​In the past I have advocated racecourses becoming more closely associated with the area in which they are situated, calling on the B.H.A., for instance, to reconstruct the summer jumping programme so that it resembles Ireland with ‘festivals’ providing the bulk of the racing. But the same initiative could be applied to the flat. Horse racing in its formative years was seen by local people as a day of fun and entertainment and over the decades as commercial aspects have taken possession of the sport this tie has been sadly diluted. Using ‘Cambridgeshire Day, as an example, why not suggest to the local dignitaries that the Cambridgeshire horse race be the hub and finishing post of a week-long celebration of everything that is good and distinctive about the county?
Away from good, if naïve ideas on how to promote our sport, this is my favourite time of the flat season, and not only, as a jumping man you would expect me to say this, because the flat is coming to an end, but because my two favourite races of the year are the Cambridgeshire and Cesarewitch, with the added bonus of the only foreign race to spark my imagination in the Arc de Triomphe.
Having said that, the Cambridgeshire, as with many of the top handicaps from the middle-of-summer onwards, is becoming ever-more dominated by unexposed and lightly-raced three-year-olds. I do think that to safeguard the tradition and popularity of the heritage handicaps they should be restricted to four-year-olds and upwards, with equivalent races invented restricted to three-year-olds. The narrative of the sport over the centuries has been constructed on the intrigue of the classic races and races such as the two races that form the autumn double and other big-name handicaps, with horses becoming famous for their exploits over many seasons in these famous old handicaps. Lord North, by the ease of his win on Saturday, is clearly a Group horse in the making and if these races are going to be in the future easy-pickings for the type of trainer and owner profuse with such horses, the romance will be sucked out of races that for centuries have provided the smaller yards with a brush with fame and glory.
It was a shame, especially after the build-up to the Middle Park, that the meat of the race was taken out of it by Siskin suffering a meltdown in the stalls causing him to be withdrawn. Obviously, it keeps Ger Lyons’ horse unbeaten, though I expect that is small consolation to connections as the potential of their horse may well be compromised if the stalls become an issue with him after what must have been a frightening experience for a young horse.
The race also proves what I wrote recently about never allowing oneself to get overexcited by a two-year-old as disappointment is always lurking around the corner. Not only did Siskin damage his reputation but Mum’s Tipple also bombed-out. That rejected offer of 3-million-quid must now be a source of regret, if not lost sleep, to his owners.
I also wouldn’t get overexcited by the winner of the Middle Park either. Earthlight is obviously an above-average horse but he didn’t exactly win on the bridle or in the style of Pinatubo and with the pacemaker King Neptune leaving his recent form well-behind him and finishing within a few lengths of the winner and the majority of the other runners performing poorly the form looks unreliable to my uninformed eyes. He may improve for a mile or further and could easily be the best the French have to offer but he will not go into the winter as one of my favourites for classic glory this side of the Channel. Having said that, who am I to question Andre Fabre’s judgement? He has enjoyed a long and glorious career that will doubtless continue without change, while I – well, less said the better. I was though, in my defence, as no one else will, bigging-up Pinatubo after the Woodcote. Were you? Or Andre Fabre?
In fact, I was more impressed by Jessica Harrington’s Cheveley Park winner Millisle, even if her ability to stay beyond sprint distances is already being questioned. Although in itself the Commonwealth Cup is a great addition to both Royal Ascot and the flat programme, it is becoming thought-of by trainers as a consolation or alternative race for horses either lacking the stamina or ability to enhance their reputation and value in the Guineas. As with Millisle, the dilemma has become not whether she will stay the mile but should she be trained with the Guineas in mind or keep her for Royal Ascot and the Commonwealth Cup. Once upon a time sprints in general were thought of as the poorer relations of the sport, whereas now they are almost the equal of the classics. But then flat racing is not so much about the sport these days as the commercial realisation of the siring sheds. In past decades the connections of fillies such as Millisle would have dreamed throughout the winter and spring of classic success, now they have the consolation daydreams of top-hats and fascinators and the glory of the Commonwealth Cup.
Will I live to hear a trainer informing Olli Bell after a future Middle Park: regrettably the horse doesn’t appear to possess the speed to win a Commonwealth or July Cup, so he’ll have to be trained for the 2,000 Guineas. Such is the rise and rise of the commercial prestige of sprint Group 1’s.

​Back in the sixties, when Fred Winter retired as a jockey, he thought to continue his association with the sport by becoming a starter. To most people he would have seemed an ideal candidate for the job, especially as all the jockeys would have had nothing but total respect for his integrity. The Jockey Club, though, disagreed. In fact, I believe, they were quite rude about it. They didn’t want ex-jockeys involved in the administration of the sport. To be a starter it was an advantage to have some form of rank before your name. Starters were ex-captains or majors. That was the qualification. Knowing one end of a horse from the other really didn’t matter. The Queen awarding Winter a C.B.E. just did not cut the mustard.
In due course, no doubt through gritted teeth, as we know, ex-jockeys were allowed to further their careers within the sport, with Paul Barton and Robert Earnshaw among those employed in stewarding capacities. And, of course, ex-jockeys now start races on a daily basis. But that is as far as any ex-professional jockey has progressed within the administration of the sport. And here lies, I believe, a major weakness in the administration and governance of our sport.
If John Gosden were to shock and disappoint us by announcing his retirement at the end of this season, do you think anyone from the B.H.A. would have the gumption to think ‘hang on a moment, this guy could be a great asset to us’?
Very unlikely, don’t you agree? Doubtless, anyway, he would miss the vast open spaces of Newmarket Heath to even contemplate such a career change and if he did retire, he perhaps would want to travel the world or write his autobiography. That though is not the point. I am talking of a figurative John Gosden; any member of the racing community who holds the same respect amongst his peers and the public as the master of Clarehaven. I might have used Sir Mark Prescott as an example or Sir Michael Stoute.
I have no gripes with Nick Rust, the present chief executive of the B.H.A. or its chairperson, Annamarie Phelps. Except that between them their experience of actual horses, racecourses or racing’s workforce, is miniscule when compared with the three knights previously mentioned. If Nick Rust were headhunting someone to be chair of a multi-national engineering company would he give the job to someone whose working life was spent in textiles or fashion? Yet the present chair of the B.H.A. has come from doing a fine job at British Rowing and the British Olympic Association. She took up her post in June and I bet a dime to a dollar she is still feeling her way, learning as she goes. She may know how to smooth talk the right politicians and she may know her way round Westminster but can she hold a meaningful discussion with trainers and stable staff on topical racing issues?
Look, this is not a rant about the B.H.A. and especially not its present C.E.O. or Chair, though I am far from convinced horse racing has the governance it needs to accompany it safely into the future. To my mind, the B.H.A. is morphing into a Jockey Club in mufti. It is just that I see people, mainly jockeys and trainers, retire from their profession and be allowed to drift either outside of the sport or to remain at its periphery. In the main lost to the sport.
The weakness in our sport is that there is no place within the B,H.A.’s hierarchy for people of the calibre of Henrietta Knight, John Francome, Sir Anthony McCoy or doubtless anyone else I have mentioned in this piece. As there was no place for Fred Winter C.B.E. back in the sixties.
There are eighteen people at the main table of the B.H.A. Some have experience of owning racehorses, some either breed or whose spouse owns a small stud. Rupert Arnold, Member Nominated Director, was for six years a licensed trainer and Will Lambe, Executive Director, was once a racing journalist. Yet with the exception of David Sykes who seems well-qualified for his position as Director of Equine Health & Welfare, very few of them have had any blood, sweat and tears involvement with a racehorse. I am quite sure they are all dedicated to the cause, yet truth be known the board of the B.H.A. only come together eight times a year and I would be surprised if any of them are solely employed by the B.H.A. Yet racing is a seven-day-a-week sport.
There has to be a career path within the administration of the sport for respected ex-jockeys or trainers, or indeed owners or stable staff with the ambition to further themselves, to be able to bring their experience and knowledge to the top-table of the sport. Horse racing has its own language, traditions that wind back through the centuries and at its beating heart is not a man-made construction like a row-boat but a living, sentient creature. The sport encompasses so many different aspects that make up the whole. It’s intricacies and funny little ways cannot be learned in days, weeks or months. Nor its history, which reaches back through the centuries to weave the differing levels of society into one fragmented yet dynamic community. To my mind, the sport should be governed by true racing people, people born and bred into the very fabric of the sport, people who have known little else all their lives. At the moment, I dare say, the C.E.O. turns to such people for advice. To my mind the glove needs to be on the other hand.
 

​Since Pinatubo caused the great and the good of the racing press to look to the past to make sense of the present, I have come to realise that I know very little about the former wonder horse by the name of Arazi, a two-year-old that achieved the quietly stupid official rating of 130. I wrote a piece a while ago on my thoughts about ratings, ‘Ratings are Bollocks’, and Arazi’s rating rather proves my point.
Arazi was by Blushing Groom, whose sire Red God was a sprinter who if my memory serves me adequately did not train on. Blushing Groom, too, was a horse that didn’t achieve heights prophesies about him. Join the dots for yourself. Although American owned, Arazi was trained in France by Francois Boutin. He won the Robert Papin, the Morny, the de la Salamandre and the Grand Criterium before crossing the Atlantic to win the 1971 Breeders Cup Juvenile with an ease that made Pinatubo and Mum’s Tipple’s most recent victories look hard-fought. He then developed chip fractures in the top joint of both knees and against the wishes of his trainer underwent arthroscopic surgery.
When recovered from the operation he was trained for the Kentucky Derby, winning a small race in France beforehand. He was greeted on arrival in the U.S. with the pomp of a returning hero, being described as ‘mystical and almost mythical’. As in the Breeders Cup, ridden by Steve Cauthen, he made swift progress at halfway in the Derby only to fade out of the picture in what was a very slowly run race.
When the racing press reference Arazi to a man and woman they only ever remind their readers of the Breeders Cup Juvenile. His good record in French two-year-old races is rarely recalled and certainly not his decline as that doubtless brings into focus that stupid rating of 130. Arazi, I am pleased to report, lived a long life, even if he was failure at stud, with Sheikh Mohammed who purchased him as a stallion sending him to all corners of the planet to find him a niche in the market place.
In a previous piece I mimicked the Q & A section of the Sunday edition of the Racing Post, answering the question ‘Give us a horse to Follow’, with the name of Pinatubo, so I am in no way knocking him but we will not get to know his place in the pantheon of great horses or even great two-year-olds, till the careers of the horses he has beaten are quantified in twelve or twenty-four months hence. Although the National Stakes looked on paper a top-quality race time might prove every horse that day to be ordinary. Pinatubo, too, might yet prove to be ‘disappointing’.
I do not know what rating Arazi had after his last race. I suspect it remained closer to 130 than 120 but he was not, ever, in the super league of racehorses and for Pinatubo to be compared to Frankel, even if the great horse is only being judged as a two-year-old and not by what he achieved as an older horse, is in alignment with the saying that pride comes before a fall. Having said that, for Sheikh Mohammed’s sake, I hope he has the champion his devotion to the sport deserves.
I will always stand by my damning criticism of ratings, official or Racing Post. Ratings are only someone’s opinion and are offered up to the public as if they have scientific basis. Enabled, as any racing enthusiast will tell you, has been the best horse in Europe for three-years, yet only in the past few weeks has she achieved a rating that comes close to matching the overriding opinion of her true worth. How can anyone justify a horse that has won only a single Group I being rated better than a horse that has won two Arcs, two classics and in unbeaten for the best part of three seasons?
And how can a two-year-old, the winner of a single Group 1, be rated on a par with a horse of Enable’s record? For that matter why are ‘the best horses in the world’ always middle-distance horses? Why can’t a sprinter or a stayer be the best horse in the world? Or even the best horse ever?
To finish, and to repeat myself once more, in a previous piece I analysed race-by-race the careers of Frankel and Brigadier Gerard only to find their victories and margins of victory to be similar, the distinguishing feature being the Brigadier was beaten on one occasion, while Frankel was remained invincible. Yet by a small fraction I came to the conclusion that Brigadier Gerard was superior to Frankel because he not only won over a greater variety of distance (6-furlongs to 1-mile 4) but in defeating Mill Reef in the 2,000 Guineas he beat a far better horse than Frankel ever beat. Frankel only won over 7-Furlongs, a mile and mile and a quarter. Obviously if tried over longer, given his progeny have an abundance of stamina, he would have remained unbeaten.
One final point, though for the future popularity of flat racing a point worth reiterating, owners should not be congratulated for keeping a horse in training as five-years-olds. Horses are not at their peak until they reach five-years and all the hype, praise, adulation and damn ratings applied to horses retired before they reach full maturity are nothing but pure speculation. For the betterment of the sport some kind of regulation should be initiated that places an embargo on any thoroughbred standing as a stallion until they have reached five-years-of- age, thereby giving owners an incentive to keep their horses in training until its true merit, and soundness, is 

​When I look through two-year-old races in Ireland in my Racing Post my natural instinct is to see how many Aidan O’Brien has entered. It’s not as if I worship the Ballydoyle runners, though I obviously admire O’Brien as both a trainer and as a man. It’s just that his dominance sets him apart. To read through the entries for a maiden for two-year-old colts at Leopardstown or the Curragh and not witness an entry from O’Brien would be like reading a Christian Bible and finding no reference to God. He is that significant.
There are people like that, jockeys and trainers who have risen above their colleagues and peers to become icons of the sport and when in retirement leave a void that it takes many months or even years to fill. It was like that when A.P. McCoy was riding and it took many months to shake the habit of looking out for what he might be riding. It is the same now with Ruby Walsh. Indeed, in my head the Irish bumpers were the province of Nina Carberry and Katie Walsh and since their retirement amateur races in Ireland have lost their lustre.
When Lester Piggott retired the first time, not so much after his second retirement, it was his name I continued to search for when perusing entries. Actually, after his second retirement I kept on expecting to see news of his latest comeback. In fact, I still wouldn’t be surprised if he made one final bid for glory, so synonymous is his name to the sport. Ask anyone in their sixties or over to name a jockey and I would expect his name to be the answer more times than even Frankie or A.P.
I admit that on the flat, these days, my eye is immediately drawn to any horse ridden by a female jockey, almost to the neglect of any other horse especially when it comes to the all-weather. Over jumps I always look first to see what Bryony is riding and usually lament how few rides someone so talented receives. Though that is a general lament for any underused and skilful jockey of either gender.
I have just finished reading ‘On The Level’, by Henry Cecil. This book, published way back in 1983, hardly covers 1/10th of Cecil’s career and begs the question why the author chose to write it. That’s not criticism of the book as it is far from the worst horse racing book I have read. It’s quite good, actually, and if you stumble across it, I would recommend you buy it. It’s just from the high ground of retrospect it reads like a murder mystery just before the main suspect picks up the murder weapon and goes in search of his victim.
The thought that nagged at the back of my mind throughout was why didn’t someone stop Henry from smoking cigarettes, which for the great man, and sadly millions of others, is the murder weapon in question.
Also, from his very own words it is plainly obvious that he loved his wife, Julie, and yet upon his death he had married twice more. When I come across a biography of Cecil, there must a few about, I will doubtless discover the truth of how this seemingly happy marriage unravelled but as of this moment it is as great a mystery to me as the disappearance of Shergar.
His character, especially his natural inclination toward reservation and pessimism, are all over ‘On The Level’. There is a truly funny story about his grandmother’s funeral, which is worth the price of the book alone and veiled tales of the people who worked for him, rode for him and who owned the horses that brought him fame. In 1983, though, Henry Cecil was nowhere nearly as well-liked as he was at his death and I suspect he always had it in the back of his mind that his success might evaporate with one indiscretion or error of judgement. I would imagine he was particularly hard on himself if he considered he had given the wrong riding instructions to a jockey or if an owner took a horse away from him, as was to happen much later in his career when Sheikh Mohammed removed horses. Which is somewhat ironic as Sheikh Mohammed now owns Warren Place and has spent untold amounts of money modernising the facilities.
As it must be for many people, when it comes to the flat, it is Henry Cecil’s name I continue to miss most. He is, perhaps, the ghost that loiters unseen at every Royal Ascot, Epsom Derby, Goodwood and all the big Newmarket meetings. Indeed, the Newmarket open day this year is even named in his honour, such remains the influence of him as a man.
He will always be remembered for being the trainer of Frankel, of course. I just hope that in a hundred years’ time it is not the only fact that is synonymous with his name.
 

​I find I am in a trough of repetition of late to the point I am almost boring myself. I am a jumping man and the flat tends to drift at this time of year. If it’s not the whip I am going on about, it’s how to give the female rider a leg-up the ladder. And if its neither of those subjects it’s race programming or just how short of useful the B.H.A. has become. Today’s subject I have also written about in the past, though on this occasion it is at least topical.
So to make what I am about to write a little bit different I have chosen to reject Ariel and use a new font, HP Simplified.
No words of praise can be too complimentary when it comes to the efforts of Pat Smullen and Irish racing to help Cancer Research. 1.5-million euros raised during a single weekend must be some sort of sporting record, even if Sheikh Hamdam got the fund started with a donation of half-a-million. It just goes to prove what can be accomplished if everyone pulls in the same direction. Jockeys donating their riding fees, stable staff donating best turned-out prizes, just everyone give, give, giving. It made what in the broad world was a parochial event into a news story that found its way into the living rooms of any home, anywhere. If I were the Curragh executive, I would stage something similar at every Irish Champions Weekend. Demonstrate to those outside the sport the good that racing can bring not only to local communities but to every man, woman and child living anywhere in the world.
Which brings me to my gripe.
The anti-racing brigade are of the set opinion that we, the human element of our sport, use (and they might claim abuse) horses for our economic benefit and for entertainment and that if we care at all for horses it is not enough. We all know this is drivel, poppycock, ignorance. We are, though, slow, if not inefficient, at getting our message across the barrier that separates us from them.
If the B.H.A. were more on the front-foot when it comes to defending our sport, not that we should need to defend any single part of it, the antis would not be gaining ground, and the attention of the public. What is at stake here is the actual long-term future of our sport, if that is not raising the stakes too high.
Instead of consultation, for instance, trials of hands and heel races for professional riders should already be on-going. But that is a topic I have written about too many times in the past. But what the B.H.A. should also be organising as a matter of urgency is a nationwide racing charity day to raise funds for rhorses and other equines. If racing can get together to raise 1.5-million quid for cancer research, something we all might benefit during our lives, why can’t the sport set a similar target to raise the same amount to improve the lives of the animal that is central and pivotal to our sport?
Set aside one Saturday in the calendar where every race meeting and every bookmaker and betting office, every equine charity, makes a supreme joint effort to raise awareness and donations to help not only racehorses in retirement but all horses, including donkey sanctuaries and charities like the Brook Hospital. Being on the front foot means getting our faces in the media, showing the public the work that is done to care for horses both while in racing and after their careers in the sport are over. Horse Racing puts horses in the spotlight to a far greater degree than any other equine activity; we have a responsibility to demonstrate to the public that we do not pay lip service to our duty of care to the horse. Horse Racing should be seen to bring together all equine sporting disciplines in this endeavour to inform the public.
One day a year, during the summer months, obviously, to assist all those people who perform tirelessly picking up the pieces, in extreme cases, caring for equines in all their forms. Is this too much to expect from the B.H.A.? One day spread over every race meeting and other equine events, to inform and educate and raise much needed funds to improve the lives of horses far and wide.
If we can have charity days to raise money for research into diseases that affect us, the human, surely we, as a sport, as part of the equine sporting community, can dedicate a day to the horse, its welfare and to make plain our genuine affection for every horse great or small. 

​Back in what I recall as the heyday of hurdling, the period when Night Nurse, possibly the greatest ever Champion hurdler, Monksfield, Birds Nest, perhaps the best horse never to win a Champion Hurdle, battled time and time again for supremacy, at a time when Golden Cygnet threatened to usurp the whole lot of them, with the likes of Comedy of Errors, Lanzarote and Bula waiting in the wings, there was an old horse, an old horse that Timeform thought deserving of a squiggle against his name, at least for a short time. His name was Sea Pigeon, the best dual-purpose horse of my lifetime.
He was bred, of course, to win a Derby, being by Sea Bird, the Derby winner. I believe after winning at Ascot as a two-year-old, ridden by none other than Lester Piggott, he himself was ante-post favourite for the following year’s Derby. As a three-year-old he was only good enough to finish fourth in the Dante, seventh in the Derby and fourth in the Prince of Wales at Royal Ascot. He was immature, in need of time. So when an offer came for him, Jeremy Tree advised his owner to sell. I wonder if John Hay Whitney ever regretted selling a horse that went on to win 16 races on the flat and 21 as a hurdler? Indeed, how many times has someone sold on a horse that went on to win a total of 37 races and who became a true peoples horse?
Although he won his first four starts over hurdles, Sea Pigeon was very much a slow burner. He didn’t, for example, win on the flat until he was in his seventh year, though he started by winning the Chester Cup, which he won again as an eight-year-old.
Back then it was possible for a horse of Sea Pigeon’s class to win races like the Chester Cup, Vaux Brewers Gold Tankard, a major race in the seventies, the sort of race Redcar should make an effort to return to the calendar, and still be eligible to run in amateur races. Sea Pigeon won the Moet & Chandon Silver Magnum at Epsom under trainer’s son, and now star trainer himself, Tim Easterby. On the flat his greatest achievement was in lumping 10st to victory in the Ebor, worth 17-grand in 1979, under the guidance of Jonjo O’Neill, who with the race won dropped his hands and nearly got chinned. Don’t bother trying to look the race up on YouTube as you’ll not find it. Unbelievably I.T.V. technicians were on strike and the race was never broadcast, and not even recorded. One of the truly great performances seen on a racecourse and witnessed only by the privileged few to attend the races that day.
The one race on the flat that always proved beyond the great horse was the Northumberland Plate as the final two furlongs really stretched his stamina reserves and diluted his greatest weapon, his turn of foot.
Of course, that famed turn of foot, a prized asset that he never really lost even as a horse nearing his teens, was never enough to win him a Champion Hurdle when at his prime. He was fourth in 1977, second in 1978, second again in 1979. Cheltenham, some said, was just not his lucky racecourse. Yet as a ten-year-old he defeated his old foe Monksfield with the greatest of ease, taking up the running before the last hurdle as he was travelling with so much gusto.
Of course it was unheard-of for an eleven-year-old to defend his crown, even if the race did not have a horse of Monksfield’s class in it. Very few jockeys would be confident of winning a championship race on a horse as old and with as many miles on the clock as Sea Pigeon. So how did John Francome have the steely nerve and confidence to come to the last in 1980 full of running and take a pull halfway up that final hill? How could he be so certain the old horse still had that turn of foot? How we held our breath and thought Francome too cocky for going on when plainly he had the race in the palm of his hand? Of course, when he suggested to Sea Pigeon it was time to accelerate, the ten-year-old obeyed him in spades. It was, as we now know, the last race he ever won, the last of 37. Will we ever see his likes again?
Yes, I know there has been, perhaps, better horses since him. Altior, Sprinter Sacre, Kauto, Denman, Dessie, etc. But no more inspiring hurdler. Not even Istabraq, I would suggest. Both Jonjo and John Francome rate Sea Pigeon the best they rode and that in itself is some statement.
Oh, and given the debate on the whip it is useful to recall that Sea Pigeon detested being struck with the whip and in none of his 37 victories was it used as enforcer on him and his career spanned nine years and many times he humped big weights in competitive handicaps and never lost the will to win.
He lived, as did his old pal Night Nurse, into his early thirties and they are buried next to one another at Peter Easterby’s stables at Habton. When Alastair Down suggested to Easterby that the two horses had lived good lives, his reply elevated Peter Easterby in my estimation. ‘Because of them, Alastair, we lived better lives’. To racing folk, horses never die, they merely rest in the memory.
 

​I hope to live long enough to witness a female jockey win either the Cheltenham Gold Cup or the Grand National. I do not have any expectation to ever witness a female jockey win the Epsom Derby, Ascot Gold Cup or become champion jockey in either code. It will not happen, not in my lifetime, anyway. I sometimes think it will only happen when the male of the species become too heavy to make the weight for the flat and owners and trainers will be forced to employ female jockeys. The irony is, of course, that there are far more female jockeys riding on the flat than over jumps, many of whom have already proved on a day-to-day basis they are the equal of their male counterparts. Yet the glass ceiling remains unbroken for females on the flat, whereas in the more dangerous occupation of hurdle racing and steeplechasing it is not merely cracked but thoroughly smashed.
In Britain both Bryony Frost and the always underestimated Lizzie Kelly have won Grade 1 races, with the aforementioned Frost the darling of the sport after her magical win in the Ryanair at the Cheltenham Festival last season on her beloved Frodon. Travelling hopefully in Frost and Kelly’s wake are Page Fuller and Tabitha Worsley, two exceptional riders deserving of being involved in some of the top races this season. There are also many other aspiring females who are now riding winners on a regular basis.
In Ireland, and I stand to be corrected, there are only two female professional National Hunt jockeys, albeit one of them is already winning big races on a regular basis. While Katy O’Farrell, a winner on more than one occasion at the big Irish Festival meetings, rides winners here and there, getting on any horse she is offered, Rachael Blackmore has become the name in the sport, perhaps in the whole of sport in Ireland. Only last week she added the prestigious Kerry National to her already impressive c.v..
Yet Blackmore is 30-years-of-age. She is no spring chicken and was the first female professional jockey in Ireland since the early 1980’s when Maria Cullen gave it a go. Yes, she came late to the sport but unless someone gives the same opportunities to Katy O’Farrell there will be no Blackmore legacy for future female jockeys in Ireland to take advantage of. Blackmore will have come and gone long before the age Ruby Walsh reached before he shocked us with his retirement. She is as of this moment, when it comes to popularity and perhaps talent in the saddle, Ruby’s successor, not as champion because while Paul Townsend is fit and well he will be champion in Ireland till the day he has had enough. But she is the jockey everyone looks to, for youngsters to emulate and first-time backers to trust, and not only the first-time backers. The diehard professionals have absolute faith in her, too.
Horse racing, as I have said many times over the past decade, needs to put numbers to the boast that our sport is inclusive to all members of society, that men and women truly compete on equal terms. Because, as things stand, they do not compete on an even playing field. Blackmore has had it relatively easy to get to her elevated position in the sport. As has Bryony, if I am being honest. Even if neither set out with the ambition of being a professional jockey. For Blackmore it was a bold personal leap. Bryony had to be told by Paul Nicholls that she was too good to be an amateur and had to be instructed to turn professional.
Ask the girls riding on the flat how even the playing field is. If they win on a nicetwo-year-old, as certain as eggs are eggs, the next time it is more than likely a male will take over, especially if that horse is going for a more valuable race at one of main racecourses. Ask Katy O’Farrell or Lizzie Kelly how difficult it is to be given a chance on a top-class horse that might be favourite for a big race. Almost impossible will be the answer.
Ruby Walsh appreciates how good Blackmore and Frost are. I would think the greatest compliment Frost has ever received, apart from when her father said she was a hundred times a better rider than he ever was, was when reviewing one of the first races she won at Cheltenham on Frodon, he said, ‘she’s some rider, this girl’. And we should all appreciate Blackmore, Frost, Kelly and others but the owners, trainers and I suppose the jockeys agents, should ensure that the girls coming up behind them receive similar opportunities. This must not a passing golden age of female equality and success.
Can you imagine the media coverage after a Gold Cup or Grand National, especially the Grand National, if either race was to be won by a horse ridden by a female jockey? Bryony was on the front page of The Times after the Ryanair last season and virtually nobody outside of the sport knew what significance the race holds within jump racing. She was a female winning against the men. If the world was a fair place, if sport gave out deserving successes, if horse racing allowed us more than the occasional golden moment in the media spotlight, Rachael Blackmore or Bryony Frost would win The Gold Cup this season or more likely the Grand National. Perhaps if we all hope for it, it will happen. But then no one said to any of us on entering the world that fairness was given. As Ted Walsh is keen to point out, racing isn’t Hollywood or Disney World.
 

The following is a short-story from my horse racing short story collection 'Going To The Last',  which can be purchased as a paperback or e-book. I doubt if there are many short story collections dedicated to horse racing. If there are, please tell me.
The story is based on several true events and stitched together to form a single event.

YES, I FEAR HE IS. I FEAR HE IS.

​Pat and Paddy ride along the narrow lane which leads to the schooling ground. Pat rides the horse all of Ireland refers to as ‘Himself’. Paddy is aboard steeplechasing’s pretender to the crown of ‘best there has ever been’. It is remarkable on its own for two great horses to appear on the scene at the same time but for them to be stable companions reaches deep into the fantastic realm of fiction.
    Pat is stable jockey, Paddy an ex-jockey of vast experience. Both are invaluable members of the team. Yet both are nervous. Racing’s great attractions are to school together for the first time and both Pat and Paddy think it is chancing fate and speculate on why the boss has allowed himself to be talked into it.
    Neither horse needs to be schooled and ordinarily would not be. But the Dublin press have sweet-talked Tom into staging ‘a show’ for their benefit, citing a need to give the public pictures of the great horses together. Pat and Paddy are far from convinced. The Duchess would certainly not approve and it is no surprise to either of them to hear that Tom has omitted to inform her of the day’s happening.
    “But all we will be doing is popping them over a few fences. It’ll be no different from coming back to the stables up the jumping lane.”
    Pat senses that ‘Himself’ is keen and unusually fractious, as if he knows the younger horse is a threat to his supremacy. The’ pretender’, by nature a more buzzy horse, champs eagerly at the bit, as if he too senses this cannot be an ordinary day. Their riders try to remain calm and chat away about the stable’s runners for the week, assessing their prospects and gnawing over tactics and weaknesses in their opposition. But they cannot entirely forget they are astride two colossi of the sport which is the foundation of their lives.
    The two horses are trotted around in a wide circle while Tom and the journalists up from Dublin exchange opinion on procedure. The photographers are adamant they need the horses to jump as many fences as possible, allowing them the greatest opportunity to capture for posterity spectacular and unique pictures. Tom is equally adamant that the horses will only be schooled once over the row of three fences. The debate continues; the disconnected massed intonations of the press and the lone calm voice of the professional racehorse trainer. All the while the bay and the chestnut jog around in a circle, their excited vitality contained by the soft hands and perfect poise of their skilful riders.
    “I shouldn’t be schooling at all,” Tom tells his behatted adversaries, his eagle-eye focused on his horses. Better armed, though, by welter of numbers the journalists rally their argument, declaring the exercise a waste of everyone’s time if they go home without a satisfactory story and exciting photographs.
    Alarmed by the lengthening of the delay Tom issues an ultimatum. “Once over the schooling fences or not at all.”
    Tom’s place in Irish racing history ensures him respect with even the most diehard journalist and begrudgingly they capitulate and the photographers scuttle away to secure the best vantage points – some favouring the last fence, hoping that by then the two horses will be in full, unrestrainable flight; while the majority choose the first fence. Only one man positions himself close to the second fence.
    Finally Tom signals for the schooling to begin, his affirming nod of the head as
anticipated by the small audience as the rising of the tapes at Aintree, Epsom or Cheltenham.
    “We had best go in upsides,” Pat suggests, gathering up the reins.
    “Ay, and Heaven help us,” Paddy answers as they set themselves for the short run to the first fence. “We’ll need the help of all the saints if one of us gets half-lengthed,” he laughes.
    Unbidden the horses break into a canter, straining to be let loose at the fences. Both men cry “Steady” but their steeds disobey as they are both intent upon gaining the ascendancy. The first fence looms up, small yet ominous, hammered out of its original dimensions by decades of constant use. Inside the wing of the fence both horses rise as one; the rivalry as competitive as any duel up the Cheltenham hill: the ‘pretender’ determined to lead, ‘Himself’ as determined not to be led. It is a battle of equine wills; a dispute of equine pride. For the first time on the great horse Pat feels out of control. Both riders would like to stop and start again; the thrill negated by discord. Tom shouts for them to slow down but his plea goes unheeded, unheard. The photographers hold their breath and snap away, each one congratulating himself on achieving the occasion.
    The two horses lengthen once more and sprint for the second fence. Grasping the air they fly its inconsequential height in high-spirited unison: the ‘pretender’ inch perfect, ‘Himself’, in his exuberance to match the impetuosity of his rival, knuckling over, his nose scraping the earth, spilling Pat over his ears.
    It is the first time the great horse has met the rising ground and for an immediate moment the world is put on pause, as if the Creator must take stock of the situation in order to remedy the calamity. The press, each and every one of them, exclaim profanities which only the confessional can excuse them from. Tom, his face ghost-like, averts his eyes, a prayer for forgiveness engraved at his heart.
    The ‘pretender’ gallops on unnoticed. He leaps the final fence as impeccably as the two before and bowls along into the distance, his stride unchecked, still keen to prove his superiority. Finally Paddy persuades him to a trot and looks left and right, astonished and dismayed to find he is alone. “Merciful Father!” he cries, fearful of what he might see in the distance, his every thought a hope for the avoidance of catastrophe.
    Pat is on his feet, his comments of more importance to the press than his health. The great horse is also on his feet, waiting for Tom to take charge of him.
    The cold chill of alarm subsides and relief counters despondency. The photographers refocus their cameras and return to work, picturing for posterity the aftermath of near tragedy. The journalists, hyped-up by the unique opportunity which has unexpectedly blown their way, pull out pencil and note-books and start to piece together the sequence of events, thinking of subtle ways to apportion blame, recognising that they are witness to something hitherto unseen, something of which the British press will be ignorant of.
    Tom struggles with his conscience. He knows that ultimately he is to blame – the horse and Pat could have been hurt. He tries to remain calm, in charge of proceedings. It was a calamitous misjudgement. But it is done. He cannot undo tangled minutes which have passed his grasp. Yet he cannot help but think about the Duchess. What will she say when she finds out her beloved horse has taken a tumble schooling for the benefit of the newspapers? She has horses trained in England. She could transfer ‘Himself’ to one of her English trainers? If that happens and the reason for it made public his reputation would be as shot as a grouse on one of her highland estates. He must, he decides, have the incident suppressed.
    He suggests to the journalists that the predicament which has befallen him has at its roots their arm-twisting but they are in no mood for compromise; a golden scoop has been gifted them, there is great profit and kudos to be gained from it exploitation. Newsworthy stories are their livelihood and any story involving ‘Himself’ transcends the sports pages.
    “Ah, but you see, Tom, now the majority of us would surely oblige you but it only takes one to break rank and the rest of us poor souls will look right ejits in the eyes of our hard-nosed editors. We also are in a predicament. Hasn’t the pictures man of the Irish Times alone amongst us had a picture of the great horse falling?”
    The man in question, his homburg hat askew above a sheepish look of pride, smiles to his envious, glowering colleagues; the power of the moment belonging solely to him.
    “It would be a source of national shame if the Duchess took ‘Himself’ across the water,” Tom reminds them. “Who would benefit then? The English press, maybe?”
    Reflection and second thought is now the new order. It is an incredulous supposition; a spectre too woeful to be speculated on for long. “Is that likely? After all you have won with him?” a journalist asks, speaking for the whole of Ireland.
    “Why should she not?” Tom answers. “I am responsible for what has happened this morning. I may put the blame on you but she quite rightly will lay the blame at my door.”
    “Not after two Gold Cups, surely?”
    “The Duchess pays the bills,” Tom reminds them, deflecting guilt toward them. “But I am sure they’ll be a compromise, don’t you think, boys?”
*
A third Gold Cup is duly won. April brings sunshine and relaxation and with the height of the season achieved the promise is honoured to host a private celebration for those who witnessed that awful day when history might have been turned on its head.
    The party is alfresco, in the stable yard, with journalists and photographers mingling with stable staff, drinks in hand, the stabled horses, ‘Himself’ and the ‘pretender’ included, taking a keen interest in the invasion. Reminiscences are exchanged, good and bad jokes told, tales of gambles lost and won embellished and distorted by the passing of the ages.
    The editor of the parochial magazine approaches Tom and Pat as they discuss the following day’s work. Without preamble he interrupts their conversation, recollecting a race meeting at Navan before the war, imperiously assuming credit for introducing Tom, then a struggling farmer with only a handful of point-to-pointers to his name, to Edward Rank, a wealthy owner in need of someone to take charge of a rebellious young horse he had acquired. Tom easily remembers the occasion and the horse and instinctively looks across the cobbled yard to the stone stable which all those years ago had housed his first great horse.
    “Unbeatable, nearly, over here, wasn’t he?” the editor recalls. “If it wasn’t for Herr Hitler he would have won more Gold Cups than any horse living. More than one, that’s for sure.” To Pat he adds. “Third in the Grand National after the war. Twelve-seven he carried and not beaten far. What would he have achieved if the English had raced throughout the war as we did? Best horse I ever damn saw and I’m older than the Mountains of Mourne”.       
    Pat nods his head, he too knows of the exploits of Tom’s most revered horse, the horse which won Tom his career, which has lead to Himself. He turns to his employer and friend for him to add his own recollection and is surprised to see tears forming in the old man’s eyes.
    A young, fledgling journalist, an underling at The Field, joins them, a whisky too large for his constitution in his hand. “’Himself’, sir, must now be the best horse you have trained? Or ever likely to, perhaps?”
    To the three men gathered around Tom it seems an innocuous question, with the answer as obvious as the question is unnecessary. But in his mind’s eye Tom can visualise what the others cannot. He can see Prince Regent and knows he can never repay the debt owed to him. Yet the truth cannot be denied. “Yes,” he admits, his heart caught in an act of disloyalty. “Yes, I fear he is. I fear he is.”
*******
 

​Unlike people who are unfortunate to live in non-democratic countries, we live in a society when anyone can express their opinions on any subject. This right should never be denied, even when the opinions expressed are not compatible with your own views. Which is why I do not condemn Lee Mottershead for his support of the 21 traitorous individuals quite rightly thrown out of the Conservative Party. He may think them fearless. He is entitled to his opinion. But he should tread carefully when he gives his unequivocal support to politicians who choose to side with a political party who sit around a table, and take advice from, the enemies of our sport. Lee Mottershead should remember that if, God forbid, Labour ever came to power one of their stated aims would be to tinker with the sport’s independence with the result that the whole of the racing industry would be in jeopardy. The nasty organisation that is Animal Aid are best buddies with Jeremy Corbyn’s wing of the Labour Party and anyone who sides with their views on any issue are not deserving of any encouragement or praise from any member of the racing family. Brexit, of which I am a 100% paid-up supporter, may be of far greater significance to the country than horse racing, and I am aware that short term not being a subject of the E.U. regime will cause racing and the breeding industry quite a few difficulties, but we must believe that one day the whole debacle that is parliament’s shameful dereliction of their duty to pass the necessary legislation to enforce a free and democratic vote will finally come to an end and life will go on. Though for racing, I fear, not as we know it if the Labour Party rise to power.
Having criticised the usually excellent Lee Mottershead, I must in all fairness praise his contribution to exposing the scandal that is presently maligning the Bloodstock Industry. As anyone who has troubled themselves to read these pieces of mine over the months and years will know, I am concerned that the Bloodstock Industry wields too much influence over the race programme, especially with the ever-increasing number of fillies listed and Group 3 races that exist solely to give breeders the advantage of ‘black type’ in sales catalogues.
A filly or mare that wins one of these races, through the use of black type in catalogues when either they of their offspring are sold at auction, is considered a better prospect to buy or breed from simply because it has won a ‘black type’ race, no matter how poor a race it actually was. These listed races are often of far greater value than any other race on the card and as often as not are the least competitive. This is pandering to breeders. The flat, it seems to me, to its detriment is dedicated far too much to the requirements of the Bloodstock Industry and because of it we lose a huge degree of competitiveness.
And how does the Bloodstock Industry repay the sport that feeds it, it covers-up fraudulent and criminal practice under the guise of ‘its how things are traditionally done and its best not to rock the boat’. One way or another, and one feels there is probably a ‘Panorama Special’ in production at this very moment, this scandal will come into the sporting and public arena and once again racing will be hauled over the coals and made to look a rich man’s paradise. Backhanders and false bidding will become the next fifteen minutes worth of black type across the front of many a ‘shocked’ daily newspaper. Instead of the fraudulent and criminal behaviour being confined to the one or two the media will build the story to proportions that will suggest the whole industry is a racket designed to increase the wealth of the already fabulously wealthy. Instead of turning away and ignoring the tsunami of bad publicity coming its way, the great and the good of the industry, led, I would hope, by Tattersalls and the other leading bloodstock sellers, should get together and determine a policy to outlaw the criminal bad practise it has chosen for so long to turn a blind eye to.
This is not racing’s problem. We cannot lay blame, for once, at the feet of the B.H.A., even if it is hard to believe that trainers have not benefitted in one way or another from what has been going on. They certainly must know the guilty parties, so perhaps they should volunteer information.
Racehorse owners are the bedrock of our sport. The horses, jockeys and trainers may receive most of the adulation and headlines but without people, especially owner/breeders and members of syndicates, willing to fork out large sums of money to buy horses and to keep them in training, every other tier of racing’s pyramid will fall. There would be no Derby, no Grand National, no selling handicap at Brighton, Southwell or Hamilton. If potential owners do not have faith in bloodstock agents, the people who train their horses and the sales companies, we are all dead in the water. The Bloodstock Industry should be ashamed of themselves. Not only the perpetrators involved in the scandal but also all those who work in the industry who have failed to expose the guilty parties.

​The answer to the above question is, of course, open to debate. It is as subjective as what is the tastiest jam or is beer better for you than mouthwash. My answer to this question will be different to the answer provided by a twenty-year-old or even a forty-year-old. Or if you are Irish or British. I am also not qualified to pass judgement on American jockeys, for instance, or any foreign jockey or even jockeys foreign or British who plied their trade prior to the middle sixties.
If Lester Piggott or Ryan Moore were riding in the nineteen-twenties or thirties the traditional style of riding then might not have suited their natural style and the likes of Gordon Richards or Charlie Elliott might have proved their superiors. And how can we judge Sir Gordon, Steve Donoghue or Harry Carr against Piggott, Moore, Frankie or any of the champion jockey twixt then and now? It is like asking whether Sir Stanley Matthews would have bamboozled present-day defenders as he did during his time as a professional footballer?
It is personal judgement, isn’t it? Deciding whether quantity is superior to quality, whether duration of a career is worth more points than someone whose career was cut short through injury or, as in the case of Manny Mercer, death. It may even come down to a preference for an individual jockey’s character or even looks. And character does have a bearing.
The greatest legend of the sport is undoubtedly Lester Keith Piggott, one of only a handful of jockeys to transcend the pages of the racing pages and into the consciousness of the general public. He was the ‘housewife’s favourite’, even more so than Sir Gordon Richards back then and Frankie Dettori now. He was and remains revered. Even his prison sentence for tax evasion has done little to change the public’s perception of him.
Yet though initially enthralled by him, as time has passed my opinion of him as a jockey has altered. It is a shame in some respects that the zenith of his ability is not in the present-day, when use of the whip is more condemned than glorified. Today, his rides on The Minstrel and Roberto would have had him not only banned for weeks and not days but vilified in the media as well. In fact to watch replays of those two Derbies is an unsatisfactory experience and hard to justify to anyone outside of the sport. Yet great trainers exulted him, believing he won on horses that mere mortal jockeys would not have done.
In summary, as great a rider as he was, the legend of Piggott disguises the will to win that went beyond, at times, the acceptable. He is not a role model for the modern-day young rider to follow. He was not a good role-model even in his own day.
Whereas the riding of Ryan Moore and Frankie Dettori are tutorials for the ages. But here is the rub, as it was with Lester and perhaps every great jockey before him. Once established, once they have secured the ride on the horse that first propels them into the limelight, they barely ever ride a horse that can be categorised as a ‘bad ride’ and it is ‘bad rides’ that get jockeys riding at a lesser level a reputation unjustified to their skill-set.
Of course, if I asked the question – how many jockeys would have won this year’s King George on Enable? – the answer would be either only a few or virtually any competent jockey. Yet it was a ride that in my estimation was faultless to the enth degree and summed-up without thought or words why at this moment in time Frankie’s confidence is stratospheric, and consequently he can do no wrong. At this moment in time I have no hesitation in nominating him the best jockey riding in Europe.
Yet for the past few seasons I would have said the same about Ryan Moore. Once upon a time I think I said it about Steve Cauthen. Others said it about Pat Eddery, though personally I was not a fan of his bumping the saddle style of riding a finish as I couldn’t believe it didn’t give a horse from time to time a sore back. In Eddery’s time, I was always in the camp of Willie Carson, a jockey who even now I believe to be seriously underrated. And with his combined record in this country and his native Australia, Scobie Breasley should never be overlooked when it comes to compiling the list of ‘greatest-ever’ flat jockeys.
Horses make jockeys, though occasionally jockeys make horses and I suppose that is why some jockeys are superior to others. But would Frankie ride a dodgy one of John Gosden’s on the Heath? Perhaps not. I suspect Rab Havlin would have no hesitation, though. He might actually be a better horseman than Dettori. If Aiden O’Brien should have such a thing as a ‘dodgy one’ at Ballydoyle, I dare say he wouldn’t allow Ryan within the length of a lunge rein of it at home. And that is the way it has been down the centuries in all of the top yards. Great jockeys are not necessarily great horseman. At home, Rab Havlin may be of greater use to John Gosden than Frankie.
So, again, is Lester the greatest flat jockey ever to ride in Europe. Given the choice I would always overlook him in favour of Moore or Dettori. But that does not negate his claim to be a degree or two better than any jockey before or after him.