Racing
Injustices
Jeffrey Bernard Newmarket was good enough for me last Saturday. The crowds at Goodwood, and at Royal Ascot come to that, always put me off attending these classier meetings. The Sloane Square mob get in the way of the racing and there are just too many people who go to be seen and who aren't really at the races at all. So I picked Newmarket, as I say, and got there early enough to go up to the gallops with Bill Marshall. Apart from Fred Winter, Bill Marshall is the only trainer I know who actually rides work instead of watching it from the back of a hack. Considering he's fifty-eight it's a remarkable effort. What's more, sore days he rides out three times.
On Saturday I watched him go up the new gallop on Long Hill sitting tight on an old enemy of mine, Peranka. Last Tuesday, that horse had run pretty well enough in the Stewards Cup to finish fifth, but not well enough to prevent a hefty hole being made in MY pocket. It seems that the old school brigade of Newmarket trainers think that Marshall is a bit of a nut to ride work, but he says it keeps him fit and clears the liver of left-over champagne.
He trains from the Eve Lodge Stable, Which is the yard Lester Piggott had built three years ago and the one he'll move into When he retires from race riding. If you're Still wondering if Lester's a millionaire or not, you should have a look at the set-up and estimate just how much it must cost to build a brand-new yard with eighty boxes in it and With automatic feeding devices. I only hope Marshall finds another establishment when the time comes.
As soon as [arrived on the course an hour before the first race I knew I'd done the right thing in not going to Goodwood. All the old faces were here. The first one I bumped into was Tommy Turner, who used to stand up on the rails for William Hill in the old days. Tommy is typical of the older generation of racing professional. Under his soft brown hat there is a face that looks as ripe as a windfall. I once saw him make a book at Worcester races while at the same time, between races, he managed to consume an entire bottle of Courvoisier in the Members' Bar. I hasten to add that it was an accurate book which showed the old firm a profit. Reminiscing about Worcester I remarked how odd it was that it was the only track in England that actually had a pub on the Fourse itself. He said that sadly they'd pulled It down, but then he went on to tell me about the other convenience at Worcester. He said that there was a pub inside the cemetery grounds at Worcester, which made it a very Short journey indeed if you weren't feeling UP to scratch.
The first race was won by Etienne Gerard, a giant of a two-year-old, and it started a lot of arguments in the bar after. I've always thought that Brigadier Gerard was a fluky horse and I'm convinced that it would be madness to pay vast sums for his progeny at this early stage in his career as a stallion. His sire, Queen's Hussar, was a goodish horse who threw a few goodish horses, but the Brigadier was the only really top-class one. Well, I know he was more than top-class. But he's a long way from being Droved as a great sire. Etienne Gerard, though, certainly looks as though he must improve, and unless he's thrown in against some real hot pots next time out he looks to be a pretty good investment.
Bill Marshall then bought yet another bottle of champagne when he heard that he had won the first race at Thirsk with Minstrel Song ridden by his son Richard. Then [ went with him to watch him saddle up The Guvnor for the fourth race. It's always interesting to go with a trainer into the paddock and meet the jockey and listen to the riding instructions. Alan Bond had the mount, and there was a fair amount of optimism in the air that in receipt of two stone from Berkeley Square The Guvnor might bring it off. 'Keep him up with the others all the time, because he loves to be in the thick of things, and then see if you can make a run for it three furlongs out.'
At that moment, Rhodomontade's jockey walked by to mount his horse and Marshall said, 'Oh shit. He heard us.' This was followed by a lot of laughing and I felt as though I was in the middle of a schoolboy conspiracy. Sadly for all the connections, The Guvnor came third and Berkeley Square lived up to his name by demonstrating a fair amount of class.
I didn't have a bet in the next race but then at the very last moment, as they were going into the stalls for the sixth, I got hit over the head by a hunch and running like Lochnager himself to the bookies, I got a fiver on Bicoque. As they raced past us inside the final furlong it seemed like a mess of a blanket finish. Then they announced that Bicoque had won by a head. There was more agony to come in the form of a stewards' inquiry which went on for fifteen minutes and then they gave the all clear. Bicoque the winner at 33-1. But you know what really kills me about betting on horses? You're never happy. I'm not, anyway. I sat there under the trees sipping the last dregs of the Bollinger cursing myself for not having put a tenner on. It's pathetic, really, and a psychiatrist I know probably hit the nail on the head when he described punting as 'collecting injustices'.
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