I gotta horse
Jeffrey Bernard
I went down to Lambourn to see my trainer last week. God, how I've wanted to be able
to say that. The Rothschilds, Joels and Derbys of this world may be well used to the phrase, but I get a kick out of being able to use it at last. Anyway, I'll say it again. 1 went to see Doug Marks who was his usual eccentric self and he drove me up to the gallops to watch my filly have a lesson in how to gallop. It was only her third outing on the gallops and she was accompanied by three three-year-olds. As I mentioned in these columns before, I was quite pleased with myself for naming her Deciduous since she's by Shiny Tenth out of Elm Leaf, but it seems I've given her a name which for some strange reason her trainer has great difficulty in pronouncing.
That morning we decided to settle for his calling her 'your horse.' It suits me and exaggerates that feeling of ownership. It was the first time I'd had a good look at her. She's all chesnut with hardly one white hair, on the small side as is anyone who won't be two until 1 January, she's got a nice intelligent head and seems quite alert and lively. I watched her do two gallops of approximately three furlongs each and although she was very green she stayed with the threeyear-olds, tucked in behind them, with something that looked amazingly like enthusiasm. Perhaps horses actually like galloping, but it looks like fearfully hard work to me.
Back in the yard I went into Boom Docker's box and had a good look at him. Doug reminded me how well he had run in the Grand National last March. I thought he'd fallen fairly early on, but he was going pretty well and lying in fifth or sixth place when he was brought down at Becher's the second time around. In the house, I watched a video tape recording of the race and Doug made one of his usual 'funnies.'
'Yes,' he said, 'when I saw him still standing and going well as they passed the stands, I thought to myself, I must start feeding that horse.' Incredible as it may seem, there are a few owners thick enough to take that sort of remark seriously. They'd better stay away from Mr Marks. I remember one Newmarket Sales when two Americans approached Doug and asked him if they could have a look at a horse he was going to sell. They were interested in buying him and wanted a good look at him before he went into the sale ring. I walked with them to the box and Doug got the lad to bring him out to walk him around. To the astonishment of the Americans and all standers-by, Doug then got hold of the lad and walked him around.
'A nice little mover,' he said.'! picked him
up for thirty bob the other day in Huddersfield. Got him from a remand school. I know he's a bit plain, but he should make up into quite a nice sort.' Typical Marksism. But watching this year's National again thoughts inevitably turned to Red Rum. What an animal—at Aintree anyway. I see that the old controversy about whether or not he should be retired has cropped up yet again. If you're not aware of it there are, briefly, two schools of thought. One says that he's getting on, keeps losing and that it's cruel to make him go On racing. The other, and it includes his trainer Don McCain, says he enjoys his racing and will be alright when it's National time again. I belong to the second school. Red Rum is obviously a spring horse, does fantastically well at Aintree and if McCain who sees him every day says he still enjoys galloping along the sands then I see no reason to disbelieve him. Given the firm going he likes I can see him in there at the end crunch next March.
Talking of going 1 begin at last to see why the English never stop rabbiting about the weather. If it's not frost then it's waterlogging. Actually I'm surprised that the Government haven't issued orders about the rain in much the same way as they did about the lack of it during the summer. Would it go away, I wonder, if we all left our taps running all day ? Anyway, last Saturday's planned venture to Sandown to see the Mecca Hurdle was cancelled and I very nearly set off to go miles to Chepstow. Typical of British Rail, the idiots once forgot to put up the usual notice at Paddington about the racing being called off and I got as far as Newport before I found out.
When all four of last Saturday's meetings were called off I found myself in a pub with a bookmaker and nothing whatsoever to bet on. I tried the old one of betting him that the next person to walk through the door would be a man, but he wasn't having any. Oddly enough the next person was a woman and he would have won. She was accompanied by a nice old-fashioned chap who held the door open for her. As a last resort—if you can call Hackney a resort—I had two losing dog bets and then ambled in a desultory and sulky way along Piccadilly. Almost opposite the Ritz there's a rather extraordinary betting shop owned by the William Hill Organisation. It's housed in what must have once been a rather magnificent house.
Decor apart, it's very handy for a punt if you're having tea in the Ritz. The last time I partook of the cucumber sandwich bit there with a lady friend! kept sneaking over the road, telling her I was going to the Gents, and coming back with a longer and longer face each time. She evidently thought I had prostate trouble, as opposed to the old fiscal complaint, and I think she was definitely put off me. I suppose the thing is to own up about the betting, but there are girls who would and could never understand that the 4.30 at Sedgefield was more important than them. Wild horses can drag you away.
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