the aintree national.

​I am, as anyone who regularly visits this site will be aware, highly critical of the changes to the National course and to the conditions of entry to the race itself. I admit my response is heavy with emotion, with an equally heavy tilt towards the glory days of Red Rum and the all the heroes that went before him. Also, I do not like the world in which we live in, constructed as it is by politicians engaged in carrying out the ambitions of the unelected, the multi-rich and the shady elite.
As I recently wrote, if Aintree had displayed the courage to announce the Grand National, the last proper ‘National’ being 2012 in my opinion, was to be sacrificed and that henceforth a new race would take its place, the race we have now, I would have accepted the decision far more easily and with better grace than I have done with changes to the race that make it no more than a poor facsimile of tradition and history. It is why I will refer to historic runnings of the race as ‘Grand Nationals’, while I will continue to refer to the race on Saturday and post 2012 as the Aintree National.
I dislike the short-sighted testimony of journalists of better renown and competence than I could ever hope to emulate that times have changed and we, especially the National, should change with it. The Welsh Government have banned greyhound racing in the principality, does that mean the Welsh wind-change should be copied in this country, with all our greyhound stadiums shut-down, demolished and the greyhound breed allowed to fall into extinction?
And if the National course must be mutilated in order to nullify the possibility of equine deaths, which would require an act of God to prove successful, why do the very same journalists who believe the sport should change with the times not argue that all National Hunt courses should be similarly neutered to nullify possible equine deaths?
Let me go on record here: an equine death sickens my heart. Corbett’s Cross losing his life in the Gold Cup this year ruined the race for me, even though I accept that such events cannot be eliminated. There is, I believe, an unwritten contract between the horse and those charged with its care. It is simply that the horse must be cared for as if it is royalty, given all it needs to enjoy life, and in exchange the horse will be asked to take part in races for ‘our’ enjoyment. It is why cruelty to a horse should never be forgiven, why those guilty of such acts of inhumanity should face expulsion from the sport as mandatory, with the case referred to the police so that penal justice can be served. The sport, as with people with family and loved-ones, is the heartbeat of my world.
The Grand National should be available to everyone involved in National Hunt, every jockey, every owner and every trainer, no matter how negligible in the grand scheme of things, a chance of glory. It was as democratic as a horse race could ever be. The search for good luck on the day was as ponderous for the best jockey, owner and trainer taking part as those connected to the 100/1 shots. Bechers Brook was the devil to all; it showed no mercy to favourites and outsiders alike, there was no clemency for those who did not execute the right procedure for still being in the race heading for the Foinavon fence. Bechers these days has no fresh tales to tell. It is neutered, made insignificant, its notoriety as dead as Jack the Ripper. 
I am quite sure, though it might make a fascinating and insightful study for someone to prove or disprove my belief, that if you divide the number of horses who have ever taken part in Grand Nationals since its inception, by the number who have perished, the answer would be very similar to the percentage of horses who lose their lives in any one average National Hunt season. In fact, more Grand Nationals were run without a fatality than with, even in the days when the fences were upright, with no belly to them and the seasoned way for a jockey was to call a cab at virtually every fence. In the year 68 took part, there were, as far as my library of racing books tell me, not one fatality. If the Grand National were never televised I doubt if the course would have changed very much since 1960.
Yes, last year, having most of the field still in with a chance as they entered the straight, was a novel and eye-bewitching sight, but, playing devil advocate, what if a loose horse had run across the second-last, or one of the leaders had fallen or attempted to refuse? The debacle could easily have been of the magnitude of achieved by Popham Down in Foinavon’s year. Many fallers at least allow for the closing stages of the race to be uneventful, outside of a Devon Loch incident, of course.
If I could stage an intervention, if I could beg on bended knee, I would accept the neutering of the fences but only if the field-size was returned to 40 and the minimum rating returned to where it was in 2012. For it to be a true and traditional ‘Grand’ National people like Rosamary Henderson and the Duke of Alburquerque should be given the opportunity of taking part, permit trainers like Henry Cole and Frank Coton should not be disadvantaged and horses like Foinavon and Mon Mone must be allowed to strike their names into the historic fabric of the race and the sport. And though perhaps Red Rum deserves the honour, it is sad that no horse will ever again be able to equal his achievements around Aintree as the Aintree of today is but a toy to the battle-field of his hey-day.