Rogues and funsters
Jeremy Clarke
At Cheltenham this year I was once again a guest of racing tipster and bon viveur Colonel Pinstripe. The Colonel is famous for his rambling, gossipy, sexist, often libellous telephone tipster line, the avowed goal of which (seldom attained) is to send callers home with ‘bulging trousers’. Serious, high-rolling gamblers who ring up his tipster line must be surprised to find themselves invited by the Colonel to repeat solemnly after him, as if it were a mantra, the words ‘bulging trousers’, having earlier learnt, at a pound a minute, about the Colonel’s obsessive passion for the wife of Irish trainer Willie Mullins.
In chalet 47, a nomad-style tent within a tent full of other nomad-style hospitality tents, Colonel Pinstripe hosted his annual party of lords, knights, politicians, bankers, venture capitalists, racehorse owners, trainers, gamblers, agents (football and literary) and journalists, all of us qualifying for our invitation by virtue of being, in the Colonel’s words, either a ‘rogue’ or a ‘funster’. ‘Rogues and funsters! Rogues and funsters!’ piped the Colonel throughout the afternoon.
It’s an education, chalet 47. By circulating and saying how-do-you-do, you can learn more about how this country functions in a single afternoon than you can by studying the newspapers for the rest of the year. (By all accounts, we’re presently a bit like Zaire under Mobutu.) As well as a free bar, there was a sitdown lunch and afternoon tea for those on solids, and three waitresses anxious to satisfy our every whim, almost. There was a television set in the corner to watch the races. And to save everybody the trouble of walking the 20 yards to the Tote, a dead ringer for Michael Caine, both in looks and sardonic wit, was personally taking bets. So, in theory, one didn’t have to leave the table. Parvenu that I am, however, I preferred to trot along to the Tote because Zara Phillips was often to be found there placing the royal tenner, and, elevated by Mumm champagne to the point of insanity, I fancied my chances. His Royal Highness Prince William could also be seen among the hospitality tents. Tall and slender and blushing continuously, he seemed to spend the entire afternoon marching purposefully between his chalet (no. 48) and the Tote, anxiously pursued by three detectives, the largest and slowest of which had the facial expression of a man who has committed every sin in the Decalogue.
After luncheon, fairly squiffy by now, I went outside the tent for a breath of fresh air with a football agent. You could hardly move for people, so the football agent suggested we go into the parade ring to stretch our legs. He showed the men on the gate his badge, which easily did the trick for both of us, and in we went.
The horses were parading before the first race. About 5,000 people were pinned behind the rail, straining to see. But on the lovely circular sunlit expanse of bright green there were only a few isolated groups of owners and their associates, plus BBC sports presenter Clare Balding and a camera crew. The football agent and I stretched our legs on the turf, then we spoke to a couple of the owners who were friends of his. Neither rated their horse’s chances of winning much. The second owner was positively, perhaps even clinically, depressed about them. After about a minute’s conversation with him, we began to get depressed as well, so the football agent suggested we talk to Clare Balding to cheer ourselves up. So over we trotted, and she must be an old mate of his or something because she was genuinely pleased to see him. The football agent introduced me as ‘Low life’.
By no stretch of the imagination, even in a society as democratic as ours, was I either suitably dressed or eligible for the parade ring at the Cheltenham festival. I know nothing about horses except that I’m frightened of them. My charity-shop clothes were unco-ordinated. The buckle on my trousers had given way and they were open to about halfway down the fly. I was seeing double. I’d been watching Crufts all week, however, and was thrilled to be seeing not one but two of Clare Balding in the flesh.
But she’s one classy lady is Clare Balding. Her astonishment at being introduced to what must have appeared to be an inquisitive tramp was momentary, tinged with good humour and immediately suppressed. ‘Do you know,’ she said, pointing to two startlingly beautiful black horses being led around the ring, ‘I quite fancy that horse over there, number nine.’ Back in the tent I invested a tenner on number nine with Michael Caine. (Colonel Pinstripe was singing, ‘Funs and Roguesters! Funs and Roguesters!’) Number nine won the first race at 20–1. ‘Can I owe it to you, chief?’ said Michael Caine, when I accosted him for my winnings.
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