favourite racing personality, permit trainers & 1954.

​Lydia Hislop and Ruby Walsh make a great double-act on the Paddy Power sponsored ‘Road To Cheltenham.’ An aside for a moment – the ad-slot for the programme, featuring Paddy Power himself, is comedy gold. I laugh every time I see it.
I could listen to both Ruby, for his expert analysis and keen observations, and Lydia for her wit, wisdom and handsome glow for hours upon end. Together they are a dream team. Compared to ‘Road To Cheltenham’, Matt Chapman and Paddy Brennan’s ‘Unbridled’ podcast is amateurish and at times juvenile, with Paddy Brennan giving the appearance as constantly arguing with himself as to why he had signed-up to play stooge to the largest ego in racing. (Chapman can be so damned good, yet chooses to squander his ability to connect with an audience by assaulting them with boastful noise and his belief in his own cleverness).
Anyway, I admire the writing style of Patrick Mullins and always enjoy the work of David Jennings. But by far my favourite racing personality is Jane Mangan, who seamlessly on the last ‘Road To Cheltenham’ proved a great foil to the interplay between Walsh and Hislop, her wit and perception a joy to behold. You know, I am pretty certain I could stare at a photograph of Jane Mangan all morning without ever thinking it was time wasted. That is probably not the compliment to Jane I intend it to be, as frankly even as I read what I have written, it comes across as a bit creepy, and I dare say Jane has enough grandfathers already without craving an English pseudo version. But she is pretty to look at, easy to listen to and her greatest assets are her personality and knowledge. Oh, and by heavens, she is adorable, with her own fashion-style to boot!

I am nostalgic for the permit trainer. Remember Frank Coton winning the Grand National with Grittar, ridden by amateur Dick Saunders? The great chasers trained by Edward Courage, Spanish Steps, Royal Relief, Tiberetta, to name but three. Geoff Hubard, Reg Tweedie, the list would go on if my memory was in a more cooperative mood. The sport was healthier and more intriguing for their presence and something needs to be done to restore the amateur to visibility.
Even the point-to-point field is now populated by professional outfits, as with the Gina Andrews stable, even if such operations exist mainly to produce maiden winners to sell on for six-figure sums at the boutique auction sales, it must be depressing for the true amateur to have compete against those as professional as the names we see every day in the Racing Post.
Is it not time to upgrade point-to-pointing – after-all horses, I believe, no longer need to be hunted to qualify to run in point-to-points – to a kind of conference league status? If every owner-trainer of a point-to-point horse was given the title ‘permit trainer’ and allowed to run their horse under rules if the spirit moved them, we could have permit trainer involvement once again and also, I would hope, boost numbers and competitiveness on a daily basis.
Given that point-to-pointing is run under the same rules as the ‘professional’ side of the sport, why not allow licenced trainers to run horses in point-to-points, if only to give experience to young amateur jockeys and horses in need of confidence-building. Both branches of the sport need help at the moment; why should it be impossible for them to help each other. The only change I can envisage is that point-to-points may have to adopt 4 or 5-day declarations rather than declare on the day, as is traditional with pointing.

I was born in 1954. I did not know it at the time but evidence has come to hand that suggests the truth of my age. Obviously, I was not aware that only a few weeks beforehand, Royal Tan had given a young whipper-snapper called Vincent O’Brien the middle leg of what was to become three successive Grand National victories. I also had no notion that Miss Dorothy Paget owned Mont Tremblant, the 1952 Cheltenham Gold Cup winner, and 2nd in the following year’s Grand National, and that she was as mad as a box of frogs, yet loved by some and despised by others and not known by all. A great woman and a flawed-giant of the sport. Five-weeks before I was born, Mont Temblant was 3rd in the Gold Cup (run on March 4th, would you believe) behind Four Ten, ridden by Tommy Cusack.
In this period of my birth, the ‘greatest’ hurdler of all time was Sir Ken, trained by the redoubtable Willie Stephenson, though some clung to the memory of Trespasser, with National Spirit still a contender for the accolade, with others believing the recently retired Hatton’s Grace outranked them all. Sir Ken was considered unbeatable and few took him, resulting in a sequence of 16 wins on the trot. Strangely, when we today compose our ‘greatest of all-time’, it is rare for any of the forementioned to be considered.
Fred Winter was the greatest jockey of his day, and is still considered one of the best of all-time. It was thought a remarkable feat that he rode a hundred-winners in a single season, finishing with 121 winners from 471 mounts.
I have a book ‘The Horseman’s Year, 1954, edited by W.E. Lyon and the only National Hunt races worthy of being noted as ‘important races’ were: Grand Sefton Chase at Liverpool, just under 3-miles, won by Wot No Sun in 1953. King George VI Chase, Kempton, 3-miles, won by Halloween. Great Yorkshire Chase, Doncaster, 3-miles, won by Knock Hard, to be mentioned again soon. Champion Hurdle, Cheltenham, 2-miles, won by Sir Ken. National Hunt Chase, Cheltenham, 4-miles, won by Pontage. Cheltenham Gold Cup, Cheltenham, 3miles 2-furlongs, won by Knock Hard, trained by Vincent O’Brien. Foxhunters Challenge Cup, Cheltenham, 4-miles, won by Merry, ridden by Gay Kindersley. Triumph Hurdle, Hurst Park, 2-miles, won by Clair Soleil, ridden by Fred Winter. Imperial Cup, Sandown, 2-miles, won by High Point. Liverpool Hurdle, Liverpool, 2-miles 1-furlong, won by Teapot, trained by Magnier, ridden by Pat Taaffe. Grand National, Liverpool, 4-miles 856-yards, won by Early Mist, trained by Vincent O’Brien.
It is good to look back to times we never knew, to a sport we would hardly recognise, even if the cast names can be as familiar to us the brands of beer we drink and the crisps we eat. Taaffe, O’Brien, Winter.