Low life
They're off
Jeffrey Bernard
One of the things I am missing this week — not as much as all the fluid and tea I could lay my hands on — is the National Hunt Festival at Cheltenham. I couldn't do it in a wheelchair, anyway, but on top of that I am far too frail to cope with the Anglo- Irish hurly-burly that goes hand in hand with the best racing during the jump season.
I have had some memorable Chel- tenhams over the years, and it is a pity that the one that sticks out most in my memory was potentially the best one, about 15 years ago, when the Duke of Devonshire and his son, Stoker Hartington, invited me to sit with them at their table in the Turf Club marquee. Although the weather was awful and the ground even under cover was mud, a good time was had by all until the appear- ance of John Hurt, who had freshly become a star thanks to his portrayal of an elephant.
He was half way between ebullient and aggressive and for some reason or other he started to try to wrestle or at least grapple with me, whereupon I slipped and crashed over into a large puddle of mud. Of course, in those days everyone who witnessed the event immediately assumed that I was as pissed as a pudding, and I had been making a special effort to pace my drinks carefully so as not to embarrass either His Grace or His Lordship. At another Cheltenham meeting even longer ago I went to watch Arlde win one of `So, have you always been shy?' his great Gold Cups, but I foolishly went in the company of an Irish nymphomaniac who gave me her undivided attention from start to finish of the race, leaving me looking somewhat dishevelled. I have no idea at all how many nymphomaniacs there are in Ire- land but I should imagine that they are as thin on the ground as they must be in Islam.
But, of course, the most memorable thing about Cheltenham for me is and has been from about 1960 the amazing feats of the one and only Fred Winter. I remember when he won the Gold Cup on Saffron Tartan — I think it was 1962. I crept out of the cutting-rooms to back him with a street bookmaker in Ealing. I was working there at the time editing the first of the new series of Z Cars. It was also at that time that I won a few quid when he rode Sky Pink to victory at Cheltenham. It was indeed just a few quid by today's standards, but then, when pounds were made of paper, my pockets were stuffed to the brim with the stuff.
By some bizarre and mysterious chance, I ended up after Sky Pink's victory at a the dansant at the Berkeley Hotel with that great short story writer William Sansom, of all people. He was quietly trying to cele- brate his wedding anniversary with his wife, and I think they were slightly put out by this man rolling about on the dance floor — I had been drinking awful concoctions called White Ladies — and roaring about my new- found hero, Fred Winter. Incidentally, what a delightful man Sansom was, and how odd it is that one never hears his name men- tioned any more. He and his wife used to come into the Yorlaninster frequently in the days when Soho could be savoured.
But the last time I went to Cheltenham was on an occasion when British Rail laid on the Orient Express for the journey and quite splendid that was. For some reason no longer clear in my mind, I ended up making the journey with a little mob, half a dozen of them, of pornographers. The catering, the furniture and fittings seemed quite out of place with anything to do with pornography, but then Cheltenham attracts a very diverse crowd.
One of the biggest mysteries to me is how the village priests from Ireland get there. When you think of their drinking and betting expenses on the course, plus about £100 a day for a hotel, then God cer- tainly does move in mysterious ways. One of these priests once quite seriously advised me never to bet more than £100 per race at Cheltenham. Do such men have such frightened parishioners that they empty their pockets into the offertory boxes at the sight of a dog collar? What would they part with if priests wore bridles instead?
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