​I am indebted to a reader who informed me that on Saturday it is fifty years since Spanish Steps, as a six-year-old, won the Hennessey. Yes, fifty years ago. Where does the time go? I was fifteen at the time and in the interim I have almost used up my full quota of years upon this Earth. Chastening or what!
I am convinced that if I were to include reference to Spanish Steps in every blog I post my readership would be many-fold larger than whatever it is. During the early months of horseracingmatters I vented my spleen over the powers-that-be allowing Coolmore to name a two-year-old Spanish Steps. I was livid. Incredulous. That blog continues to draw in replies, all of which agree with my position on the matter and stagger me with the popularity of Edward Courage’s horse and the affection people still feel for him. The stuffed shirts at the B.H.A. cannot seem to get it into their corporate heads that the famous equine names of the past are what brought us to the sport. Names are not simply names but the source of fondly recalled memories; the great names should never be replicated.
I have only been able to find on YouTube film of the last few fences of the 1969 Hennessey. Viewing this short footage gives the impression that the race only drew a small field rather than the respectable 14 that went to post. The main opposition to Spanish Steps were Larbawn, a top-class handicapper owned and trained by Michael Marsh and Gordon Richards’ Playlord, the winner of the previous season’s Great Yorkshire Chase and Scottish Grand National.
The ground was firm, which on all known form would be against Spanish Steps and in favour of Larbawn, a firm ground specialist. At the fifth fence Spanish Steps got a big doss of luck as directly in front of him, as he was in mid-air, both Lady Mynd and Cottager fell, one rolling to the left and bringing down Limeburner, the other to the right, bringing down Playlord, leaving a clear landing strip for Spanish Steps. The race was run at a tremendous pace, with the course record to be broken by nearly 2-seconds. Up that long, unforgiving straight, the race became a two-horse affair between Spanish Steps and Larbawn. The spectators in the stands were expecting a titanic Newbury-type battle to the line but they were to be denied as Spanish Steps drew clear at the second last to win by fifteen lengths, becoming, perhaps, the first in a long-line of heirs to Arkle’s crown. In winning the Hennessey, remarkably, as if scripted, Spanish Steps was his owner/breeder’s 100th winner as a trainer and placed him top of the trainer’s championship. I doubt if we shall see again a permit trainer at the pinnacle of the profession.
A young lad of 16, Paul Dunne (where is he now?) penned this little verse to the great horse (taken from Michael Tanner’s gem of a book ‘My Friend Spanish Steps):
‘Like a proud king he stands   A monarch of all he surveys   A Napoleon of the Turf
Every racecourse his realm’.
I dare say only a few reading this will remember Spanish Steps or will comprehend the fondness of the memories he instilled in us. All I say is go search the archive for the years between 1968 and 1975, all the top chases, Hennesseys, King Georges’, Gold Cups, Grand Nationals. Listen to Peter O’Sullevan’s commentaries and the common denominator will be Spanish Steps. To use a modern phrase ‘he danced all the right dances’ and was always in with a shout, always running on gallantly, usually picking up prize money. He was fourth in the greatest Grand National ever run in 73 behind Red Rum, giving him 22lbs, Crisp and L’Escargot, his first try at the race aged 10. The race record time was broken by a staggering 19 seconds, if my memory serves me correctly. In 1974 he was 4th again, with 11st 9lbs. In 1975 he was 3rd beaten only by dual Gold Cup winner L’Escargot and dual Grand National winner, at the time, Red Rum. In 1976, aged 13, he finished 9th. His dam never fell around Aintree, neither did her most famous son.
In all honesty, even his greatest admirers could not place Spanish Steps’ name alongside the names of the greatest steeplechasers. He won a Hennessey; he won the novice chase at the Cheltenham Festival now known as the R.S.A. and in all he won 16 races. He was too often the bridesmaid. But that is not the point. He was honest, game and never once let his connections or his adoring public down. He began his career as a racehorse at Chepstow as a 4-year-old ridden by John Buckingham and without missing a season in between he finished aged 13 at Aintree in the Grand National ridden by Jeff King. If only they had chanced their arm a year or two earlier at Aintree.
It is a scandal that the powers-that-be allow such hallowed names as his to be given to other horses. These noble knights of our sport should be given the honour of having their names die with them. I have not asked Michael Tanner’s permission, and I hope he will excuse my impertinence, but here is the final paragraph of his fine tribute to Spanish Steps. His beautiful sentiment speaks for so many of us.
‘Never a day passes without my thoughts drifting peacefully away toward that green patch of North Oxfordshire wherein Spanish Steps holds court. I often wonder if he relives the halcyon days as much as I do. I cannot claim to have settled my debt to Spanish Steps but hopefully this tribute will ensure that those deeds of derring-do at Newbury, Cheltenham, Aintree and the rest will never be forgotten by anyone who ever knew, or loved, the noblest of animals. I, for one, both know and love Spanish Steps and will never forget him.
 
 

​Reporters who must present their opinions within minutes, or perhaps a few hours, of a race finishing have my sympathy. Sometimes, as with photo-finishes, first thoughts prove correct. But on the whole, I think opinions require a night’s sleep to help them marinate. This is why trainers can change track and campaign their horses completely differently to what they tell reporters directly after a race. On this occasion, though, my thoughts on Monday mirror my first reactions from Saturday.
Let’s start with the Ascot race. On seeing the two protagonists in the parade ring, I considered Cyrname fitter than Altior and though nominating the former to win during the morning of the race, I changed my opinion upon seeing the horses walking around the parade ring. I take no credit in being proved correct. Now, Cyrname might yet prove himself the better horse this season but it is my view that on Saturday the fitter horse prevailed, not necessarily the better horse.
After Cheltenham last season, I advised (as if he has the time or the inclination to visit this site) Nicky Henderson to run Altior over 3-miles at Aintree, or where he chose, so as to decide there and then the likelihood of Altior possessing the stamina for the King George. This would have allowed him to have a campaign set out in stone for this season. After Saturday, of course, he is none the wiser. Should he go for the King George or the Desert Orchid? Does he wish he had waited for the Tingle Creek and waited for Ascot in February to decide his Cheltenham plans?
One fact is certain: Cyrname is top-class and Harry Cobden has a difficult choice to make come Christmas. What does confuse me, though, is why connections are worrying themselves over Cyrname’s ability to go left-handed. I saw nothing on Saturday to make me think he wouldn’t cope around Newbury – after Boxing Day I would take Cyrname to the Denman Chase – though until they run him on an up and down course like Cheltenham, the question of will he or won’t he will never be answered.
At Haydock the result of the Betfair seems much more clear-cut. Lostintranslation is a gorgeous specimen of a steeplechaser. And more importantly, he races as if he thoroughly enjoys himself. What worries me, and it always worries me about any horse, is when the jockey says ‘I got to the front way too soon’. There is jeopardy associated with such statements. It implies that for such a horse to win everything must go right. Remember Harchibald. Not that Lostintranslation is a Harchibald. Far from it. But you wouldn’t want whatever is in front of him going to the last to fall as the implication in Robbie Power’s statement is that Lostintranslation might just pose for the cameras.
I also wouldn’t trust the bare form of the Betfair. Bristol De Mai is undoubtedly a better horse around Haydock than anywhere else and though I wouldn’t want to contradict his genius of a trainer, of all the top trainers Twiston-Davies is the most thoroughly underrated, but despite his Gold Cup effort last year Bristol De Mai does underperform more times than he sparkles. I am also of the opinion now – up until Saturday I thought him an out and out stayer and would have liked to have seen him in a Grand National – that he only just gets home over an extended 3-miles. If the Gold Cup looks ultra-competitive this season, I would seriously think about the Ryanair where he could bound along, using his quite brilliant jumping, and string out all the non-stayers and not-quite-so-goods.
Of course, of the four runners at Haydock and the three at Ascot, Lostintranslation is by far the most likely to win a Gold Cup. If not this season, then next. Or the one after that.
I cannot leave Saturday be without mentioning Frodon. And here I must contradict Paul Nicholls. Haydock was all wrong for Frodon. What he needs is a proper jumping course like Cheltenham, and tucking him in is also wrong. I’m not suggesting for one moment that Frodon would have finished anywhere other than third on Saturday, just that his magnificent jumping was of little use to him as, though neither are as extravagant as he is, both his main rivals are also exceptional jumpers.
Oh, and don’t say Frodon doesn’t get 3-miles. He stayed better than Ballyoptic on Saturday and he is Grand National bound, apparently. It is just that on Saturday at Haydock, on that ground, with the tactics employed, two horses were better than him. It doesn’t mean he wouldn’t get closer to the winner in the King George (where else can they go with him) or that connections should dismiss the possibility of having a crack at the Gold Cup.
Where I would like Frodon to go, though, as unlikely as it might seem, is the Grand National. With Tiger Roll and Native River in the race, or at least entered, he would get in with a reasonable weight and with his sure-footed jumping, and it must be said a record that suggests winning over 4-miles plus is long-odds against, he reminds me so much, though not in stature, of the mighty Crisp. Can you imagine him and Bryony dancing around Aintree? I doubt if Paul Nicholls can. We can dream, though.
 
 

​Horses will always be at risk of injury and death while we pursue our love of horse racing. That will be the situation no matter what authority is in charge of horse welfare, be it the B.H.A. or an independent body set-up by whichever colour of government is in office. The only difference between horse welfare within the remit of the B.H.A. and an outside, so-called independent body, is that one is inherently ineffective whilst the other will act in accordance of the ignorance of their ‘masters’.
Last year’s public relations exercise at Cheltenham and Aintree is a case in point when demonstrating an example of the B.H.A.’s ineffectiveness. In three-day events veterinary inspections of every horse due to compete in the cross-country and show-jumping phases is commonplace and no doubt necessary after the rigours of the cross-country. As with event riders, no trainer would enter a horse for a major event like Badminton or the Cheltenham Festival if it was in any way unfit to compete. In fact, it was downright insulting to trainers that the B.H.A. thought it possible that a trainer might try to run an unfit horse at the highest and most popular racing festival in the whole racing calendar.
Veterinary inspections the morning after (or sooner) a race would have at least shown-up any deep tissue injuries or indeed any injury. If such procedures were carried out regularly over many seasons it would provide interesting data that might come in useful in determining and eliminating risk.
The B.H.A. are undoubtedly sincere in their pursuit of the highest animal welfare conditions and in setting up a dedicated department they should be congratulated. But by god they are slow in getting their act together.
Remember the research that suggested horses cannot see orange and that a new colour for the take-off rails and tops of hurdles had to be determined. There are only a limited number of colours in the spectrum. One or two mornings on the schooling grounds in Lambourn should be enough to eliminate most of the nominees. It might take a little longer to decide whether mauve or red, for example, would be the safest and correct choice. But not the on-going length of time it has so far taken. This rather basic detail might be the biggest improvement in horse welfare our sport has ever achieved. It should be a matter of express delivery.
It is the same with the decades old debate on the whip. Instead of initiating a series of hand and heel races for professionals to trial the concept, the B.H.A. is talking to stakeholders and gathering opinion. More delay and dithering.
I believe that the greatest benefit of jockeys being unable to resort to the whip is that fewer horses will suffer tendon and back injuries as jockeys will have to sit quieter and concentrate on keeping their mounts balanced and running in a straight line. I also think the top jockeys will be less inconvenienced by a ‘whip ban’ than those lower in the pecking order as they are true horseman seduced into riding like their predecessors. In five years, every apprentice, if use of the whip is reduced to a minimum, will vie to ride in image of the way Frankie Dettori rode Enable at Ascot this season just gone and this infernal and seemingly eternal debate will be history.
If we as a collective are to give horse welfare the highest priority, then allowing a jockey to whip, even with the force of a feather, a horse in a close finish, whether he or she is allowed two, six or eight cracks, is detrimental to the image and long-term future of horse racing. I always remember Joe Mercer’s reply when he was criticised for not using his whip on Bustino in his epic battle with Grundy in the King George and Queen Elizabeth: why pick up my stick, he was galloping as fast as he could anyway. A reply and a sentiment to sell a sport.
The Monday after the 1979 Grand National, won by Rubstic, there was a photograph in the Sporting Life taken in the aftermath of Alverton’s demise at Bechers. Sadly, this brave horse, that year’s Gold Cup winner, had broken his neck and Jonjo O’Neill was sat on the ground cradling the horse’s head in his lap. Jonjo was crying his eyes out.
In a perfect world horses would not die in pursuit of our entertainment. It is not what any one of us wants to happen and we would do anything to prevent it. But it happens. The social contract is that we care for these brave and beautiful animals to the utmost of our ability and punish severely anyone who falls short in his or her responsibilities. Horse welfare is the bedrock of the sport and this message must be trumpeted loud and clear not only to the public but the ignorant politicians who use our limitations and failures to gain votes and popularity. When Alverton died, it broke Jonjo’s heart. That photograph – I was still quite naïve at the time – gave me a jolt. It vividly brought home to me that horses could lose their lives when falling, and that jockeys could care so deeply about them that they could not prevent themselves from crying in public. Hard men, soft hearts.
If horse racing is not regulated by those with a deep understanding of the sport, and that is not necessarily the B.H.A., if such responsibilities are handed-over to independent committees funded by government, the sport will eventually be strangled into submission. Horse racing generates tax for the government, so it will not be banned, not even National Hunt, but it will be neutered out of all recognition. Those who presently argue in favour of the whip are unwittingly the best friends of our enemies. When it comes to horse welfare, the moral high ground is not necessarily ours by right.
 

​On this site I have a page dedicated to an ever-extending list of possible names for racehorses that owners might wish to take advantage of. If it can be described as a service, it is at least free. I do suggest, though, that a donation be given to any of the horse rehabilitation centres. The question most frequently asked, I suspect, by anyone choosing to browse my site, is why? Here’s why.
Firstly, and I freely admit it, it has become a bit of an obsession. Secondly, I am now wondering how far into the future I can continue to come up with fresh names. Thirdly, after owning a racehorse or to be wealthy enough to own a racehorse, my ambition would be to name a racehorse, preferably one of my own. One day, one day, fate and Lottery willing. Fourthly, as someone who is perhaps not as educated as one should be for hosting a site dependent on the written word, I struggle to remember the names of horses, in particular French and Arabic, with foreign names. Fifthly, someone from the B.H.A. or it might have been Wetherby’s said it was not as easy to name a horse as some might think. I think it is. I may not be the cleverest cookie in the jar but even I know that the English language is as replete with words and the combination of words as there are celestial bodies in the heavens. In fact, the English language might outnumber the stars, comets, planets and everything else in the cosmos. And that is to exclude every other language in the world or even names made up using a combination of words from different languages, many of which I would doubtless disapprove of.
In years to come, given I have years to come, I will struggle (I do now) to remember the name of Paul Nicholl’s King George winner Clan Des Obeaux, mainly because of all the other Des Obeaux there are about – Alpha Des Obeaux, Chef Des Obeaux, to name but three. I also struggle with horses with the name Collonges in their name. I accept that these horses come to our shores already named and place no blame against their present owners and that as long as the trade with French breeders continues there is very little anyone, even if there is anyone other than me who cares about the subject, which I doubt, can do to change this French invasion of our race-cards.
Arabic names also perplex me: Wohileh, Tashaaboh, Muraahin, Kitaabaat, Laraaib, for example. I have no doubt that anyone whose tongue fits smoothly around such tongue-twisters, all quite respectable names, I have no doubt, will think me racist or xenophobic. I am not, believe me. And I respect Hamdan Al Maktoum’s right to name his horses anyway he chooses, within the 18-character protocol laid down by the B.H.A. He ploughs enough resources into the sport to be allowed a bit of rope, even by me. But his naming policy is why I cheer louder for his brother and Prince Khalid Abdullah, not that he will sleep over it.
But in the future these names, even for the educated and those with eidetic memories, will merge and coalesce into a Gordian knot in which recollection and fact cannot be plucked.
I also dislike names such as Goaheadwiththeplan and Willyouwalkwithme, and such like, many of which are imposed upon us (or at least on me) by my all-time racing hero J.P. McManus. Shutthefrontdoor comes easily to mind. These names do not infringe the naming rules as they do not possess more than 18 characters but by all that is good and holy, don’t they look ugly on the page. And they make a mockery of the English language. Fowler and all the English Dons at Oxford and Cambridge would be apoplectic to see the language played with as if it is Playdoh. Other squidgy stuff is available, I think.
We are a respectable sport; we wish to be taken seriously by the public. If we cannot afford our horses sensible names – and no horse in the past hundred years with a silly name has ever won a classic on the flat or over jumps – we risk planting the seed in the heads of our detractors (our enemies) that their perceived lack of care of horses, that they are bred and used simply for our entertainment and nothing else, accompanies the horse from birth to death.
We owe the horse our total respect. Yes, the horse doesn’t know the name he races under and barely recognises his stable name (Fred, Whiffy or Bert), so he or she is not offended to be called Thatsmyseat or Winalotwithalittle. We owe the sport our total respect. To my mind, as perhaps alone as I am, obligation of respect covers all facets of the sport and as the name of the horse is in some ways the face of the sport to the public, the names we give horses is not a matter for levity but a serious issue that should be debated by those with the honour of owning racehorses and given consideration by the B.H.A. 

​In today’s Racing Post, Richard Forristal, with wisdom, authority and a command of the language (he is when all said and done a trained professional journalist) that far outstrips anything I have ever achieved, put forth his opinion on both the concept of City Street Racing and how likely it is to come to fruition. The editor of the Racing Post would not allow him to use the phrase ‘the idea is bollocks’, though clearly that is his opinion. I have no such censorship imposed upon me and though I do not like to descend to such a language the phrase does represent my contempt for the concept. On the likelihood of City Street Racing actually taking place, Forristal, I am pleased to announce, thinks it as likely as Jo Swinson going on a romantic dinner date with Nigel Farrage.
City Street Racing is both a Public Relations catastrophe waiting to happen. City Street sport works well for athletics, allowing the fans to get close-up to the action, to almost rub shoulders with the athletes taking part. It also brings a whole new dynamic to motor racing. In both these sports it is comparatively easy to protect the public if something is to go wrong. Barriers are erected to protect spectators if cars crash or flip into the air and cars, no matter how fast they can travel when their wheels are touching the ground, will eventually come to a halt, and of course drivers can apply the brakes. Drivers of motor cars have far more control than a jockey on a fired-up racehorse.
Using modified pallets to use as a track for athletes is a proven formula and as Forristal admitted, the concept has worked when trialled in what is ostensibly a field, with horses, I guess, galloping in Indian File. But male athletes are thirteen-stone or more, I guess, (all that muscle must make them heavier than they might look) with females perhaps around ten-stone, and in athletics there is only a maximum of four per race whether it is a sprint or a hurdles event. The force going through the racing surface to the pallets will be the best part of a half-a-ton per horse greater, times a maximum field which I believe will be eight runners. As Forristal writes, the ground surface will move unless it is heavily banked on either side, which will minimalize the view of the spectators.
Although I accept that what was a rural, countryside sport, at its inception, racecourses are now situated in close proximity to housing developments, major roads and the general urban sprawl, yet the horses still race in what is to all effect a green lung of fresh air. If living in the centre of major cities is unhealthy for ordinary people, especially people with allergies and breathing complaints, how can it be a good idea for racehorses, who will be breathing deeply while racing, especially so at the end of races, to be raced in such toxic conditions?
My main concern, though, is the likelihood, and it will happen, as we see it happen often at proper racecourses, of horses getting loose. Racehorses can escape railed racecourses. When panicked they can jump walls and fences, gallop into stationary objects, slip on tarmac, almost any scenario you can think of is possible. Horses can also sustain untreatable injuries, rear-over in the stalls (they will have stalls, I would think) and kick one another. Jockeys, too, can suffer serious injuries.
There is not one acceptable aspect to City Street Racing. Every race will be a sprint. Every race will be for older horses. Only a limited number of jockeys will be required. It does not represent horse racing as we know it in any way. And it is not the way to present our sport to a curious public. As I have said before, and it may not be as sexy or innovative as racing on pallets up city streets, the simplest way to market our sport to the general public is to lay on a fleet of coaches and take people on a free day out to their local racecourse. Give them a free race-card and organise a free bet with one of the big bookmakers. Have people on hand to answer questions and to take them a guided tour of the racecourse. An initiation ceremony, if you wish. Have one of these ‘free days’ every month and put on a show, have a display of retired horses, have jockeys speak to our ‘newbies’, have films of the great horses, the great races, running on a loop somewhere. Celebrity endorsements, perhaps. Sometimes the simple ideas are the best. After all, the racecourses are already in place, as are the horses, the jockeys, the racing, etc.
For pities sake B.H.A., kick City Street Racing in the head, yes, put it out of its misery, and get off your backsides and show some initiative yourselves.

​In today’s Racing Post, David Jennings makes a very good point about how the flat season traditionally fades away to a whisper. That’s the turf flat season, obviously, as flat racing in this country does not have a true beginning or any sort of end. What he did not mention was that the flat also starts with a whimper, which might be alleviated if the Lincoln Handicap featured amongst five other valuable handicaps to form some kind of national million-quid super bet, thereby announcing the start of the turf flat season with something more-akin to a bang.
Although I agreed with the premise of David Jenning’s article, he overlooked the obvious meeting to end the season – Champions Day.
I have said this before and will now repeat myself: there is very little point to Champions Day. The ‘champions’ in the title refers to the winners of varying divisions of the Qipco Championship Series, and I defy anyone to remember this year’s winners, let alone those from years gone by.
As David Jennings rightly reminded his readers; the National Hunt season finishes with top-notch races, some of which feature top-class horses, plus the race that remains in the memory of people of my vintage, the Whitbread Gold Cup that was. This flat season, which year-on-year fades away on heavy ground at Doncaster, slipped away even more quietly when Doncaster fell victim to the storms in the north of the country. Just because Doncaster traditionally starts the flat season, though not always, there is no reason why it should draw to a conclusion at Doncaster.
Of course, there is an argument that in order to sell the sport to a wider audience, very much in the manner the Breeders’ Cup is organised, Champions Day could be staged at different venues year-on-year. Why should it be solely attached to Ascot? It would provide a boost to the north of the country if it came ashore at Doncaster occasionally, with what is now the November Handicap added to the programme, as well as whatever the last Group 1 two-year-old race is called in any one year. I am quite sure Newbury, Newmarket, York or Sandown would also do the day justice.
I would favour lopping two weeks off the season, there are too many meetings anyway despite the wailings of both the racecourses and the betting industry, and finishing the season with Champions Day. I realise the purists will say that having Champions Day later in the year will, with the close proximity of the Breeders’ Cup and the big races in Australia, dilute the pool of top-quality horses available but that is the case already with Champions Day being staged prior to those international meetings.
My view on Champions Day as it is at the moment, is that it is a puffed-up, glad-rags day for the big wealthy owners to trouser ever-more prize money and which has been shoe-horned into the racing programme at the expense of all and sundry and which has failed miserably to recreate (the inspiration, I suggest, for the Champions Day concept) the feel-good factor day of A.P. McCoy’s retirement at Sandown.
Also, Champions Day compounds the stupid idea of starting the jockeys’ championship in May, disregarding the races run since the start of the season, and concluding it when there is still more than a month of turf racing to get through. Try explaining the present system to someone with little but a passing interest in racing. It’s like starting the race for the Premiership in October when the season actually begins in August and then not bothering with any games after April. At least by ending the turf season with Champions Day all the various jockey titles can be awarded on the same day and a definite line can be drawn under the season once the final race of the day is run.
Moving Champions Day back a few weeks is not like proposing changing the date of the Epsom Derby to July or Royal Ascot to August. The Grand National meeting, the Cheltenham Festival, the Derby, Royal Ascot, Glorious Goodwood etc, are blue-chip meetings of great esteem. The danger is that Champions Day will soon be considered of similar merit when it is nothing of the kind. At least as the final day of the turf season it will assume a proper and fitting date in the racing calendar.

​I recently wrote a piece about Timmy Murphy and how he had to admit to being an alcoholic before going on to enjoy the best years of his career. Alcohol nearly destroyed his career and ruined him as a man and he only just saved himself from becoming yet another victim of its brain-addling addiction.
Timmy Murphy was a gifted jockey, yet possessing a talent millions of others would pay fortunes for is no guarantee of happiness and success. Arguably Terry Biddlecombe was an even better jockey than Timmy Murphy, certainly he was more successful, becoming champion jockey three times, as well as winning the Cheltenham Gold Cup, yet the demon drink held him in its vice-like grip too.
Like all teetotallers, I suspect, I rather look down my nose at people who allow their lives to be dominated by alcohol or any other addiction. Subconsciously I also envy the always-inebriated as fun seems to come so easily to them. But I digress.
In ‘Winner’s Disclosure’, Terry’s autobiography, he charts his career from farmer’s son through his highly successful time as Fred Rimell’s stable jockey, to marriage, fatherhood and retirement. It is about the horses and trainers who got him going, the big winners, Turkish baths (there are many paragraphs about Turkish baths) and tales of silly pranks and derring-do. It is a typical jockey’s biography. Highly readable yet also somehow lacking.
And it is not only the drink that Terry had in common with Timmy Murphy. Both of their autobiographies end before the really interesting part of their lives get going. Timmy won a Grand National and metamorphosised into a flat jockey after his book was published. Terry left for Australia, suffered from depression, became a serious alcoholic, divorced his second wife, and was saved from drinking himself to death at the eleventh hour and yet went on to become a living legend alongside his final wife, Henrietta Knight (no relation, she will be pleased to know).
Now, I have a tenuous connection to the lives and loves of Terry Biddlecombe as during the time of his brush with death and admitting to being an alcoholic, I was working as a herdsman for his brother Tony on the family farm in Gloucestershire. I was told by someone of sound reputation, by the way, that Tony was the better jockey of the two brothers and was certainly the better built for such a profession. He gave up riding – he was champion amateur in his day – to run the family farm.
If I remember the facts correctly, it was Tony’s wife who found Terry unconscious and with little sign of him wanting to fend-off the Grim Reaper and got him to hospital in the nick of time. As with alcoholics, they found bottles of alcohol, miniature and regular-size, in every nook and cranny, in coat pockets, down the sides of furniture, in the airing closet and so on. It seems greater the man, the greater the disgrace.
He is, and always will remain, one of the legends of the sport, the last of the cavalier jockeys, almost the antithesis of today’s more sober, more professional, jockey. Life for Terry and his peers was for living. He lived for racing, riding, women, champagne and keeping his middle-weight boxer’s physique lithe and supple enough for him to ride at around 11st and a few pounds. He may be considered as the last of the cavaliers but his dedication to keeping in trim would have few equals today. And, of course, it is said he broke every bone in his body during his career. No wonder one of his best and longest friends was his doctor.
‘Winner’s Disclosure’ was published in 1982. How things have changed since then. At the time no National Hunt jockey had ridden a hundred winners in two successive seasons and few had exceeded his lifetime total of 905 winners. By the standards of today Terry and his colleagues could not have been trying very hard. His final total can be better appreciated if you take into account that before him Fred Winter, Josh Gifford and jockeys of the calibre of Dick Francis, Tim Brookshaw and Tim Molony finished their careers with fewer winners than Terry.
Where in the pantheon of great National Hunt jockeys Terry Biddlecombe should be placed is neither here nor there. The sporting gods, even if occasionally they deserted him, had his back, they healed him when he was broken and allowed him a pathway back to the front pages of the racing press when they had Henrietta Knight introduced to him. He may have even achieved the holy grail of life– he might have died happier than he had lived as alcoholics hide the ravages of their lives behind a mask of false jollity.
He died in 2014 after a long illness that had at its root the many injuries he endured as a jockey. He was married to Henrietta for 19 years and were best mates for all of that time.

​I have in my possession a poverty-stricken looking book titled ‘My Rum Life’. It is the autobiography of Brian Fletcher, a jockey who really should be a legend of the sport but somehow after his retirement in 1976 faded into self-imposed anonymity.
His pocket-sized book, published by Viking, is devoid of pictures, except one of him jumping a plain park fence on Red Rum which adorns the cover. Photographs, especially in Fletcher’s day, were expensive to include in a book, though it may be possible that Fletcher had no mementoes of his halcyon days as a multiple Grand National winning jockey. Certainly, the tone of his narrative leaves an indelible mark on the reader that he carried a large chip of resentment on his shoulder. Perhaps a chip on either shoulder.
He won three Grand Nationals and claims it should have been at least four as he was convinced that he would have won on Red Alligator the year they all fell down at the fence after Bechers. Of course, conveniently, he omits to include in his thinking that if he had won in 1967 Red Alligator would have carried the best part of a stone more in 1968. He did win, though, ridiculously easily, possibly one of the easiest wins during my lifetime. He also claimed Red Rum would have won in 1975 if he had ridden him and not Tommy Stack who he thought rode an ‘awful race’.
Fletcher lost the ride on Red Rum because, he claims, Ginger McCain thought he was being too easy on the horse, not ‘using the whip enough to have him finish second instead of third. Fletcher told McCain he thought the horse ‘had gone’ and suggested he should be retired. As Fletcher stated many times in his book, he was always a jockey for telling connections the truth as he saw it. Obviously in this instance McCain thought Fletcher a long way from the truth and had the last laugh when Red Rum won his third Grand National two years after Fletcher retired and after his book was published. The great omission in ‘My Rum Life’ is that for the reader it would be interesting to know Fletcher’s reaction to that historic 1977 Grand National.
The narrative of the book is made disjointed by Fletcher hopping forward and backward in time. The injury in 1972 that almost cost him his life is only dealt with in the second from last chapter. The final chapter being the how and why he retired. It was as serious a head injury as could be and he was out-of-action for ten-months. He was advised to retire but anyone reading his autobiography could only form the opinion that at Fletcher’s core was a sheaf of stubbornness, and he did go on to win two more Grand Nationals, so who is to say he was wrong to ignore medical opinion. He said that all he could think about during his long spell in hospital was his wife and career, yet in the final chapter he informs his readers that his wife left him, taking their son, and that he blamed himself for the breakdown in their marriage. I suspect the fall in 1972 at Teesside Park was the cause of everything that went wrong in his life, perhaps changing his character, emphasising the less charitable aspects of his persona.
He always was an odd-ball, I suspect. He won three Grand Nationals and did not celebrate any one of them with either the connections of his winning horse, the Aintree executive or attend the official function at the Adelphi Hotel. He would walk instead to the home of a local couple, Mr & Mrs. Capstick, with a few bottles of the champagne from the case that he begrudgingly bought his fellow jockeys, as tradition dictated, and had a victory supper with them.
He died in 2017, January 11th, aged 69.
 
To refer back to the decision of the Ascot stewards not to disqualify Diego Du Charmil on Saturday. It seems that it only the Racing Post’s Tom Segal who shares my opinion that the Ascot stewards, in trying to decide if the winner actually jumped the fence and did not infringe the rules of racing, completely ignored to adjudicate on the not inconsiderable infraction of the rules that makes it a riding offence to wipe-out a fellow horse and rider. If Diego Du Charmil had been disqualified, as he should have been, the owner of Capeland, the innocent victim in all of this, would have collected fourth prize, some consolation for the injustice meted out to Capeland by both fate and the stewards. Innocence should never be punished. The B.H.A. should review this race, holding a second inquiry if necessary.

​First off, let me say that I lay little blame on Lorcan Williams. I may be a paid-up member of the Bryony Frost fan-club but that in no way colours my view that the Ascot stewards came to the wrong conclusion on the incident at the last fence in the Bryne Group Handicap Chase. Clearly Diego Du Charmil attempted to run-out and in doing so completely took away any chance Capeland had of either winning the race or finishing second. I am aware that the loose horse (Ballywood) veering away from the fence was a mitigating factor and, in the split-second circumstances, Lorcan Williams could do little to stop his mount doing likewise. The fact he performed heroics and no little skill in getting his horse back on an even keel and win the race should have had no bearing at the stewards’ enquiry.
If this incident had occurred after the last fence, in the final furlong, with Diego Du Charmil cannoning into Capeland and knocking him sideways, there is no question he would have been disqualified. Also, if both horses had jumped the last Capeland would at worst had finished second, and given the way he is normally ridden it was highly possible he would have won, so to have him disqualified him from fifth, where he eventually finished, was just rubbing salt into a wound that was not of his making. Whichever way you look at it, Capeland was the innocent victim of a highly unusual occurrence and yet it is his connections that have paid the penalty. If Capeland had finished second £12,822 would have gone to his owner, yet he was actually deprived of the £1,608 he might have received for finishing fifth.
In my opinion Clondaw Castle should have been awarded the race, as undeserving as he might have been. This was a very poor decision by the Ascot stewards.
I wonder what thoughts Bryony had on her journey home last night. She won on Ecco, so her day was not totally without benefit, yet she rode a really good race on the hard-pulling Red Force One only to be denied by a neck and as usual Black Corton ran his socks off to finish third to a well-handicapped Vinndication – a Grand National horse, not a Gold Cup horse – and Regal Encore, giving him 21lbs. The write-up in the Racing Post described Black Corton as ‘a likeable sort’, which is damning as honest a horse that has ever looked through a bridle with faint praise. He must be every owner’s dream horse.
It was a strange day for Paul Nicholls, not withstanding the ‘Diego Du Charmil incident’. Both his runners at Down Royal must have pleased him, even if they both only came second. Clan Des Obeaux ran an eye-catching race in the Ladbroke Champion Chase, jumping wonderfully and only being caught-out by a horse far easier to have 100% fit first-time out. If Secret Investor is being trained for the Ladbroke Trophy at Newbury, second over an inadequate trip to Real Steel should be seen as a good performance. Not that I think the form will stack-up as the season progresses as Mengil Khan was not in the mood to exert himself and Minella Fair shaped more like a 4-miler.
It was pleasing to see Samcro winning on Friday, though it will be a concern if he continues to jump to the right as such habits can be an indicator of something amiss.
Finally, I’m no fan of the Breeders Cup. I just don’t think it shows the sport in the right P.C. light to have vast amounts of prize money for what is in the main rather ordinary racing. It is a rich-man’s knees-up, held on a surface that is questionable and taped-together by the use of drugs that are banned in most racing countries. Having said that, what the Breeders Cup didn’t need, and Santa Anita authorities must have prayed not to happen, was to have a horse suffer a life-ending injury. The Breeders Cup committee took a chance keeping the meeting at Santa Anita given the adverse publicity the track has had over the past twelve months with over thirty equine fatalities during that period, a situation that was undefendable, and unfortunately it has backfired on them. Not one of the winners will receive the same publicity as Mongolian Groom, the horse that broke down so badly it had to be destroyed. One can only hope Melbourne does not suffer the same sort of unwanted publicity on Tuesday.