Michael O’Leary, not forgetting his brother Eddie, will look a real plonker if Don Poli wins the Cheltenham Gold Cup next week, won’t he? Then, of course, 11st 7Ibs will seem a golden opportunity spurned as Don Poli won’t get that weight in the Grand National, a race everyone seems to think is made for him, for years ahead.
The spat with Phil Smith, the handicapper of the Grand National, was unseemly, unnecessary and achieved little but to allow those toward the bottom of the handicap a better chance of a run. Mr O’Leary, as great and as welcome a benefactor to the sport in Ireland as he is, was rude in his comments and time might explain to him that he was wrong in his argument. Handicapping is not a science and better men than me have failed to grasp the complexities of it. I suspect Michael O’Leary, too, hasn’t yet grasped the baffling complexities. I suggest others have greater cause for feelings of injustice than the O’Learys. If Don Poli took to the Aintree fences he might have run away with the race. Not that we will ever know now he has been scratched. If he had jumped with the verve of Crisp he might have gained a length at every fence and with his undoubted stamina and the lack of a Red Rum in opposition he might have given Gigginstown their second win in the race on the spin. I just don’t think 2 Ibs one way or the other would have made a halfpenny’s difference. Will the O’Leary’s apologise to Phil Smith if Don Poli wins the Gold Cup? Because if he does win it would prove the assessment of 11st 7Ibs to be a fair evaluation of his chance. I certainly did not think it would stop him. At the publication of the weights I like to sit down and come up with six to follow leading up to the race and this year Don Poli headed my six. Three of the other five are Definitly (it’s difficult to spell a misspelling, isn’t it) Red, Vieux Lion Rouge and Blaklion, so I’m pretty smug at the moment. I backed Vieux Lion Rouge last year and from second Valentines to crossing the Melling Road I was thinking I had a 100/1 winner to celebrate. So I’m no Johnny-Come-Lately when it comes to Vieux Lion Rouge, the present Grand National favourite. Just for the record I also like Ucello Conti and Houblon Des Obeaux. If it comes up soft next week it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that Don Poli will prove the strongest up the Cheltenham hill, and if he does win I dare say Michael O’Leary will not care a fig if his belligerence has cost him another Grand National winner. Anyway, he’s too successful in all walks of life to have time for regret and what-might-have-been.
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In or around 1972 I had my extensive collection of racing books stolen by someone who was supposed to be looking after them on my behalf. It was a decidedly low point in a life lived low. I may have shed a tear. I was doubtless mad as hell about it. I may have since assembled a greater library of assorted books, but only a small percentage of them are books on racing.
One of the books that went ‘missing’ in 72 (or thereabouts) was the book I consider the best racing autobiography ever published – ‘My Life And Arkle’s by Pat Taaffe. It is a lifetime since 1972 – 45 years, unbelievably, to be precise, and nearly all of the characters in the book have died, Pat Taaffe included. Finally, though, I am reunited with a copy of this marvellous and beautiful book. Even though I knew what was in the package when it fell from the letterbox, my heart skipped a beat when my eyes again alighted on the front cover. If there is a jockey thinking of writing his or hers autobiography I recommend they track down Pat Taaffe’s book before commencing their own account of their life story. His story is written in the manner of someone sat at the tea table, sipping Earl Grey. There is not one smidgen of bitterness, envy, self-pity or self-congratulation in the book. There is a beauty in the simplistic composition, with a few choice paragraphs that live in the memory for ever more. For Example: second paragraph, second chapter. ‘Across that land had galloped some of the greatest horses Ireland, or for that matter the world, has ever known. Brown Jack first trod grass in County Meath. Reynoldstown, Golden Miller and Kellsboro Jack ran through the hills to the north. Prince Regent was already hunting with the hounds to the south. And one day an even greater one would come to Killsallaghan.’ This book is not only a homage to Arkle – ‘the even greater one to come’ – but to racehorses in general. Pat Taaffe was not just a jockey but a man for whom life without horses was as unimaginable as good manners. I would encourage the modern jockey to especially take note of what Pat Taaffe wrote about use of the whip. He begins the paragraph talking about Fred Winter, a jockey he was in awe of, or so it seems. ‘He was a classic whip rider and yet hit his horse very much less than others. This again I liked’. Here, you see, is a jockey who cared deeply for the welfare of the horse. ‘I have always believed,’ he continued. ‘that young jockeys should first be taught to ride without whips …… I always looked upon the use of the whip as a confession of failure on my part. If the understanding between horse and rider is right, the whip can be used to keep your fellow straight, to build up a rhythm as it slaps along the boot, and nothing more.’ He also said. ‘Normally if the horse doesn’t respond to the first crack, there is no point hitting him again.’ If this principle was adhered to today, and if it was made the first principle of the rules regarding use of the whip, many of the unwanted headlines in recent years could have been avoided. Was it Joe Mercer who said ‘if they don’t go for one smack they certainly won’t go for two’? If you want a calm, knowledgeable view on how good Flyingbolt was or could have become, this book provides the definitive answer. Or why Pat was not at all surprised that Foinavon was able to avoid the carnage and negotiate the fence that now bears his name and go about winning the Grand National. And then there is the amazing coincidence of Mill House playing such a part in his life, even before he became Arkle’s greatest rival. Indeed the book is one anecdote followed by another, followed by a story that tells the true character of the man at the typewriter. The reader gets to know Pat Taaffe by reading his autobiography. His gentle character is on every page, and at its end, the book is only 79 pages long, you feel you know him better than your closest neighbour. I have to confess I took several facets of the book to fictionalise in a short story I called ‘I’m Afraid He Is, I’m Afraid He Is’. I embroidered my story on a short anecdote on page 54, chapter 11. ‘After the race, Mr.Dreaper was asked whether Arkle was the greatest horse he had ever trained. “Yes,” says he, “I think he is.” ‘He said it slowly and with some reluctance, as if with the sense of being disloyal to some old friend. The ghost of Killsallaghan had finally been laid, but only just.’ Tom Dreaper, you see, did not believe he would ever train a horse that was better than Prince Regent. You, dear reader, will never read a better autobiography than ‘My Life and Arkle’s’. I defy anyone to come up with a better one. As a P.S. to this piece: my copy of the book was given to “Charlie” from all the horses at Lowood. 13th July 1973. Perhaps somebody knows who Charlie was. My love of horse racing is even longer held than the deep regret that is the subject matter of this ‘piece’. It is so embedded in my soul that every nuance of the sport, every travail and everyday experience of the racing life finds a branch or tributary of my heart and mind to reside. If there was no horse racing I could not exist. Without the Racing Post my life would be diminished.
Quite late in my teenage years I decided life and work in a city environment would be too much for me to handle and with racing being my only true interest I wrote to the Sporting Life asking for help in finding a job with racehorses. They published my letter and I was contacted by, if memory serves, over thirty trainers. I chose to work for a yard that primarily broke in Richard Hannon’s yearlings, though as a livery yard they took in all sorts of horses. Psychologically I have always been frail and in the twenty years I worked with racehorses I could never shake the feeling that I was out of my depth. I loved doing my three or four and enjoyed riding out, though not caring much for going racing. My love was for the horse and envied those who rode with greater confidence and skill than I could achieve, especially the jockeys. My last ‘hands on’ experience with racehorses (there is an exception but it only lasted six weeks and is another story for another day) was ‘training’ (or assisting as head lad) point-to-pointers in Essex. We had such a good season that my employer took out a permit but luck and circumstance made this second season, though we had a winner, a sharp learning curve. Taking what I thought to be a sabbatical but became a fork in the road that took me up the dead end that is the path I presently tread, I worked for two years as a cowman, milking a herd of sixty for Tony, brother of Terry, Biddlecombe. Tony is, in his way, a remarkable man. I heard it said he was as good a jockey as his brother. He was certainly better made for the job, being of slighter build to Terry. But gave up thoughts of being a professional jockey to run the family farm. He remained, though, a superb horseman, with the buying and selling of horses his great love. Apart from catching the odd loose horse, I never went near the stables and tried to take only a passing interest in the horses that came and went from the farm. I viewed horses as an addiction and was trying to break the habit. One day a jockey turned up to sit on a horse owned by a friend of his. This jockey was Richard Davis. Younger readers might now be thinking Richard Who? Richard rode at the time mainly for Venetia Williams, though many small yards put him up. Like other journeyman jockeys, as Tom Bellamy and James Best have proved recently, he was a fine horseman and when given the opportunity to display his skills was as effective as any of the big names. I suggested to Richard, without making any promises, we might collaborate on a book detailing the everyday life of a jockey in his position. My idea was that he would provide a diary into which I would interpose pieces on the big racing stories of the week. The phrase ‘compare and contrast’ would summarise my construct for the book and as he led such a busy life it was decided I would transcribe his thoughts from tape on to paper. What happened next was my error of judgement. I asked for a diary and that is exactly what Richard gave me. I have the manuscript still. In some ways I remain proud of it, even though it is in need of a professional editor, and no doubt a proof-reader. In the first 19 pages I set the scene, explaining Richard’s background and so on. His contributions begin on page 20, Wednesday November 1st. ‘Rode out 3 lots for Malcolm Jefferson, having travelled up from Toby’s the night before. On the way I looked in on Norman Williamson at Lambourn to see how he is, how he is coping with his broken leg’. Several paragraphs followed. The journal began okay, though as the season progressed I think his interest in the project waned. For example, Friday February 9th all I got was. ‘Rode 2 lots for Venetia. The rain came this morning and a good thaw set in. No racing again but they are hopeful Newbury will go ahead tomorrow’. As I said this was my error, not Richard’s. The book was my idea, I was the driver of the idea and I didn’t drive it hard enough. I should have said ‘we need more. You should be providing ‘mud on the page’ as Sean Magee later advised. But before I could get my act together Richard suffered that horrendous fall at Southwell and died of his injuries. I thought, perhaps naively, perhaps with self-interest in mind, that someone in racing, journalism or the publishing industry would take on our project and the book could be published as a memorial to Richard to raise funds for the Injured Jockeys Fund. But even though the Racing Post published an extract the manuscript remains solely in my care, though I did send a few copies to readers of the Racing Post who expressed an interest in reading about Richard. I am being disingenuous to Sean Magee who did take an interest in the manuscript and at a meeting with him at the home and with Richard’s parents I gave the idea over to him to do with as he pleased. He wrote a book on journeyman jockeys and dedicated it to Richard. I was mentioned in the text but at the time of publication the topic was still too raw at my heart for me to read. I also must admit that I remained hurt and surprised that Richard had told no one, not even his family or girlfriend, about the project we were working on. A story in itself, perhaps. In the light of his death certain procedures in racing changed. As a result of a hunting accident Richard had his spleen removed, this at time did not need to be recorded in his medical book, although it is mentioned in our book. That he died of ‘uncontrollable bleeding’ and a lacerated liver, the lack of a spleen might have been a contributing cause of his death and if the medics at the course had known racing might have been abandoned so that Richard could have been taken immediately to hospital and not left for nearly half an hour in the doctor’s room. Laura Shally, the trainer of the horse Richard rode that day, was rather unfairly blamed or took a lot of criticism for what happened and the Jockey Club upped their game after the inquiry as to what facilities trainers should have at their disposal before being granted a full licence. Richard did not die in vain, you might say. As a direct result of his death rules were altered. I still feel, though, that I let down a fine man with a whole lot to live for and I hope his girlfriend has since found happiness. I continue to harbour regret for my inability to do anything positive in the aftermath of his death to provide a fitting memorial to him. The manuscript I produced is far too much ‘me, me, me’ for it to be a memorial to him, and that sadly shows me in a very poor light. After all the book was to be titled ‘The Richard Davis Journal’. Soon we are to enter that period of the horse racing year that can be best summarized as ‘after the Lord Mayor’s Show’. The Flat season.
And boy is Doncaster flat? I suppose after the heady champagne cocktail of Cheltenham all racing, including the Midlands National, I have to admit, is small beer, and if it wasn’t for the glittering constellation that is the Grand National meeting people of my persuasion might be persuaded to go into hibernation long before the threat of the last frost has receded. Yes, I concede that the flat does get a tad interesting come the Derby and Royal Ascot and this year it will be fascinating to see how many winners Josie Gordon and Holly Doyle ride but all-in-all flat racing is not what life is about, is it? Not like the jumps. So why, if flat racing is the connoisseur’s bee’s knees, is it allowed to start with an apologetic whimper? It’s almost as if after the thrills of the jumps season the flat is too embarrassed to part the curtains and step into the limelight. The situation is perhaps not helped by the mega-bucks Dubai Carnival. It casts a long shadow. The Lincoln Handicap is really small beer by comparison. Yet it will be a hundred years before Dubai can boast a lineage similar to the Lincoln. In many ways the British racing authorities have let the Lincoln down. First by allowing Lincoln racecourse to become defunct. Indeed the Totopoly board game possibly celebrates the Lincoln to better effect than racing itself. (The winners of the race from 1926 to 1937 still race each other in the game). And secondly by allowing the race to become just another ‘heritage’ handicap. You hardly ever hear the term ‘Spring Double any more. Just for the sake of interest Mighty Gurkha won the last Lincoln at Lincoln. Now with a little imagination the Lincoln and the Lincoln meeting could be re-invented as something out of the ordinary. Of course the flat season should start at Doncaster. Not Leicester or Redcar. That is plain dumb. The Lincoln meeting could be a two-day fixture. Six handicaps on the Saturday. Six races on the Sunday with at least four being of listed status. The six handicaps could comprise a one-off ‘Scoop Six’ type bet. A five-furlong handicap, a seven-furlong, mile and a half, two and a quarter mile handicap, plus of course the Lincoln and a ‘silver Lincoln’. With a heritage that goes back to 1865 I suggest that the Lincoln deserves to be one of the richest handicaps in Europe. At least with the Lincoln re-empowered with prestige and a purse equal to its history flat racing wouldn’t need to be so embarrassed to hold centre stage while we wait for the calendar to tick round to Grand National time. |
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