot com.
AND ANOTHER THING…
SEPTEMBER; ANOTHER MONTH LOOMS. August just rather slipped away, don’t you think? There was a bit of Goodwood – split between the end of one month and the start of another – there was York, plenty of other stuff that is lost with the fish and chips yesterday’s Racing Post wraps up and, now the sky is darkening earlier, night racing is ending.
The ninth month starts on Tuesday. September brings us The St Leger meeting, Newmarket shifts back to the Rowley course and Ascot ends the month. Then there is the return of the man who seems to split the racing fraternity. Who started his riding career with Jimmy FitzGerald, progressed to gambling trainer Jack Ramsden, went from one big Newmarket job with Henry Cecil to the biggest of all with Sir Michael Stoute, ending up with the colossus that is Ballydoyle. Kieren Fallon’s fall from grace – his road to virtual ruin – has been extensively charted. Whatever stance you take, the man returns in September. We presume there will be no more Kieren Fallon tipline, no more book promotions, no more pictures in the Racing Post of him pointing a knowing finger at the gullible. On the resumption of race riding, presumably, Kieren Fallon will channel his energies in that direction.
The cynical may contemplate how long it will take before Fallon takes another wrong turn. He is a man that splinters opinion. Some believe him to be the horse-lover he likes to portray – the man incapable of harming an animal in pursuit of sport or pleasure. Others see him as a crook, a soft-spoken liar, prepared to spin the required yarn.
Plenty happens in a couple of years. Fallon won the Epsom Derby three times and countless other big races. In the saddle he was ice-cool, impervious to pressure; out of it he was another human being – vulnerable, greedy, consorting with the wrong people, allegedly mixed up in race-fixing and drugs – in short a man prepared to sell his soul to the devil. Take the horse from beneath Fallon and he was just like the rest of us – one decision away from being an idiot.
This month he receives something few of us get in life – a third chance. Most get two, very few three. It speaks volumes for his perceived ability that after so many personal blunders, Fallon remains a sought after commodity. However, the big jobs are all taken. The Ballydoyle position belongs to Johnny Murtagh – himself a reformed character but a stanch team player and great friend and ally of Aidan O’Brien and family.
Ryan Moore has cemented his position as number one jockey to the Stoute yard. He is almost a replica of Fallon but without the bad bits. He is a dedicated jockey: serious, intent, deadly in a close finish with a sixth sense of where the winning post is. He makes few mistakes and is one of the best jockeys we have seen. He is not likely to be usurped.
Godolphin would no more employ Fallon than turn Meydan racecourse into a football pitch.
Richard Hughes will still be riding for the Hannon team when the sun enters its final orbit.
But Fallon will get rides. His name has been linked with Luca Cumani. There will be spares from some of the bigger yards; hopefully not fodder for the Fallon Tipping Line that he should ditch and not pass to some underling who operates it in his name. The last chapter in the Fallon saga is about to start. This time he needs to get it right.
AND ANOTHER THING…
WRONG NUMBER
IT ALL STARTS with a phone call. This is not any old call; no, it is 3am. I lie in bed listening to the incessant ring, waiting for it to stop but it continues.
Eventually, satisfied I am not dreaming, I stumble out of bed. I lurch in the in the half-light, stubbing my toe and knocking over a table lamp. I blunder on, heading for the phone aware there are only two types of calls received in the dead of night: a wrong number or bad news. I am not properly awake so sleepwalk towards the bird-like chirp, waiting for the twist of fate that means it will stop the moment I pick up the receiver.
Becoming more conscious, the possible nature of the call sets alarm bells ringing in my head. It is too late to be for Fat Choy’s Chinese, a similar number that drunken revellers often confuse with my own at closing time. More sombrely, I think of any next of kin likely to have made this number their last port of call.
I reach the phone as it is still ringing; convinced it will stop as I grab it. I lift the receiver and press the talk button. There is no dead tone. I hear breathing and the wail of a car in the distance on the other end of the line. The voice is brusque. ‘It’s in the 4.00 at Newmarket,’ it says. There is a trace of an accent, Manchester or somewhere at the end of the M1. ‘It is called Seven Sisters. Now repeat: Seven Sisters – 4.00 Newmarket.’
‘Is that the road, the constellation or someone with a family in Ireland?’ For 3am, I figure that is a smart reply.
The caller is not amused, in fact he sounds unimpressed with the response. He sighs as if immune to witticisms.
As for me, I suddenly feel as if I have uttered the predictable Step Inside Love when introduced to Cilla Black, or I have been expecting you to Roger Moore.
‘Who cares?’ The other man’s voice suggests he is alert despite the ridiculous hour. ‘Seven Sisters maximum bet. You got that?’ He finishes his lines with mounting frustration.
‘Yes.’ Now the phone clicks dead.
It is four minutes past three. Wrenched from sleep, I have stubbed my toe, broken a lamp and am suddenly wide-awake. In return, I have the name of a horse running at Newmarket tomorrow from someone unknown. The lamp cost over £150 at John Lewis, the toe is throbbing. The trade-off seems a poor one.
I try to sleep but it is difficult. It is Friday morning. I hear the odd hoot of an owl, the rumble of an early morning truck. I sleep; I wake. Light filters in and it seems I have not slept at all.
Later, over a scant breakfast, unsure whether I had dreamt the nocturnal incident, I look at the paper and see that Seven Sisters is indeed an intended runner at Newmarket. With little to recommend it, the price quote is 12/1. I am unable to find anything else to back. Worn down by lack of sleep, it develops in to a long leaden day. Stupidly, I have £15 on Seven Sisters. I take 10/1. Equally stupidly, she wins.
It is Friday evening and I am £150 richer thanks to some phone call received in the blackness of night. At least I think that is the reason but, like the man that believes he has seen a UFO, I am unsure.
At first it is difficult to sleep. I am tired so it should be easy but my mind is racing. I finally succumb around midnight. The phone rings at two-fifty four. I know that is the exact time because the first thing I do when I hear it is to look at the red digital blocks on my alarm clock. I wake fast, switching on the bedside light and making it to the phone in quick time. It is the same voice – matter-of-fact, flat, the same car is whining in the background.
‘2.00, Newmarket again, Howl At The Moon.’
This time I make no attempt at a witticism. ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Maximum bet?’ I ask.
‘Of course,’ he replies, ‘why else would I phone?’
Why indeed!
The car sounds as if it is about to crash through a nearby window in his hotel room, parlour, or wherever it is he is calling from before he hangs up.
I make some tea and switch on the computer. I have not heard of Howl at The Moon. It is unraced and runs in the maiden. I wonder who this man is and where this type of information comes from. Belatedly, it occurs that he must be confusing me with someone else. This could be awkward. What if Howl At The Moon emulates Seven Sisters and wins? Will this man expect payment? Am I the victim of a scam?
I have £150 as a result of the first winner, so put £100 of it on Howl At The Moon. Part of me hopes it will lose as I feel I may be stepping into some giant pit full of snakes. Howl At The Moon wins at 11/2.
There is no call on Saturday or Sunday night. I have to wait until Wednesday when the phone shatters the stillness at 3.07 am. By now, I am barely sleeping at all and have the phone close to my bed. I am alert and pick it up on its fifth or sixth ring. The voice is the same but there is no car in the background.
‘Pontefract: 3.45 – Sunspot.’
I wonder if I should make conversation but he doesn’t seem willing to speak.
In a replica of all that has happened the line clicks dead, leaving me in the belly of the night with the name of a horse buzzing in my head.
Now I don’t even try to sleep. My heart is pounding. The rest of the night mocks me as it refuses to allow dawn to break. I pace, I jibber, I consider all the options and ramifications. I doze in the chair. I shave with a shaky hand. I eat a slice of toast for breakfast and drink three cups of strong tea. I have £700 in the kitty and place £500 on Sunspot. It wins at 4/1.
This is getting out of hand. No one can give three straight winners at these sorts of prices. I am £3,500 richer and as yet no approach has been made for money. No one has broken my door down in a clichéd piece of movieland where it is plain I am receiving information intended for The Mob.
Sleep is restricted to daylight hours. The possibility of a phone call in the carcass of the night is taking over my life. Two day’s later there is the next call. This time the horse is called Mercury’s Dance and as I put the phone down, I am consumed by the prospect of hitting the bookmakers one last time before confronting the mystery caller and asking why he is letting me in on what has to be extremely privileged information.
Mercury’s Dance is 8/1 and I figure I can afford a grand. I watch the race and he breaks slowly. In truth, it is never seen with a chance. I console myself, after all it was to be expected – a loser was overdue. However, I am still £2,500 up on the deal – whatever the deal is.
Over the next five days, I get two more ghostly calls. Both lose. The bank has dwindled when I get the next message. This time I question why I have been selected as the recipient.
‘Don’t you know?’ the voice asks.
‘I have no idea,’ I reply.
Then, almost as an afterthought, he counters with, ‘That is 277987 isn’t it?’
‘No,’ I say, relieved that this may be an end to situation spinning out of control. ‘It is 277897.’
The phone goes dead. It might be early in the morning but I am able to piece the number together. It is Norman’s number at the The Bladder and Bowel pub. I know it is a strange title for a pub; however, Norman is a strange person. He named it after the two things he thought a public house should most gratify.
That night I pay Norman a visit and have a pint of Old Newt’s Testicles. I ask him about the calls when he gets a quiet moment, uneasy about what the beer I am drinking is likely to do to either my bladder or my bowel.
He laughs at first but his face thickens when he sees I am concerned. ‘That will be Corky,’ he says.
‘Who is Corky?’ I ask.
‘Used to live here. He is in America now, Las Vegas I think. That’s why the calls come at such an ungodly hour. He is on Pacific Time you see. He is a crazy man, the original village idiot. You don’t want to take no notice of Corky.’
‘But the winners,’ I gasp, ‘three big-priced winners.’
Norman leans forward on the bar, wincing as he drains the last of a half of The Hair Of The Hare. ‘What were these winners called, Space Cowboy, Trip To Mars, Saturn’s Rings, that sort of thing?’
Seven Sisters, Sunspot, Mercury… I see, I see, then there was Planet Of Light and, well, you get my drift.
‘Space mad; he doesn’t know anything about it mind, just used to back any horse with a name vaguely connected to the planets or stars. I thought he had packed that all up when the phone stopped ringing.’ Norman gives a chuckle. ‘I guess I will have to get used to him phoning me again now that you have told him he was dialling the wrong number. Care for another pint – got a new one in – they call it Knock me Down with a Mallet.’
I pay for it but take it into the bladder house after one swig and flush it down the urinal, where it seems to mix in nicely with whatever is swilling along the trough.
I have a full quota of sleep that night and up to now have never received another call in the early hours. Every so often, when a horse is running with a heavenly name, I take an interest in its progress. Most of them lose, except of course for Sea The Stars. I guess that horse has made Corky a happy man. I wonder whom he may be calling under the cloak of darkness right now. He has stopped ringing Norman and me.
Maybe on the eve of the Guineas and the Derby someone thought a voice from another world had chosen them to impart privileged information. Maybe, like me, if the relationship with Corky lasted long enough, they only saw through the ruse when losers suddenly appeared.
Isn’t that the way of it though? Why is it we only see things for what they are when they start to go wrong? Or is it just me?
AND ANOTHER THING…
YORK: DAY THREE; but in terms of the year day two-hundred-and-thirty-two. They have not been great days, well not for me anyway.
Courtesy of Gladitorius and Alwaary I am losing confidence, waking up in the middle of the night sweating more than Alwaary did before the Voltigeur. I am a mere mortal again. No, worse, a dumb mortal – though not as dumb as those people on Ebay that cannot spell or punctuate, but sufficiently dumb for my betting failures to spill into my everyday life. Bad decisions spawn bad decisions. I have two messages from the John Gosden yard. I back Alwaary and do not back Showcasing.
You know how it goes, we have all been there but one bad move can have a dire knock-on effect. I messed up a property deal I was asked to play a small part in, let my mouth run away with me one evening. I was well adjusted a week ago, now I am sliding out of control.
My thoughts have wandered and turned to Ebay where no one can spell disappointment or occasion. I look at the cars for sale reckoning that buying a car that turns out to be a turkey is preferable to backing a horse that runs like a camel. At least even a bad purchase leaves its buyer with something. A bad bet means a total loss.
I am intrigued by the reasons people give for selling what appears to be desirable motor cars. Top of the list includes emigrating, the acquisition of a company car and a wife that is pregnant. I like the idea of the first proposition but the last two make little appeal. One cited a move to Cornwall where there are no parking spaces, another a move to London where a car is unnecessary. One would-be-seller had four pictures of his car on his advert, one of them showing the tax disc. Surely if the tax disc is one of four most desirable items to display it says little for the overall quality of the car.
Possibly I am becoming intolerant again. It happens every now and then. Even the Racing Post is starting to annoy me beyond belief. Their headlines are invariably so banal and take no account of how punters may be reeling from what happened the day before. ‘Now It Is Sariska’s Turn’ or something similar was emblazoned across the front of the paper today. Racing is a never-ending show to those that make a safe living from it.
I stared at the ceiling in bed last night thinking of things that annoyed me most. Here is the list I came up with:
The stupid sign I saw in someone’s car proclaiming she was, ‘The Best Mum In The World’. Presumably, just like the drinking mugs that say, Best Dad In The World, they only made one of said item!
In a similar vein, racing presenters that say, ‘This was not the greatest race in the world’. Well, if it was run at Brighton or Pontefract I could have told them that. And if it did not feature Sea The Stars, Mill Reef, Nijinsky or Sea Bird, ditto.
Being talked down to, except when I do actually want something explained to me, like what an Ipod is and whether it will launch me into outer space.
Shop assistants that say, ‘Are You Alright There?’ Why wouldn’t I be? Do they think I have just been woken from a cryogenic state after a two hundred year absence from the modern world?
Waiters asking if everything is okay with my meal, after all they should know. If not ask the chef.
People on the phone who ask me if I have a pen and paper. Like, what am I a cave dweller? Pen and eh paper, oh I don’t know if there is such a thing in my office; let me check.
People that yawn without covering their mouth. I saw a young man sitting with his hand on the thigh of a woman in hot pants, doing it repeatedly on the Tube the other day and was reminded of the song by Joe Jackson that starts with the line, Pretty women with gorillas walking down our street…
Fat people that take up too much horizontal space and tall people (of which I am one) that take up too much vertical space.
Daft tunes on mobile phones like the 1812 Overture or something by Ten, Five or Two Cents, whoever he is.
Calling a motorway crash that holds up motorists for over an hour, in an inescapable tailback, an accident. It is not an accident. Mounting the central reservation and killing an on-coming driver travelling in the opposite direction is murder. The matrix sign should say, Crash Ahead Due to Idiotic and Homicidal Idiot. That describes the person who has just rammed a Peugeot with his untaxed BMW.
I could go on. I am going to take a sleeping pill tonight and forget about the 20/1 chance Scuffle that nearly won at York today. I am not going to look at the ceiling. I am not going to look at Ebay. I might even give the Racing Post a miss tomorrow. Unless of course anyone knows one…
AND ANOTHER THING…
DAY ONE OF THE YORK EBOR MEETING dubbed the best meeting in the world by Derek Thompson. Steady big fella, it is a good meeting but it is not the best. That accolade would probably go to either Royal Ascot or the Breeders’ Cup – especially when held in Santa Anita.
Of course, this York meeting is peppered with top class events – they run three of them today. The Acomb is one of the best renewals I can remember – a genuine Group 3 that may throw up a Royal Lodge winner or, who knows, something even better. There are at least five possible winners, including the very likeable Sea Lord who has improvement to make but may surprise. So this has to be a race to sit out, unless of course you happen to know something that gives you a massive edge.
The second of the Group races is the Great Voltigeur. This year it looks a two-horse affair although the supporting cast is far from useless. Essentially, it seems to be between Harbinger and Alwaary. Harbinger has a profile that is hard to quantify. To quote the old adage: he could be anything; but his beating of a very good handicapper last time hardly equates to Alwaary’s last two efforts when unlucky but still close up in the Princess Of Wales’s Stakes at Newmarket, and then fourth to Conduit in the Group 1 King George at Ascot. Alwaary has the best claims and looks betting material.
As for the other Group race on the day, the Group 1 Juddmonte International, although no fault of the system, four line up of which only two can win. Sea The Stars though is a big draw and one would expect him to prove too good for Mastercraftsman.
For a meeting to have pretension to being the best then surely it has to consist of pure quality throughout. The remaining three races today are handicaps. The card kicks off with a sprint over a distance that is neither one thing nor another in that it is run over five furlongs and change. Therefore, it is not ideal for six-furlong sprinters like Hamish McGonagall, and may stretch the speedball that is Cake.
The nursery at 4.05 is devilishly difficult and the Class 2 Handicap at 4.40 is the sort of affair we are used to seeing on a Saturday at Ripon or Thirsk.
So Tommo is sort of right – something he specialises in – this is a very good meeting, but to label York as the best in the world or even in the country does seem to be stretching the elastic band just a little to far.
However, that said there should be plenty to enjoy and savour over the next four days. It is four days of very good racing. Getting savouring! Above all, enjoy
AND ANOTHER THING
August 2009
RACING FOR CHANGE: Personally, it has got me racing for the exit. It sounds like a new scheme dreamt up to alleviate bottlenecks at supermarket tills. I’ll try it again; perhaps it will catch on: Racing For Change. Nope – more like Racing For A Quick Buck for those that came up with a raft of phrases and ideas without any substance. Words like ‘strategy’, ’emphasise’, ‘key’ and ‘subjective’ appear a lot in this latest think-tank’s document.
It is the same old stuff, treating horseracing as if it is a product to be sold like the latest brand of jeans or must-have shoes. What I find annoying, no what I become incensed over, is the amount being spent to have a non-racing quango prattle on about a subject they seem to know little about. For a start, they are toadying once again to bookmakers, asking if it is alright with them to make certain changes. What has it got to do with bookmakers? They don’t run racing, they think they do, but they don’t. Owners, race-goers and punters make the racing merry-go-round revolve. Everyone else, from trainers, jockeys and vets, right down to bookmakers, feed from the big fish afloat in the water. What we have to ensure is that the fish is basking in the sun, rather than lying inert – dead as Hemingway’s marlin in The Old Man and the Sea.
The notion that big events can be built up, so that suddenly those that had planned to visit Alton Towers will divert to Ascot or York, sounds okay but like just about everything else being envisaged by this body, it lacks bollocks. It lacks anything. This project is just pages and pages of what is desirable without forwarding a remedy. There are a few ideas, most of them crackers, and a list of what racing needs to do. It is all a bit like a body drawing up a paper on how the British Government can get the country back on the rails after the recession. It could say we need to improve the welfare system, sell more abroad, redistribute wealth, kickstart the car industry, combat China and the Far East in production of Barbie Dolls, all without one concrete proposal as to how such a far-reaching objective can be met.
Racing’s current problem is that there are too many meetings, too many poor quality events and too much racing. I will not elucidate further: I have done so on more than one occasion and given suggestions, which in all probability are too sensible to ever be adopted.
So let us try another tack:
Racing For Change. Let us try turning the title round for a start. How about Changing Racing. That must be worth a grand.
To change racing, we need more people through the turnstiles; not just feet on grandstand steps, bums on the barstools, but the right type of people attracted to a racetrack because they are interested in what is on offer, not to witness some false Big Brother House kind of thing.
It is no good selling the possible match between Sea The Stars and Mastercraftsman at York. It is not like a Muhammad Ali versus Joe Frazier fight. It is not Led Zeppelin at the O2. Neither Sea The Stars or Mastercraftsman is sure to turn up for a start. If it rains, Sea The Stars will stay in his box; if it is bone dry, Mastercraftsman will be similarly re-routed. Ideal conditions cannot be guaranteed in an open-air venue. And, at the risk of stating the obvious, Sea The Stars and Mastercraftsman are animals not guaranteed to play to the gallery on cue.
Changing Racing needs to start at the grass roots.
Look at the racing experience from the moment it starts. The coach or car arrives at the racecourse. How about race-goers being greeted by girls in black pinstripe suits and gentlemen in morning dress with plates of canapes and chilled glasses of Cava for those entering Tattersalls, champagne for those bound for Members.
Once inside the track, how about a CD broadcast over the tannoy, voiced over by Barry Dennis, explaining the difference between 6/4 The Field and 4/1 Bar One. It would also give him the chance to tell ladies why he is not keen on taking £2 each-way bets on Frankie’s mounts.
Just to inject colour, jockeys could have their faces painted. Ryan Moore could have a downturn clown’s smile, Jimmy Fortune coins on his cheeks, Richard Hughes could have a sign on his back saying, ‘I might come late but watch out, I am coming’. Jamie Spencer one that proclaims, ‘I come late; don’t back me if you have a pacemaker fitted’.
Trainers have to prepare a statement beforehand detailing what orders they are about to relay to their jockeys. These instructions are recorded and should exclude the usual expletives and the occasional, ‘Not anywhere near fit enough and wants further anyway. Miss the break and lurk out the back. Make up some ground down the straight but finish no closer than ninth: and while you are lounging around, picking up a riding fee without doing anything, stop gawping at Hayley Turner’s arse!’
‘It can be harder to stop one than win guvnor.’
‘Don’t tell me how to ride racehorses you little squirt. I was in the saddle when you were leafing through job adverts for dwarfs in circuses.’
Now the parade in front of the stands: Horses flecked with sweat on a hot day, stable hands in the same situation, particularly if their punters are on. Let’s have some dressage as the horses prance in front of the grandstands. How about a bit of the Lipizzaner element creeping in. Let’s have Sea The Stars doing a twirl on his hind legs. That would get the audience going. At present the parade is merely a moment of tension for horses, handlers and spectators alike, all hoping that the animal on the end of the rein is reacting calmly to a process that can cost the race. It also allows your best chance for a quick visit to a lavatory if someone will keep your seat or place in the stands.
Lavatories are important at racecourses. The first thing most people do on arrival at the track – unwisely if they are betting – is to make for the bar. Unable to afford wine at inflated prices, it is invariably beer in one form or another. As men know, beer has a habit of making its way from mouth to bladder at an accelerated rate. The sight of women queuing on stairs for the Ladies in the Silver Ring at Ascot, many of them widdling Moet down the steps is appalling. In certain circles such behaviour is known as a golden shower but that is another matter.
Let us have more results that make sense. When any winning horse is a bigger price than 12/1, the stewards should have a look at the result. If the horse in question has not run for three years, comes from Chile, last ran over seven furlongs and has now won over two miles, or has been beaten a total of eighty-eight lengths in his previous attempts, is trained by Stuart Williams and was 50/1 in the morning and is returned at 20/1, the stewards should have the power to throw it out.
Performances by Lady Ga Ga, The Pussycat Dolls, Girls Aloud, Scouting For Girls and Ronan Keating increase the attendance at racecourses by tens of thousands. Why hold such concerts on racedays or nights? Racecourses are natural arenas with plenty of parking space and acres of room. They are ideal venues for concerts in the summer. How about Snow Patrol at Epsom, Athlete at Newmarket, Bruce Springsteen at Ascot? How about turning Goodwood into a mini Woodstock or Glastonbury? Rock on man!
Hang on, who needs racing at all? Sod the racing; let’s have the music, the peace, the love, Bob Dylan, Neil Young and Joni Mitchell.
Changing Racing – that ought to do it!
AND ANOTHER THING…
ONCE AGAIN we are faced with the old chestnut argument. Bookmakers William Hill and Ladbrokes are threatening – and it is no empty threat – to move a large slice of their business offshore. We know the argument, we have heard the rhetoric – particularly from Hills, who as a big firm are a pain in the backside – we also know that any removal of business from Great Britain results in a shortfall in the levy. All this after Ladbrokes were promoting themselves only a month or two ago as being as British as roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, and appealing to punters to support them accordingly as they ploughed profits back into racing.
Perhaps now the BHA will see bookmakers for what they are. They are not racing’s allies; they are only interested in their own welfare and that of their shareholders. This is understandable – they are commercial companies after all. For too long they have passed a half-empty vessel to the BHA which has been described as being full. It is not and never has been. Bookmakers do not have a right to dictate how to run racing.
Up to now, their veiled threats have succeeded. They have managed to write their own prescriptions to the startled and fearful patient that the BHA has allowed itself to become. Bookmakers decree the times of races, the type of races shown on television, they scribble over the fixture list, crossing out here, adding there, banging the table and reminding the BHA that turnover equals levy, which in turn means more prize-money. Turnover is a factor, but the most important factor of all is profit. Pay attention BHA: bookmakers are taxed on profit, from which comes the drip feed that is the levy.
Profit comes from punters, without masking the diagnosis that means punters have to bet and lose. Desperate to prop up a business that is dependent on siphoning cash from punters, bookmakers wish to make winning as hard as possible. They rely on inclement and inconsistent weather and on a top-heavy fixture list of such volume that it can bemuse and bewilder those that try wading through its sheer intensity.
I have stated before that there is too much racing. This is not a new or unique argument. To place it in perspective, let us accept there are two opposite sides to the current discussion that blights racing. There is the bloated fat-cat bookmaker view, and there is the equally selfish and one-sided opinion held by professionals such as myself.
Bollocks to both of us!
How about someone standing up for the ordinary punters and those working within racing – those actually propping up the system. They may not agree with my contention that there is too much racing. If they do not, then fine, my argument should carry no more weight than those of the bookmakers who only contribute to racing’s finances out of the profit they derive.
On the face of it, claiming there is too much racing sounds spurious – a bit like a film fan stating Hollywood makes too many films. Well, not quite. Those wishing to be successful at betting need to be conversant with form lines, so subliminally it is essential to relate the form of horse A with horse B and C and so on. The prospect of wading through six mediocre racecards on a day like today, watching races from 2.10 to 8.35, might seem like a pleasant way of making a living. Add on all the preliminary work involved, the constant droning from racing presenters desperate to whip up enthusiasm, and you have another day that on your deathbed you could look back on and wish you had spent differently. I am not expecting sympathy here, just stating a fact. If I am jaded with this run-of-the-mill diet, imagine how the person that has a choice feels. The problem with the amount of racing we have at present is that it means those taking the business seriously, or even semi-seriously, find themselves overwhelmed and unenthusiastic when picking up the paper each day. Present us with a choice and we will spend our time doing something else, removing a situation that exists to accommodate bookmakers wishing to walk away from the carcass they have left. If you create the beast, it is your responsibility to look after and feed it, not to expect someone else to do that for you.
Bookmakers have bled the industry dry and, currently dissatisfied, are not prepared to pay their dues. So be it. Most of them refuse to lay proper punters a bet anyway. Let them sidle off to Gibraltar, Delhi – can recommend the Connaught Centre for shopping – or to Mumbai, where you get a great curry at the Taj Hotel.
The BHA is culpable here for failing to see through the smarmy bookmaker spiel; however, it is not too late. The idea of two-tiered racing – where lesser meetings are staged outside normal hours and banded together – remains a possibility. Now we have this glut of racehorses it is only fair that, for the sake of the animals and their owners, there is a chance for them to race.
As for the bookmakers’ argument that all of this is government’s responsibility, well they would say that wouldn’t they. They would relish negotiations with a third party. Government, any government, is someone else for them to push around and manipulate. They can tie MPs up in knots once they start bombarding our members in Westminster with misunderstood facts.
It is time for racing to put its house in order. At the risk of repeating myself: sort out racecourse entry fees, increase the standard of catering, kick out the stalls that charge a fiver for flakes of pork between a piece of cardboard masquerading as a bread roll, and get rid of those stupid clowns walking round on stilts.
Develop the excellent series of concerts that we have in the summer. Sort out Great Leighs – punters are happy to bet on all-weather tracks where they know the state of the ground and the effect of the draw. Increase prize-money on offer at what could be our five artificial surfaces. Make more use of these courses that are not as expensive to maintain as turf tracks, most of which, unless they are dual-coded, are under-used and often a mess, especially as we do seem to be in the throes of climate change whether Terry Wogan, verbalising from his ivory tower in Bray, accepts it or not.
Let’s do away with all the hangers-on – yes, including people such as me if necessary – so that only those contributing to the sport derive the benefits. Those with a turnover on Betfair exceeding a certain trading figure should pay a small levy, particularly if they are adopting the role of layer.
Come on, it is not that difficult. We do not need to recruit an Einstein.
Like the government of the day, racing has been living beyond its means. Now is the time to check the chequebook. Courses will have to go; there will have to be a scaling-down of the fixture list.
In today’s Racing Post, David Ashforth has promoted many good ideas (some bad ones in my view) but has talked sense and, more importantly, presented an impartial argument. I am paraphrasing my ideas, many of which I have already stated in earlier articles. David has gone into this subject in detail, although, employed as he is by a publication dependent on advertising, it would be politically incorrect for him to lambast bookmakers in the way I have.
This is not a newspaper and space permits me from offering a diatribe. Nevertheless, David and I are singing from the same sheet.
If the bookmakers don’t like it, they could try living in the real world. Let’s see how Mr Topping of Hills feels when his gas boiler breaks down now.
If bookmakers consider the real world is in Gibraltar, to quote Arnold Schwarzenegger: Hasta la vista Baby – only this time, don’t come back!
AND ANOTHER THING…
ANOTHER MONTH GONE; it seems a long time between drinks. There was a big bet on Goldikova in the Falmouth Stakes that took at least three years off my life. She did everything in the preliminaries you do not want to see a filly do. She swished her tail, broke out in sweat and was reluctant to enter the stalls. On went the hangman’s hood. I could feel a prickle at the back of my neck – if she was sweating, that made two of us.
I held firm. I had placed the bet. I hear too many stories of waverers, advancing then retreating like indecisive generals before battle. Hold on; hold out, the money is down.
Goldikova consents to start, but by halfway is sending out danger signals – another wayward flash of the tail – the ears going flat back. All the form books from both sides of the Channel made no provision for what was likely in the last half of the race. It looks bad. I presume the Betfair price drifts like a cork on a raging sea but I do not look. Hold on; hold out, she is the best filly in the race by some way. Even allowing for any recalcitrance, even allowing for an off day, she wins!
She hits the front, looks like drawing away but they come at her. There is Heaven Sent, Spacious and Rainbow View and they look serious whilst Goldikova is on a jolly – a day out. She wanders from a true line giving them a second chance. Oliver Peslier is inspired. He holds her together. He picks her up from the floor and reminds her it is a working day, but he does not bully her and she lasts. Goldikova has stopped sweating; I am starting. I backed her big – too big. I am too old for this kind of thing.
That was early in July. There followed the inevitable put and take – win a bit, lose a bit more. Take the 20/1 about the 12/1 shot that runs like a 7/1 chance but, as you would expect from a horse that is 7/1 against, fails anyway. It runs well but loses and they don’t give refunds for good efforts.
Then at Goodwood, after a couple of reversals and a short-priced winner, comes the bet of the meeting. Like Goldikova it is not a big price. The message is strong. Time to knock off the 5/2 and the 9/4 – hold on; hold out, Frankie rides – Schiaparelli wins the Goodwood Cup.
The horse looks tuned to the minute just as the message said. The race is over two miles, long enough for the heart to miss a beat or two or hammer its way from the rib cage. There is none of that. Schiaparelli lobs on the heels of the leaders. Frankie exudes confidence. It is as if he has read tomorrow’s paper and knows the result. He commits a long from home on an unproven stayer, but so well is he travelling, he lets Schiaparelli make the decisions. The pair pull clear. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a horse that used to carry the green and red colours of the Aga Khan begin to eat up ground. Mourilyan – you remember the horse we had it off with at Dubai eighteen months ago – is gaining. He closes the lead down but it makes no difference. Schiaparelli stretches his chestnut neck when Frankie changes his hands and it is over. No danger really – two big bets – two wins in the space of six weeks.
Clever eh? If you like! But the success of a season is dictated by the big win at an equally big price. Now had Mirrored won on the same day as Schiaparelli that would have made a big difference. I am not complaining you understand. I held the line, I did what I had to do – I put my money where my mouth was. I won a battle but the war rages on. After a few skirmishes, there is no sign of the tide turning one way or the other.
So it is Tuesday – August 4th and I get a call early in the morning. It is the Tinman. He has a job for me if I care to take it. It is 8.30am and I am in a dressing gown of all things. I never wear a dressing gown in the morning, but I am slopping about in one, drinking tea and waiting for my computer to fire up. I know there are no bets but I am obliged to look if only because I have to put something on Bush Telegraph.
The Tinman wants me to meet him at his place at Newbury. I haven’t even shaved and I can’t leave the house in such a state just in case I bump into Gwyneth Paltrow or Jennifer Aniston.
The Tinman wants me to drive to his place where he will give me a package I am to take to Oxford. I am to leave my car at his place and take the train. A man will meet me round the corner from the station at Oxford and drive me to Macdonalds – a place where not only hamburgers are consumed.
Time is tight. Things go surprisingly well in the bathroom, presumably aided by the knowledge of the difficulties that may lie ahead outside the safety of my bungalow.
I am on the street by ten. I know the drill. I have my small hand luggage with gloves, address book, wallet, and mobile phone. I drive to Newbury in a light drizzle. The worst of the traffic has subsided. I make it in twenty minutes.
The Tinman is not at his place. The lights are out and the door locked. I wait in the car; confident he will show then begin to wonder if he has been picked up. He is late but he turns the corner and is at my car window. He has it – he has it all.
He gives me my instructions. They are the usual: short and to the point. I have done this before when needs must and that is the case now. He gives me the package, all nicely sealed up. I had thought he would give me a lift to the station but too many people are about so it is risky for us to be together. I have to walk to the station in what is left of the rain. I am only wearing a linen jacket (trousers and a T-shirt of course but you get the drift – I am damp outside and inside – this is a sweaty business after all).
I am lucky with the trains. I hop on the one bound for Paddington. I listen to a young guy in the seat across from me. He wears jeans, sweats and trainers and is on the mobile, talking to the girlfriend he is about to meet at Stevenage. He talks her through the itinerary of his journey and tells her he has the CDs and promises they will be snuggling together in the warmth of her bed by early evening. It has been a long time for them – all of a week. Sure, he loves her.
The couple are still talking and exchanging promises of undying love as the train screeches to a halt. As for me, I change at Reading, leaving the lovebirds to their longed-for liaison.
Reading is kind. On platform 8, there is the diesel tick of the train waiting to haul its way to Oxford. I take a seat, running through the instructions in my mind. This time there is the inane laugh of a boy and girl with backpacks. The boy laughs loudly while the girl whispers in his ear before Akon starts up – a tinny sharp sound in a pair of cheap headphones that does him no justice.
I move seats. The train picks up speed then stops at a country station. It does this several times. Even Didcot looks countrified. I check my bag for the umpteenth time, keeping it close by my side, feeling the bulge of the packet within.
We reach the stop before Oxford and I send a text message to the man waiting for my arrival. I tell him I will be with him in five minutes and that I am wearing black trousers, a black T-shirt and black linen jacket – the man in black in fact. I also tell him I have a headache as if that may ease the situation.
Maybe he lacks a sense of humour; maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe, and more importantly, he sees it as being advantageous. He texts back, Ok. I wonder if he texts with his thumbs.
The train rolls into Oxford. Again, it doesn’t look like a city station, more like a place that farmers use after market. There is nothing remotely agricultural in sight. My instructions are to cross the bridge over the railway lines and exit on the city-centre side. I turn right under the bridge in the street but have already seen the car. The shape within is dark – dark as the deed that is about to be done maybe.
I raise an arm and he sees me. He starts the motor and I slide in next to him. At least he is a reasonable size; he doesn’t look as if he works out much as muscles fail to bunch beneath his arms as he swings the steering wheel. But he knows what he is doing. He cuts through the traffic real easy and we are in the MacDonald car park in no time.
We don’t say much. I am thinking fast. I have five, maybe six minutes to do the business. After that it is not possible to rectify any mistakes. I look at the merchandise, seeing if there is a fault. I cannot see any but that doesn’t always mean they do not exist. It could be I have failed to spot them. Time is a jet plane. It always is. That is how this business works. It is in everyone’s interest to be speedy. Hold on; hold out, the money is down.
I try a sample but you only get a few minutes. You would spend longer deliberating over a shirt in Debenhams.
I check the body, now it is time for the mechanics. The car drives nice. He counts the money and within seven minutes, I am behind the wheel of a strange car – a top of the range Peugeot – and on my own. I cannot find the electric window switch or the air-con although the man demonstrated that both worked.
It is hot. Goldikova sweat runs down my neck and forehead. I am reluctant to try any old switch in case the boot flies open. Somehow, I find the right one for the windows, letting a spray of fine drizzle in. Then I fiddle my way to the air-con and get that started so can close the window.
The car is in fifth and taking out the lorries like they are standing still. We hurtle part way down the A34 until I get her under control.
The Tinman likes the car. It is better than he expected. It cost a lot of money but I am glad to return to my Mazda. It knows me. It drives itself and has a soft way of taking me round the bends.
I am home in time to discover they have abandoned Chepstow.
AND ANOTHER THING…
IT IS wretched to be gratified with mediocrity when excellence lies before us. These were the words of Isaac Disraeli, father of the British Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli.
Appropriate for the situation we find ourselves in on the racing front just now. Somehow, the mundane saturates the fixtures. The racing programme is spread thinly because of the clamour to create a plethora of meetings. On the Friday before the King George and Queen Elizabeth, we have racing from three Group 1 tracks: Ascot, Newmarket and York. The result is mediocrity at courses where we have a right to expect better.
If the BHA feels this is the way to go, so be it, but the signs are they are not taking punters with them. Money bet on racing equals profit for bookmakers and that equates to Levy payments which are down, doubtless because of the credit crunch, but also because the prospect of wading through six meetings a day is too much for punters, be they professional or amateur. Once punters start to lose track of form lines they find themselves in the betting wilderness.
Somebody has to take stock of the situation or else racing is in danger of becoming a victim of scavengers feeding from the kill. I am talking about the journalists, the racing presenters, the tipsters – those like myself that have, in all honesty, a buffer to fall back on because we are in the privileged position of being able to make a living without risk.
I do not wish to repeat myself, but essentially the tail is wagging the dog and that has been the case for too long. We all have our own remedies for kick-starting interest in racing and regenerating its finances. What is certain is that the current course is not the right one to pursue.
Tomorrow we have one of the great mid-summer events in the calendar – the King George and Queen Elizabeth at Ascot. This is one of the best races of the year. Invariably run with no draw bias, it is a fair test of champions and a precursor to the remaining Group 1 races of the season. It is also in some cases the final chapter in the career of the best. It was to be Nashwan’s winning swansong. It cemented the reputations of Dancing Brave, Troy, Grundy, The Minstrel, Swain and Dylan Thomas to name a few. The role of honour is as impressive as that advanced by the Prix de L’Arc de Triomphe.
Golden Sword heads the current Classic generation, but having been comprehensively beaten by Fame And Glory in the Irish Derby looks short of the standard set by the older generation. Conduit and Tartan Bearer will be tough to beat. If one doesn’t win, the other will and it is my contention Ryan Moore has called it correctly by opting for Conduit.
So there is no mediocrity at Ascot tomorrow, at least at 4.25. Quality is spread thinly between the three major meetings however. There is surely no need to have racing from Newmarket and York in support of what should be a standout card at Ascot. Sadly, the supporting card, although designed to complement the big race, fails to meet its brief. The prize-money is there but because there are rich pickings elsewhere, Ascot stands in the shadows when it should blaze in light. There is a £100,000 Group 2 at York along with a £50,000 sprint handicap, which is fair enough for those unable to make the journey south. But do we really need the cards at Newmarket, Salisbury and Lingfield?
Maybe we do. I don’t, but I am not important; that is if I am in the minority. But if I am in the majority, which according to my fellow professionals I am, then perhaps the voices of myself and my contemporaries should be heard.
Possibly some of you would like to lend your weight to the argument. Is there too much racing? Do you feel it is an elitist sport run for the benefit of the few to the detriment of the many?
Let us know what you think. Your voice matters. Without it, the authorities can continue to batter their way through the route they have taken for the last five or six years at the behest of bookmakers, forever claiming more racing means more betting and therefore more Levy. Bookmakers do not have racing’s interests at heart. They care only for themselves, just as Tesco are not concerned for workers in India or for farmers in Norfolk or Dorset. Such is capitalism – the system we live by. It is our choice, but it is important we see it for what it is.
On a more upbeat note: Conduit and Curtain Call look solid contenders for the two major races of the day, Isaac Disraeli permitting.
AND ANOTHER THING…
THERE IS A STORY THAT GOES THUS: A woman tourist in New York asks a police officer how she gets to Carnegie Hall. ‘Lady, you gotta’ practice,’ was the succinct and wisecrack reply.
I guess it was the sort of thing smart-ass New York cops used to say in 1952 when they twirled their batons, wore their pistols low, Gene Kelly sang in the rain, and the city was considerably less safe than it is now.
I know what you’re thinking: What has this got to do with horseracing? The killer words in the police officer story – those that make it work and amusing – are that the woman asks how she gets to Carnegie Hall. She doesn’t ask directions, it is the word ‘gets’ that turns the tale into what it is.
In my case, the word that applies to one of my pieces is practice. You see when it was first mooted that Karl Burke was entangled in the BHA inquiry into corruption, I was quick to point out that he seemed an unlikely suspect. I leapt to his defence quicker than a Court of Human Rights lawyer seeing a river referred to as a dyke.
If you are going to shoot your mouth off in a column, you need to be right. I had two chances and as things stand, it looks as if I played red when I should have played black. Karl Burke was disqualified for twelve months today after a BHA inquiry into race-fixing. The BHA postponed the start of Burke’s sentence until the day after his appeal date – 28th July – and this was where it seemed the ice was cracking beneath them. Such an apparently benevolent approach was apparently adopted to ‘prevent irreparable damage to Burke should he appeal’.
This sort of logic was enough to make any mad axe-man sharpen his instrument – The Needle and the Damage Done to quote Neil Young.
The diatribe went on to state that the Appeal Board had the power to decide whether to extend such a period should Burke appeal. Next came some jargon about how this action should not be construed as encouragement by the Panel in favour of any appeal Burke might choose to make.
The allegations against Karl Burke are – without hiding behind rules and their numbers – that:
(1) He supplied inside information to Miles Rodgers about six of his runners that Rodgers subsequently laid on Betfair.
(2) Burke associated with a disqualified person in Miles Rodgers, who is now warned off for life.
(3) Burke misled the BHA in the course of their investigation.
Without being in possession of the facts, I made the diagnosis that Burke was an affable trainer caught in no man’s land, attempting to expand a reasonably successful operation, and as such was an innocent victim consorting with characters he may privately wish to avoid.
On July 2nd, Burke’s position changed. He made substantial admissions to the BHA, hoping that such plea-bargaining might lessen his punishment. He admitted supplying information to Rodgers in exchange for the pieces of silver associated with transactions of this type. There were one or two mitigating circumstances regarding land and other peripheral issues, but the damning admission here is the fact that money changed hands. Once money is accepted, the point of no return is reached. Karl Burke can now be found at that point. Such a situation should serve as a warning to us all.
The BHA still has charges of its own making to answer. Unlike the miscreants it has pursued it is not guilty of any crime other than mutilating the English Language on a regular basis, issuing regular incomprehensible statements unworthy of an elementary mock GCSE paper.
The week has started badly.
Racing is currently trundling from one inauspicious venue to another. There is the added spectre of ground change making predictions harder than they should be for the time of year. Most punters are currently shying away from betting. Bad for racing, bad for the Levy – bad for business at a time when the money lemon is already running dry of juice.
On the equine front, Utmost Respect, winner of a quarter of a million pounds, died in surgery on Sunday after a routine operation to remove gravel from his foot. His death left his trainer Richard Fahey distraught. If there is any consolation in the demise of Utmost Respect it is that his death was not a direct result of racing but officially caused by peritonitis.
The Cheka is reportedly stiff following his promising return at Newbury last week after eleven months on the sidelines. Once again, the bounce factor appears to have wobbled into view.
On a more positive note, Ghanaati apparently worked well at Newbury racecourse today in preparation for one of the major mid-summer targets open to connections.
This weekend Ascot stages the King George VI & Queen Elizabeth II Stakes. As an event, it is one of the jewels in Flat racing’s crown. The roll of honour is impressive but recent years have seen the quality of the race decline for no apparent reason. Its strength is often dependent on a potent three-year-old challenge which is sadly lacking this year. It presents the Derby winner with the chance to cement his excellence against his elders but there will be no Sea The Stars this year for obvious reasons. Conduit is a worthy favourite and looks overpriced at 7/4. This is his time of year and this looks like a race with his name embossed on its illustrious list.
As an event the King George remains one of the best in Europe. It will return to its rightful position just as the sport will continue. Currently it is going through a storm that’s all.
To quote Gene Kelly: Dum de dum dum dum dum dum de dum dum!
AND ANOTHER THING
THE SOUND OF A JAZZ BAND on a racecourse has now joined the list of items I dislike most. That means it is on a par with ‘Baby On Board’ signs in cars and the buggies that go with them. Old bangers or Chelsea Tractors parked next to my sports car in a multi storey. People that say Byeee and Thankk You on the phone as if they have a speech impediment; people that say kids instead of children; people that cannot say hospital without overemphasising the ‘P’; people that say aitch instead of ‘H’ – people in general really. To make it simple, right now it is the damn human race including myself.
That is just for starters, I could go on but won’t. Maybe I should have a word with Rick Wakeman and see if there is a spot coming up on Grumpy Old Men.
But a jazz band at Newbury. Why? Whose idea is it to promote racing in such a way? You want to see horses race across a strip of grass you go to a racecourse. You want to see jazz you go to Ronnie Scott’s or New Orleans. I fail to see the correlation. I am sure the band that Newbury hired is very good. But with the rain slanting down like a shower of Saxon arrows, wet shoes and a raincoat that has seen better days, Louis Armstrong – God rest his soul – would have had his work cut out.
Flat racing in the rain is like watching a movie with subtitles. You wonder what the hell you are doing at the track just as the person in the cinema, if he is honest, is desperately trying to decipher a plot he has to half-read and half-view, however arty the film may be.
I did not have to wrestle with the maiden to take 6/5 about the obvious winner in Emerald Commander. It was the only bet I struck at the track. Although I had travelled a trivial seven miles, it seemed nonsensical to venture out at all in order to punt a horse I could just as easily have backed from the comfort of home.
It struck me that if you are about to travel on the day the world is destined to end a racecourse should not be your destination. When I left to make the short run, more to keep the car ticking over than anything, the weather seemed reasonable. Four miles down the road and the sky was the colour of a witch’s hat. Worse, it was purple, swollen with enough rain to drown whole segments of Berkshire. I continued, sloshing through that puddle that always forms by the Swan roundabout. Having splashed through it, I felt obliged to splash out of it. I should have detoured to Tesco, bought a bottle of decent wine and something to put in the oven, and then turned round.
This was Hennessy Gold Cup weather. There were no hurdles or fences on the racecourse. The ground that I told everyone who asked would be on the soft side of good was already soft before the first race. I began to sympathise with the weathermen, realising if I failed to get it right by leaning out of the window within hailing distance of the track their chance was negligible.
The lederhosen men started to tune up then blast into their repertoire. Of course, they did not wear lederhosen or eat bratwurst but they might as well have. That was how out of place they were. No one slapped a thigh unless it was to brush the dripping rain off the hem of a raincoat, although I saw a smartly dressed woman slapping a man’s hand away from her shapely thigh in the members’ restaurant, but that is another matter.
I began to wonder if listening to a jazz band in the rain and waiting to back an even-money shot in a maiden was an appropriate way to watch the world check out. Newbury is not exactly one of life’s fleshpots and it occurred there was not much else to do as the rain that threatened to wash us away continued to spear our faces.
What do you do as a darkening sky that threatens to draw a deathly cloak over our planet?
I backed Emerald Commander. So did anyone else that could be bothered to leave the comparative comfort of the grandstand or fish around in damp pockets for a Nokia.
As we all know Emerald Commander won. Perhaps we were in for a reprieve. The growling clouds parted for a few moments after that and there was the vaguest glimpse of blue. Ryan Moore was in blue silks speckled with mud as he came back in, still squinting against the machine gun fire that was the rain.
Going to Newbury races was madness. Nothing against the racecourse but why was I spending Armageddon backing a horse that was racing in a deluge, winning money that I could not possibly spend?
Somehow the afternoon survived. They took Showcasing out of the next. The band played on like the four-piece on the Titanic and horses continued to slosh from point A to point B.
It was all somewhat pointless in its own way. Word reached us that the M25, the M1 and the M4 were virtually gridlocked. In this little handkerchief of the globe, news of such magnitude is largely irrelevant but it gave us something to mull over.
Someone told me Bobby Charles would win the opener at Newmarket and that was followed by a message that Invincible Isle was fancied in the Turf TV Handicap later on the card. I already thought she would win as I did not fancy the apparent dangers, Shabib or The Scorching Wind. Whilst others were fornicating their final hours away or making their peace with whichever god they suddenly decided was their best bet, I decided to go out in a blaze of glory and risk half of my winnings on Invincible Isle. That was silly but the day had started in that mode and ended in the same way.
I watched Invincible Isle cruise to the front a furlong out only to be swept aside by my no-hoper Shabib in the last furlong.
I had left the racecourse by then with a Scott Joplin number still ringing in my ears, or was it the rain? Either way it was a crazy way to spend what could have been my last few hours on this planet.
AND ANOTHER THING
THEY SAY A WEEK IS A LONG TIME IN POLITICS. Actually, it is a long time in any sphere. I have had an enforced break since Saturday; now, on Thursday evening, having been divorced from racing, I feel as if I am starting all over again.
I left after one of the horses I was convinced was booked for a big handicap this year when conditions turned in his favour won at Ascot. The thing was that five furlongs on good ground was not ideal for Sonny Red. That was the formula I was looking at on Saturday morning, but rain at Ascot combined with the skill of a jockey that knew Sonny Red well in Richard Hughes, meant he duly won his handicap over his (and everybody else’s) minimum trip. The other problem for me was this handicap was not the one I had in mind. I suspect it was not the one Dandy Nicholls had in mind either. That is incidental; the damage is done. Now Sonny Red will be racing from a higher mark. It is arguable he remains well handicapped, but not as well as before. The milk is spilt, the boat missed; making it difficult to become excited about something like the Stewards’ Cup, for which I presume he will be one of the market leaders, particularly if there is some juice in the ground.
I do not know if Sariska was impressive in the Irish Oaks. Was she? The ground was in her favour and it was against Midday.
There was Group racing at Deauville – the show rolled on without me. That is what happens. Racing is a juggernaut that stops for no one. Take your foot off the pedal for a few days and you find yourself travelling on a different road.
I gather the elements played havoc. Reading today’s Racing Post the Levy payments from bookmakers is likely to plummet next year. I have said it before and reiterate – punters are not fools. Right now, they are wary. They know how a sudden change in the weather can sabotage their betting. At Ayr, apparently, there was the sight of horses slipping and sliding on the greasy home turn, resulting in a potential disaster.
Word reached me that the Cecil camp thought they had a certainty at Yarmouth on Tuesday, but a deluge some fifteen minutes before racing meant the ground changed. At least that was their excuse for a dismal run.
I am writing this under a swollen purple sky that throbs with rain beyond the window of my office.
Come Racing – Have a Bet – It’s all good fun. Right!
Trouble is it is fun at a price. I suppose most fun comes at a price. I cannot say I remember. However, fun is the operative word here. Backing horses that fail to give you a run is not fun. Racing competes with activities guaranteeing good times. Book for a concert there are no surprises. Coldplay, Snow Patrol and Bruce Springsteen deliver what they promise. They don’t run out, slip up or have off days. The difference is such groups consist of humans that understand what is at stake. Horses cannot comprehend they may be one run away from a plate in Paris. Frankly, most of them don’t give a bugger how they run.
Horseracing is haphazard. Right now, I am tired of haphazard. There is enough of that in life without paying for the privilege.
I guess it shows that I knotted a set of sheets together and shinned down the wall of the prison. They soon caught me. They bundled me in the back of the Black Maria and slammed the doors. They drove me back to where I belong and locked me in my cell. That is where I am now.
For the present, I am looking at racecards written in Mandarin. I am listening to racing presenters full of enthusiasm bolstered by a fancy wage telling me what to take from mundane races for next time. But I am not sure there is anything to take from such events except to wonder why I am watching them in the first place.
Sorry, it would appear I am going through a cynical phase. It is nothing another Goldikova will not cure.
AND ANOTHER THING
Is taking a few days off but hopefully some inspiration will be forthcoming after my return on 16th July.
AND ANOTHER THING
ON SATURDAY, the bright young thing that serves in the paper shop told me to have a nice day. She kind of sang the message at me as young people tend to do nowadays. For a moment it annoyed me in the same way that people suddenly chirping, ‘Byeeee,’ do on the phone. It is as if they have no other way of ending a conversation other than with some falsity that then renders the preceding exchange null and void. It suddenly downgrades what should have been an honest interlude into some practiced routine.
She asked me if I wanted the Harry Potter DVD that accompanied the Daily Mail. I scowled. If it had been Rod Steiger in The Pawnbroker or Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, but not Harry bleedin’ Potter with his flying Ford Anglia. I used to have one of those cars years ago and I couldn’t get it to start let alone fly.
Have a nice day. Why should I? Why can’t I have the sort of day I usually have: mediocre at best, or, even better, a bad one? Yes, we all know how to cope with a bad day and it gives us an excuse to drink too much at the end of it.
What constitutes a nice day anyway? Winning the Lottery – not applicable in my case as I don’t take part. Being propositioned by some woman that looks as if she has just stepped from a film set? I am more likely to win the Totescoop thingy, which I can’t be bothered to fill out let alone attempt to win! Backing four winners out of five in a super yankee (do not want to appear greedy). Not even possible as I am not having a yankee.
Then I gave her parting greeting some thought, concluding that wishing someone a nice day is about the best thing that can be bestowed.
Having a nice day is about spending it with people you wish to spend it with, doing things you wish to do and not regretting its passing. Having a nice day is about climbing off the conveyer belt that is the drudgery of routine and work, about wiping the blackened soot from the brow and feeling fresh and clean and able to utilise the most precious of all gifts that we have – time.
Now I am sounding like a bible-basher. But there is some truth there. Life is short, it is not a drill to quote Fleetwood Mac, it flashes past quickly and there is no second chance. It is the one bet we strike that cannot be changed. We become what we make ourselves and have to live with the consequences.
Those of us not strapped into body armour or pecking in the dirt for a scrap of nourishment have no excuse not to have a nice day. Yet ungrateful bastards that we are we begrudge someone actually wishing such an outcome upon us.
We complain about the weather, Jamie Spencer, the fact Main Aim’s impetus was interrupted in the July Cup; but does any of that really matter?
I think her name is Helen. I guess she is sixteen going on seventeen but that she does not know the song from The Sound of Music. She is button-bright and needle-sharp. She wears a lot of black and is permanently chirpy. She is small enough to fit into my pocket. I think it might be a good idea if in the absence of having her in person I take her words, wrap them in a metaphorical handkerchief and put THEM in my pocket. That way I might find myself better equipped to deflect the trivia and the nonsense that prevents us all from having a nice day.
And Another Thing…
Passengers
July 09
THERE IS AN OLD ADAGE THAT COUNTRIES receive the television they deserve. I suppose you can extend such a statement to just about everything.
Currently, some are bemoaning the outpouring of grief shed over Michael Jackson. Those that compare his death with other tragic events miss the point. We do not know the people in Camberwell or the soldiers in Afghanistan. We feel pangs of sorrow of course but it is a detached kind of mourning. The likes of Michael Jackson and Princess Diana have been in our living rooms and, here is the point that often gets missed, to an extent we played a part in their creation. We as consumers clamoured to be served by the brand we helped to devise; our needs altered the complexion and the character of the individual that put our requirements before their own.
Therefore, without perhaps analysing the situation, when their lives end prematurely or badly we adopt part of the guilt. As consumers, we decide what we want and what we do not. We wanted Michael Jackson and Princess Diana on our terms. They sacrificed part of their personalities to oblige. So to those proclaiming the Michael Jackson memorial service as tacky or over the top, perhaps they should understand that those taking part were merely paying their respects and possibly expressing their regret in any unwitting part they played in the unfortunate demise of a music legend.
I realise this is a weighty beginning to a column that is supposed to be the equivalent of a foaming cup of espresso. Philosophy akin to Friedrich Nietzsche is an unlikely ingredient for such a piece of froth after all.
We live in a world we appear to have mastered, at least for the moment. In the affluent consumer and capitalist-driven West, the dollar and pound rule. We end up getting what we deserve. We want to live in Neverland, we get Michael Jackson; we want to live in never-never land, we get Gordon Brown. We want a princess to captivate the world and out-sparkle the true blue-bloods of the Royal Family we get Diana.
We want to see ordinary people made into stars overnight and share in their emotion, their pursuit of a dream that will largely last as long as a comet streaking across a night sky, we get X-Factor, Britain’s Got Talent. We want to see so-called celebrities in the raw, stripped down to the bones of reality we get I am A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here.
We want politicians to tell us what we want to hear regardless of cost, we get the current mob running the country. There was a time when politicians did what they thought was right. Now they do what they think is expedient. I do not know one person that swallows the expenses argument currently being trotted out by our members in Westminster. There is a distinction between not breaking the law and doing the right and decent thing. Those that have abused the system are not worthy of the system they purport to uphold.
I do not know one person outside racing that supports blood sports. In our isolation, we and a bunch of jockeys, anxious to hone their riding skills, may feel it is acceptable to tear across the countryside and allow creatures to be ripped to death on the fangs of dogs. Those advocating this ought to consider themselves in a minority group. Whether or not the fox or the deer is a nuisance is irrelevant. The message those that wish to pursue such a pastime send is that they enjoy the thrill of the chase and the kill to such an extent that they will use a convenient fact to further their lust. They are no better than those turning up in Mexico and Madrid to see bulls slaughtered in a bullring. Or those rich big game hunters that will pay to travel to Africa in order to shoot doped lions released in the line of fire, backed up by ‘white hunters’ aiming high powered rifles at the unfortunate beast in case Wilbur Wyoming 111 panics or misses the obvious shot. It is what is known as the bravery of being out of range.
The Conservatives, gaining ground fast in the forthcoming election stakes, have pledged to rescind the law passed by Tony Blair (the last honest prime minister we had) outlawing hunting – a bill that was actually popular with the people.
I am not sure where I am going with this. Maybe I am guilty of cashing in on a platform, however small, that allows me to speak my mind.
Tonight on a lesser stage than those mentioned earlier, Kempton will run a horserace to the accompaniment of Rossini’s William Tell Overture. What Rossini would have made of such a thing is unknown. I suspect if he had a sense of humour that he may have chuckled quietly.
I do not know what racegoers will make of this tonight. Will they be racegoers or mere passengers along for the ride?
On reflection that is all any one of us has become in an age obsessed with the surreal: passengers.
Perhaps it is time some of us questioned the fares we are paying and the direction in which we are heading.
AND ANOTHER THING…
JUNE 2009
IT WAS A TIME OF WHIP AND SPUR: racecourses were slimy, decrepit venues. Aside from the gentry, they were largely filled by libertines, rogues and lowlife. There was a market atmosphere. Bookmakers frequently welched. Liars, cheats and vagabonds bet with stolen money. They drank vile liquor, swore, urinated where they stood, brokered dodgy deals, bartered animals and possessions in order to wager and pursue pleasures of the flesh.
Racehorses were undeveloped, oddly shaped creatures. Their heads were too small for long bodies, making them a cross between horses and greyhounds. They raced low to the ground, jockeys rode long, using vicious whips, digging steely spurs in the flanks of their mounts to make them race faster.
It was the Georgian Era: a time of madness and change – the era responsible for Gainsborough, Samuel Johnson, Jane Austen, Coleridge, Wordsworth and Keats. Coincidentally, vaunted satirist and painter William Hogarth died in the same year that one of the great racehorses of all time was born – in 1764.
Eclipse staggered to his feet on trembling legs wet with birth on April 1st of that year but he was no fool. He was named after a solar eclipse on his birthdate. His sire was Marske and his dam Spilletta so the event in the heavens was auspicious, as without such an occurrence an amalgamation of his parents’ names may have resulted in one of the most influential of all horses being called something like Marsilletta or Spillske. Eclipse was to become the name synonymous with racehorses centuries ahead.
Eclipse made his appearance as a racehorse five years after his birth – at Epsom. A ne’er-do-well by the name of Captain Dennis O’Kelly (his rank being subject to variance) – for our purposes we shall accord him with the rank of Captain – had spotted the immense promise shown on the local gallops by Eclipse and bought a half share. Pumped up by the prospect of taking the Epsom bookmakers to the cleaners, O’Kelly could not resist crowing as he splashed money from one board to another. Asked what he thought the outcome of the race would yield, he blasted the retort: ‘Eclipse first – the rest nowhere”. In certain circles, this phrase is still in use. This was not the buffoonish bravado it might seem today, as at that time if a horse won a race by more than a furlong the opposition was deemed to be nowhere. O’Kelly’s prophecy was proved to be correct as Eclipse came home alone without the crack of the whip or the glint of spur, items never used on him throughout his eighteen races, all of which he won.
Eclipse won nine races in 1769 – including the City Silver Bowl, four different King’s Plates, at Ascot, Canterbury, Lewes and Lichfield. Ironically, while he was gaining in stature, a certain Napoleon Bonaparte was born in Corsica – but more of that later.
Fearless and embattled gambler O’Kelly made a fortune betting on Eclipse. The horse never actually contested the best races, as they were restricted to horses belonging to members of the Jockey Club. But such was the manner of his victories, carrying huge weights and beating his opponents point blank, it was generally assumed he would have beaten any rival put before him.
Even had the Jockey Club relented in their exclusivity, they would never have allowed Captain O’Kelly to rub shoulders with their ranks. O’Kelly was married to Charlotte Hayes who kept a brothel in Southwark. Many of her ladies featured in what was the prostitutes’ handbook, Harris’s List Of Covent Garden Ladies, or Man of Pleasures Kalendar (sic) – containing the most celebrated ladies of pleasure frequenting Covent Garden and other parts of the Metropolis.
Harris dubbed himself the Pimp General of All England – a title later assumed over two hundred years later by David Sullivan, founder of the Daily Sport. The little directory was priced at two shillings and sixpence and sold over a quarter of a million copies, a vast amount – particularly considering the cost of the publication – equivalent to a week’s rent.
Purchasers read reviews of the ladies that waited in dusty darkened boudoirs. There was Miss Love from Tottenham Court Road – a fine hairy piece. Nancy Bucket of Westminster – who could flay with amazing grace – and Madam Dafloz of Soho who allegedly possessed a certain cleanliness in the Netherlands. Clients were warned off Lucy Patterson as she was characterized as being as lewd as goats and monkeys – a vile bitch. Pol Forrester was said to have breath worse than a Welsh bagpipe and readers were advised to swerve the contaminated carcass that was Miss Young.
O’Kelly frequented this world. Eclipse was of bluer and truer blood. When he retired to stud he sired about 344 foals, his influence on the bloodline being responsible for between 80 and 90% of all racehorses in existence today. So those from Wolverhampton to Ascot possess genes that can be traced back to Eclipse. Truly the daddy of the racehorse, Eclipse sired Derby winners and the victors of some of the most important races of the period. But his most famous descendent was not a racehorse at all, but Copenhagen, the charger of one Napoleon Bonaparte, the man born at a time when Eclipse was literally first, whilst the rest were nowhere.
As a racehorse, Eclipse would struggle against the breed he helped spawn and refine today. He was no animal of glass and porcelain. He was forged in bronze and iron.
Now, two hundred and forty years since the day Eclipse stepped forth on a racecourse, the race named in his honour is to be run this Saturday. It promises to be a momentous memorial. The field is suitably strong and one that would make Eclipse proud. Sea The Stars faces a tough task if he is to win, as three-year-olds often falter against the older generation. But great three-year-olds win the Eclipse. And that is what this race is all about – greatness. A fitting memorial for one of the best of all time.
AND ANOTHER THING…
June 2009
SACRE BLEU! The French are at it again! I have nothing against our continental neighbours; in fact, I quite like them – as much as one can like the French. However, what was Sunday all about?
Allow me to explain. In order to fox us Brits, the French have a different system of loading their horses. They adopt the Japanese method and read from right to left. So on a right-handed course such as Longchamp you want to be drawn low. Pay attention at the back it is not that complicated. Low, far rail, high out in the middle of the ocean so to speak. So think Ascot (right-handed), where you want to be high on the round course (heaven knows what you want to be on the straight these days) and reverse it for Longchamp.
On the straight course, where they run the L’Abbaye, they load from left to right, therefore low on the inside rail, high on the outside. Crazy but that’s the way they do it.
This Sunday at Saint-Cloud, which is a left-handed track, they loaded from left to right. Spanish Moon was drawn ten, which I thought would be a good draw next to the rail. Not so my petite amour – non! Spanish Moon was on the outside, as he would have been in this country. Thanks to Ryan Moore it made no difference, but what is going on here?
I thought the idea of the European Union was to promote uniformity. Okay, forget the British: we are a law unto ourselves. We insist on driving on the left, eat burgers and chips, have dinner at six o’clock when those on the continent are decanting a bottle of Chablis or Rioja. In this country, never mind the decanting, just get it open – a screw top is preferable, saves all that mucking about with a cork and an opener. We can demolish a bottle of wine in twenty minutes; it only contains four miserable glasses after all.
Whatever our shortcomings as a nation in comparison to the French – lousy train system, no dress sense, bolting our food, watching rubbish reality shows on television, living in a tiny cramped island that we insist on making even more cramped by importing as many immigrants as we can – we do have a comprehensible system of loading horses in the stalls. That may be one of our few claims to fame – it could even turn out to be our only one in the coming years – but what are the French thinking? Two systems for one track is bad enough, but then to have a completely different one at another venue is barmy. Perhaps someone will correct me here, but I know what I saw with my own eyes on Sunday. Unless I am going crazy (not impossible), they loaded from left to right at Saint-Cloud.
You might conclude it makes no difference, however it does. This is another example –thankfully from another country for a change – of there being a law of exclusivity for the sport of horseracing. Surely knowing the positioning of the draw is important to any would-be bettor. Perhaps everyone that bets in France is conversant with this haphazard way of positioning horses and stalls. I don’t know, and the fact they don’t seem to run as many thirty-runner handicaps as us may mean it matters less. But matter is does, so come on French Galop, how about sorting this out.
AND ANOTHER THING…
Mr Nick Rust of Corals is lamenting the fall in betting turnover. You know what they say about rust never sleeping: take a look at today’s cards Mr Rust and see if you can, in all seriousness, nominate a sensible wager.
You have six meetings in Britain to choose from and one in Ireland. Forget selections – ideas for others to pick up and run with – is there a horse contained within any of the meetings that tempts you personally to confidently risk your own money? If so, let me know what it is.
Take Folkestone: by and large it is the usual rubbish and we have the vagary of the draw to contend with. We assume we want to be drawn low on the straight course but rain may change that. The 4.15 is not a bad event. You could make a case for Halsion Chancer but all his wins have been on the Polytrack. We assume Mabiat will be favourite at probably cramped odds.
Chester – over to you again Mr Rust. You are the one complaining about the turnover: What should I back? Simplification after a 72 day lay-off? Course winner H Harrison at the age of nine? Have I missed something?
Newmarket on Friday night. I wouldn’t mind going for a few beers and to listen to the band. But is there a bet? Avertor in the 9.10 – that will win won’t it? For a stay at home punter, does he really sabotage a Friday night to back a horse in the 9.10 when he could be out with his mates or taking the missus for a meal?
What about Too Tall at Doncaster in the 4.35? Showed promise as a two-year-old but disappointed last time over a mile. Dropped back to seven furlongs. Is tonight the night Mr Rust?
NEWCASTLE: Yippee! it is the Gosforth Cup. Six of them are handicapped to dead-heat. Hitchens looks capable of winning this sort of race but you would think six furlongs would suit better. So what is it to be: Hamish McGonagall, Cheveton, River Falcon, Pvershooz, Indian Trail or Captain Dunne? What price I have not named the winner?
This is why turnover is suffering Mr Rust. Punters are not the idiots you and the rest of the bookmaking fraternity seem to think. If they fancy a gamble they might as well do so in style and stand in a casino, with a beer in hand and one eye on the girl in fishnets. So over to you Mr Rust, you’re the clever man, what should I back today?
AND ANOTHER THING…
TODAY’S RACING NEWS POSES MORE QUESTIONS THAN IT ANSWERS. For a start there is the anticipated demise of Setanta, leaving Racing UK as a stand-alone channel. This means subscription levels revert to £20 per month, which as far as I, and presumably countless others are concerned, means an actual increase of £5 per month for racing coverage. In making this claim I am wiping out the now defunct Sentanta sports package that was essential in order to receive what most of us wanted – actual coverage of horseracing. Therefore, we are £5 a month worse off.
May I remind you that some twenty years ago, those of us betting and trading from home had only one option if we wished to receive live pictures. We had to subscribe to SIS, costing some £500 a month if I remember rightly. Where did the money come from? Blowed if I know, but I paid it. Of course that meant I received complete coverage of all racing. But with the advent of ATR, a Sky package that allows you to view it on a free-to-air basis means complete coverage of all horseracing in Britain, Ireland and major events in France and America are a button’s press away for the cost of about £40 a month –actually less than buying the Racing Post daily. Sign up for the telephone scheme that allows you to make free calls and maybe the deal is not so bad after all. It certainly looks more attractive than that once offered by SIS in a galaxy far, far away. In addition, it seems we will be able view archive footage from RUK, so that those of us hankering to have lives outside the square footage of our offices or that corner beneath the stairs can actually sample the delights of the outside world and catch up on what has occurred when we return. We can even uncork a bottle of wine or pull a ring on a can of Holsten as we do so, safe in knowledge the alcohol will not make any difference to our betting patterns. Maybe it is not such a bad deal after all.
The excellent James Willoughby (needs no endorsement from me) asks what has gone wrong with Godolphin. This is a delicate subject to raise. Godolphin is crucial to British racing so telling it like it is can be tricky. The performance of the boys in blue has been poor for a number of years now. Actually, it has been abysmal if you consider how much money they chuck at their operation. I like Sheikh Mohammed and think his wife, Princess Haya of Jordan, bridges many a gap between the Muslim and non-Muslim world in the most charming fashion possible. I wish Godolphin well. I long to see the royal blue colours return to their rightful place and that is in the winner’s enclosures at the Group 1 courses on a regular basis. It will never happen whilst Godolphin continue to thread the same well-worn path that has led them in the wrong direction over the last seven or eight years. Arab culture dictates that the greatest asset any employee possesses is loyalty. Employers reciprocate that mindset so sackings are rare. One has to conclude such thinking is the serpent in the sand that is biting Godolphin in the jugular.
A change in policy is required. Godolphin has to stop throwing money at their problems. They have to stop purchasing American yearlings at inflated sums unless they wish to race them in the USA. Horses by Street Cry, Seeking The Gold, Danzig etc are great-lookers but invariably unsuited to European conditions, at least at the highest level. And they don’t stay middle-distances. So the chances of them winning the Derby, the King George, the Arc or any of the great mid-summer competitions is slight-to-negligible.
What is required is a total change of policy, partly instigated as I write, but one that should be accelerated. European stallions to rival Coolmore are essential. The purchasing policy of Godolphin is in need of a total overhaul. Buying half-successful two-year-olds like Skanky Biscuit at inflated prices is not about to turn their fortunes round. Whoever was responsible for that decision, when it was clear Skanky Biscuit’s juvenile form did not exceed Group 3 at best, should be answerable. I know it is not the Arab way, but a non-Arab within the Godolphin organisation ought to be able to circumnavigate that. Is there not just the whiff of a group of Godolphin operatives becoming very rich at the expense of the greater cause?
It is easy to snipe from the sidelines. Looking at what Sheikh Mohammed has achieved displays his talents and foresight as being considerable. Dubai is a world showplace rivalling and possibly surpassing Miami Beach. He took control of his racing empire and founded Godolphin from nothing. Look at the success story that was Nad Al Sheba and is to become Meydan. But it is possible that the sheikh’s thirst for global equine domination has meant he has taken on too much. Sometimes concentrating on one or two projects you have a grip on is preferable to diversifying into many that you do not.
On a day peppered by questions, the Racing Post asks: What sort of gambler are you? They suggest there are four types and list them in today’s paper. I am about to simplify this question by answering that there are two: winners and losers. Currently, Tom Segal apart – wasn’t he great in that film where he played the cook? – most of us fall into the latter category. The strange thing is I cannot put my finger on what is wrong. All I do know is that there is no way I could afford the SIS package now and that Godolphin are not alone at present in finding racing an expensive pursuit.
AND ANOTHER THING…
STANDARDS ARE SLIPPING. Royal Ascot opened on Tuesday with a bonanza day of racing and dramatic finishes.
Day two and the crowd was sparse, the weather windy, car park picnics were held in a Carry On Regardless manner as storm clouds grumbled overhead. Then there was a collision between a horse carriage and a police prison van. Quite what a police prison van was doing at Royal Ascot was unclear. Of course, the Australians were on the course so perhaps they had something to do with it.
Then Dandy Nicholls instigated a swearing match by insulting the starter for withdrawing his unruly Bencoolen – one of three that played up before the Royal Hunt Cup. In the aftermath, it was difficult to tell Bencoolen and Dandy Nicholls apart. Both seemed to be on a short fuse. With the field for the Hunt Cup virtually loaded, Docofthebay was the ringleader of the fracas. He decided to exit his stall via the gap at the top, which is not a good idea – sparking off several other horses that seemed to think it was. Roaring Forte certainly liked it as a concept. Bencoolen took it as his cue to behave badly. This put the starter in a difficult position. With the field loaded and racegoers’ binoculars trained on the row of stalls at the mile start, three horses threatened to wreck proceedings. Wisely, the starter got Roaring Forte and Docofthebay out of the way, lost patience with the recalcitrant Bencoolen, and despatched the remaining runners, leaving the three miscreants literally sitting on the dock of the bay.
Trying to organise twenty-eight runners at the start is no easy task. There is a danger that too much time can be spent on horses that play up, at the expense of those that have followed the game plan and are standing still in their stalls. It is the old expression about the squeaky wheel getting all the grease. The starter was right to use his discretion and remove the offending equines as soon as possible in order to get the event underway. Dandy Nicholls has been known to resort to the F-word as an adverb or adjective on many an occasion. Perhaps he just likes adverbs and adjectives. He claimed the starter, Peter Haynes, pushed him in an adverbial manner.
The Americans decided to invade. Last time they came here en masse, they brought nylon stockings and cigarettes, now it was with blinkered two-year-olds that could have been mistaken for the mounts of jousting knights. However, they ran very fast and won two of the juvenile events.
Thursday passed without incident, at least at the time of writing. To the immense relief of the Ballydoyle team who seemed genuinely nervous beforehand, Yeats put on a Gold Cup performance that delighted the crowd.
In the evening they opened Ffos Las. The statue looks very nice and the track came in for a good deal of praise. Non-speakers of Welsh have no idea what Ffos Las means. It is to be hoped Weatherby’s do. I suppose it means Ffos Las, or perhaps someone with a stutter named it. Ffos Las is a timely reminder that there can be fewer less rewarding skills than being a speaker of the Welsh language. Learn Japanese or Spanish and you can get a job as a translator, or in a bar in Tokyo or Madrid. Learn Welsh and all you are likely to achieve is to order a pint in a pub with an unpronounceable name where they also speak English. Hardly worth the trouble really is it boyo?
But well done to all concerned at Ffos Las. Mick Fitzgerald described the new racecourse as the Newbury of Wales. Perhaps they will twin the two places. On second thoughts, as a nearby resident, I hope not. We get many Welsh coaches arriving at Newbury for the races and most of the occupants arrive with a pronounced stagger. Some of them don’t even mange to exit the coach.
We have enough village idiots in and around Berkshire – I have even been known to fill the breach during holiday periods myself!
AND ANOTHER THING…
THERE WAS A TIME WHEN you knew your place when going to Royal Ascot. I certainly knew mine – it was in the Silver Ring. Admittance was ten shillings and for that you got to see the royal procession. When the racing started, horses would flash past you with two furlongs remaining. On the round course, they were just entering the straight. The race would be about to start in earnest as they thundered towards the closing stages and disappeared away from you, almost becoming blobs in the distance. It was anyone’s guess who was in front. You became an expert in horses’ bottoms in those days.
Royal Ascot and I go back a long way. I used to attend a nearby school and invariably managed to bunk off for the week. I should have known no good would come of it. Before going off (or on) the rails, I caused my English master to entertain high hopes. He thought someday I might emulate our mutual literary hero, Ernest Hemingway; unfortunately, Geoffrey Brooke trained the only high hopes I knew. It helped that my English master was a racing man. I told him we should back Remand in the King Edward. Ridden by Joe Mercer, he beat Derby runner-up Connaught who had almost lasted at Epsom until Sir Ivor swooped. Of course, I could not bet but Mr Bazelgette could and did for both of us. We backed Remand at 9/2, Summer Days in the Queen Mary, Twilight Alley in the Gold Cup, who did the unthinkable under Lester Piggott in that he made all in a race over 2m 4f. We backed losers as well. Some of the names have gone, water colours left out in the rain, along with the cherished white racecards with the crown emblem on them that I kept for a quarter of a century.
Those four days in June were the most magical for me. I was like the kid in the classroom during the war, watching the fighter planes scrawling the sky in combat beyond the schoolroom windows.
Names like Pandofell, Sagaro, Trelawney, Lochnager and Waterloo float in the clouds of my mind. Maybe I have mistaken some of them. It was a long time ago… The jockeys included Scobie Breasley, Joe Mercer, Ron Hutchinson, Bill Williamson, Doug Smith and Lester Piggott.
Royal Ascot was a piece of magic then. I was young; the names were enchanting. These days schoolboys will not be star struck by this sort of thing. There is too much in the way of distraction, what with video games Ripping It Up In Paradise, and Nasty Bastards blowing up half of Los Angeles on their laptops.
I cannot see Gladiatorus or Mastercraftsman igniting the imagination in the same way as Sovrango did back in those black-and-white days. They were days when the experience that was Royal Ascot started as soon as you boarded the coach and shared the Green Noon with fellow passengers. That was the Racing Post of its day, published late in tall and wide print and available at midday as the name implied. The coach buzzed with excited optimistic chatter. It could have contained a gaggle of chimpanzees on the way to the races. It returned from a funeral in virtual resigned silence on the way home.
Excitement mounted during that tramp across the Heath. Tipsters were allowed then. There was Two Bob Harry and Jay Lewis and Ras Prince Monolulu, all straight out of the Archie Rice school of vaudeville. They would attracts vast crowds and tell their stories, leading up to the final sell, consisting of a piece of folded paper with the names of two or three tips, all surprisingly accurate but usually including a selection in the last race, allowing their authors to vanish in the event of a reversal.
Some of the tipsters would have top hats or wear jockey silks. They would spread paraphernalia on the ground. There would be a big blown up sepia picture of a Derby winner being led in, and they would point to a speckle-faced kid holding the reins, saying, ‘See, that’s me, leading in Crepello,’ maybe it was Pinza or Hard Ridden. The real face and the make-believe face bore no resemblance. It mattered not. They were worth half a crown just for their entertainment value.
Then there were the doom merchants, hoisting placards proclaiming The End Is Nigh. They extolled the wickedness of gambling and avarice and jealousy. Fanatics wishing we would all see their point of view – turn round and return home to meditate.
I knew more about racehorses than I did Shakespeare. I forgot my Latin, lost the rudiments of French after a year. I was a willing sheep to the abattoir. I left much of my education on that course: four days at the Royal meeting and one at the Heath meeting on the Saturday.
I became the school bookie; I listened to Noblesse win the Oaks on a transistor radio whilst the rest of the class were conjugating verbs. In short, I squandered the best part of my formulative years balancing books, converting fractions into percentages, learning how to settle bets, trying to pick winners.
We all have to have someone else to blame in life. It is never our own fault. I blame Queen Anne, Royal Ascot and Mr Bazelgette. None of them is culpable. I was the victim of beginners’ luck. I made some money when it would have been better had I lost. By the time I had realised what a heady concoction I had drunk, it was too late. Hemingway’s writing touched a generation – his books still sell. Only now, a lifetime later, can I see where I went wrong.
AND ANOTHER THING…
SOMETIMES I FIND MYSELF CHECKING THE DATE. I invariably read the paper early in the morning. At such an hour, with my brain gradually switching into gear, anything is possible. I read items in the Racing Post and for a split second it could be April – April 1st in fact.
Such a report appeared in today’s edition. David Hood of William Hill, a bookmaking firm, is enthusiastically backing the idea of bullet races – those run over a distance of two, three, or, at most, four furlongs. Mr Hood has shown on more than one occasion that his knowledge of horses, as opposed to horseracing, is limited. He is Hill’s director of racing – gobbledegook for one of the men in charge of increasing his firm’s profits. He is a company man; any contribution from him that affects the future of the sport should be approached with that in mind.
The notion that staging races over two furlongs, with participants catapulted out of the stalls and then subjected to frenetic rides from jockeys flailing whips for their duration will not bother Messrs Hood and the conglomerate that is Hills. Packing half a dozen or so of these events into a programme will create another set of results for Hills. Six more spins of the wheel; six more chances for the punter to be wrong on something he is not conversant with.
So-called bullet races will place strain on the equine partakers. Those advocating the staging of such contests should be prepared for the sight of animals hobbling past the winning post, assuming they all make it that far.
The races themselves take place in the blink of an eye – roughly ten seconds a furlong. As a punter, lose track of your selection and you will probably only know where it has finished when the announcer reads out the role call. If the authorities, and they should be the BHA not bookmakers, find it necessary to enhance the racing experience, they could start by making everyday cards more appealing. I have made my thoughts known in previous articles on this subject: two-tier racing, more prize-money, Class 5 and 6 handicaps tacked on the end of an extended card so that racegoers can arrive and leave when it suits.
This latest idea is one of a daft series currently floated as racing desperately tries to attract more spectators as if it is a product liable to improvement by constant tinkering. Horseracing does not need to be run to a backdrop of a brass band playing the William Tell Overture – or the theme from The Lone Ranger – whatever your perspective. Such gimmicks are unnecessary. Racegoers do not need to turn up dressed as vampires, or jockeys ride in the nude. Horseracing is not a product it is a sport. We are not manufacturing razor blades or motor cars here, needing updating to match competitors.
Today we have five meetings in Britain. It is naive to believe they can play to full grandstands. There is not that much wrong with racing unless you don’t happen to be interested in it, in which case why are we bothering to try and sell it on a false ticket?
On the same subject, it would appear that the imminent collapse of Sentanta means RUK will need to undergo an overhaul in order to survive. They are an excellent station that covers racing with a good deal of intelligence and in-depth knowledge. Like ATR, at times they are beleaguered by too much racing, meaning the viewer is whisked from one meeting to another at the speed of light without time to draw breath – let alone work out whether he is at Goodwood or Hamilton. It is another example of quantity exceeding quality. Those of us bombarded with commentaries, banter (however erudite), prices, non-runners, horses running loose, two races in progress on a split screen, find the whole experience exhausting. Sometimes you wish you could turn the TV off just to get some peace. I know of viewers that switch the sound to mute and merely watch the pictures. Saturation coverage is in no-one’s interest and needs addressing, particularly on days when there is a major meeting. How many viewers stayed with RUK last week on Saturday when they could have received uninterrupted coverage of Epsom from the BBC? It is a problem for both channels but one they need to confront.
The words from the anchor man starting the day’s coverage with, ‘We have a busy schedule today,’ is reminiscent of the old sketches from The Two Ronnies who used to begin with the: ‘And in a packed show tonight,’ before launching into a tirade of set pieces and jokes. Do we really want that situation from the two racing channels? Horseracing is not meant to be a joke – to some it is serious. Perhaps it is time to allow the customer the choice so that he is not subjected to watching everything that moves.
RUK face a tough few months and it is conceivable we may lose them in their current form. I for one wish them well.
Of course, both channels face interruptions from advertisements. Some may say ATR face interruptions from their advertisements with occasional horseracing. It should be borne in mind however, that they are free to air. Without a constant barrage from insurance companies et al Channel 415 would be blank or contain a shopping service.
Some of the adverts treat us as fools. Do we have to receive a command to Bet Now and Call Now by Bet 365? Blue Square instructs us to Do It Now. Whatever happened to please and thank you or a little subtle coercion?
Finally the millionth word is about to be introduced into the English Dictionary. Possibly, it will be something to do with computers or modern technology; linked to Facebook or Twitters.
From a racing point of view, it could be a Hoodism. Definition: Something promoted as being in the majority interest; but whose implementation would be of benefit only to those making the proposal.
Sunday June 7th
AND ANOTHER THING…
Epsom V Belmont and Chantilly
Only one winner?
THIS WEEKEND we had the opportunity to exchange styles as three major horseracing events took part.
We had the most English of all occasions in the Epsom Derby, where there was a dress code. I quote: Visitors to the Queen’s Stand are required to wear black or grey Morning Dress with top hat. Alternatively, service dress or full national costume is obligatory for gentlemen. End of quote. Those unable to attend in any form of such proposed dress or not understanding the word obligatory need not apply for tickets. Ladies are to wear formal day dress, or trouser suit, with a hat or a substantial fascinator. Again, those not conversant with a fascinator (no idea myself) need not apply.
In the Grandstand, a less stringent but equally enforced code was expected. Jacket and trousers with a collared shirt were essential. No trainers, sportswear, sleeveless vests or bare tops allowed thank you very much. Smart denim was acceptable but had to be devoid of tears or rips. Best stick to the suit from Next.
Prices for Derby Day: Queen’s Stand – £95 – Grandstand £55.
Transportation from London via the train: Depart from Waterloo or London Victoria. I thank you!
Belmont insisted on attire as opposed to a dress code. Gentlemen were to be elegant (no Old Navy then). Casual jeans, beachwear, tank tops, tee shirts, shorts, sweatshirts, tracksuits were not permitted.
In the Box Seats, suits or sports jackets were required as were ties. Ladies had to wear skirts or slack outfits (it is assumed they mean outfits incorporating slacks here).
In the Grandstand, shirts and shoes were the order with nothing else stipulated; however, I did not see any men dressed in just the two items mentioned.
Fans were allowed to bring coolers into the backyard of the grandstand, also at the Top of the Stretch Picnic area. No alcoholic beverages were to be brought to any part of the track.
Prices for admission were: Clubhouse – $20 – General Grandstand $10.
Transportation from New York to Belmont Park in Long Island via the train from Penn Station, which is right next to Madison Square Garden and virtually opposite Macy’s on Seventh Avenue.
The Prix de Jockey Club was run at Chantilly, a beautiful racecourse with a cream-coloured château as its backdrop on the edge of a forest.
There is no dress code, as being France it is considered unnecessary and vulgar to make such a policy statement. What next – a guide to fine wines? The French do not need instructions on how to dress after all. Hermes is de rigueur but Yves St Lauren an acceptable alternative. Versace and Prada are tolerated, along with Valentino, but essentially one is expected to wear a creation by a French designer.
There is a standard price of admission: 8 Euros.
Chantilly is some thirty miles from Paris. Trains run regularly from the Gare du Nord in Paris.
Epsom is a surprisingly picturesque racecourse surrounded by a lush belt of green, built on a crest of a hill. From the top car parks, your eyes skim across the jagged outline of London, seeing the London Eye and the new arched Wembley Stadium. Of course, being England, the areas of the racecourse are subtly separated. Dress as well as price and your ability to comprehend the words obligatory and fascinator segregate those on the stands. Then there are always various picnic areas, closer to Epsom high street than the racecourse. Slap in the middle are the downs themselves, playing host to a variety of vagabonds, gypsies, hen and stag dos, open-topped buses, shysters and welchers.
The Derby was run under a patchwork sky. There was a deal of decorum, with the crowd only becoming animated during the last quarter of a mile as Sea The Stars began to assert. After the race he made his way to the haloed enclosure reserved for Derby winners – perhaps the most coveted spot on the whole of the racecourse. This was his moment. He transcended dress codes and designer labels as, washed down and applauded, he stood, the one that had come through the ranks to become King of the Downs.
For a small country we are good at staging the big show with glorious understatement although we know how to charge. It is a strange contrast to our lack of propriety elsewhere. At football matches, on the streets on a Friday night, on holiday in Spain and Greece, and when in groups, we as a nation behave badly, particularly when hearing the hiss of a beer can or the pop of a wine cork.
The last leg of the American Triple Crown – a trio of races packed into a six-week period – the Belmont Stakes, was a somewhat different matter. The scooped out bowl of a track is littered with green John Deere tractors, dirty Dodges and sand-splattered Chevrolets trucks. Horses are ponied to start by a group of desperados – Peckinpah’s Wild Bunch scowl as they lead the players to the gates. Horses are loaded to the sounds of the rodeo as the handlers holler. There is broken sunshine. Horses pass the stands, then race yellow buses on the adjacent road; a concrete bunker flashes by. There are more tractors and pick-ups; a band of green trees before they swing back to the grandstand full of mainly New Yorkers, slightly more restrained than racegoers at Keenland and Pimlico where the first two legs of this unique treble were run.
The clouds are burnt off and they run the Belmont in bright sunshine. The wrong Bird wins. Summer Bird finishes off the best in a race where the generous pace results in those in front at the turn running on the spot in the last furlong. Dunkirk and the storybook character that he has become, Mine That Bird, fight it out for second. Mine That Bird has been a credit to himself and all concerned since winning the Kentucky Derby as an unheralded and unrecognised finisher by one commentator. A 50/1 chance that day, he was favourite for the Belmont and let no one down. He has done a lot of running in a short time.
Americans make a lot of noise and give the impression they are unsure how to behave. But there is no undercurrent with them. You would have to be very unlucky to be shot on a city street somewhere, but the chances of it happening here are probably greater. At least in America no one will bad-mouth you in the middle of the day for no reason or pull a knife.
At Chantilly, they started with reasonable weather. Already easy ground became easier with the advent of a downpour just before the Prix Paul de Moussac. The big château suddenly looked speckled with the blackened stain of rain as they made the top turn in the Prix du Jockey Club. They splashed home in the mist and rain, Le Havre beating Fuisse in an all-Gaelic finish. That man, Aidan O’Brien trained the third, Westphalia, whilst the Aga Khan’s Beheshtam ran with great credit on only his third ever run in fourth. Already a winner over a mile-and-half, he looks ready for a step back up in trip and as if he will progress further.
Vodka won a Group 1 in Tokyo, a city where space is limited and it helps to like raw fish.
So it has been quite a feast of racing this weekend. How did we fare? Pretty well all things considered. The spectacles that are Epsom on the first Saturday in June, Royal Ascot later in the month, and that haven in a crook of Sussex that is Goodwood in August, remain quintessentially British. As a country we may be going down the Swanee, charting hostile waters on a rudderless ship steered by a deluded captain – he still doesn’t get it does he? It is not about finishing the job he started, it is about giving way to someone more capable. That aside, the white cliffs may be crumbling into the sea, but we can still stage a pageant like no one else.
AND ANOTHER THING
Three big days…
FORGET THE MUSIC AT KEMPTON, grunting men in grass skirts at Sandown, so begins a big three days for the thoroughbred.
It all kicks off at Epsom on Friday with two Group 1s: The Coronation Cup and the Oaks. They are fascinating events but what sort of edge they offer the punter is debatable. Maybe we can consider opposing the front three in the betting in the Coronation Cup. Youmzain is a habitual loser, Look Here will be tested to her absolute limit and Ask looks more of a stayer than a quickener. With Frozen Fire making little appeal, that leaves us with Duncan, Eastern Anthem and Buccellati. Perm any one from three…
The Oaks is trickier unless you have a strong opinion. With the promised rain that may have provided her with a steadying anchor not having materialised, Sariska is a big filly to be plunging down the hill. Rainbow View is another box of tricks; Midday is solid but could be vulnerable, whereas the message for Phillipina, although hard to justify, cannot be ignored.
For breeders the heavy stuff starts on Saturday. The prize-money for the Derby is only the beginning. The winner has a potential value of ten million pounds; an income that flows long after the winning purse has been spent on a sculptured water feature in the garden, a new swimming pool and the latest Masserati.
For Coolmore, winning the Derby can swing the pendulum of their season. If pressed they would probably prefer a colt by Galileo [Rip Van Winkle] to win rather than one by Montjeu [Fame And Glory]. But then Galileo’s prowess as a sire does not need enhancing. Montjeu’s stock can be temperamental. He is a bit like Hawk Wing but nowhere near so bad. Naturally, buyers are wary, so he could do with a big winner. It’s a funny old game though, because once a stallion acquires a reputation it does tend to stick. Whatever Ballydoyle/ Coolmore would like, as with the rest of us, once those gates clang open at a quarter to four on Saturday, what unfolds is out of their control.
They Run for the Carnations in New York at about eleven o’clock our time. If I can hitch a lift in Michael Tabor’s private jet, I should just about make it, but it will be tight. I am sure Michael remembers me. At Newmarket, I guided him away from the grandstand when Rishi Pershad had sparked off the fire alarm by lighting a cigarette in the press-room. At Epsom, I cleared a path for him to enter the winner’s enclosure after Soldier Of Fortune last year. I congratulated him after Rags to Riches had won the Belmont. He is bound to recall that.
The roll of honour for the last leg of the American Triple Crown is impressive. Actual Triple Crown winners include Citation, Secretariat, Seattle Slew and Affirmed. Others that have won the Belmont before achieving greatness at stud feature Lemon Drop Kid, A P Indy and Man O’ War. This year’s most likely winner is Mine That Bird. He cannot achieve anything at stud except watch as he is a gelding. Having seen the film of him winning the Kentucky Derby, and finishing second at Pimlico, two things spring to mind. The first is that even the most prestigious American racetracks resemble cattle markets. There are sheds everywhere, Buicks and Pontiacs race the horses on nearby roads and there are cars plonked in the middle of the track. The crowd shouts in that high-pitched American way as the horses exit the stalls and they just keep shouting and hollering throughout the race. Nobody wears a tie, some say Chip Woolley packs a piece in his pants and jockeys get very animated if they win. But being America, they have not even pulled up before microphones are thrust under rider’s noses. They tried that with Lester Piggott when he came in on Teenoso and he told them to eff off!
I did say there were two things that sprang to mind. The other is that Mine That Bird is reminiscent of Sir Ivor, only more dramatic. He still has a silly name but gets himself completely detached from the field early on. He was so far back at Churchill Downs that, as a 50/1 shot, it appeared he was merely running to form. Then all of a sudden he starts to motor, faster than the Buicks and Dodges on the adjacent highways. He is like an extra in a movie. You can hear Tarrantino shouting: ‘That’s it, now move the kid on the horse up through the field. Pass one horse after another and tell them to slow it down up front.’ Out of nowhere, splattered with kickback, comes this flying Bird that has been mined in the depths of New Mexico.
Then on Sunday, it is the French Derby from genteel Chantilly. Subdued shouting in Chantilly, plenty of gentlemen in ties, ladies in hats, champagne from, well, Champagne.
Now if we are to have a glut of racing this is the ticket. Forget Catterick, Bath, Musselburgh, Newcastle, Wolverhampton, Hexham and wherever else they are racing from this weekend. This is more like it…
DEATH OF A LEGEND
SOMEHOW, we think it will not happen. It seems that certain members of the human race are on this planet for good. Of course that statement is true for each one of us, never questioning our mortality until suddenly, like a car that is without an engine, something goes wrong.
It can often be too late then; but as human beings, we have some sort of in-built protective chip that prevents us dwelling on our demise. ‘We all got to die – just a question of when,’ was a great line spoken by Paul Newman in the film Hombre. But few of us accept it until we reach the brink. In laconic Newman style, I guess that’s what keeps us putting one foot in front of the other.
Generations from all occupations have their icons, the untouchables, those that cannot wither. Kirk Douglas, Doris Day and Peter Falk will never die. Except they will, but will leave a handprint on Sunset Boulevard and Kodak-shot pictures, just as Edward G, Cary Grant and Clark Gable did before them. So they will live on, only in a different form.
Vincent O’Brien was a slightly-built soft-spoken man that could have been your granddad, or a kindly doctor. He considered his words carefully and let the horses he trained do the talking. Some of them wrote volumes.
The newspapers will itemise everything from Early Mist’s Grand National, through six Epsom Derby wins, to the final cut that was Royal Academy’s Breeders’ Cup triumph in New York. Looked upon as a sprinter, trained by a seventy-three-year-old wisp of a man from Ireland, and ridden by a has-been champion jockey in Lester Piggott, Royal Academy’s victory that day was pure Damon Runyon.
We know the stories; we know the feats that O’Brien and Piggott shared. Those that do not will be enlightened by tomorrow’s reports. I do not see it as my job here to catalogue the deeds and write the words that will be all over the newspapers tomorrow. I have only met Lester Piggott once and have no anecdote to relay about Vincent O’ Brien. Here, like the rest of you, I am a mere bystander.
I know Vincent O’ Brien founded Ballydoyle, scooping it out of a potato field. I know he was the father figure of the new trainers – epitomised by Aidan O’Brien today, who is no relation. He was the quiet man that planned and meticulously thought out how to penetrate a horse’s mind so that it would produce its best. Very few failed to respond, as no pebble was left unturned.
He discovered the Canadian bloodline that was Northern Dancer and from it came one of the great Derby winners in Nijinsky.
Seeing some old footage of Lester Piggott on board Nijinsky, I was astonished how good Piggott really was. He sat motionless on a horse, perched like a Cossack standing on the back of a steed. He let all that power beneath him tick over without so much as an inflection from the saddle. Confidence between horse and rider was supreme even when the stakes were at their highest.
Piggott was always from that mould, but I suspect the influence of Vincent O’Brien had something to do with his faith in the animal beneath him. Some saw that as a quiet arrogance.
There was no arrogance from Vincent O’Brien, or from the man inheriting the vision that is Ballydoyle today.
Vincent O’Brien was a past master at what he did. He did plenty. He changed horseracing in the same way as Muhammad Ali changed boxing.
This is our little world, full of names that mean little or nothing to those outside it. Sometimes our world – the world of racing – swells and puffs out its chest when it realises what some of its members have achieved. That is the case now. Today we are big with pride. We remember Vincent O’ Brien as possibly the best trainer there has ever been of a racehorse. And when we look back, in many cases at film or at frozen, grainy photographs from a faded black-and-white world long gone, it reminds us of what was. What can still be; what in fact is.
He chose Derby week to make his exit. Vincent O’ Brien the man is dead – aged ninety-two. Vincent O’ Brien the trainer leaves a never-to-be-forgotten legacy.
AND ANOTHER THING…
A Rare Racing Holiday ..
I AM TAKING A COUPLE OF DAYS OFF. This makes me feel guilty and consumed with a need to explain. Racing on Tuesday and Wednesday does not look up to much, so I hope I can get away with this and it does not meet with disapproval. Sometimes a break is more important than working on autopilot. A couple of days in the sunshine – I am not leaving the house – hopefully will have a refreshing effect. I feel more will be achieved by pottering in the garden and listening to Steve Wright on Radio Two rather than another shift of our erstwhile friends on the two racing channels.
‘Every body needs a little time away’ was an opening line from a song by Chicago. They went on to say, ‘You are a hard habit to break’. Both sentiments seem appropriate right now. Perhaps age is slowing me down. We are barely a third of the way through the current Flat season and already I am flagging.
I did not watch a race today and intend to take the same course of action tomorrow. If the phone fails to ring with a message of some description, two blank days will be a record. Now all I need is a tune and I can send the song to Chicago. Of course they are not called records anymore. I am not sure what they are called; is it CDs or downloads? Whichever, I am sure you get the connection.
If it is any consolation to those of you blackened by the coalface, I am working after a fashion. I am researching a piece on the Derby. I have written this, cut the grass, washed the car and scanned Ebay. Yes, I know that does not warrant an accolade but these two days will be a welcome break.
Consequently, as I recharge my batteries and try to hatch a plan of attack on the old enemy, I am hoping that after two days of uninformative and ditchwater-dull racing, the meeting at Sandown on Thursday night will present a betting opportunity or two.
Then it is the weekend, then Derby week, then I am having a new bathroom fitted, which means I can cease slopping out (good practice for my next abode some might say) and flush the toilet again. Too much information there I feel.
Before we know where we are Royal Ascot is upon us and then it is all systems go.
I feel better for this confession.
But already I can see I am premature. I may have escaped Tuesday, but Strike the Deal runs on Wednesday at Lingfield and there is the Hilary Needler at Beverley in the evening.
Better make that one day off…
Bush Telegraph will be loaded as usual in the morning.
It’s a hard habit to break alright.
AND ANOTHER THING…
Too Much Racing?
… and a sleeping gamble awakes!
THERE WAS SO MUCH RACING on Saturday I ended up dizzy. Something was happening every few minutes and after a concentrated start on my part, I began to fall apart as the day unfolded.
Racing is considerably bigger than I am and if the racecourse turnstiles are clicking enough times, then good for them. But is it realistic for the two racing channels to try and keep up with so much action? It did not take long on Saturday for Beverley and Catterick to scupper any schedule RUK had hoped to meet. In the blur that was the action, horses at both tracks independently unshipped jockeys, ran loose, delaying starts that meant the two feature meetings – Haydock and Newmarket – were under threat of appearing on a split screen. Even if they managed to squeeze the rest of the program in on time, we were being switched from meeting to meeting with little chance of digesting what was happening.
Years ago, in another time and space, there used to be days when they staged two, perhaps three meetings a day. In those days, with no satellite racing, betting offices were full of punters. The lucky ones would sit on stools; most would stand on a snow carpet of discarded betting slips. Courtesy of Extel, or to give it its proper title the Exchange Telegraph Company, commentaries would crackle from a lopsided box on the wall. Of course, we punters had no idea what was happening and the commentators – reading from ticker-tape care of Wells & Fargo – or relaying a commentary from some bloke on the top steps of a distant grandstand, would try to make the racing sound exciting. Somehow it was. Because you had no idea that your horse could not possibly win from two out, there was always hope. You listened with baited breath for the announcer to give it a mention as a strong finisher. Anything was possible. Even when they crossed the line, the race had taken place in another galaxy as far as you were aware. It was not unheard of for an announced result to be amended with the magic words: ‘Mistake in colours – there is an alteration at Leicester – the result is now…’ Miracles occurred in those dark, smoke-filled betting offices that resembled cattle trucks and were located on the fringes of towns for fear their presence would corrupt everyday folk.
Entering a betting shop in those days was akin to signing up to a club for the underprivileged. We were all the in the same boat. The managers hated their work, the cashiers were always on the lookout for customers with unworn leather soles on their shoes, meaning maybe they could take them out to a Chinese and actually pay the bill rather than scarper out the lavatory window.
Races were run at respectable intervals. There would be a sudden last minute rush as the horses went into the stalls. Punters stormed the counter, waving slips in the air rather like passengers trying to make it onto a crammed train carriage. There were no secrets then. Your yellow under-copy of the betting slip was there for all to see, as was the cash you slapped on the counter. Although different punters had backed different horses, each wished the other well. Even the manager, pale-faced, constrained by company rules and therefore worried there might be an argument at any given moment, seemed to be benevolent in his attitude to customers.
We had time to talk between races and after they had run. Complete strangers would exchange opinions based on the riding of a horse they had never seen in a race on a track they had no knowledge of. But there was always that map in the Sporting Life, so they spoke in informed terms. Piggott left it too late they would agree; Mercer went too soon. They had no idea what either jockey had done. Discussion about a muffled race transmitted from a planet named Pontefract was as pointless as dissection of Portman Park today. But it made no difference. The yellow slip would join the rest of the pile on the floor as the boardman pinned up the sheet containing the runners for the next race.
The whole process was more leisurely, less clinical and certainly, although not in the slightest informative, more exciting. But the thing was we had time: time to talk, to compare our hard luck by showing each other betting-slips containing three winners and one loser. Time to ask the cashier out on a date – invariably declined – with a resigned shake of the head. On one occasion, Measly Veasley asked one of them if they wanted to go racing on a day off, and was then surprised when I likened the offer to asking a cinema usherette to go to the movies. We laughed, we commiserated, we studied the so-called form in the Sporting Life and Chronicle. We were in Dreamland and did not have to travel to Margate to get there.
Now the shops are empty, save for people playing Coin Vegas. You can see where your money is going from an early stage. The horse won’t enter the stalls, is ten lengths adrift from halfway.
It is the sheer volume of televised racing that is such a drain on the senses. We flick through the pages of our racecards, try to figure out which station we need to be on, miss something we wanted to see, see something we don’t, featuring Michael Parkinson offering us a free pen just for enquiring. There is no time to go to the bathroom, make a cup of tea or press the right button on Betfair. It is just a thought guys. If the authorities insist on staging six meetings an afternoon, show just the main three and screen the rest when appropriate. Prioritise so that the major meetings are accorded the space they deserve. Let Steve Mellish, Graham Cunningham, Eddie Freemantle and Tom Ryan talk, all under the steely but impish gaze of Lydia Hislop. Let me fill the kettle and empty my bladder. Give my batteries on the remote a chance. Let me not miss Celtic Sultan, only realising he ran and won at 9/1 ten hours after the achievement.
I see there has been a run on Rip Van Winkle for the Epsom Derby. If he wins I guess his name will look better in the history books than Mine That Bird’s does after winning the Kentucky Derby. Rip Van Winkle is the sort of name journalists like. He writes his own headlines. He was a fictional character invented by Washington Irving. After drinking copious amounts of liquor with some mountain people, Rip van Winkle slept for twenty years, meaning he missed the American War of Independence, which is one way of avoiding the draft.
So for tipsters possibilities are endless: Rip Van Winkle To Put Opposition To Sleep. More simply, and surely most likely in a variety of papers: Rip Van Winkle The Nap. Rip Van Winkle To Sleepwalk To Derby Win. And if he loses: Rip Van Winkle fails to stir. Rip Van Winkle dozes whilst Sea The Stars roars to glory.
Apparently Rip Van Winkle, the horse, has been doing anything but slumbering at Ballydoyle. His work has prompted an in-the-know gamble. Nevertheless, there is a realistic chance he may not win through lack of stamina. By Galileo but out of a Stravinsky mare, the worry for his supporters could be that, if working with middle-distance inmates, he will possess too much speed making the work deceptive. The question is: can that speed be harnessed over a mile-and-a-half? Tellingly, his next two Group 1 engagements are in the St James’s Palace Stakes over a mile at Ascot and the Coral Eclipse at Sandown.
One way or another, the sleeping giant that is Rip Van Winkle may be on the verge of awakening.
AND ANOTHER THING…
Have they tried to sex up Racing too much?
IN THE SORT OF DELUSIONAL WORLD inhabited by MPs, bankers, freeloaders and daydreamers, this is how it goes: You are in the Starbucks along Great Portland Street. You have a cappuchino topped with too much cream and you are sitting on a high stool with a small counter to yourself.
You look up and this girl, a prototype of the most attractive, most desirable female you could have concocted on a computer, is looking straight at you and smiling. You return a sort of weak, just-swallowed-a-neat-shot-of-lemon juice mixture of a squint and a gurn her way, and hunch over your foaming cup of coffee. The smile could not have been for you; she must be attempting to interact with someone behind you. Only that is not likely, unless that person is beyond the window as your back is to the wall. You give it a minute or two and shoot a glance upwards, noticing that tantalising wisp of a smile still lingering on her mouth. It is a mouth to die for. She is a woman to die for; the sort to make you gamble items you cannot afford to lose. She is Gwyneth Paltrow, Jennifer Aniston, Meg Ryan and Michelle Pfeiffer rolled into one. She is the sort of woman you watch on the movie screen – not so much with lust – but with a knot of admiration in your stomach. She warms your heart, jerks your tears and rouses a deep unrequited passion. And now she is sliding, like a cat from a rooftop, away from her stool in a rustle of a blouse, a crinkle of stocking, straightening her pencil skirt and heading your way, coffee in hand.
So now you are in Quentin Tarrantino, Woody Allen or Andy Warhol territory. This is not the real world. James Blunt enunciated the real world: you see the perfect woman on a subway, on a bus or train and by the time you figure out what to say the moment has passed. So you sip the froth from your cappuchino and straighten your tie and try to think of something witty to say. You wonder how James Bond, Batman or Spiderman would handle the situation that is about to arise. James Bond would take it in his stride, pull out a stool for the lady, and say, my name is Bond, James Bond. But your name is not James Bond – Williams, Trevor Williams, doesn’t sound the same – and that is Bond’s line anyway. Batman would look preoccupied and ask if she were Catwoman in disguise. Spiderman would just climb up the wall.
No, something better is called for. Quentin Tarrantino would stage a hold-up. Crazies with Magnums [the gun not ice-cream] would burst in and start shouting profanities. Woody Allen would mumble something equating to, as he is a sex-god he is used to women accosted him. But he would make such a statement in a jokey self-depreciative way that only he could get away with. Andy Warhol would offer her a joint.
Maybe it is all a mistake and you will not need to say anything as she is about to buy a granola bar and leave. But no, she is slinking toward to you. There is to be no nutty bar – the target is you.
She sits on the stool by your side and says Hi and you mumble back and then somehow you are talking.
There is more to come. The world has stopped turning, work is on ice, everyone you have ever known has vanished in a mist.
So now the situation moves on. You have bought a ticket to fly and the plane is leaving the airport so you are powerless until you reach your destination.
She takes you to her flat. It is clean and tidy but she is already raking her nails down your back and tearing the buttons from your Diesel shirt. She does things to you and with you that you have not even read about.
She says things that make as much sense as a speaker at a convention for Hogwarts. It doesn’t matter, she is piloting you away from life as you know it. This is more than fifteen minutes worth of fame, it is a lifetime crammed into a moment. You take it because it will never come again and you are not even sure it has come now. The experience is so sensational it must be some sort of illusion. It has to be but it doesn’t matter because it has broken the stagnant humdrum spell that is normal life. This is a one in a lifetime experience, real or imagined, that normally happens to other people. The fact you are unable to differentiate between the two cannot tarnish the encounter.
Incredibly, it continues. You are involved with a woman that you would only normally get close to if you happened to pick up a fashion magazine with her face on its cover.
Night after night, day after day, she tears at your clothes, parades before you in uniforms, doing things to you in the bathroom, the kitchen and the bedroom. She says all the usual things that women say. You know they probably mean nothing but you don’t care. You are the best lover she has ever had – something no one else has ever told you – so on form the statement is dubious. She babbles on as if reciting War And Peace, but you are mature enough to keep a sense of proportion. It is as you imagine life would be with a Thai bride, although she is no moon-faced Asian woman from Bangkok falling in love with you in thirty-six hours in order to secure a UK passport.
Your activities continue unabated. Two, three, four times a day. You are a different man, finding inner-strengths you thought you did not possess.
One night you decide to have a drink with a few male friends in the pub on the corner of Great Portland Street with Devonshire Place. This suggestion goes down badly. She has plans that involve a silk blindfold and a pair of pink handcuffs. You relent.
The next night you attempt to see the same friends in the same venue but this time her plans include a tub of Ben and Jerry’s.
The following night she wants you to put on a cape and mask and you really fancy a London Pride. You try to tell her a little of a good thing goes a long way; less is more, a little of what you fancy does you good, but too much can be overkill. She does not get it. You go out for that pint and soon after your relationship rolls downhill.
Today, we are expected to don the blindfold for Brighton and Newcastle, become the cape-crusader for Newmarket then lock the cuffs onto the bed head for Pontefract and Haydock tonight. It is Friday. Friday night and we are required to watch horseracing if we are taking our jobs seriously.
No disrespect to the presenters on the racing channels, who by-and-large are excellent, but do we want them in the background for seven hours as we channel hop, make notes, strike bets and try to look at tomorrow’s cards before it all starts again after a night’s sleep? Horseracing at present is like a rollercoaster that you get on but cannot get off. It is the mother-in-law that has moved in for a weekend but stays for nine months. It blathers on endlessly seven days a week. Even Sundays promising to offer a day off contain trials from France or Ireland – messages for maidens at Carlisle. Sometimes working in racing is like serving a prison sentence. It is the clutter that is annoying: the unfathomable big-field handicaps full of ‘ghost horses’ that could be a stone wrong one way or another. Horses that could win if they came back to ancient form of three years’ ago; those with little or no form that suddenly, as if a new engine had been inserted in a 1.0 Corsa, take off and roar down the motorway at a hundred miles an hour. Whose-turn-is-it-today handicaps, races so poor that connections can gain more by betting for or against their runners than aiming for the prize-money. The list goes on…
The fixture list needs fixing. The tail should no longer wag the dog. Those days when there are one or two meetings to savour on one racing channel whilst the dross is served up on the other are a delight.
Horseracing should not be Bally’s in Las Vegas. Bookmakers have had their way for too long, influenced the gullible BHA too often. Less IS more. Serve up the same dishes every day and consumers will tire of the menu. We are asked to gorge ourselves at an endless buffet. Sometimes we want a light fish lunch, a glass of crisp wine and a sorbet to follow, rather than turkey, ham and steak all on one plate that is overflowing as we weave our way back to our tables.
It is time for racing’s leaders to come to some independent sensible conclusions. Those with business acumen do not need to tender out to be told what course to take.
We need two-tiered racing. The better meetings should take place at prime times. Those cards containing Class Five and Six events should be staged out of the way and treated as a separate entity. We already have a sort of natural selectivity with places like Southwell attracting animals largely unable or unfit to race on turf. The downgrading and shuffling away of some tracks that can race in the middle of the morning or, under floodlights, in the middle of the night, would present those owning the lower class of horses the chance to race their animals without infringing on the better meetings. Is there anything more annoying than waiting for some mundane event to be run before squeezing in a decent race at Sandown or Newbury?
Even the most exciting situation palls in the end. Racing is reaching its limit. Bookmakers may think it is clever and profitable to saturate punters with race after race but eventually, as punters find they are missing what is happening, losing track of form lines and making mistakes as a result, interest will wane. Either way, turnover will suffer.
Try to sustain the unsustainable, run by a body of people that do not understand the psyche of the punter and it becomes a recipe for disaster.
That Starbucks moment only lasts so long.
AND ANOTHER THING…
INTERNATIONAL RACING kicked off in major style on Saturday. Just before 11.20pm our time, they ran the Preakness at Pimlico, won by a filly called Rachel Alexandra. Those that thought Mine That Bird swam home last time in the Kentucky slop to fluke the Derby, had to swallow a dollop of mud as he pressed the filly and nearly pulled off a momentous double. The well-publicised journey of Mine That Bird from New Mexico, in a horse trailer, is already looking like a movie. The three-year-old gelding is handled by Bennie L Woolley who wears an outsized black cowboy hat and, according to some, packs a piece, which may or may not have been in evidence in his waistband after the Kentucky Derby. It seems unlikely he would have passed the security boys with a Magnum stuffed down his jeans. More likely, he was pleased by the win. If they do make a movie of the Bennie ‘Chip’ Woolley story, Burt Reynolds may be in the frame to take the long shots. Woolley, who has a reputation for drinking and fighting, is described as a “bad ass”. Burt may be a bit long-in-the-tooth to play a bad ass these days, but he could be Chip’s butt double at least. The other half of the duo from Sante Fe, Mine That Bird, looked something of a bad ass himself as he took the filly to the wire. Someone who is not a bad ass, Steve Asmussen, trained the winning filly, ridden by Calvin Borel, the jockey aboard Mine That Bird at Kentucky but who jumped ship for the Preakness. It is a story that will run and one can imagine the Hollywood scriptwriters scribbling as I speak. The tale of a trainer with a broken leg, driving a horse with less form than he had, from the dust of New Mexico to Bluegrass Country, and then on to South Carolina, writes its own dialogue.
At Sunday lunchtime, with the smell of Bisto emanating from most British homes (why is it everyone else’s dinner smells better than yours?), they were about to start the first of two Group 1s in Kranji – the KrisFlyer International Sprint, won by Hong Kong-trained Sacred Kingdom with Godolphin’s Diabolical in third. Kranji is a district in Singapore, a country where it rains a lot and is kind of steamy in a variety of ways. The rain kept off long enough for the turf to be described as good. Singapore is famous for having the best airport in the world – Changi is certainly better than Heathrow and Newark. The country is also known for Singapore Slings, one of the best drinks in the world, especially if downed in Raffles Hotel, where they cost in the region of £12. The cocktail consists of gin, more gin, apricot brandy, Benedictine and soda. If you fly Singapore Airlines, they will serve you unlimited quantities free so long as you behave yourself, thus alleviating in part the fare. Singapore is a buffer to the Far East. It is spotlessly clean, expensive, but they serve freshly-woked food on the roadside that is edible and so hot it is germless. There is Orchard Road, Little India and the Chinese girls used to wear silk kimonos split up to their thighs just like that woman in Dr No. Unlike her, they used to offer short time, something I imagine they do no longer.
An hour after the sprint came the Group 1 Singapore Airlines International Cup. Dubai World Cup runner-up, Gloria De Campeao, prevailed from fellow desert exiles, Presvis, who was unlucky in running, and Bankable.
Then the international equine stage rolled on to Longchamp where it had rained a lot, causing a couple of surprises with comprehensive defeats of Coastal Path in the Group 2, and of Breeders’ Cup heroine Goldikova in the Group 1 Prix d’Ispahan. There was another Group 1 on the card, as there was at Capannelle in Italy, whilst they staged a Group 3 at Baden-Baden in Germany. And all this after the excitement of the European Song Contest the night before.
In this country, there were three meetings. At Ripon, where you can buy hotdogs, burgers and mushy peas, the best we could offer was a Class 2 Handicap worth eleven grand to the winner. Assuming he escaped in one piece, William Haggas took the purse back to Newmarket. There were two jump meetings beamed to the betting offices to keep the homeless, the confused and those waiting for their asylum applications to be resolved, happy. There were more tailed off horses than actually completed at Fakenham and Market Rasen.
In Ireland, one of the maidens at Navan was called the Fun For Kids Maiden. Already I sense the ‘new racing era’ creeping in. This maiden was only fun for those that backed Big Game Hunter. I noticed that Beverley were trying extra hard to sound as if they were enjoying proceedings last week. The racecourse commentator was giving a good impersonation of a toffee-nosed Redcoat; but there was a hunch that a Damoclesian sword was hanging above him as he reeled off all the incidentals normally left out.
One thing racing presenters can do is address the problem of non-runners. From a selfish point of view, the current system of 48-hour declarations is a boon. I remember peering at Teletext, ticking off those not accepting, incorrectly at times – less likely these days with a computer – but the chance to calculate races in advance without having to sort out what actually runs saves so much time. However, with fluctuations in the ground there are often a host of non-runners. So why, why, do racing channels – Channel Four being as guilty as any – rattle through the list as if announcing train departures at Waterloo.
We need time to find the race guys; we have to cross the said horses out. Stop garbling. There are occasions when the complexion of a race changes completely, particularly from an each-way point of view. Never mind the Fun For Kids maiden, they shouldn’t be betting anyway; this sort of thing needs emphasising. Those of us so-called professionals tend to have other means of updating the situation, but how does Daily-Mirror-Dennis feel when he has backed a horse each-way to find the field is down to seven and he is on the first two only?
Note to the BHA: Can I have my hundred grand now please?
AND ANOTHER THING…
Who really goes racing?
(… and who needs Harrison Fraser???)
WELL, WHICH ARE YOU, Brian or Ben? According to a public relations company named Harrison Fraser, called upon to increase racing’s share of the current spectator market, horseracing is monopolised by Brian. He is “a bit boring, traditional, thinks he is old-fashioned, with friends that talk in a language others don’t understand, can be arrogant but when you get to know him, can be fascinating”. Brian is a well-educated Mick Easterby on a good day. He wears country clothes, has mud on his boots, is pompous, sexist, arrogant and old school. He probably owns a shotgun that he is likely to use if you stray onto his estate in Cumbria.
According to said company, paid £250,000 to unearth such findings, what racing needs is another character altogether – Ben. He is younger than Brian, dresses casually but is smart; in short he is mixture between the Tony Blair of ten years ago and Gordon Gekko from Wall Street. He looks like he could appear in an insurance advert or as if he sells Aston Martins for a living. He is confident, athletic, powerful, trusted, cool and fresh – the list is never-ending. Ben has plenty of desirable attributes, so many he sounds like a pain in the arse. Maybe Brian shot him there last time he was in Cumbria.
David Fraser – presumably half of Harrison Fraser – presented this expensive seminar, which is the culmination of nine months brainstorming. There are no prizes for guessing who Mr Fraser (or should that be Davie baby) aspires to be. He is Ben, although he wears glasses, something the almost-perfect prototype has not got to as yet.
Having been paid so much money and with the promise of more to come, it is incumbent on Harrison Fraser to produce some recommendations. A few of them, which I am paraphrasing in case you nod off, include: recognising racing is in the entertainment business, courting new customers, giving them what they want, modernising racing lingo, cashing in on racing’s possible sexy image and having the confidence to succeed.
That is quite a lot to absorb. The Life Of Brian is over then. The future is all about Ben. Quoting Monty Python, could Ben become the equivalent of Bruce, the ubiquitous Australian in one of their sketches when everyone Down-Under had that name.
Attend the races and it could be a case of, ‘Hello Ben, how’s it going then?’
‘Alright Ben; how is it with you?’
‘Good; got a grand out of that city deal yesterday. Do you want a new motor? Got a nice Beamer we took as deposit against an Aston the other day. It’s good and clean – leather seats, low mileage.’
‘Nah thanks Ben, still got my Merc. Leather seats, low mileage. Let me know if you get an Aston though, know want I mean…’
‘Right Ben – will do. I look after my friends, you know that.’
‘Hello, here’s Ben, alright Ben? Know anything?’
‘No Ben, how about you Ben, any news?’
‘Might know something later, when I speak to Ben.’
‘Here; who’s that geezer in the corner eating his sandwiches, drinking out of that hip flask and picking his nose?’
‘Oh, take no notice of him, that’s just Brian. Don’t know why they let him in.’
‘They should keep his like in Tatts. Look, he isn’t even properly dressed. He’s wearing a suit with a tie. What a tosser!’
‘Come on let’s go find Ben.’
‘Yeah; right.’
Harrison Fraser are doing pretty well out of racing’s perceived image problem. However, let’s hang on for a second. Has anyone that has compiled this list of the sport’s shortcomings actually been racing and considered the problems it faces. Let me make it simple for them.
Professionals aside, only four types of people pay to go racing. First, there are those that like the sport, enjoy and understand horses, watch them in the paddock and know what they are looking at. They recognise a good horse when they see it, can become emotional when witnessing a stirring finish, appreciating when a racehorse digs into his reserves and then some in an attempt to do what it was bred to do – that is to win. They might bet a bit, but on the big days would still turn out if the practice were outlawed because horseracing is their hobby. To them, seeing a classic horserace, as opposed to a Classic horserace, is the same as old Bert travelling to Birmingham to see the latest Lamborghini at the motor show.
Second, there are the boyos that fancy their chances and are having a bet. They have drawn a grand out of the ATM, which they reckon they can turn into three. They travel to the races with their mates, laugh a lot, talk loudly and are on their first glass of beer ten minutes after the gates have opened. After somewhere between their sixth and tenth pint, or their second bottle of wine or equivalent, they are likely to become unpleasant, particularly if the grand that was in their pocket has worked its way into someone else’s.
Thirdly, there are those that are going for the craic – whatever the craic happens to be. They could be on a stag or hen do; they are going to have a laugh at all costs and the horses are incidental. After somewhere between their sixth and tenth pint, or second bottle of wine, they are liable to turn unpleasant, particularly if their bets have all lost and the bird they tried to chat up is accompanied by her husband.
Fourth are those that are determined to have a nice day and are prepared to pay for the privilege. They may be in a box if they are lucky, or have booked a table at one of the panoramic restaurants, thus removing themselves from the second and third category of race-goers. They eat from a limited menu, drink wine or champagne at exorbitant prices and are a dying breed right now. They have the sort of disposal income that means they can blow what amounts to a holiday budget for an average couple on one day’s racing.
The trouble with racing as opposed to other pastimes is that not much happens in between the action. Horses walk round the paddock – which is only of interest to the aficionados – they canter to post then race. The process is repeated half-an-hour later. How is the uninitiated supposed to fill in the gaps?
‘Three more lagers, two white wines and a light and bitter please luv.’
Watch football, rugby, cricket or even motor racing and once the action starts, it is action all the way. Going racing for the novice is tantamount to attending a Coldplay concert and listening to Chris Martin sing Yellow and Fix You before he takes a twenty-minute break to resume with Viva la Vida.
Like it or not, horseracing is betting-driven. That is its big problem as far as spectators are concerned. Because if you support Manchester United or Arsenal, going to watch them play and lending your support is enough to supply you with a roller-coaster of emotions. Unless you have some reason to support Fame And Glory or Paco Boy, go racing and you have to buy your kicks by laying your money down. Do that and see your selection trail home ten lengths behind the leaders a few times and it will occur there are better ways to spend a Saturday afternoon.
So horseracing faces plenty of obstacles. It can buy spectators at the weekend by lowering entrance prices and serving copious amounts of alcohol. But do we really want people slumped over the rails and mouthing obscenities at Johnny Murtagh, returning from what the jockey knows is a poor ride, telling him he is an effing excuse for a jockey when in fact he is one of the best in the world? The idiots who catcalled the jockey and have presumably never sat on a horse in their fat miserable lives, should have had the nous to realize that a falsely run race was always a possibility in a three-runner affair, and their money would have been better invested on one of the two other participants not dependent on stamina. But of course that is asking too much, it is much easier to slag off Johnny Murtagh – one of the gentlemen of the weighing room.
I get the feeling that those clever people at Harrison Fraser would be better employed flogging Bacardi Breezers in city bars. Their comments on racing, comparing it with motor racing for example, show a lack of knowledge. I can’t say I wish them well because I don’t. I resent the fact they have received a quarter of a million for telling us the bleedin’ obvious. They are like the generals that visit the mess hall whilst the troops are eating. They may think they understand what life as a private soldier is like, but only know the theory. Having a forkful of chicken and tasting the rice pudding gives them no idea what life away from the silver service of the Officers’ Mess is like.
It is the money I resent. It is racing’s money, squandered in my opinion, at least based on what I have seen so far. Let’s have a word with Sir Alan Sugar and see what he and his Apprentices can come up with. It should not take nine months and certainly will not cost £250,000.
As for racing’s present situation, it is not all bad. We all agree there is too much racing. Most people that have a shred of care for horses feel summer jumping is stupid. Fatalities may not concern fat beer-swilling spectators hanging over the rails and swearing at Johnny Murtagh, but they are not good for the image of horseracing and certainly do not provide family entertainment.
We all agree that corporate hospitality does help but also that ordinary entrance fees need reducing. Caterers ought to have their prices pegged. They are taking too much from race goers for modest fare. They should increase the standards of the food and drink they supply or lose their franchises.
On the subject of an image problem, who dreamt up the current Victor Chandler campaign? There are these grainy old pictures dating back sixty years according to the bookmaker himself, and we see him emerging from the black-and-white crowd in yellow glasses, just like the bloke that is about to ask you if you want to see some risqué pictures.
It is the old joke. Have you any pictures of your wife in the nude?
No.
Would you like to see some?
Maybe as we approach 2010, nine years after Arthur C Clarke predicted Man would have reached Jupiter and had his first brush with the Creator of the Universe, it is not just racing that needs to take an inward look.
Politicians are rapidly realising the game is up. We are sick of royalty, footballers and celebrities looking like halfwits.
We still have one of man’s best friends in the racehorse. We have some of the best racecourses in the world and our major meetings encourage visitors from throughout the globe. We have Sheikh Mohammed and we have Princess Haya of Jordan. We have Frankie Dettori, the Newmarket Stud, Ballydoyle, Sir Michael Stoute.
Add any other names you see fit. I am not sure we need Ben – I am not sure we need Harrison Fraser.
And Another Thing…
The Perfect betting Beast
May 09
IN THIS BUSINESS there is no shortage of advice: people with time figures, paddock notes, systems that run on your computer, loading, clicking, then spewing out winners whilst you study a holiday brochure. All too easy for words! Except it is not!
Forget all the gimmicks, the only way to back winners is to study the form and try to find a horse that is value and then, as icing on the cake, receive a piece of news that confirms you are not chucking your money down the drain if you back it.
We are all so intent on finding the perfect betting beast that sometimes we fail to see the wood for the trees. Much is made of value and prices, but the emphasis ought to be on picking winners. Finding a horse that is twice the price you reckon it should be is only of use if it wins. Plenty of horses are overpriced, but it doesn’t make them win. Sometimes it is far better to identify a horse that looks like a sure-fire winner and worry about the price later.
Whilst wearing my sensible hat, I have another point to make: adjusting your stake upwards to accommodate the price of a selection can and often is a grave mistake. You think a horse will win but it is only 7/4. You are not in the habit of backing horses at 7/4 but think this one should probably be about 11/8 and will definitely win. So this is the exception (funny how many exceptions exist in life). To compensate for its price, you increase your stake. This is understandable but unwise. It is something we have all done, but the problem with such action is that it is motivated by greed and even perfect bets get beaten. It is much better to back it for your normal stake and be content with a small profit rather than shoot for a big one.
Circling around on the periphery like a shark, waiting for the perfect wager, can mean you lose the habit of betting and gradually become less and less inclined to bet at all. It may sound like an obvious statement to make, but betting is essentially gambling; that means every time you strike a bet you are taking a chance. I suppose it is possible to have ten meticulously constructed bets a year and for six of them to win, but it is not something you should count on. For that reason, most people spread their liabilities by betting regularly, sometimes in hope rather than confidence. The perfect betting beast is carefully concealed; it lurks in the undergrowth and only shows itself occasionally through its camouflage.
I spotted the perfect betting beast yesterday and backed it. I backed it at 7/2, then 4/1 and, then, rather nervously, because it was plain that this horse was somewhat obvious yet was drifting, again at 9/2. This horse could not get beaten. She was a three-year-old filly that had run well against seasoned older sprinters last time, was lightly raced enough to improve but did not need to, and had the all-important advantageous draw at Chester. I was struggling to find a flaw in my argument. The market move against her was disconcerting but it surely only guaranteed I would win even more.
Well it would have, except she did not win. The horse in question was City Dancer and it took her one minute to transform herself from the perfect betting beast into just another beast amongst many. She missed the break, forfeited the advantage of her draw, was last but two approaching the straight, then took off, mounting a strong late challenge that almost but not quite propelled her to the front. She gave away at least three lengths and was beaten less than one.
Backing horses is not an exam. Bookmakers do not give you a consolation prize when you lose. Frankly, and irrationally, I think they should take some pity and say: Good effort. You did not deserve to lose, we will refund part of your stake for almost passing with flying colours and we look forward to your next attempt. You may sit the exam again.
If I am to sit the exam again today, it will have to be with Duncan in the first at Ascot. I know the price is short but I fail to see, with the possible exception of Steele Tango, what can beat him. The question is, do I consider him the perfect betting beast even though he is only 7/4 and ‘Carry On Regardless Matron’, or wait for something that is likely to win a bigger pot next week?
That is the constant dilemma. There is always the possibility that we overlook the obvious whilst waiting for that elusive creature to pop its head over the bushes in the near future. Someone who used to talk a lot of twaddle most of the time once proffered to me the expression: Don’t lose the substance for the shadow – wise words from someone that would have been a court jester in a former life. It was also proof that even a buffoon has at least one piece of wisdom secreted within. The same man seemed incapable of dressing himself properly, regularly made a fool of himself, and eventually met with a sticky end. No, this is not the Gordon Brown story, it is proof that, like the one-trick pony, or the monkey with the typewriter, we can all talk sense sometime, however inherently stupid we may be in the long run.
Duncan….trick or treat? What do you think…
AND ANOTHER THING…
May 2009
IT HAS BEEN QUITE A WEEK! You peer through the fog of winter, shovel the snow, take a holiday and just about manage to drive home from the airport before the weather closes in and it seems that Flat racing is half a world away. A few months later it starts, then it splutters, then starts again, then falters, then – bang – you wait for the Classics and suddenly two of the allotted five are over. Just like that. In a weekend the 2,000 and 1,000 Guineas are gone, reduced to statistics in a form book. No more ante-post voucher-clutching, no more speculation – it’s over!
You wait all this time and suddenly, just like everything anticipated, sheer momentum takes over. No time to savour the moment; we now know that Sea The Stars has won the 2,000 Guineas and Ghanaati the 1,000.
The result of the colts’ Classic was foreseeable. Sea The Stars may not have been everyone’s idea of the winner, but had to be on any sensible short list. But Ghanaati; no, I am sorry, having won one race on the all-weather and with a name no one understands, I have to say she belongs in the Mon Mome category. Therefore, sentiment for Barry Hills aside, we will just have to demote her and give the race to something else.
How about Fantasia? That should go down well with the public and encourage turnover on the Derby and the Oaks. And they are no more than a month away – think of it – in just four weeks that means we have only one Classic left and by then, well they have a saying in Yorkshire: The last horse home in the St Leger has snow on its tail. That means my horse will have ice on its tail if most year’s results are anything to go by. No, worse, it will be in the deep freeze.
But for now, we have waited all this time, rather like that metaphorical person at the bus stop, and all the Classics come by at once.
On Saturday night they ran for the roses. That means the Kentucky Derby to you and me. They raced at Churchill Downs on dirt over a mile-and-a-quarter in conditions more suitable to a quad bike than a racehorse. With so much slop plastered over the horses, why anything could have won it – and it did. This particular anything was 50/1 shot Mine That Bird, or so we are told; although the horses looked as indistinguishable as mud-wrestlers. A cowboy called Bennie Woolley, wearing a black hat and hobbling on crutches, was the trainer of Mine That Bird. Bennie had driven the horse for twenty-one hours all the way from the state of New Mexico in the back of a pick-up truck, just to stun himself, the jockey and the American racing world with an unconsidered mustang called Mine That Bird.
What sort of a name is that? What does it mean? When the name was registered, did the owner, having slammed one too many tequilas on a bar in Sante Fe, slip up. Was the intention to call it Mind That Bird? That is daft enough – but Mine That Bird – was it a case of two more big ones over here Maria and two drinks as well – just doesn’t mean anything. How about Find That Bird, Mind That Turd; even I’ll Take The One With Hooters, but Mine That Bird…
And there is another twist to relate. The owners of Mine That Bird – I cannot stop saying it now – come from the UFO capital of the world – namely Roswell. I don’t suppose it is possible that Mine That Bird did not make the journey in the back of a truck at all but was beamed down from another galaxy far, far away.
Nope, throw it out partner on the grounds of it having a silly name. Pioneerof the Nile finished second, now that’s what I call a proper name for a horse. I also went down the Nile on such a boat once. I travelled well but like the horse did not venture very far when everyone else was dashing around at the crack of dawn to visit one temple after another. I stayed on the Pioneer of the Nile to listen to the river lapping on the side of the boat, which I had pretty much to myself. Mine That Bird had the straight pretty much to himself once he got in the clear. I wonder if his trainer will fly him back to New Mexico now that he has a bit of disposable income.
Now we are at Chester and this weekend they run the Derby and Oaks Trials at Lingfield and the two French Guineas at Chantilly on Sunday. As we have decided that Fantasia is the winner of the 1,000 at Newmarket, is it appropriate to supplement Rainbow View for the French equivalent? Then again, possibly the Entente Cordiale does not stretch that far…
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