​I’m old. Or, at least, older than a man should be if he wants to remain useful for any purpose other than using up resources better suited to the ‘know-everything-woke-youth that represents the greying future’. Anyway, advancing age is my only viable excuse for looking to the past to understand the failings of the present and the horror I might observe from my grave of a world without horses and racing. 
I live this week, the week of the Grand National, in similar vein to way the truly religious, and there’s not too many of them around these days, treat religious festivals. There are rituals to be observed, form to be read, silent prayers to be said for every horse and jockey to return unscathed and more personal/selfish prayers than for mankind to suddenly overnight become humane and peace-loving, and re-runs of past Grand Nationals on YouTube to refresh the memory of the black and tan days when Aintree could seem at times like a war-zone, with jockeys the soldiers, the horses shell-fire and on-lookers ghosts of a long-gone age. To intelligently look forward, past events must be observed with a kind eye, lessens learned, not condemned with a misunderstanding appraisal of the lives of our forebears.
Perhaps it is the rituals I uphold that prevents me from letting go of the past? The older a man gets, it seems, the more vital past memories become. To me, the Epsom Derby should revert to being run on the first Wednesday of June, with Parliament in recess in the afternoon to allow M.P.’s to attend the races; for all the benefit all-weather racing brings to the sport, I cannot help but believe in time it will be seen as the nail that sealed the coffin; and the modern-day Grand National, though I love it still, has become a silver-plated replica of its glory years.
The glory years of the Grand National, I contend, culminated with Red Rum, its greatest hero, equine or human. 1977 was the last of the glory years. Twelve-years before Red Rum create racing and sporting history with his unprecedented and unlikely ever to be repeated third victory, an American horse came to Aintree to achieve an ambition that began in 1912, the year Jerry M succeeded at Aintree under Ernie Piggott. 
Of course, it is merely a quirk of history that the grandfather of the immortal Lester achieved his fame in the same year as Harry Worcester Smith arrived at Liverpool Docks in his quest to achieve his sporting ambition to win the Grand National. He was a very wealthy man, not that Aintree has any respect for money or title, treating all its apparent conquerors with lofty disdain. Worcester Smith failed to conquer Aintree, as did his son who followed soon after.
Between Harry Worcester Smith and his grandson’s attempt at sporting immortality, American-owned horses did succeed at Aintree, with the small but mighty Battleship and Kellsboro Jack winning the race. But no American jockey had ever won the race.
Jay Trump was never destined to be a Grand National winner. He was a cast-off from the (then?) brutal dirt tracks, a survivor of a racetrack accident, graphically described in her wonderful book ‘The Will To Win’ by Jane McIlvane, and bought for a comparative song by Tommy Smith for Mary Stephenson because he was the only horse he half-liked for the money he had to spend.
Of course, to achieve the dream the American horse defeated ‘our’ favourite steeplechaser, Freddie, second in two successive Grand Nationals, himself a fairy-tale horse as he was an ex-hunter, owned and trained by a Scottish farmer, Reg Tweedie. I don’t think I truly forgave the American invader until I read Jane McIlvane’s book and became aware of the epic scale of the unlikely victory, of how the horse repaid in spades the kindness and love of the people who rescued him from the ‘hell’ of his previous life.
Not only had Jay Trump won the Maryland Hunt Cup over timber on two occasions but as if that and a Grand National victory were not enough to cement his name in U.S. racing history, the year after winning at Aintree he returned and won a third Maryland Hunt Cup, as if to remind his former rivals that, despite having to learn to jump in a different style in Britain, he was still king of the timber rails. As with his jockey, he retired that day, watched by Fred Winter who trained both the horse and jockey, and who had just won his second Grand National with Anglo, the first horse Tommy Smith had sat at Fred’s stables in Lambourn, and promptly fell off.
Yes, sadly, the Grand National on Saturday will be exciting as always, a wonder to behold, and it will provide a ‘story’, and doubtless an ambition will be achieved, but it will be a replica of the glory days when spirited amateurs could dream of fulfilling their grandfather’s dream with a cast-off horse bred for the backwaters of U.S. dirt tracks and fast-track the training career of one of Britain’s greatest jockeys.

​Can someone please tell me if Capodanno is running on Saturday. In the Grand National, I mean, not running around a paddock at Closutton. Or on Willie Mullins’ famous deep Wexford sand gallop. If he is going to run, would Willie have informed J.P. or Mark Walsh by now? Or is this another of Willie’s inspired last-second decisions? Is he keeping Mark Walsh guessing, as well as you and me, so that he'll go with Any Second Now, just to get a ride confirmed, allowing Willie to put Paul Townend on Capodanno, as Paul sure isn’t going to choose the mercurial, some would say, quirky and devilish, Mr. Incredible, named no doubt after Willie himself, who the bookies and punters seem to think is Closutton’s best chance of victory. If Capodanno is an option, can you see Townend choosing Gaillard Du Mesnil or Carefully Selected?
Imagine if you are the one who looks after Capodanno. You have never been to Aintree and day in day out for months you have seen Willie slowly working his magic on your pride and joy, taking him from nearly crocked to the shiny magnificent beast you lay your hands on every evening. You might even have backed him ante-post, ten euros here, ten euros there, building your stake until you are now sitting on enough potential winnings to buy a car in the same vein as Willie’s or Paul’s. Willie must tip the wink to someone in the stable, surely.
And how about me? How can I dream of wiping out the local bookmaker if I’ll not know until the final seconds before declaration time that Capodanno is in Liverpool, primed for 5-15 in the late afternoon? One thing we can be sure of, if Capodanno is at the start he’s not there for the fun of it. He’ll be there because Willie believes he is fit enough to do himself justice; fit enough to win.
Yes, I’m wavering in my support for Lifetime Ambition. I am believing Capodanno is the best horse in the race. Better than Any Second Now. Better than Noble Yeats. Good enough to give the weight to Corach Rambler. I’m not even concerned that he has had only one run since Punchestown last year. I’m not even concerned that it seems improbable that the same trainer, jockey and owner can win both the Irish and Aintree Grand Nationals in the same week. I would be bullish if only Willie would tip me the wink. I would be overflowing with bull if I knew Townend was riding Capodanno as the man is riding out of his skin at the moment. He was a magician on I Am Maximus at Fairyhouse. No, he was more than a magician – he was superman. I didn’t think he would win at any point in the race. He lifted the horse home; practically carried him on his back.
Ordinarily I am sick of Mullins winning everything. On Saturday, though, I am 100% a Closutton disciple. 

The good news for the coming flat season is that the King has a very good 3-year-old colt. A classic possible, no less. But not, it seems, the Derby prospect bookies and punters have led us to believe all winter. I hoped fate was going to allow the King to win the one classic that eluded his mother, though now I hope Slipofthepen will emulate Pall Mall who gave the late Queen her first classic by winning the 2,000 Guineas, run on the same day as the King’s Coronation, which would be publicity for the sport that no amount of money could buy.
Not that the Gosdens are making any definite plans to aim Slipofthepen at the Newmarket classic. He has other fish to fry before he firms up plans for any of his likely 2,000 Guineas candidates. And if Slipofthepen does head to Newmarket it is going to give Frankie an almighty headache, given he has signed on the imaginary dotted line to ride Chaldean in the 2,000 Guineas.
To return to the Grand National. It seems pretty likely we will have a field of 40 on Saturday, though whether it will be the top forty as of now is uncertain. Imagine how Martin Keithley is feeling and Harry Redknapp, trainer and part-owner of Back on the Lash, a horse now with the guarantee of getting a run, yet, with the ground likely to be soft and him being in want of good ground, the risk might outweigh any benefit? This is, though, is the magic of the Grand National, and neither can be sure if they will ever get the opportunity to take part again. 

​Apropos of nothing at all, I make the following statement: If Crisp had run in any good-ground Grand National of the past 20-years, with or without Richard Pitman’s supposed error of judgement at the Elbow, he would have won, especially since the reduction in race distance, and I include the years Tiger Roll won the race.
Some would categorise the 1973 Grand National, the greatest horse race ever run according to me, and without doubt, according to me, the greatest individual performance by any horse during my lifetime, as a tragedy, given the hero didn’t win. Others would claim the 1973 Grand National epitomises the great historical romance of the race, given the winner was owned by an octogenarian and trained by a used-car salesman.
We have had tragedies in the Grand National before and since, in fact any time a horse loses its life taking part in the race I classify it as a tragic event. We had the Grand National that never was: human incompetence of a level never before seen at a sporting event. We had the mayhem of the evacuation after a bomb threat. We had the pointlessness of losing the race due to covid-insanity.
Occasionally, the Grand National provides farce or comedy as with the pile-up at the fence after Bechers in 1967 that allowed Foinavon to go from the obscure to a horse of legend whose name will live-on in perpetuity. In sanitising the race, even if done with the best of intentions, the race has diminished, even in the eyes of this naïve fool who loves the race beyond every other aspect of life.
Where will we find the romance this year. There might be tragedy; it is beyond the wisdom of any human to be able to control the fates. And there might be a ‘story’, the type journalists can plan for and have partially written even now, six-days before horses and jockeys line-up for the race. You can bet your bottom dollar that Ed Chamberlain has already e-mailed his I.T.V. colleagues to flag-up the likely ‘stories’ of the race. Would Any Second Now be a true story if he should win? Unlucky two-years ago and trained by Ted Walsh, father of Ruby, part of the I.T.V. team. Noble Yeats winning two-years in succession? Lifetime Ambition, his trainer Jesse Harrington being treated for breast cancer? Minella Trump, another winner for the McCains?
In my ignorance, I may have missed a potential journalistic story. And, of course, a last-minute drama might occur that thrusts a lesser-known jockey into the limelight. And, of course, a syndicate-owned-horse might prevail, with the possibility of a road-sweeper, poultry-keeper or retired pensioner providing the ‘human element’. But to all extent and purpose the romance of the Grand National is, if not yet dead, comatose. 
The Grand National is no longer the setting for small-time owner/breeders, the workaday trainer or the journeyman jockey, to become heroes or heroines, even if for one day. We no longer have runners from the U.S., France, Japan or Russia, as in the past. And that is sad. Sad for them, sad for the race and sad for the sport. It is yet another example of elitism inflicting unheralded harm on the sport.
The information now provided is pickpocketed from a book every Grand National enthusiast should have on their bookshelves ‘Go Down To The Beaten’ by the excellent Chris Pitt.
Elsich was described by Chris Pitt, not without good cause, as the worst horse ever to run in the race. The sort of horse that in those days, and we are now in 1946, the first Grand National after the 2nd World War, could be classified as a member of the Society of Lost Causes. He was ridden by an unfashionable, jockey by the name of Bill Balfe, who, though desperate to ride in the race, might have refused the ride if he had known that in a race the previous day the jockey riding Elsich had jumped off him on the flat after jumping only two-fences. Not the type of horse anyone would want running in a Grand National these days, I accept.
Yet journey forward to 1976 and an equally obscure jockey by the name of Keith Barnfield got his opportunity on Ormonde Tudor, a horse that had eleven different trainers in eleven-years of racing. He fell at the first fence. But Barnfield had received his opportunity for a shot at fame.
In 1973 Peter Cullis got his shot at fame on Mill Door, finishing last in the greatest horse race ever run, though he would have finished closer if not brought to a stop by loose horses running amok at the fourth-last.
John Foster, Sam McComb, John Hudson, Buck Jones, Val Jackson, Dai Tegg, Billy Worthington, Simon Burrough and other journeyman jockeys got their once-in-a-lifetime chance at a shot at fame. As did amateurs and adventurers like the grand old Duke of Alburquerque. 
I accept the Grand National must be protected from the ignorance of the baying anti-everything brigade, and lessening the severity of the iconic fences has produced less ‘carnage’ and, more importantly, fewer riderless horses and unlucky stories. But when the conditions of entry, to a great extent, deny all but the top-end of the pyramid from competing, the race is stripped of part of its appeal as a race that ‘stops a nation’. 
I do not yearn for ‘pile-ups’ as in Foinavon’s year or, as in the deep past, when only one or two-horses finished the race. It is sensible that jockeys are no longer allowed to remount. And it is sensible to limit the number of runners to 40 rather than 66 as in 1929. What I do yearn for, though, is for romance to have the same opportunity as tragedy to provide the headline for the race; for the small-time owner, workaday trainer or journeyman jockey to dream. As I dream myself that before I die, I might inherit in one way or another enough money to own a Grand National runner myself.

​To begin, a topic only very loosely connected to the world’s greatest horse race. 
‘When I was young, before I needed any one’, the racing week consisted, in the main and outside of Easter, Christmas and Whitsun – what has happened to Whitsun? – two meetings per week-days and perhaps four on a Saturday. There was no all-weather racing, Sunday racing, summer jumping and far fewer evening meetings. At least, that is how I remember the days of my youth.
The base reason for the overall non-competitiveness of British racing and the poor level of prize-money can be attributed to those four factors, though at this present-time you can add to the mix the cost-of-living crisis that accounts for fewer horses in training. Bemoaning the downslide in racecourse attendance, for which an added contributor might be our excellent dedicated racing channels, which the Racing Post is over-willing to highlight, yet failing to mention the reasons above, when the cost-of-living crisis is the main contributing factor for race-goers limiting their race-days, is a hindrance to finding a solution. At least, to my way of thinking.
While no one should criticise any attempt to boost prize-money, and Arc are to be congratulated for the money on offer at Bath, Lingfield and Newcastle, yesterday, it really should only be seen in context of one sunny summers’ day in a week of downpours. In the present crisis, all-weather racing, especially all-weather racing in the summer, is more the problem than the solution.
Aintree.
The current weather forecast suggests a soft-ground Grand National. Without being hot, the weather for the Liverpool area does seem conducive to grass growth, so the clerk of the course should not have the same issue to counter as her colleagues at Cheltenham and Doncaster recently. Soft-ground, though, will doubtless provide fewer finishers, an emphasis on stamina and perhaps a long-shot winner. Not good news for my big hope, Lifetime Ambition who ‘the experts’ disregard as being devoid of the stamina required.
For sweepstake purposes, I suppose, 40-runners lining-up can be considered essential. But less than that number should not be seen as the race losing popularity and esteem. The Grand National has not always attracted a full-field of 40 and in the days before health and safety was invented the number of runners could swell into the sixties. What a sight that would have been as the horses thundered to the first?
In 1875 only 19 horses faced the starter. In 1882 only12. In 1894 only 14. I have taken those dates at random from Reg Green’s fantastic book ‘A Race Apart’ and I am aware there might be occasions when even fewer horses ran in the race. Into the first decade of the 20th century field sizes grew into the lower and middle 20’s, with 35 being achieved in 1921. 37 ran in 1927, won by Sprig, with the unlucky Bovril second. In 1928 42-horses ran, with only 2 completing, Tipperary Tim and the American horse Billy Barton remounted to finish second.
Incidentally, until 1929, the Canal Turn was a ditch, not the plain fence it is now. In 1929, 66-horses (I wasn’t joking or messing with you) went to post, with 10 finishing the race. In this period, for a number of years, 40 became the norm for the race, though in 1936 only 36 ran and only 34 the following year. Nobody, though, were throwing themselves into Bechers Brook bewailing the demise of the great race. Though that may have been the case in 1935 when only 27 took part with Reynoldstown winning the first of his two Grand Nationals.
The theory, evidenced in 1928 when 42 ran and only two finished, was messed with in 1947 when 57 took part and 16 finished, won by the 100/1 shot Caughoo. Incidentally, at the request of the Prime Minister, Clement Attlee, the race was run for the first time on a Saturday. Although the idea did not catch on with immediate effect, it was determined later that Clement Attlee was on to something and Saturday did indeed become the adopted and now traditional day of the week to hold the race.
In 1952, 47 ran, won by Teal, but in the years following runners dropped to 31, 29, 30, the 3-years of Vincent O’Brien domination, 29, 35, 31, 34, and only 26 when the race was first televised by the B.B.C. in 1960, with only 8 completing the race.
During the Red Rum years, the field sizes were 38, of which 17 completed, 42, of which 17 completed, 31, of which 10 completed, 32, of which 16 completed and in the most historic renewal of the race in its history 42 faced the starter in 1977, of which 11 completed.
Between 1972 and 1983 field sizes flexed between 28 and 47, with runners limited from 1984 at 40 and in that year 23 completed the course.
There is a chance this year that we might have less than 40-runners, especially if the ground is soft-to-heavy. But that will be okay. No one should lose sleep over it. Conditions of entry are the cause, with so many obvious Grand National type of horse unable to get into the race, whilst too many ‘has beens’ enabled into the race. And don’t think fewer runners equates to fewer fallers and more finishers. It doesn’t work like that at Aintree. 
Aintree is a law unto its self.

​Watching recordings of past Grand Nationals, which I do throughout the year, not only during the early days of April, it becomes apparent the jeopardy that is part and parcel of the race is not necessarily focused on the fences, the distance, ground conditions or the number of runners, but by loose horses potentially running amok. In some years, it might be fair to example the ‘sheer number’ of loose horses, though chaos can occur through the hard to gainsay actions of a single loose horse.wa
The result of practically every Grand National since the day of Lottery hinged on happenchance; the adventure of horse and jockey terminated by variables concocted by the gods of fate through the moment-in-time actions of unguided horses ducking out approaching the wings or changing course at the last stride and, perhaps, ending up in the ditch or on top of the fence.
Of course, acts of random equine endangerment do not always end with a jockey sprawled on the ground cursing his or her dreadful misfortune or their mounts forced into the ignominy of refusal. Lost momentum, even over an extreme of distance, can result in all hope gone for another year. The plunge horse, backed from long odds to ridiculously short for such a competitive race, the horse ‘thrown in’ at the weights and unlikely ever again to be so lowly burdened, the 100/1 outsider set alight by the out-of-the-realm-of-normality thrill of the chase, the workaday jockey who after years of graft and injury has finally landed on a horse with a live chance, each and every one, can be, literally, brought back down to earth with either a bang or a whimper, by the antics of cruel fate. 
As spectators, would we want it any other way? Even if our fivers and tenners, the life-changing gamble of big bettors denied not by poor judgement but by ill-starred contrivance, the hopes and dreams of grooms, jockeys, trainers, owners and even breeders, ‘go down to the beaten’? 
Although, going against the general tide of opinion, I continue to be critical of the changes imposed on the Grand National in recent times imposed by the views of outsiders who oppose the sport in all its aspects, with animal welfare merely a media-grab, and especially conditions of entry that mitigate against lower-rated horses perhaps better suited to the race than formerly higher-grade horses out-of-form and perhaps now less disposed to ‘try their very hardest’ that get in the race due to performances of two or three-years past, my love of the race has not abated one iota. 
The best development, though, by far, outweighing all other chances, is allowing greater opportunity for loose horses to bypass fences. In the past the emphasis was to keep loose horses within the boundaries of the racecourse, perhaps due to public safety liability concerns and any resulting insurance claims?
On the perils of horses running loose, I think Aintree have it about right. It would be wonderful, of course, if mounted horse-catchers could be employed but though a good idea in theory, in real-time huntsmen galloping around the inside or outside of the course could easily cause as much turmoil as a loose horse running down the take-off side of the Canal Turn. Now the distance of the race has been reduced, I put forward the speculative idea of a running rail on the bend after the water jump, creating a wide enough ‘lane’ for the jockeys to negotiate without causing a hazard, to, and one always must cross one fingers with such a radical idea, guide loose horses straight to the entrance of the stables and, if they allowed themselves to corralled in this manner, preventing them from heading out onto a second circuit of the race. 
One element of loose horses and the Grand National, indeed National Hunt racing in general, is, given they are independent of human control, how many horses will continue to ‘race’ and jump, some until the finishing post. I realise their blood is up and as a herd animal they are hard-wired to stay with their fleeing ‘playfellows’. Yet the loose horses that remain ‘up with the pace’ give clear indication of enjoying the experience, their ears pricked forward, looking for the next fence, with eyes displaying no fear of a predator. And rarely, though it does happen occasionally, do horses running loose fall. 
I accept in this day and age, when a subsect of people possess the arrogance to believe that nothing in society should offend them and if it does it should be eradicated, that image is reality. I also advocate that the first rule of racing should be that horse welfare is sacrosanct. Yet horse racing, even on the flat, presents a danger to both human and equine participants, as it is in all equestrian sport. The Grand National is no different. No more. No less. Hand on heart, when I place a bet on the race, I always prefer ‘no fatalities’ to returning to the betting shop to collect any winnings.
The Aintree Grand National is as scaled-back, perhaps some might go as far as describing it as ‘neutered, as its history and meaning can allow. The only area of the physical race that can, in principle, be improved upon is the jeopardy of loose horses and short of drastic or fanciful measures being implemented, in that aspect we remain, and shall always remain, in the lap of gods who give the impression of being bi-polar. 

​I am not a fan of the conditions of entry for the Grand National. I have made my position quite clear. I want to see good solid jumping stayers in the race above all others emphasises a need for good solid jumping horses that stay longer than a priest in need of saving a soul to impress Cardinal Brennan. Not formerly classy horses that for a reason beyond my understanding are still rated high enough to get into the race but on all known recent form have as little chance of winning as Foinavon had in1967.
That said, it is what it is.
Of the horses I originally put a pencilled tick against on publication of the weights, I am left with the following: Capodanno, The Big Dog, Lifetime Ambition, Gaillard Du Mesnil, The Big Breakaway, Minella Trump, Corach Rambler, Gin on Lime, Hill Sixteen.
Of those, you can rule out Minella Trump if the ground is soft/heavy and Hill Sixteen if it is not soft/heavy. I suspect Gin on Lime will run in the Topham, though it is my contention she will improve for a distance of ground. Forget the Cross-Country at Cheltenham, Rachel fell off her at the second-fence and gave us no clue to her capability as a jumper of non-standard fences or her ability to stay. If she were to run, I still think, at long odds, on goodish ground, she could out-run her category as a no-hoper.
I am not convinced The Big Dog will jump round and 11st 5Ib over-rates his ability in comparison to the likes of Capodanno, a horse Willie Mullins talked-up as a possible Gold Cup contender. If Capodanno was trained by a man who could make his mind up and stick to it, I would be all over Capodanno. But will he run and will Mark Walsh forsake Any Second Now to ride him?
I wasn’t impressed by Gaillard Du Mesnil at Cheltenham. It is a long-stretch of the imagination to claim it was anywhere near a competitive race and though he eventually got the job done, displaying an abundance of stamina, would he have won if Mahler’s Mission had not fallen when well clear?
This leaves me with Lifetime Ambition, The Big Breakaway and Corach Rambler and the obvious-to-see problem is that two out of the three are British-trained, reason enough in this time of Irish domination to without hesitation rule them out of calculations.
Let’s start with the horse I think will win and was my original choice back in February when the weights were announced. Lifetime Ambition is being trained for the race, no question. There is a ‘story’ attached to him as his trainer Jessie Harrington is currently being treated for breast cancer. So that box is ticked. He has had an old-fashioned build-up to the race. He has won over 3-miles and was 2nd at last year’s Punchestown Festival to Capodanno over 3-miles, beaten a running-on 6-lengths. He was also 2nd to The Big Dog at Navan, receiving 5Ibs on softer ground than at Punchestown. Although he has won on heavy, I would like goodish ground for Lifetime Ambition, though I will back him come what may as his profile suggests ‘National horse’ and he will be guaranteed to be cherry-ripe for the day.
Corach Rambler’s chance is obvious; it’s why he is favourite despite the burden of being British-trained. At 10st 5Ibs he is thrown-in at the weights and as long as he doesn’t get as far back as One For Arthur when he won, he shouldn’t give his supporters too many heart-attacks. To me, he’s the obvious winner. Yet trainers rarely win more than one Grand National. Even Willie Mullins has only won the race once.
I wish The Big Breakaway had not pulled-up at Cheltenham as being a soft-ground horse the conditions could not be blamed. I suspect when hope of being in the flame was extinguished Brendon Powell pulled-up to keep him fresh for Aintree. Ordinarily a non-finish before a run in the Grand National would put me off but if he starts at 33/1 or more, I’ll still, possibly, invest modestly. At the last moment, I rejected Rule The World when he won as ‘novices that have not won a chase never win Grand Nationals’. A decision that chills my soul to this day.
At the risk of being accused of allowing my heart to overrule my head, the two horses to come into my calculations of late are also British-trained. Silently, through a t.v. monitor, I have appealed to Venetia to run Royal Pagaille in the Grand National for the past two-seasons. He is a class act, perhaps he has a few more pounds on his back than I would like, but he is not going to win any other race at Aintree or Punchestown this season and aged 9 he is at his prime for such a searching test. Come on Venetia, by your and Charlie’s standards you have had a quiet season, give yourself a chance of ending it with a roar.
The other horse is Our Power. Deserves to get a run, is trained by a man who seems to have the golden touch and has a ready-made ‘story’ in that his owner Dai Walters is still recovering from helicopter crash that almost claimed his life.
I am not confident that the 2023 Grand National winner will be British-trained, though I think our chances are higher than the ante-post market would suggest. At this moment I remain with Lifetime Ambition, with Capodanno, Royal Pagaille and Our Power to make the first four. Though going with my lifetime record of rejecting horses that go on to win the race – Rule the World is far from the exception – if I were you, I would take a close look at The Big Breakaway, The Big Dog and Gaillard Du Mesnil.
By the way, I reject Any Second Now for age and weight reasons. Galvin because I doubt his resolution. Noble Yeats for weight reasons and lightening rarely strikes twice and if he win he could easily be another Red Rum and there never will be another Red Rum. Fury Road will not stay. Delta Work because he only wins soft races these days. Coko Beach lacks the class. Longhouse Poet didn’t stay last season, so why will he this season. Wouldn’t have Ain’t That A Shame on my mind and hope Rachel goes with the mare. Mr. Incredible, really. He might refuse to start. Might refuse at the first. Might love it. Love it. Love it! Would be nice, though, for Brian Hayes to get the glory for a change, rather than having to bathe reflectively in the success of his wonder-woman ‘other half’.

​Whilst not wishing to endorse one syndicate over another, the Owners’ Group is a shining example of how to get the man/woman in the street involved in British horse-racing. For an annual cost of somewhere in the region of £60 it is possible for bus drivers, care-workers, hotel porters etc, to own a small share, and receive a small share of prize-money, in a Cheltenham Festival or Royal Ascot winner. The working-class man may never be able to own a racehorse outright yet for a small outlay the mystery, intrigue, tragedy and joy of racehorse ownership could lead to a lifelong passion for the sport and a portfolio of small investments in many Owners’ Group horses. It’s got me thinking, anyway.
The increase in prize-money at York, Ascot and Goodwood cannot be quibbled at, even if I quibble that the benefit of six-figure prize funds is directed at the elite of the sport and will do little to aid those at the bottom reaches of the sport’s pyramid. Strength and longevity comes from strong foundations, not from constructing down from the top storey of the building. That said, at least racecourses are addressing the shortfall in British prize-money in relation to horse racing around the world, even if the B.H.A. continues to twiddle its thumbs as if the tree of life is bearing nothing but glorious fruitful dividends.
Horse racing is both a sport and an industry. It is worth billions to the British Treasury, employs in its many guises many thousands of people of all ages and gender and from many countries around the world. It is also a sport and industry that happily mingles all sectors of society together as one horse-worshipping entity. Horse racing is not, as portrayed in the media and culture, an elitist sport but a sport where the working class can stand shoulder-to-shoulder with royalty and the mega-wealthy.
Horse racing in this country also has a history that has grown from an entertainment for the aristocracy, founded, in part, by Queen Anne, to a hobby enjoyed on the High Streets and homes of the country. The sport has a right to exist, a right to survive and a duty to everyone in history who has contributed to where we are now, to thrive long into the future.
We live in straiten times. The manipulated cost-of-living crisis affects us all. No one is truly unaffected by rising costs. This, in effect, has the sport on a war-footing. Attendance at racecourses is, as one would expect, on a downward spiral. Clerks-of-the-courses are having to be imaginative to grab the attention of local people, to encourage interest in a day at the races. Sponsors are hard to find, with even the Derby at Epsom without as yet a sponsor.
Anyone with an inkling of knowledge as to how politicians and unelected technocrats wish to manipulate society in the decades to come will be aware that though working people may have more time on their hands than at any period in history, they will have less resources to go where they please. In twenty-years it may not be possible, for example, to go racing at Fakenham if you live in London or Manchester. Or Redcar if you live in Cambridge. Or Taunton if you live in Rhyl. It’s not science-fiction; if only it were.
The B.H.A. now has the power to implement strategies to take the sport forward. They are no longer hidebound by the tripartite agreement with racecourse owners and the Thoroughbred Group. Instead of tinkering with whip rules, having made a bollocks of it for decades, and worrying over the image of the sport with the outside world, what is needed is a strategic plan to encompass all aspects of the sport. To formulate a plan that allows the sport to fund itself, to encourage more people into the sport at all levels, including small-time breeders, owners and permit-trainers, and to ensure that every racecourse from Newton Abbot to Perth survive and thrive long into the future. Yet does the B.H.A. have the expertise to right the ship and sail it into calmer waters and the adventures that lie beyond? I suggest not. I suggest nothing in its history suggests anything remotely close to dynamic, creative, inventive or enterprising.
Perhaps the answer is for the B.H.A. to bring together a group of horse racing people of wisdom and long-experience of the sport to formulate a plan for the future of British horse racing. I am not suggesting the sort of plan that Beeching dreamed-up that removed romance and convenience from the railways and eventually led to a countryside ravaged by tail-backs, pot-holes metropolitan pollution and the madness of ULEZ and the impossible to achieve fantasy of fifteen-minute cities. 
Individual enterprise is to be applauded. But for the sport to survive and thrive as a whole a coordinated plan is required. And required now. Or at least required to be initiated now. There is no time to lose. I am old; I have enjoyed this sport for the best part of sixty-years. I may have lived through its stellar years, and I want to continue to enjoy the sport through my dotage until death takes me to the next realm of existence. I want others to enjoy the sport, including those yet to be born.
I want to see Fakenham survive. I want Redcar to survive. I want Taunton to survive, just as much as I want York, Ascot and Goodwood to attract the best horses from around the world. Beeching took the countryside railway stations from the people. I do not want to live to see the current British country racecourses feature in a future edition of Chris Pitt’s ‘A Long Time Gone’.

​Richard Pitman is both one of the good men of racing and one of its greats. On his own admission he wasn’t one of the most stylish of riders, yet Fred Winter, a man revered and honoured still to this day, employed him as his stable jockey, and it must have been for more than his honesty and loyalty. Richard Pitman must have been effective as a jockey. 
You can admire Richard Pitman for donating a kidney, if you wish – he inspired me to attempt to do the same, only to be told I needed both my kidneys as one wasn’t as good as the other – or for his charitable work. I admire him mostly, though, for continuing to take the blame for Crisp failing to give the immortal and greatest-ever Grand National winner, Red Rum, 23Ibs in the 1973 renewal of the world’s greatest race.
What is less known about the 1973 Grand National, though on firmer ground Mr.Frisk would break the record many years later, is that not only did Red Rum win in a record time, 9-min, 1.9-seconds, but Crisp also was inside the record, carrying 12-stone. They may have smashed the old record-time but the third and fourth, none other than two of the most popular horses of the time, L’Escagot, carrying 12-stone  (2-time Gold Cup winner, remember) and Spanish Steps, 11-st 13Ib, also finished within the old fastest time and they were 25Ibs adrift.
38-horses faced the starter on 31st March, with 17 finishing. The ground was firm, the sort of ground to be feared today for steeplechasing but just what is needed to destroy long-standing track records.
Legends rode in the 1973 race. Tommy Carberry, progenitor of a great riding dynasty, rode L’Escargot, one of only two-horses to ever beat Red Rum in a Grand National. Bob Champion was sixth on Hurricane Rock. Lord Oaksey seventh on Proud Tarquin. Edward Courage, a permit holder, owned and trained the mighty Spanish Steps. Brian Jenks owned the fifth home Rouge Autumn. Mrs. J. Bowes-Lyon (must have been relation of the late Queen Mother) owned The Pooka that finished twelfth. Robert Sangster owned the fifteenth-finisher, Sunny Lad.
Jonjo O’Neill fell, as was his tradition, on Red Rum’s stable-mate Glenkiln. David Nicholson pulled-up Highland Seal. Jeff King fell on Ashville and the Duke of Alburquerque failed to complete on Nereo. It was a proper traditional, old-fashioned Grand National. The likes of which we will never see again.
Usually, I accept losing as part of life but I wanted to lodge an objection when Dancing Brave’s win in the Arc – I can’t even bring myself to stand-up and take down Pat Eddery’s autobiography to confirm the year, my irk remains so great – was voted the greatest race ever by Racing Post readers. I accept it was a memorable race and perhaps one of Pat Eddery’s greatest-ever rides. Yet better than a race where the first four broke the course record! A race where a horse giving away 23Ibs nearly achieved the genuinely impossible! In youthful culture, wisdom is denied and historical truth left unread. To the young, 1973 is as ancient as 1873.
Crisp was a former 2-mile Champion Chaser. The Cheltenham Gold Cup distance stretched his stamina to breaking point. He was Australian-bred. He came to this country on a quest, an adventure for his owner Sir Chester Manifold. Few considered him a likely finisher. Yet this bold jumper laughed at Aintree’s fearsome reputation, treated its fences as if they were upturned dandy-brushes and led for the vast majority of the 4-mile 4-furlongs, only to be collared close to the line, and only, on his own admission ‘it was a boyish error from a man’, when instead of staying still and holding the big horse together, Richard Pitman took a hand-off the reins and gave his gallant mount a slap with the stick. ‘’The ground we forfeited at that point was greater than the three-quarters of a length he was beaten by Red Rum’.
Of course, without that error, Red Rum would have only won 2-Grand Nationals and though he would still be revered today, he would only be the equal of Abd el Kader, The Lamb, The Colonel, Manifesto, Reynoldstown and Tiger Roll, not their superior and not the legend he will remain for the whole duration of horse racing history. Sometimes, the stars align and things are meant to be. Red Rum, remember, is credited with saving the Grand National. Without that riding error by Richard Pitman – ‘I am proud to have played my part while realising John Francome would not have fallen into the decision, I wrongly made half-way up the 494-yards run-in’ – we might not have enjoyed fifty Grand Nationals since 1973. Instead, we might be looking forward to on April 15th a far from replica of the Grand National staged over ordinary fences on an ordinary racecourse. A woke National. Perhaps even reduced to being staged at a point-to-point course; at Larkhill as someone helpfully suggested when it seemed certain that Aintree would disappear under a developer’s J.C.B.
God bless you, Richard Pitman. Your error was not an error of judgment but a subconscious sacrifice to save your sport and our greatest horse race.

​Since taking out an on-line subscription to the Racing Post – have now retired and can now class myself as even poorer and have taken the dark road to reading from a monitor. Incidentally, I miss not having the paper physically in my hand. Needs must, though. – they seem to have taken offence at me ignoring the incredible data-base I now have at my disposal. Again, incidentally, while on the subject of on-line subscription. Perhaps I should have started with this warning. Unprofessional? Doubtless. 
For your money the Racing Post offer not only subscription to the Racing Post but also the Irish Racing Post, which, I warn you, is identical to the British version. You do, though, get the Weekender and Racing & Football Outlook, which for the bettor and point-to-point enthusiast is a bonus. The newsletters, though, are just a rehash of what you have already read in Racing Post. That said: I continue to love the Racing Post. Love it. Love it. Love it.
Back to the data base.
Having now perused this incredible feature, I have discovered some statistical quirks. Be warned, though as Disraeli famously said, though quoting from Mark Twain’s autobiography, I believe: there are three kinds of lies; lies, damned lies and statistics. Just for balance, the saintly Florence Nightingale wrote: To understand God’s thoughts we must study statistics, for these are the measure of his purpose.
Brian Hughes may be champion jockey and leading the jockeys title race again this season but taking my information from the top 100, statistically percentage-wise he is far from the top of the list. While Hughes has a 20% strike rate, Harry Cobden has 28%, Paddy Brennan 27%, Nico de Boinville 25%, Luca Morgan 21%, John England 21%, Charlotte Jones 21% with Ned Fox also on 21%.
It is strike-rate on favourites, though, where Hughes is bettered the most, surprisingly. I began by listing jockeys with a better strike rate than the 34% strike-rate of our champion jockey but there were too many, so I switched to those jockeys who either equals Cobden’s 50% or better it. Tom Cannon has a 50% strike rate on favourites, as does Richard Patrick, Charlotte Jones and Stephen Mulqueen. Jack Hogan is on 51%. Patrick Wadge on 53%. Bryan Carver on 54%. Harry Kimber and Ciaran Gethins are on 56%. Bryony Frost and Bridget Andrews on 57%. Connor Brace and Emma Smith-Chaston on 58%. Though the winner of the strike-rate on favourites is the 100-1 outsider Mark Goldstein, presently side-lined through injury. There is an outlier with 100% and that is Connor Rabbitt, though one win from one winning favourite cannot be allowed to count.
Now for the statistic that proves either Disraeli or Nightingale’s quote as admissible as evidence as proof of your theory: of the seven jockeys in the first list one in seven is female. Of the 14 jockeys in the second category, 4 are female. Though my record when conducting research is far from dependable, the fact that only one jockey other than Harry Cobden is in both categories is Charlotte Jones, a jockey who in the main only rides for one stable, I put forward her name as a jockey that is being deplorably overlooked when owners and trainers are in search of a good conditional.
Of course, in statistical analysis it could be concluded that when Dan Skelton has a favourite in a big handicap he might want to put up his sister-in-law (56%) rather than his brother (37%), though I suspect this statistical fact falls into the lies, damned lies, etc category. Though Bridget did get the better of Davy Russell in the County Hurdle, a result that resulted, perhaps, in Russell thinking seriously about going back into retirement.
What this quick brush with statistical analysis does suggest is that booking a top jockey on a favourite does not necessarily bring about victory, though it can be argued that jockeys riding in the big handicaps will generally always be the top jockeys and thus if there are sixteen of them, fifteen will be on losers are that will skew the statistics. But it also suggests that the lesser jockeys when given the opportunity of riding favourites in races are perhaps more motivated to get the job done as their career trajectory depends on proving to their employers that they are have the race-craft to be given further opportunities.
It is also evidence that Jones, Frost, Andrews and Smith-Chaston should be availed-of better opportunities as they are already proving that they can get the job done.

​Sam Darling was born in 1852 in Moreton-in-Marsh and died in 1921, I assume in Wiltshire. He didn’t mention his death in ‘Sam Darling’s Reminiscences’, the omission accounted for by him having not yet died.
For a memoir of a successful racehorse trainer, Sam’s book is light on many aspects of his experiences on the racecourse. Mainly, to my intense disappointment, as I read such books to feed my impoverished brain with useful turf facts, half the book is taken up with his holidays abroad, with even the final chapter, ‘Home Details’, reading  as if his publisher said to him ‘embarrassed by your family, Sam, are you?’, and his retirement from Beckhampton, now the home and training yard of Roger Charlton, and building Willonyx House on one of the two farms he owned. And ‘boasting’ of all his successes at farm shows with his sheep and cattle.
I only have the ‘cheaper version’ of the book. Visit Way’s bookshop in Newmarket and you could avail yourself of a far grander edition of the book for the not inconsiderable price of £425. In the cheaper edition there are only 5 illustrations in ‘Photogravure’ and 4 in ‘half-tone’, whilst in the grander edition, original cost 21-shillings (ask your grandfather to explain shillings, though in racing terms 21-shillings equates to a guinea, again, ask your grandfather) there are 8 photogravures and no less than 42 half-tone illustrations. The words contained in the grand edition remain, I suspect, the same as in the cheaper version.
Sam Darling was a man steeped in racing history, with his father and grandfather before him a jockey and trainer, and Sam junior followed in his footsteps, as his own son Fred continued the family line of succession, taking over Beckhampton from his father and being equally successful. The Darlings may hold the world record for the number of winners trained by a racing dynasty. You will have to ask John Randall of the Racing Post for a definitive answer.
In Chapter 1, ‘Early Days’, it is established that Sam is connected to Lord Westbury and he writes about old Sam Darling, a term that I dare say Fred used to refer to Sam, his father. That is the problem with naming the first-born after the Christian name of the father, the second after an uncle and so on. Not as embarrassing as the tradition in some parts of Ireland where one of the sons has as a secondary Christian name the name of his grandmother. I know of one well-known Irish, though domiciled in England, trainer whose second name is Mary.
Sam Darling’s (of the Reminiscences) grandfather rode 4 Chester Cup winners and rode in all one year 76-winners from 176 mounts, ‘and that before there were many railways’. To get to meetings he would ride a hack, his saddle slung round his back. He won the St.Leger in 1833 on Rockingham. The Darlings go way back into racing history, almost into folklore. If only there were a Darling name now to carry on the succession.
Sam (of the Reminiscences) knew the Archer family and on being asked where young Fred should go to begin his career as a jockey, Sam recommended Mathew Dawson in Newmarket. ‘This was highly satisfactory, as history proves’.
There are, I admit, insights and useful historical fact in this book, I just found it irritating that a man so steeped in facing folklore, with an antecedence that trails back to when horse racing was primarily match races for the entertainment of the landed gentry, filled so much of the only book he published with tales of his holidays in Egypt, South Africa and elsewhere. Also, and don’t tell anyone ‘woke’ or they’ll have Sam’s body dug-up to witness a burning of all the known copies of his book, but he uses the ‘N’ word on several occasions when referring to ‘niggers’. Even I, someone appalled by all forms of censorship and someone with no racist thought and who treats all faiths and religions with equal distain, couldn’t help but be a little offended. Different times, different time.
This, as you might have gathered, is far from my favourite racing book, though being over a hundred-years old it adds flavour and value to my library.
Oh, I should add, almost in a similar vein as Sam Darling mentioned it, he won the Epsom Derby with Galtee Moor and Ard Patrick and back in those dark days our good horses were being sold as stallions abroad, including Derby winners. Good to know, that the more things change, the more they stay the same.