Despite all that I have said about this year’s Grand National, on the whole I have no real issue with any one trainer having six or more runners in the race. I would prefer it not to be the case but I would rather that the maximum number of runners not being reached. Obviously, I would give oceans for there to be more British-trained horses in the race, plus a few from trainers unused to the big occasions, as was once the situation.
As what has been done to the Grand National continues upset me, I shall move on. We live in Willie’s world. He is now central to everything that matters in the sport and collectively we should praise his achievements and keep away from criticising his domination. As Gordon Elliott said during Cheltenham, British trainers only have to face-up to Willie for a few days a year, he has to take him on seven-days-a-week. Although the number of horses he trains is far larger than his counterparts in past decades, his domination of the major races is similar to when Vincent O’Brien came, saw and conquered. People tend to forget that for a couple of decades the man to fear was Tom Dreaper; Arkle was not the only great horse he trained and his raids on Cheltenham were looked upon with the same fear and envy as Willie Mullins today. Michael Dickinson, too, ruled the roost for many seasons and to a less extent, given the phenomenal numbers of winners he trained during his career, Martin Pipe. The world turns and we turn with it. Willie rules and we are but his subjects. One should be remember, when the O’Leary brothers fell-out with Mullins over training fees, it seemed to all of us that the bottom had fallen out of Willie’s career. I believe he lost up to sixty-horses in one fell swoop and yet his present position of king of all he surveys began the day those horses left Closutton. He rose from adversity to become a colossus. He deserves his reign as the man everyone of his rivals fear the most. O’Brien, Dreaper, Dickinson, Pipe, Mullins. Vincent O’Brien transferred his genius to flat racing, Tom Dreaper’s owners died away, Michael Dickinson was seduced by Robert Sangster to the flat, perhaps a decision that haunts him to this day and Martin Pipe retired and his major owners, too, leaving this world before son David could be similarly advantaged by their buying power. Closutton, too, will lose the owners that underpin Willie’s success, he, too, will weary and hand over the baton to his son and as when Tom Dreaper acceded to his son Jim, the major races will continue to be won by a Dreaper, only for the same scenario of major owners dying and new powerful owners planting their seeds in the stables of Closutton’s rivals. Willie Mullins deserves his success. He comes across as a nice man, always willing to talk to the media and to be as helpful as his mercurial nature will allow. The thing with people associated with ‘genius’ is that they cannot explain to themselves let alone explain to others how it all works, what he does that gives him the edge. It happens. Doubtless it is an accumulation of experiences over a lifetime of being around horses, the mistakes made good, what went wrong over the years turned into nuggets of gold, his mind becoming ever more attuned to the thoughts, moods and emotions of the horses in his charge. There is only so much he can teach Patrick, the golden stuff he will have to pick up himself. I suspect Willie listens to the people he employs and sees what his horses are telling him. Horses can talk, yet only a few rare people can understand what is being conveyed. And you have to remember, Willie Mullins trains as many losers as anyone else, it is just, I believe, that with Willie he learns more from those that do not win as he does from those that do win. And another point worth bearing in mind, as when an athletics coach has many world-record holders under his supervision, Willie has so many Grade 1 horses that on the gallops the lesser horses have to work harder and gain a higher level of fitness than if those same horses were trained by someone with no Grade 1 horses, and of course some horses of Grade 1 ability are not always good work-horses themselves, yet they also benefit from having so many top-class horses around them. Willie Mullins has peaked. He cannot get any better, even if he adds the British trainers’ crown to his many Irish titles, and at some point, given he runs multiple horses in Grade 1’s, some owners will get fed-up with being also-rans and transfer those horses to other trainers in hope of a transformation in their win ratio. But as of this age of the sport, Willie Mullins is the greatest we have ever seen, even if we must bear in mind that he trains far more horses year-in, year-out, than any of the ‘genius’ trainers that have come before him and that he exists at a period of the sport where there are fewer trainers, fewer big-spending owners and far fewer horses in training. For all that, though, we must fall-down at his feet and praise him for his supremacy. There is only one Willie Mullins. Let us hope that in ten or twenty-years time we are not saying there is only one Patrick Mullins!
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To say, ‘It is what it is’, when something cannot be changed, even when you think it wrong, is to take the road of least resistance. Occasionally, waving the white flag, turning the other cheek or simply accepting your opponents’ argument may, in the long-term, prove stronger than your own, is the easiest position to accede to.
In bowing allegiance to the protestors’ hymn-book, Aintree has accepted credence in the opinion that the Grand National is too severe and diverted the race and the sport down a path to possible extinction. National Hunt racing is barbaric, cruel and an affront to public decency, the unwritten headline now reads. A win for the protestors; disruptions can be triumphal. It is comforting to know I am not alone in believing the real essence of the Aintree Grand National has been sacrificed in order to placate the minority of the public who would wish our sport to go the same way as bear-baiting and cock-fighting. Yet, apart from registering our disquiet at the latest batch of alterations to the race, there is little to be gained from fighting the inevitable. Suleka Varma will not back down, especially when so many people of influence voiced their approval on national t.v. of the neutering of the once great race. What is at stake, though, in diverting the race and the sport so far away from its roots, is the very possibility that we are entering the beginning of the end. It must be remembered, even if the first recorded ‘steeple’ chase was in Ireland when two local dignitaries raced to win a bet between themselves, horse racing as a spectator sport began in 1839 with the Liverpool Grand Steeplechase, won, of course, by Lottery and Jem Mason. For historical clarity, in 1843 the race became known as the Liverpool and National Handicap Steeplechase, won by Vanguard and Tom Olliver, only becoming the Grand National Handicap in 1847 when Matthew and Denis Wynne were the winners. We live in different times, of course. The values and beliefs of 1847 were different to today, the horse then was a beast of burden, where the horse now is known to be a sentient being and worthy of not only of our affection but a duty of care. In the early days of the Grand National there was plough to contend with, a stone wall and huge ditches at Bechers and Valentines; nothing we would contemplate today. The popularity of National Hunt racing stems from the Liverpool Grand Steeplechase; that is where the roots of the sport can be traced to and I would argue the further the sport drifts from its birthplace, the closer it comes to its final years. That is what I find so repugnant about the latest round of alterations, that the race is now but a shadow of what it used to be. I understand, and appreciate, the overall feeling that the Grand National of 2024 was a race apart; the relief that there were no equine fatalities, though when the ground is soft, the race is always run at a slower pace and this makes jumping errors less common. But when a Grand National has no fallers, no incidents for the experts to unpick, you can be sure the excitement of the supreme test of horse and rider is diluted to the point of ordinariness and the Grand National should never be ordinary. I do not want fatalities at Aintree, as I do not want to witness fatalities at any racecourse and my heart skips beats until I see a horse rise from the ground uninjured. But to accept that making the once fiercesome Aintree fences smaller than the ones to be found on the Mildmay course, is to admit to our accusers that they were right all along, with the logical conclusion that if Aintree can reduce and diminish their fences, then so the same principle should be applied at all racecourses. And here I must return to where I began: it is what it is. My solution, without wishing or expecting Aintree to backtrack from their position, is to reinvent the Liverpool Grand Steeplechase, to modern-day standards of welfare, of course. I suggest the Becher Chase should be shelved (again) and replaced by the Liverpool Grand Steeplechase and run over the same distance as the Grand National. I would restrict entry to horses rated below the minimum mark to run in the Grand National, giving greater opportunity for jockeys, trainers and owners outside of those at the top end of the sport, to allow the minnows a chance to dream and triumph, as once was the case with the Grand National. My proposal might also encourage owners and trainers from the U.S., France and afar to try their luck at Aintree, another grievance of mine, that we shall never see the likes of Tommy Smith or Charlie Fenwick at Aintree again. What I want to see is the real essence of the Grand National returned to Aintree. It will never be experienced anymore in April but perhaps in November/December it might be revived. This is not an inconsequential issue. I believe the neutering of the Grand National is on a par with Mirabel Topham announcing she was to sell Aintree to developers. I understand the Grand National is a shop window for the sport and the need to attract a larger audience, with emphasis on not offending the sensibilities of the urban and inner-city viewer with no experience of horses and racing other than reading ‘National Velvet’ and ‘Black Beauty’ as a child. But what about the racing enthusiast, the racing professional; is it okay to offend the people whose very heart lies within the sport? My position is that we must allow Aintree to do as it pleases with the Grand National without challenge or argument but for Aintree to give in return a race run not in memory of what went before but a race to celebrate what went before and for the ‘Liverpool Grand Steeplechase’ the fences returned to the height they were in 2013-2023. Allow completing the National course to be an achievement once again. Let me be clear; I am not championing two Grand Nationals in one season. I am advocating two different races as the Liverpool Grand Steeplechase will evoke memories of Red Rum, whereas the Grand National will look like a sanitised video game. To say ‘It is what it is’ is acceptance of a situation that cannot be changed. But what if Winston Churchill, on the invasion of Poland by the Nazis, had made the same comment to the British people? The whole of Europe might now be subject to the ideology of a fascist regime. If, on not at first securing a recording contract, Paul McCartney and John Lennon agreed ‘that it is what it is’ and sold their guitars and signed-on at the local labour exchange? The music songbook would be depleted of music that is the equal of the greatest music of the past.
I, now, must say, in regard of the race won by I Am Maximus on Saturday, it is what it is. It cannot be changed. I have tried over the weekend to make sense of my instinctive, if out-on-a-limb, position on this issue. I have loved the Grand National since the day I first witnessed the race. I came upon the race only a few years before the first of ‘the last-ever Nationals’, when Mirabel Topham shocked the sporting world by announcing she was selling Aintree racecourse to developers. I believe that was the last time I cried. Something magical and inspiring was to be taken from me, so soon after it had entered my life and switched me on to something that would transform my life’s path. I have defended the Grand National over the years with every strand of sense I possessed and I still have somewhere one of the sweat-shirts I bought with my pocket-money when the Jockey Club went cap-in-hand to the public in an effort to raise the funds to save Aintree racecourse from being developed into an housing estate. Now I find myself a critic of the race, not because it is in any way cruel but because it is a neutered version of what went before. I have tried to credit the alterations by dreaming of the scenario whereby if the same had occurred in the early sixties Arkle might have graced Aintree with his presence. Or Desert Orchid in later years. But, of course, if the Grand National had been neutered in the 1960’s we would never have had Red Rum as Crisp would have won in 1973 by a large margin. If I am to accept the appeasement of ‘it is what it is’, I cannot accept I Am Maximus, as worthy a winner as he undoubtedly is, as the 170th winner of the Grand National but the first winner of the Aintree National, the new version of the grand old race, not so much a replica as a memory of what went before, I Am Maximus not so much the latest addition to the pantheon of great horses to win over the National fences but the first of the new pantheon. In the same way I can no longer refer to our country as ‘Great Britain’ and must refer to it simply as Britain, as to my mind the politicians of this country no longer make the meaningful contributions to society and freedom that confers greatness on a country, I cannot use the word ‘Grand’ when talking or writing about the Aintree National. Though the race provided a spectacle in its new guise, it was in no way ‘grand’, with no achievement worthy of being recorded in dispatches for being one of the finishers, for surviving intact the greatest test of the steeplechaser and jockey. I will not condemn the race I witnessed, and yes, enjoyed, but it was not the ‘Grand National’ but a new race, a race with provenance yet without the nicks and cracks that, if it were an antique clock, would satisfy experts that it is genuine and not either a reproduction or a fake. My critics will suggest I would not be happy unless the plough of the original template was reinstated, along with the stone-wall and the huge gaping ditch at Bechers and Valentines. Many of the changes down the years were required and though at first against the changes in 2012, I came to accept them as positives. It is the recent alterations, the tinkering with an institution, that have enflamed my heart, the sanitising to appease the ignorant, the protection of the cash-cow rather than the race itself. It is the slippery slope effect that in five-years-time might see the Canal Turn replaced by a smoother transition from the Foinavon fence to Valentines, the number of fences reduced to 29, the test for horse and rider lessened once more. If you want to understand how I feel, recall the day you lost the love of your life. Many years ago, I had a dream where I witnessed my own gravestone. Inscribed on the weathered old stone were my name and my age on the day of my death. 70. Tomorrow, I will have reached that very same age. Whether the prophesy of the dream proves to be accurate only the passing days, weeks and months, will tell.
Dreams are unreliable, of course. A few weeks ago, I dreamt that Adamantly Chosen won the Grand National. I ignored the prophesy as in the dream he was ridden by Matt Chapman, who, frustrated that Willie Mullins refused to employ him as his race-planner, dragged, at the start of the race, the unnamed jockey off the horse, jumped, displaying an athleticism Olga Korbet would be pleased with, on the horse and proceeded to ride the perfect race to win by a short-head. The dream ended with Chapman deflecting praise onto Willie Mullins, demonstrating that dreams are dreams and nowhere close to being real. As with Elisabeth Taylor and National Velvet, I suspect Chapman was disqualified for not being a real jockey. As predicted, and this was a prophesy that did materialise in the real world, half the field were still in with some sort of chance of winning at the third last fence, with a half-a-dozen or more looking possible winners at the last fence. Going to the elbow, Rachael Blackmore had a second Grand National within her sights, only for ‘all the air to be taken from her tyres’ by Paul Townend sailing by her on I Am Maximus, to scoot home an even more impressive winner than Corach Rambler in 2023. Delta Work confirmed what an honest old boy he is by also nabbing Minella Indo in the final furlong to finish second, with Galvin overhauling Kitty’s Light for fourth, proving Gordon Elliott correct for allowing the horse to take his chance. The second, third and fourth, will be 12 ,12 and 11 next season and are unlikely to feature in the finish next season, while the winner will be handicapped out of the race next season, with the Cheltenham Gold Cup his major appointment in 2025. Given better ground, Kitty’s Light is the one to take out of the race for next season, even if he will carry a few pounds more than this year. I ended-up backing four-horses yesterday, with all of them finishing the race, not that there is any achievement anymore in negotiating all the fences, as a brave pony would have no difficulty achieving a clear round these days, so neutered is the task. For more than a brief moment, I thought Rachael would give me another triumph at the local bookies, only for the flame to flicker and for Townend to snuff out the candle of hope with obvious glee and no little relish. From Valentines to the Melling Road, I thought Harry Skelton was wearing a smile as wide as the Leeds and Liverpool canal as Galia Des Liteaux was travelling and jumping with aplomb only for the stamina needle to waver entering the straight. She finished an honourable 8th, winning her trainer some much-needed prize-money. With the ground obviously far from attritional, I got cold feet about Nassalam and replaced him by Capodanno, my big fancy for the race last year, though seeing Nassalam had gone out to 50/1 and remembering the day I ditched Rule The World from my betting slip, I had a fiver each-way on him, Like Capodanno, who obviously doesn’t stay the distance, he never presented me with any hope of getting involved in the finish. I must add that I was far from thrilled by I.T.V.’s coverage yesterday. The hour leading up to the big race should have been totally about this year’s race, not reiterations on the race year before. And Ruby’s analyse of the difference between the start this year and the year before infuriated me. At the start of the programme, yes, it would have been interesting and relevant but in the lead-up to the start of the race, I wanted to see horses, how they were behaving, seeing them stride down to the start, perhaps interviews with connections. And, of course, all the presenters read from the same upbeat script when it came to discussing the changes to the race. Ruby was particularly annoying. When he was a jockey back in 2012, he criticised the changes then, saying ‘if they want to slow the race down, the fences should be higher, not lower’. Now, as a presenter, he believes neutering the race is the best way forward. People are entitled to change their opinion, I accept, but to travel from one extreme to other end of the spectrum is evidence of ‘saying the right opinion to appease the bosses’. Ruby, as with the Grand National, is, sadly, also becoming a neutered voice. The 2024 Grand National was a great spectacle, I accept. With the exception of Corach Rambler who fell at the third fence when riderless, though, having unshipped Derek Fox at the first fence, no horse fell in the Grand National. The non-finishers were either unseated riders or pulled-up. Yes, that was good and I gain no pleasure in seeing horses fall. But where now is the test of jumping, the exhibition of horsemanship? The Aintree Grand National is now closer as a horse race to the American version, which is basically a hurdle race, than the Velka Pardubicka, which the Czechoslovaks can now claim to be the greatest test of the steeplechaser. That rumbling in the distance you can hear, by the way, is Ginger McCain turning in his grave! If 2024 is to be my final Grand National, at least it had a worthy winner, even if it will be proved to be the beginning of the end. The poor, the lowly, the honest trier, must have their dreams taken from them. Only the elite, the financially-secure, those who already have all that is worth owning, are allowed to dream of wondrous achievement. To quote Richard Guest. ‘It was sheer hell out there – the going was absolutely desperate and Red Marauder must be the worst jumper ever to win the Grand National. Certainly second-time round he was climbing over most of the fences but he stays forever and being the mudlark he is, I suppose he found everything to his liking today.’
I only quote Richard Guest as I had to look up the year Red Marauder won the Grand National as I never have had the capability for remembering dates. I was surprised it was so long ago. I remember having a couple of quid each-way on him, so you would think I would remember? Fearing the worst, I thought the 2024 Grand National would be as attritional as 2001 but after watching the Foxhunters yesterday, I doubt that will be the case. Also, and I am saddened to say this, the Grand National fences look smaller than those on the Mildmay course. And that cannot be right, can it? It is just encouragement for connections to run dodgy jumpers and removing the advantage the bold jumping horse once had. It is what it is, though, and will be as it is for five-years, apparently. In six-years, I fear only 30 will be allowed to take part. But it is what it is. A facsimile of a facsimile or a facsimile. The days of Red Rum are gone forever more. The Chair fence took its toll yesterday, with one amateur rider requiring medical treatment on the course before, I believe, being taken to hospital. Human casualties will receive no media attention and it is with relief that no harm came to any of the 22-horses that took part in the race. Of course, the Foxhunters, as with today’s Topham, is only over one lap of the Grand National fences but there were enough horses entering the home straight to suggest the ground is riding more soft than heavy, though it will be interesting to find out how the jockeys viewed the going. Because it is not as attritional as I feared (or hoped) I am less inclined to tip-up Nassalam for the big race. I have ‘gone off’ horses I intended to back in the past, Rule the World comes to mind, only for them to win or be placed at long-odds, so I might be forced to have a fiver on Nassalam, just in case. Also, I would dearly love Gary Moore to train a Grand National winner. If any trainer deserves to win the biggest race of all, the most famous race in the world, it is the hard-working, call a spade a spade, Gary Moore. After all, his son cannot always be hogging the limelight and I am sure Ryan will be watching the race, wherever he might be on Saturday, with his fingers crossed and his eyes on one horse. As of this moment, I remain wedded to the class of Minella Indo and the stamina of Galia Des Liteaux. I make no apologies for wanting to write about the Red Rum Handicap Chase, a race that honours, but not to the extent he deserves, the greatest horse ever to honour Aintree with his presence. San Bruit will never rise to the glories achieved by the great horse but yesterday, off a lightweight and a typical bold steer by the wonderful Bryony Frost, he gave a foot-perfect exhibition of jumping. Alongside Harry Cobden and Rachael Blackmore, John Francome believes Bryony is the best of the current band of jockeys at presenting a horse at a fence and yesterday she demonstrated the art of getting a horse into a rhythm. They were as one, jockey and horse in perfect harmony. It was good to see her smiling again as for obvious reasons, the emphasis at Ditcheat this season is for Harry Cobden to become champion jockey, she has been given so few opportunities to display her stupidly underused skills. San Bruit pulls too hard and attempting to settle him at the back of the field was not working and as with Il Ridoto at Cheltenham, Bryony took the position of less resistance and allowed him to bowl along at the front. As is usually the case, the other jockeys eased back when it was obvious San Bruit was going to outjump them and put their faith in San Bruit tiring in the ground. He did not tire and after the last bounced away from a Willie Mullins trained, J.P.McManus owned runner-up. Good on ya, Devon maid. More today, please. One of my favourite sayings is ‘ratings are bollards’, and when the phrase comes into contact with a professional, especially a Racing Post journalist, eyes are rolled and any vestige of credibility they might have for my opinions is consigned to the waste bin. Criticise God to a form expert, if you must, but never make light of the numbers that are the very essence of life to them!
I defend my unorthodox stance by making the point that ratings are based on yesterday and in some cases a whole lot of yesterdays, the number assigned after one, perhaps out-of-character, performance. And, of course, the top-rated, even in weight-for-age and conditions races, does not always win. Ratings are a number assigned to a horse; merely opinion based on pseudo-science. The horse is not a machine, it cannot possibly run to the same level twice in a row, let alone multiple times. To repeat myself, the rating given to Cyrname after he beat Altior in a two-horse race on desperate ground was farcical. Come Aintree and the Grand National, anyone directing their money to the bookmakers’ satchel based on ratings or indeed form, have fallen overboard and are clinging on to the leaky life-raft in complete desperation. Oh, and there are far too many examples of complete no-hopers and 33/1 and beyond winners to prove my point. The only two factors to take into consideration when selecting bets for the Grand National are ground conditions and whether the horse stays the 4-mile 2-furlong + distance. Nothing else matters. Horses have run in the Grand National a stone or more good at the weights and with a clear ratings advantage and fallen at the first fence, not acted on the quicker or softer ground or just plain failed to see out the trip. When the ground is heavy, as it seems likely this Saturday, ground preference and the required stamina is the be-all and end-all of finding the winner. I do not even believe weight should be factored into the equation as a horse with ten-stone is not going to win if it does not stay the distance or perform to his or her best on the heavy ground. The experts, all of whom know more about everything to do with horse racing than I do, are seemingly of the joint opinion that Nassalam has too much weight for his actual ability. I disagree. I do not necessarily believe he will win, though I may change my mind after the Foxhunters and Topham if there are few finishers, but his ability to handle ground close to abandonment should make him a certainty for everyone’s list of possible winners. Will he handle the fences, that is the only question to be asked about Nassalam? Again, disregard ratings and recent form. The best horse in the race is Minella Indo, a Gold Cup winner, a Gold Cup runner-up. He may be light of other years and he is now eleven-years-old, with the Grand National now a race for younger legs but they will not be travelling at lightning speed this year, this year the race will resemble the old-fashioned Grand Nationals when they hunted around the first circuit and only got really serious from Bechers’ second-time round. I sincerely doubt if there will be twenty in with some sort of chance crossing the Melling Road for the last time. There might not be twenty going out on the second circuit. My modus operandi for finding the winner of the Grand National relies on instinct, the inner voice that at some point during the season quietly informs me ‘that horse looks a likely Grand National horse’. It is not a reliable system for finding the winner but when it comes to the Grand National, tell me a system that is reliable? Galia Des Liteaux was the recipient of this spectral tip after she ran at Warwick in the Classic Chase. For form-buffs, the race has worked out well with My Silver Lining (?) keeping the form looking respectable when second at Haydock behind Yeah Man, the tip of many for the Irish National at Fairyhouse last week. Yes, I was tipping-up, if only to myself, a Dan Skelton Grand National winner back in February and four-days out she remains my number one for Saturday. Of course, all might change. But at the moment, my three for the great race, which it remains even if I have constantly bemoaned the latest sheaf of pointless alterations, are Galia Des Liteaux, Minella Indo, Nassalam, and if forced to make a fourth choice it would be between Gordon Elliott’s Delta Work and Coko Beach. The Grand National this year will not be for the faint-hearted - equine or human! I hope Aintree and the B.H.A. have plans in place in the event the Grand National is prevented from being staged this coming Saturday due to waterlogging. Clerk of the Course Suleka Varma is confident the soil composition and drainage system at Aintree will cope with any amount of rain thrown at it, and I am sure we all hope she is correct.
Anyone who is a sucker, as I am, for re-runs of past Grand Nationals, especially pre-television coverage, will have seen footage of the 1955 race won by Pat Taaffe and Quare Times when due to waterlogging the water jump was omitted, the only time, I believe, this has ever happened, with puddles the length of a horsebox on the landing side of the first fence. I suspect the course had no drainage back then and the horses galloped through the water seemingly without incident, though it did not look rather amateurish and it cannot be envisaged a similar scenario would be allowed in this day and age. Heavy going, as far as the Grand National is concerned, is not necessarily a bad turn-of-events, as it slows the race down and as long as riders of tired horses pull-up a fence early rather than a fence too late, casualties in the way of fallers will be kept to very small numbers. What we can expect this weekend is very few finishers, perhaps as few as four or five, with Nassalam the most obvious beneficiary of rain rain and more rain, though he still has to jump the fences. When Red Marauder won in 2001 in similar conditions to what we can expect this Saturday, there were calls after the event, especially by one of the Grand National’s most vocal champions, Alastair Down, that it was a mad decision to go ahead with the race, a rare occasion when Alastair’s sense of humour failed him. The 2001 renewal, to use one of Alastair’s favourite phrases, was run in conditions that resembled ‘the Battle of the Somme’, though at Aintree there were no fatalities, unlike in 1916. The only unlucky combination, apart from Mark Pitman and the gallant Smartie, were Carl Llewellyn and Beau, taken out of the race neither by the conditions nor by falling but by the reins ending-up on the same side of Beau’s neck after a great recovery by the jockey when Beau all but fell. With no steering, Llewellyn struggled on before being unseated two-fences later. He looked the likely winner until calamity struck. It was all good fun, though, do you not think? Excess speed is Aintree’s enemy as horses get taken out of their comfort zone while at the same time having to cope with unfamiliar fences and racecourse topography. Firm ground, as when Mr.Frisk broke Red Rum’s course record in 1990, will never occur again at Aintree as artificial watering is now employed so that the ground is at least good if not good-to-soft. I might be overly pessimistic in forecasting a low number of finishers as the fences are less foreboding than in 2001, with Becher’s rendered a neutered pussy-cat compared to the days when the ghosts of the long-dead used trip-wire to bring down horses and invisible hands dragged jockeys out-of-the-saddle. I am sure it will weigh heavily on the mind and conscience of the clerk-of-the-course if a decision must be made on Saturday morning to go-ahead or not to go-ahead if there were fatalities in either the Foxhunters or the Topham. The sport, as with Aintree, needs the revenue that the Grand National generates and she will be pressured, I am sure, to declare the ground safe to race; the sport, though, cannot be faced with another fiasco. In 2001 we did not walk on egg-shells, the wolf that is animal rights activists, was not howling at our door. The term ‘social licence’ was also not bandied about in 2001. 2001 was a life-time ago. 2001 was another country. In 2001, the country and the world were less corrupted. The Grand National must be run but not at the cost of the sport’s reputation. Postponing for a week might interfere with the racing schedule, make life difficult for I.T.V. and the satellite channels. But if postponing is what must be done, let it be done. Crossed-fingers the B.H.A. have a plan set-aside to reschedule, not just abandon as they decided back in the humiliating year of two false starts and egg stains on the face of the sport that still smell to this day. Pat Taaffe in his autobiography ‘My Life and Arkle’s wrote of Foinavon ‘Now I think if you asked me to pick a horse in that race to find a way through, I would have chosen Foinavon. The others might panic, but not this one’. Later, he wrote. ‘I was glad to see him win, because I had quite a soft spot for this droll little horse’.
As a young horse Foinavon was owned by the Duchess of Westminster and trained by Tom Dreaper. He ran 23-times from Greenogue, winning 3 races of little significance. To return to Pat Taaffe’s wonderful, if all too brief, autobiography. ‘On a day at Baldoyle, we fell heavily. We parted company in mid-air and after I bounced, I looked around, half expecting to see Foinavon in trouble. And there he was lying down … eating grass, cool as you please, just taking time out for a snack.’ It is my contention that Foinavon never receives the credit he deserves for being the only horse to negotiate the fence that now bears his name, the only one to ignore the mayhem of horses going any which way but over the fence, with jockeys on the wrong-side of the fence, with some stranded on the fence. And Foinavon was not the only horse out of camera shot as the field approached the one after Bechers. He was, though, the only one brave enough to avoid fate’s snipers and get to the other side. At the moment of perhaps the most madcap episode in the history of the race, what was most remarkable was the number of horses still running and without the debacle at the twenty-third fence, the 1967 Grand National might be recorded with the greatest number of finishers. 44 set-off on April 8th and even with pandemonium at fence 23, 18 still managed to pass the winning post, with the majority of jockeys believing themselves to be unlucky not to have won. What is never mentioned about the 1967 Grand National is that in completing the course in 9-minutes 49-seconds, Foinavon’s time was faster than Kilmore in 1962, Well To Do in 1972, Rubstic in 1979 and Ben Nevis, admittedly in heavy ground, in 1980 and only 2-seconds slower than Aldaniti in1981 and Corbiere in 1983. And Foinavon doddled round, going no faster when alone in front as he was when he was out-of-contention, with John Buckingham’s only ambition to get round safely. The time maybe nowhere close to what Red Rum, and later Mr.Frisk, achieved, yet it is a respectable time. The sad part about what happened at the twenty-third was that it might have cost that grand old horse Freddie his final opportunity to win the race, having been second the previous two-years. Honey End, ridden by Josh Gifford won the race for second, with Red Alligator and Brian Flecther third, the combination that ‘righted the wrong’ the following year, running away to win by twenty-length. Also, and this fact continues to escape me, the winner of the 2-year-old selling race at Aintree the day before Foinavon became a Grand National hero, was to become the sport’s greatest equine hero, the horse rightfully credited with saving the Grand National from the developer’s heavy plant machinery. Red Rum, of course, a horse of a completely different hue to Foinavon. Reg Green, in his mighty tome, ‘A Race Apart’, a history of the great race, did at least praise Foinavon with being ‘worthy winner’, even if at odds of 444/1 on the Tote very few punters would have been of the same opinion. And he was a worthy, if fortunate winner, as he achieved what no other horse in the race achieved, in a sport where obstacles are to be jumped, he successfully negotiated all 30-fences and was the first past the winning post. He may not have ordinarily cared much for extending himself on the racecourse but on the day it truly mattered, he rose to the challenge. The following year, ridden by Phil Harvey, as Buckingham was claimed by his employer, Edward Courage, Foinavon was showing a little more plunk and according to his jockey was travelling okay when he was brought down at the Chair by Bassnet, one of the favourites. Overall, though, Foinavon cared as little for winning races after he became a household name as he did before, though in 1968, on his favoured firm ground, he managed to win races at Devon & Exeter and Uttoxeter. For all the critics will claim him the luckiest winner in the history of the race, his name will live in perpetuity and only the precious few achieve such status. As Reg Green wrote, he was a worthy winner and should be remembered as such. I think for the first eight or nine-years of my life, might be ten, though I doubt it as the names of all the runners in the 1964 renewal are as fresh in my mind as if it were ‘only yesterday’, not that I can recall everything I did yesterday. I digress.
Anyway, in my early years I lived happily in ignorance of the Grand National, yet since my awakening to the great race, it has dominated my life and focused my attention from publication of entries to every dearly-loved second of the build-up and the race itself. That steadfast engagement has withered this time around, as if I am suffering from a rare illness. Perhaps it is the first stages of ‘getting old syndrome’. But it just does not feel like we are ten-days away from the next instalment of the Grand National. As an aside, back in the days of young life, aged ten and onwards, for some reason I collected all the cards that in those days came in cigarette packets and, was it, cereal packets, and when I ran short of actual cards – they had fish and birds on them, if I recall – I cut cereal packets into the same size as the cards, writing the names of horses on them. That is why Purple Silk, Peacetown, Eternal, Pontin-Go, April Rose, Pappageno’s Cottage, Supersweet and others that ran in 1964 remain in my memory, whereas the names of more recent runners elude me. Could not remember Latenightpass a few days ago, for instance. I dare say my lack of child-like excitement is caused by my belief that the Grand National is in the throes of being ‘run-down’, the policy of death by a thousand-cuts a signal that the end is nigh. I am not suggesting that a race bearing the name Grand National will not exist twenty or thirty-years down the line but it will be a facsimile of the real thing, as it already has become in many ways. Watch a recording of the 1964 race, won by Team Spirit at his fifth attempt, followed by a recording of last year’s race. Chalk and cheese. Yes, a race in the guise of the Grand National will exist as long as National Hunt continues as it is a cash-cow for Aintree and bookmakers. But ask yourself this: does winning the Grand National change lives these days. It elevated Rachael Blackmore from a star of horse racing and into world-wide recognition and boosted her financial income, no doubt. But she is an outlier, for all she was already at the top bough of our sport. When Tim Norman won on Anglo in 1966, he was practically an unknown and though he never went on to hit the heights Rachael Blackmore has achieved, winning the world’s greatest horse race boosted his career and until injuries stalled his progress, he was making money at the game. The same with John Buckingham the following year, his fifteen-minutes of fame extenuated by the pile-up at the fence now named after Foinavon. Brian Fletcher made his name winning two Grand Nationals on the immortal Red Rum but when he won the race in 1968 on Red Alligator he was hardly known outside of the north of England. In 1979, who had heard of Maurice Barnes or John Leadbetter, jockey and trainer of Rubstic? And when you go through the list of winning owners, you understand that winning the race was a once-in-a-lifetime achievement. The little man could achieve glory; lives were changed because of winning the Grand National. It was a dream, back then, for every jockey, to win the Grand National and a privilege just to get a ride in the race. The odds were, of course, 100/1 that a journeyman jockey would win the race back then, sadly, those odds are a whole lot longer these days. It is not so much that an Irish-trained horse is most likely to win the race, with very few English-based jockeys getting a ride this year, it is because the horses that the journeyman jockey rides through the season, even if they are reliable jumpers with an excess of stamina, will not have a high enough rating even to be entered in the race. The Grand National has become a race for the elite of the sport and it should not be an exclusive club, and for the public that will become a turn-off. The romance of the race has all but been beaten out of it by the incessant tweaking and tinkering, the madcap desire to sanitise the race for woke public consumption. Becher’s Brook is just a landmark nowadays, nothing to be feared, no change in riding style required. The first ditch is lowered this year, removing its notoriety, the relief removed of your horse clearing the first of the ‘danger’ fences and showing hope that it has taken to the fences. The odds are short that Gordon Elliott or Willie Mullins will win the race again as they could easily turn-out half the field by themselves, after all. Even if Lucinda Russell won the race with Corach Rambler it would be a case of winning the race again …. Perhaps I am old; perhaps child-like enthusiasm is beyond me now; perhaps, God forbid! I have wearied of the race. Perhaps, and again, God forbid! the policy of death by a thousand cuts is not a work of fiction conjured from my mind but a real possibility, the real line of travel? If they keep cutting and lessening, people will not notice, will not remember the history, the immortal days of Red Rum, and, as with the lobster not knowing it is being boiled alive, the race is being purposefully guided towards a ‘natural death’? Red Rum is undoubtedly the greatest Aintree horse in racing history. I doubt if his achievement of three-wins will ever be surpassed. Indeed, I would argue he is one of the greatest racehorses of all-time, if not the greatest (arguably Desert Orchid might top him) for the impact he had on the sport. I would not dispute the suggestion that if it were not for Red Rum, the Grand National might not exist today.
If numbers or ratings were applied to the question ‘who is the greatest steeplechaser to run in the Grand National’, the answer would be Golden Miller, the only horse to win the Cheltenham Gold Cup and the Aintree spectacular in the same season. When racing journalists list their top ten steeplechasers of all-time, due to the curveball of recency, many will include Best Mate and perhaps Captain Christy, and yet leave out Golden Miller, the winner of five Cheltenham Gold Cups. It is argued that in his day, the Gold Cup was nothing more than a trial or prep-race for the Grand National and that is not exactly true. If you read Basil Briscoe’s dreadful book – if you took out all the repetitions the book would be even shorter than it is - ‘The Life of Golden Miller’, he makes no bones about The Miller’s reputation as the greatest steeplechaser of his era was founded at Cheltenham, not Aintree. At Aintree, Golden Miller was no Red Rum. Rummy loved the place; The Miller came to loathe the place. To my surprise, when Golden Miller won the Grand National in 1934, he received 2Ibs from Thomond, beating him into third by 5-lengths and the same. Golden Miller did not even start favourite, that honour falling to Really True who had finished second the previous year. Incidentally, Golden Miller won the Grand National as a 7-year-old, first running in the race as a 6-year-old, having already won 3 Cheltenham Gold Cups. As when Red Rum won his first Grand National, Golden Miller broke the track record carrying the welter burden of 12st 2Ibs. Golden Miller’s c.v. is unlike any of the horses that might appear on lists of ‘greatest horses’. He was bred, if you do not already know, by Barry Geraghty’s grandfather, who was given his dam to look after by a local army man who was leaving home to re-enlist in the army. He never came back to reclaim his mare. The great horse was originally sold as a yearling for 100 guineas. Golden Miller won in total 29-races and due to carrying the wrong weight was disqualified in another. His first appearance on a racecourse was at Southwell as a 3-year-old over hurdles, where he was unplaced. His first victory was in his third race later in January 1931 at Leicester, picking up 83-guineas for his then owner Mr.Carr. 3-weeks later he won again at Nottingham. In Golden Miller’s era, remember, horses often travelled to the races by train and racecourses close to railway stations were favoured by trainers. The following season he won first-time out in a hurdle race at Chelmsford. He won again at Chelmsford in November before winning his first steeplechase at Newbury, though he was disqualified at the previous Newbury meeting in the less-than-gloriously-named Moderate Chase. He finished his first season as a chaser by winning his first Gold Cup, on his fourth race over fences, and then running unplaced in a flat race and finally finishing unplaced in the Lancashire Chase at Manchester. It was the following season that saw a by now fully-furnished Golden Miller soar to the heights that he remains remembered by. Winning 5-races, including the Gold Cup, before running unplaced in the Grand National. The following season he was campaigned with only the Grand National in mind, winning a second Gold Cup on his way to winning the Grand National, a fete still to be surpassed by any horse. He won chases at Wolverhampton, Leicester, Derby and Sandown before completing his Gold Cup hat-trick, though he unseated early on the Grand National, was turned-out the following day and unseated again in the Champion Chase. His dislike of Aintree was becoming noticeable. In the year of his fifth Gold Cup triumph, he only won one other race, the Andover Chase at Newbury, being beaten first-time out in a National Hunt flat race at Sandown and prior to Cheltenham ran out five fences from home, in the Newbury Chase at, unsurprisingly, Newbury. His final attempt at adding to his Aintree laurels came in 1936 where he brought down in a melee at the first fence, was remounted only to refuse at the open ditch after Valentines. Amazingly, at least by today’s standards, that was not the end of Golden Miller’s season as he turned out less than 3-weeks later in the Welsh Grand National at Cardiff, finishing a gallant third. Again, by the standards of today, the 1937 Gold Cup was abandoned due to flooding and was not reopened, which, perhaps, displays its significance back then, with the Grand National the only National Hunt race with any prestige value. Before refusing once again in the Grand National, he had won four races, 2 at Wincanton, I at Gatwick and, according to Basil Briscoe’s, as I now understand, unreliable resume of the Miller’s career, a race at Birmingham, the Optional (S) Chase. The s could not stand for selling, could it? Golden Miller did not contest the Grand National in 1938, though he did attempt a sixth triumph in the Gold Cup, failing with his usual display of courage to Morse Code. He did, though, add, two more victories to his career total, including that Optional (S) Chase at Birmingham. Golden Miller was a great horse and would have achieved similar levels of success in any era of the sport, I believe. He was, not, though a hero of Aintree, taking the opinion that to win the race once was enough for any horse. |
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