​The views and ideas I express on this site are honestly felt, even if, in time, my opinions may change. Also, although I can be radical at times with the ideas I put forward, I am also aware that I can come across naïve if compared to the work of professional journalists, especially the expert commentators who work at the Racing Post. Occasionally, as proved by the Post’s guest columnists in yesterday’s edition, Simon Bazalgette and David Thorpe, my lack of knowledge on a subject can allow my comments to attract ridicule. 
I have recently re-read Tim Fitzgeorge-Parker’s 1968 publication ‘The Spoilsports. What Is Wrong With British Racing’, a well-written, and at the time, thoroughly researched dive into why British racing lagged behind other horse racing countries in funding and infrastructure. Comparing Fitzgeorge-Parker’s views in 1968 and the state of British horse racing in 2024, it is fair to say that not much has changed in that Britain still lags behind other countries when it to general funding and especially overall prize-money.
Fitzgeorge-Parker had no doubt the problems he wrote about in 1968 were due to the sport refusing to accept that the only solution was to follow the example of countries funded by some sort of Tote Monopoly. Now, after reading the Bazalgetter/Thorpe column, all that has changed is that, I believe, in the shadows of the sport it is accepted that a Tote Monopoly would be a good way to go if only it had not been nationalised and sold off in 2011 to Betfred. An example of the British government acting in its own best interests in the wake of world financial chaos.
Where I erred in my strong belief that some sort of Tote Monopoly should be reconsidered, with the oft-used phrase ‘that ship has sailed’ laid to rest for the sake of the sport, is in not referencing Britbet, which is a pseudo-type Tote and through its inclusion in the World Pool brings a large amount of revenue to the sport.
The major stumbling block to ensuring the sport’s future funding is, as always, the self-protectionism of all the individual factions that make up horse-racing’s bodily structure, with bookmakers only batting for themselves, racecourses likewise and so on and so on. I suspect only at the 11th-hour of the 11th day will all parties come together to achieve a cobbled solution to keeping the sport afloat; a solution that will be based on cut, cut and cut again, saving the premier at the expense of the minnow.
The B.H.A. are no help in the matter as its members seem to believe that as long as prize-money is doubled or trebled at Royal Ascot, York, Ascot and other high-profile festivals all will be good and the sport saved, with little or no thought given to how the smaller racecourses, trainers, jockeys and owners might survive if or when the sport goes belly-up. Bread and butter, I would suggest, can sustain the majority, while caviar, champagne and fancy French cuisine will only make fat the social elite.
So, although I may have been off the mark in previous forays into this subject, my overall opinion that some form of Tote Monopoly is the only sure way to proceed in raising the revenue required to kick-start British racing’s return, if not to the top, to equality with other racing nations, I accept that Britbet may be the baby step required to eventual success.
Of course, what is wanted is for all individual portions of racing’s stakeholders to row in the same direction and experience assures us that is unlikely as Willie Mullins showing mercy to his rivals by running only one of his horses in any one race.
As someone who is more enthusiast than expert, I believe the best solution is for bookmakers to only be able to trade on-course, though allowed to trade on the High Streets on other sports, whilst acting as agents for a horse-racing owned Tote. But then again, I may be wrong.

​If you think about it, being a jockey is a mad profession to choose when there are so many other less dangerous and more rewarding ways to earn a living. Imagine what a careers advisor would say to your teenage son or daughter when told ‘I’m going to be a jockey when I leave school. I have a pony already.’ Broken bones followed by broken dreams is what most careers advisors would point out in a pointless attempt to direct the child towards university education or a job within the manufacturing industry. 
A career advisor, on assessing the survey I had filled out, thought I should consider selling as a career. I do not care for buying much, so selling stuff I had no interest in would hold very little interest to me. Anyhow, I have found so many other ways to waste whatever abilities I might have had.
We, as enthusiasts or bettors, owe the brave men and women who go between the white rails day after day to entertain and enthral us, and, of course, to earn the fee that pays their bills, a debt we can never repay, though we can respect them. We must never forget that jockeys are flesh and blood, with mortgages to pay, cars to run and children to educate. It is so easy to criticise when sat in a comfy armchair in front of a warm fire, with a mug of tea in your hand. Gambling adds so much spice to the sport that a non-gambler like myself has no right to say that betting slips are harmful to evaluative thinking.
Not that you need to bet regularly to skew thought processes. I have never come within a hundred-miles of either Jack Kennedy or Paul Townend and I am not even Irish by birth or heritage, yet I desperately wanted Kennedy to become champion jockey. Not because I do not respect or have anything against Townend, it was just that he had already won the Champion Hurdle, Cheltenham Gold Cup, Grand National, plus the majority of Grade 1’s in both Ireland and Britain and enough was enough. Kennedy has suffered more broken bones in his comparatively short career to sustain a fracture clinic all on his own, and he had finished second to Townend in the Champion Hurdle, Cheltenham Gold Cup and the Grand National, plus a zillion other races during his career. He deserved to be champion jockey and I hope he retains the trophy next season.
As an aside, Paul Townend had a 38% winning percentage in Ireland last season. There should be a trophy for best winning percentage as even riding for Willie Mullins that is some achievement. The highest profile job comes with an expectation of achievement and that must come with pressure to succeed and more opportunities to cock-it-up, yet Townend rarely gets anything wrong. We all thought Ruby Walsh would be an impossible act to follow, yet Townend has made it look as easy as shelling peas.
The mad aspect of the Irish racing scene is that a jockey who rides mainly in bumpers can finish fourth in the championship, finishing above the loveliness and talent of Rachael Blackmore. Patrick Mullins may be the greatest amateur rider in history, or he may not be, after all he rarely throws his leg over a ‘dodgy one’, and also a mega and multi-talented communicator of the sport, with riches at his disposal that would tempt a saint to the sin of envy, yet should he be finishing in front of so many of Ireland’s top professionals? Given that Irish jockeys have far fewer opportunities in Ireland when compared to their colleagues in Britain, I would suggest half of their bumper races should be opened-up to professionals, even if restricted to professionals that are still claiming an allowance. Sorry Patrick, I even want to take the National Hunt Chase at Cheltenham away from amateurs!
On the domestic front, though pleased for her, personally I find it disappointing and not a little heartbreaking that Bryony Frost has had to make the decision to take her career to France in order to chase greater opportunities. Paul Nicholl’s has, apparently, asked her to return to Ditcheat in October, though now she is to be Simon Munir and Isaac Souede’s retained rider in France there is every possibility her appearances on British racecourses will become few and far between. Of course, the deciding factor in offering Bryony the job was the rather patronising 2Ib allowance female riders receive in France to encourage connections to give greater opportunities to the fairer sex, but it also seems a bit daft giving someone of Bryony’s success and experience an advantage over leading male jockeys. The 2Ib, apparently, does not apply to graded races.
I will miss Bryony, especially through the quiet months of summer, though I hope she career choice is successful and proves to all those trainers and owners who might have supported her what they have missed out on. She was our golden communicator, yet British racing decided to sideline her. Is it any wonder our sport is limping alone while in other racing jurisdictions it thrives?
I cross my fingers that the Racing Post takes an interest in her progress in France and allows its readers, and Bryony admirers, to know how she is getting on. A ‘Big Read’ feature on a Sunday would be appreciated, if she should grant the Racing Post the privilege!

​Occasionally I read about a racing story that has escaped my attention since it burst onto the front pages of the racing newspapers – the Sporting Life and Sporting Chronicle were the trade papers back in 1961 – and then struggle to find any reference to it in any of the books I own or when I go on-line. No doubt in the coming days Google in its infinitely puzzling way will enlighten me with an asked-for video on the subject.
The curious case of Zonda was brought to my attention by Tim Fitzgeorge-Parker in his fascinating book ‘The Spoilsports. What’s Wrong With British Racing.’ The final chapter, of which, is dedicated to this curious doping scandal.
Zonda was a decent staying chaser in Ireland in the late fifties and early sixties, as proved by finishing second, carrying top-weight, in a Hennessey Gold Cup at Newbury. The race that proved so controversial was a minor conditions chase at Leopardstown, the Rathfarnham Chase. There were only 4-runners, one of which was the 1959 Cheltenham Gold Cup winner Roddy Owen. The bookmakers had little doubt it was a 2-horse affair, with Roddy Owen sent-off the 5/4 favourite, with Zonda at 7/4. Bookmakers noted no unusual betting patterns. Zonda won by 8-lengths, with Roddy Owen finishing a tired third after making a bad mistake at the eleventh-fence. From the perspective of today any suspicion would be on Roddy Owen finishing a sixteenth-length third after being backed from 6/4 to 5/4 at the off. Apart from the Gold Cup winner performing below par, there was nothing surprising in the result.
Dope testing the winners of all races in Ireland was a relatively new thing and the racecourse veterinary surgeon took samples of Zonda’s saliva and urine. To cut a long and distasteful story short, the nominated Irish analyst, Dr. Pennington returned a positive verdict for caffeine. Strangely, and this what is needed to be explained and never was explained, is that the check analysts, Herd and Munday found the sample positive for strychnine, with only a trace element of caffeine. It is a tale worthy of a Dick Francis novel or even Agatha Christie.
At the subsequent inquiry the Stewards were convinced of wrong-doing and banned Zonda’s trainer, Matt Geraghty, for 12-months, yet, though Zonda was disqualified from the Leopardstown race, he was allowed to continue racing in Ireland under the care of another trainer.
Zonda’s owner, Mrs. Peggy St John Nolan, was concerned the decision of the Irish Stewards would prevent her horse from running in England as she hoped to run Zonda in that year’s Cheltenham Gold Cup. She sought advice from Weatherby’s and was advised not to press for an English enquiry which, they considered, might go against her. Confusingly, she was advised by another authority that Zonda could not run without an English enquiry. She decided on asking for an enquiry.
The English stewards thought a fraudulent practice had taken place, whereas the Irish stewards had only considered the dope implication. Her dilemma having doubled, Mrs. Nolan sought the expert assistance of Brendon Thomas Farrelly, a Master of Science, a Doctor of Veterinary Medicine and a university lecturer in clinical pathology in the faculty of Veterinary Medicine. He studied all the analytical reports on the Zonda case, drew-up submissions and set-off for London to argue his case. The English stewards were not particularly interested in anything he had to say, preferring to stick with the findings of the original analysts. The judgment was in alignment with the findings of the Irish Stewards except the English stewards went a step further in their punishment by banning Zonda from all British racecourses.
This was clearly a miscarriage of justice as there was no proof anyone connected with Zonda was guilty of introducing either strychnine or caffeine into his body. And that is without making any sense of how one expert had found caffeine to be drug the involved and the other strychnine. Or that Zonda had shown no improvement in form in the disputed Leopardstown race and went on to finish second in the Hennessey Gold Cup before either of the two enquiries were held.
I have little doubt enquiries both in Britain and Ireland are not as amateurish as demonstrated back in 1961. But in order to prove ‘how straight’ racing is in both jurisdictions, it is too easy to destroy reputations, as was the case with Ryan Price, a genius of a trainer, with the Hill House affair, where science finally proved that the horse made his own dope and that Price was innocent of all charges. What is forgotten when the story is told is that by having his licence to train taken from him, Ryan Price was denied the Grand National winner he so richly deserved as Anglo was in his care at the time and that he recommended he be sent to Fred Winter upon noy being allowed to train him himself.
The Zonda case reminded me of the Tramore case – Charles Byrnes (?) memory failure – where it could not be proved the trainer was in any way responsible for doping his horse.
It is so easy for stewards to apportion blame for the convenience of ‘proving’ how they are on top of the problem of doping.
Also, stewards’ decisions become an equine welfare issue when a horse is banned for life from racing. The horse is the most innocent party in these affairs and yet in banning the horse its existence could become precarious if it is unsuitable for any other equine discipline.

​The most hurtful accusation made by members of Animal Rising and others like them is that horses are used by greedy humans to make money and when they are no longer able to contribute to their keep, they are discarded as one might take a car with a knackered engine to the scrapyard. The accusation hurts not because it is true but because it is so far from the truth.
In a perfect world, all horses when retired would live-out their lives under the sun, their bellies rich with good green grass. But there is no such place as a perfect world and thoroughbreds unfit for other equine disciplines or with injuries that cannot be healed must, in an act that is more a kindness than an unsympathetic decision, be euthanised. In the wild, where Animal Rising suggest is the best place for thoroughbred horses, where only the strongest survive, the old and the maimed would taken from this world by predators and perhaps suffer a lingering death.
The truth is simple, we give life to racehorses and, as one would might be forced to do with elderly relatives, we must take desperately difficult decisions at the tail-end of their lives. The important bit is how we treat racehorses in between the birth and the end-of-life.
Owners, trainers, jockeys and those who are fortunate to live beside and look after racehorses, care deeply about the welfare of the horses in their care. There are no crocodile tears in horse racing. The death of a horse is not the ‘tragedy’ of a missed putt on the last hole of a golf tournament; the missed penalty that gives the other side the trophy. A horse that suffers a fatal injury on a racecourse is, especially for the groom who must return home without his or her horse, a tragedy that is a dagger to the heart, leaving a scar that may never heal.
Horses live on in our memories and in our hearts long after their passing. There are as many statues and memorials to racehorses as there are for people involved in the sport. If you omit Queen Elisabeth the 2nd, her mother and Sir Winston Churchill, I would suggest there are more equine memorials than for humans.
For many horses the memorials are less public. Those mighty warriors that Peter Easterby had the honour to train, Sea Pigeon and Night Nurse, are buried in a metal-railed grave-site at the back of his house. Indeed, Peter Easterby’s wife made her husband promise to have her buried when she died alongside ‘the old boys’, a promise which was kept. I suspect Peter Easterby may have demanded that he too be laid to rest in the same plot of land.
Jack Morgan, Edward Courage’s head man for all the time he held a permit, is buried next to Spanish Steps, a honour I suspect Michael Tanner wishes could be prescribed to him. Read his book ‘My Friend Spanish Steps’ and you will understand my comment. I, too, would be honoured to lay beside the great horse. Or any of the many horses whose memory is as much in my heart as in my head.
Monty’s Pass is buried in the garden of Jimmy Mangan and Norton’s Coin in the garden of Sirrell Griffiths, no doubt laid to rest close at hand as their devoted carers could not face having them anywhere else. I dare say there are hundreds of other racehorses buried similarly, hopefully with a grave-marker and an inscription documenting their triumphs. Not that a horse need have won golden trophies to be worth deserving of a home burial. Bush Guide who took part in the 1984 Grand National, is buried in the front paddock of Val Jackson’s, who rode him at Aintree, home. He died on Christmas Day at the age of 24. In Chris Pitt’s wonderful book, perhaps my favourite racing book, ‘Down To The Beaten’, Val Jackson is quoted as saying. “I’ll be buried next to him. That’s what I want, to be buried next to the horse.” 
When Animal Rising make their accusations, they lay heavy insults not only on the sport but on animal-loving people who would drain oceans or walk on fire in the cause of the welfare of their horses. Could we, as a sport, do more. Of course. There is always more that could be done. But what must be remembered, it is because of horse racing that veterinary procedures are as advanced as they are, with advances in treating currently untreatable diseases happening year-on-year. Yes, throwing buckets of water over the winner of the Grand National on a cold day is nothing more than virtue-signalling, but the welfare of the horse is paramount in every stable in the land.
The sport must, though, accept that it has a duty to support all equine charities and strive to raise as much funds as those charities require to rescue any ex-racehorse failed by the people charged with caring for them and to retrain ex-racehorses for a long-lived life away from the racecourse. There should be dedicated race-days throughout the year to raising funds, and for the Grand National, and perhaps the Epsom Derby and Royal Ascot, used for this purpose.
Racing people care deeply about the horses in their care and we need to shout about it more loudly than Animal Rising shout its insults and misinformation.

​The death of Shishkin last weekend has left a mark. Watching a recording of the Punchestown Gold Cup yesterday evening, the first thought that came into my head was that Shishkin should have been there. It was not that his absence left Fastorslow a lucky recipient of his Nicky Henderson’s tragic loss, just that fate can choose to be so damn mercurial and unkind at times.
In terms of British steeplechasers, Shishkin was important, even if he was rising to the veteran stage as he was one of the very few top-class horses we had in this country. Nicky Henderson does not have a ready replacement and I doubt if Paul Nicholls has a horse in his stable that will be challenging the Irish for honours in the Gold Cup next season. He may have become a little eccentric as he grew older but Shishkin was, perhaps, the best chaser in Britain and his loss will be keenly felt, not only at Seven Barrows but throughout the no doubt coming barren years for British trainers in Grade 1 chases.
For a horse to lose his life in its own stable is infrequent, yet in recent weeks two top-class horses have suffered that fate, with John Quinn’s Highfield Princess also dying after being cast in her stable. Usually, a horse that rolls completely over in its stable so that its hooves strike the stable wall, can get enough purchase to free itself. The accident to Shishkin must have happened after the staff had gone home, otherwise his predicament would have been heard and someone would have quickly fetched a rope and two people would have heaved the horse gently away from the wall. Some horses will just accept their plight and if not found in time will die of suffocation as the lungs of a horse are compromised when it lies down for too length of time. It is why you will often see a horse dozing standing-up. They will sleep lying down but not for long periods.
The horses who do themselves damage while cast are those that panic and I can only assume this was the case with Shishkin, his plight only recognised too late to save him from the self-inflicted injury that caused his demise.
No one should downplay this tragedy or accuse the people who worked with and around Shishkin of not caring, of carrying on with their lives as if nothing extraordinary had occurred. Henderson’s staff will be heartbroken. Jaden Lee, the employee fortunate to care for both Shishkin and Constitution Hill, will be bereft. He loved Shishkin and like hundreds like him, he lived for the horses in his care. He will never get fully over the loss of a horse who will forever reside in that special place in the heart for those who are no longer there to love.
I can guarantee that if a journalist asks Nicky Henderson to remember Shishkin next season tears will form in his eyes and his voice will tremble. Nicky Henderson is a softie; he cares deeply for the horses in his care. If anyone watched the video of Barry Geraghty riding Sprinter Sacre on the Seven Barrows gallops before this year’s Cheltenham Festival and on returning to the stables Nicky Henderson greeting his greatest-ever horse with the words, “Welcome, old friend,” will know that his passion for his horses exceeds his passion for the sport.
Life always goes on as it must, yet that does not infer that the heart beats the same as before. Tragedy leaves scars and the stable in which Shishkin met his fate will forever be associated with his name.
One aspect of a horse dying in its stable that is never talked about, and I assume Shishkin was attended-to in his stable as if he was too injured to be saved, he would have been too immobilised to be sedated to get him to an equine hospital, is the ugliness of removing a half-ton horse through the confines of a stable doorway. To have to imagine, let alone watch, a horse you loved and cared-for, pulled by chains or rope onto a knacker-wagon is the stuff of nightmares, far worse, I believe, than the actual euthanizing of the horse.
There is nothing as numbingly sad as a horse that you would empty your bank account to save but for whom the vets offer no hope. Life is not a box of chocolates; at times, life is a bastard!

​The finish of the 2023/24 season was a suitably celebratory event. The trophies to the champions were awarded before as fine a meeting as we have enjoyed all season brought the curtain down on National Hunt -for a short-time – to allow the flat season the full glow of appreciation.
It would be good for the sport if there was to be an actual official start to the new jumps season, something akin to the Sandown finale we enjoyed yesterday. Chepstow and the 4-year-old Free Handicap used to signify the change from the languid and slow-moving summer jumping programme to the start of the season ‘proper’, though latterly Cheltenham’s Paddy Power Gold Cup meeting has come to be acknowledged as the starting pistol to the National Hunt season. Cheltenham is the most suitable racecourse for the start of the season and I would suggest the meeting could be re-vamped to encourage trainers to have their star horses out a little earlier than is normal. 
Cheltenham has an excellent irrigation system and good drainage and usually provides good jumping ground for its opening meeting, so why not mimic Sandown and stage a 2-mile conditions chase, a similar race for Gold Cup and Ryanair horses, as well as a conditions hurdle, either over 2-miles or half-a-mile longer? I would also suggest transferring, even though it no longer has the same profile as in days gone by, the 4-year-old Free handicap Hurdle from Chepstow. Start with a Catherine Wheel, not a sparkler.
And this brings me to the flat. Can you believe the flat began 5-weeks ago. Karl Burke recently suggested in the Racing Post that the turf flat season should not begin until after the Grand National and he makes a perfectly rational point. The flat begins with a whimper and ends in the same manner. Given the prominence of the Grand National, the Scottish and Irish Nationals and the meeting most people continue to refer to as the Whitbread meeting, outside observers can be forgiven if they think the flat is poised to take over the spotlight, when in fact it has limped along, meeting after meeting being abandoned due to the long monsoon season Britain has experienced this winter/spring, for over 5-weeks already.
I have moaned long and hard about the diminished nature of the Lincoln Handicap and have put forward my idea of how to make the race stand-out to the public again as was once the case back in the heyday of the ‘Spring Double’. Unfortunately, though unsurprisingly, no one has taken my idea of a 40-runner Lincoln started from a barrier seriously, so I will not put it forward again here. But the Lincoln should be restored as a race any jockey would be honoured to have on his or her c.v.
If the premierising – can we simply call it ‘premier racing’ – of meetings is to be a success, which I doubt it will be, it is the races of distinction that need to be singled out for special treatment, not the undercard, where most of the races are, in comparison to the main event, ordinary affairs in the minds of the public. The Lincoln Handicap is, in racing terms, an historic race. If it were a building it would have listed status. If it were a habitat, it would be a site of prime scientific importance. And yet British racing has allowed it to become just another handicap, as good a place to start the turf flat season as any other handicap. 
I would suggest, as with the opening Cheltenham fixture, that the Lincoln meeting be revamped, with a Guineas trial, perhaps both 2,000 and 1,000, with other valuable handicaps and perhaps condition races to encourage trainers to have top sprinters and stayers out earlier than has become the norm. Give the flat a bang-opening, a fanfare to herald the beginning of another flat season and not the ‘oh my god, here we go again’ feel that is presently the start to the glorious flat.

​I would like to introduce you to a book published in 1968, and when reading this remember that in 1968 Lester Piggott won the Epsom Derby on Sir Ivor and Brian Flecther the Aintree Grand National on Red Alligator, it was that long ago, titled ‘The Spoilsports. What’s wrong with British racing’. The author was Tim Fitzgeorge-Parker, a former trainer who on not renewing his training licence turned his hand to journalism. The foreword of the book was penned by Paddy Prendergast, champion trainer both in his native Ireland and as the conquering hero in Britain during the middle-sixties.
56-years ago, Fitzgeorge-Parker’s opening sentence of the opening chapter echoes down the ages. ‘Britain is no longer a first-class racing nation.’
As Paddy Prendergast said in his foreword to the book. ‘I have known Tim for many years. He has unequalled experience of racing and breeding in all its various aspects. He is never afraid to express his opinions and while I would not go along with all of them, I do know that he has the welfare of racing at heart.’
I was 14 back in 1968 and had no idea the rot had already set in. I must have thought it the golden era, what with Lester ruling the roost on the flat and National Hunt still competitive in that time between Arkle and Red Rum. Yet to quote from Fitzgeorge-Parker’s opening paragraph. ‘Since 1947, British racing, once both the mine and crucible of the thoroughbred horse, sport of the rich, recreation of the rest, long recognised as such by successive governments, has been slipping towards disaster. Throughout the rest of the world the racing and breeding industries have never been more prosperous, particularly in France and the United States, with Japan, perhaps rather surprisingly, challenging for the lead; yet in Britain, racing is struggling for survival.’
In the second paragraph, Fitzgeorge-Parker quotes Geoff Watson, then the private trainer to the Rothschilds in Chantilly. ‘I’d rather have swamp fever than the kinds you have in England – dope fever and old tradition fever.’ At the time French racing was hidebound by an outbreak of swamp fever. He continued. ‘There are just two things wrong with British racing. Bookmakers and peers.’
In 1968, Fitzgeorge-Parker recognised that a lack of funding for the sport was driving it down to the also-rans of world horse-racing. We may have solved the ‘peer’ problem, with most of the aristocracy of this country no longer involved in the sport in any major way due to financial restraints, yet the bookmaker problem remains, and it was bookmakers that Fitzgeorge-Parker considered the greatest ill of the sport.
Of course, times have changed. The Tote no longer exists; Fitzgeorge-Parker’s lifeline for the sport. And the facts he quotes to support his stance are perhaps no longer quite as relevant today as they were in 1968. In 1965, he said, the Pari-Mutuel in France ‘yielded sixty-two million pounds to the state and forty-two million pounds to French racing.’ Yet in Britain, where betting turnover was three-times greater, only three-million was received from the betting levy.’
Of course, when it comes to prize-money, France now lags behind other countries in the world to the same extent as British racing, with Asia, the Middle-East, Australia and the U.S. making European prize-money look puny and increasingly commercially unviable to the major owning and breeding operations. Britain’s funding stream is different to all those countries just listed and though it does not yield the extra-millions needed for our sport to keep in touching distance with these other countries, we stick with it because, as journalists continue to argue, ‘that boat has sailed’, meaning the successful-all-over-the-world method of funding prize-money and infrastructure through betting, with the preference, seemingly, to retain the atmosphere of the betting jungle on course. 
In 1968, the Jockey Club ruled the sport. It was much maligned, considered a dinosaur refusing to evolve into the modern age. Yet is the sport any healthier under the governance of the British Horseracing Authority? Has anything really changed in 56-years?
I would encourage any reader of this out-of-the-way blog to seek out a copy of ‘The Spoilsports’ as, though it makes sombre reading, it will bring into stark relief how the sport has been allowed to stagnate for so many decades.

​If, and it is a big if, so big it needs to be italicized, were to accept that the latest batch of tinkering with the Grand National was necessary, I would also have to accept that since watching my first Grand National, which I believe was 1964, won by Team Spirit at his fifth attempt, I am guilty of supporting and championing a race, that to use the emotive words of the ignorant opposition, is cruel and barbaric, with jumps made purposely difficult, and that would weigh very heavy on my heart. I admit that I fall into the category of ‘animal lover’, preferring the company of animals to humans and I abhor violence and neglect of all animals, even snakes, which I dislike intensely. Though we are presently down to five-cats that live at our expense, we have housed up to nine-cats at one time in the near-past. Though, of course, the extreme ignorant opposition believe that keeping any animal as a pet should be banned.
To take to the illogical conclusion, though it will be seen as logical to the ignorant opposition, that the rationale of the latest tinkering to a once magical race has foundation, then, at the very least, every steeplechase fence at every racecourse should be lowered and made softer, as an equine fatality at any racecourse can be construed as an ‘avoidable accident’. If, for example, a horse was to die falling at a fence at Ffos Las today, the ignorant opposition could argue that if Aintree has taken steps to reduce risk, then Ffos Las is guilty of not following Aintree’s lead. The tinkering of Suleka Varma has removed horse racing from level ground of debate to the slippery slopes of god-knows-where!
Of course, the argument of ‘avoidable accident’ has far-reaching consequences. The thoroughbred breeding season is in full-swing at the moment, with the unavoidable twist of fate of the occasional mare dying while giving birth or foals born dead or dying soon after. These cruel events happen, even to human mothers. Yet the ignorant opposition might argue that the death of a mare or foal is avoidable as the mare’s pregnancy was not natural as it was arranged and facilitated by human interference. To my mind, by responding to protestors by accepting part of their argument and instigating changes based on their opposition, we are both encouraging them to come harder at us, while at the same time giving them the armoury to eventually defeat us in the courts of both law and public opinion.
Aintree should have held the line. We hold the public licence, remember. Aintree should have run this year’s race in replica of the 2023 race, though without protestors, I would have hoped, even if it meant crossing all fingers that no repetition of Hill Sixteen’s fate would occur, a fatality that can legitimately be put at the ignorant opposition’s feet.
When a horse meets its end on any racecourse, even if I do not witness it and only read about it in the analysis of the race in the Racing Post, my heart skips beat and I wish it was not so. I also know that far worse things happen to horses, even in a world where, apparently, social licences are part of society, where there is real cruelty and direct neglect, just ask Brooke Hospital, than ever occur in racing where the horse is our friend. If only the ignorant opposition would turn their attention to erasing direct cruelty and neglect of horses around the world, the racing community would then stand hand-in-hand with them.
Not that the supporters of the ignorant opposition care 100% in the welfare of the horse as I am quite sure a good proportion of their opposition to horse racing is based on politics and the false view that it is a sport only for the upper-classes, when in fact it is a sport of the working-class, though it may be underpinned by the wealthy and the mega-wealthy.
I believe Suleka Varma and those who advise her have done horse racing a great disservice and placed the whole sport in what will become an increasingly difficult position. If Aintree can reduce and diminish, why cannot every racecourse. When Aintree publicly verbalises the danger of the sport, then it must prove that horse racing is a danger to the welfare of horses. We defend our sport now while standing at a precipice. 
I would hope I am a fair man. Suleka Varma and her ground-staff deserve huge praise for the condition of the racecourse and the quality and spectacle of the three-days of racing was, to my mind, better than the Cheltenham Festival. And not all her tinkering was detrimental. Having the first fence closer to the start was an intelligent decision, though why this was not done in 2012 is a question in need of an answer. Of course, the changes in 2012 ensured Grand Nationals would thereafter be run at a faster pace than before and to address the bunching on the inside of the course that was a direct result of those changes, the race needed to be slowed-down, with the number of runners allowed in the race also reduced.
Having no parade in front of the stands was also acceptable, though I do wonder if horses could leave the paddock in race-card order, perhaps in pairs, their names and jockeys announced to the public over the Tannoy.
But the neutering of the fences and the overall sanitising of the race I cannot and will not accept. I will not accept that for the past 170-years the Grand National has been the sporting equivalent of cock-fighting and bear-baiting. 

​‘Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have immortal longings in me’. Will of Shakespeare wrote that. Quite why, I hath not the intellect to know? Shakespearean scholars will tell you which play it was penned for, the mouth of which character the line falls from, and of all the great actors who has played the character the actor who spoke the line to the greatest acclaim.
It might have been prophesy, written in homage of the coming of the mighty King of Carlow, King Mullins the 2nd. Certainly, the master of Closutton is now as unstoppable as any legendary character in the history plays of the near mythical William Shakespeare.
He came, he saw, he conquered. Once more he conquered. Conquering is what he does. He landed on Scottish shores with a mighty battalion of equine warriors, aided by a squadron of elite horseman. So strong in might, he could leave behind his trusted lieutenants to mind the next thunderous force to cross the waters to land blow after blow on opposition still whimpering and bloodied after the glorious triumph at the Battle of Aintree. Punchestown can wait; Punchestown is another day. The battles of today and tomorrow are the battles that must be won as those days might never come again. Some hope, the British fear!
Behind the twinkling smile and polite demeanour, lies a man of ferocious appetite for triumphal honours. Silver and crystal are his ribbons of victory, his rosettes of conquest. There is no limit to the number of trophies he can carry back to his homeland, though there may be no room large enough to house them. The champagne must flow at Closutton with sweet rapidity, the nibbles forever in need of replenishing; the dishwasher always full with flutes and crystal wine glass.
And he is not replete with his gains; he is not about to offer charity to his English rivals, if rivals, in truth, they are, so superior is he with his cavalry; he has the champion ribbons all but won, yet as long as the English princes have half a chance of knocking him from his perch of champion elect, he will send ever more troops into battle at such unlikely strongholds as Fflos Las, Ludlow and Perth, before the final countdown at Sandown Park. The oncoming battles will be no more than brief skirmishes, no more a battle than a slightly heated Womens Institute meeting, but they must be won, as defeat, after so many successes, is hard to swallow. The heir to the crown will take command of the troop through the next few days, Prince Patrick allowing his genial and sovereign father to relax and plot strategy for his upcoming anointing as King of English National Hunt, while he lengthens the monetary size of his championship victory. The size of a pound coin would be victory enough, yet to win by a hundred-thousand-pound coins would be better.
Of course, Ireland, was conquered many months ago, that anointing could have been done Christmas past. And King Mullins the 2nd is not a man to stand still when there are laurels to be achieved through the summer months. He is not a man to give an inch to his local rivals, in the same manner as he cannot allow foreign rivals a mist of a chance of landing blows on him or his army of elite thoroughbreds. Summer festivals are meat and drink to King Mullins the 2nd, revelries to be enjoyed while the mightiest of his string laze under a warm sun and pick at the best of Irish herbage. 
Between his succession as the wearer of the English crown and the many summer festivals at the likes of Bellowstown, Killarney, Listowel and Galway, there is the not inconsequential matter of slaying the home opposition at Punchestown, now perhaps the most popular theatre of horse racing in either of the kingdoms that are now owned by the mighty King Mullins the 2nd. 
We must concede that we walk in the shadow of the greatest of all-time. Neither of the O’Briens, Vincent or Aidan, can hold a candle to the supremacy the Closutton maestro now enjoys over his contemporaries. He writes his own legend and will be spoken about in awe by horseman for centuries to come. Upon his death, all Ireland might fall as is there anyone who can truly follow him? To think of him as a mere mortal is to do him an unholy injustice and just a bit boring, do you not agree?

​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!