Racing

Ghostly

Jeffrey Bernard

The poshest racecourse in England, Ascot, has an extraordinary grandstand. As far as I'm concerned it's a multi-million pound concrete shambles. On Black and White day I met at least six people who'd got lost in it. The escalators give it an air of being some thing between an air terminal and a modern hospital. Come to that, I suppose it's a bit like a large store with no goods. Anyway, that's not my main beef. Neither is the fact that there are more bars in the grandstand than there are pubs in Brighton.

What I can't stand about the place is that it's so bloody hard to win money there.

Rathconrath who'd been cracked up by so many people in the past two weeks to me as being the star of Fred Winter's stable was not only returned at an unbackably short price.

it then got well and truly outstayed by Rushmere. By the time Napoleon Brandy had been beaten in the second race I was making full use of the bar facilities in that dreadful stand. It was then that one of Toby Balding's owners came to my rescue. His

name is Harry, his surname Beccle, I think. and he saved the day for me, I first came in

contact with him six years ago when he wrote to me at the Sporiing Lift to tell me about the shame at his son's school's sports day.

Harry is an East ender who'sdonepretty well for himself, well enough anyway to send his son to a posh prep school. When he went to watch him run in the hundred yards, sur rounded by poe-faced parents, he suddenly heard to his horror his own voice screaming out, "Come on my son." A dead give-away if ever there was one. He even managed to make me laugh when Fishermans Cot won

the Black and White hurdle. By this time I was thinking in terms of taking a part-time job, but I still didn't realise that I was about to lose more than I've ever lost in one day's racing.

Meanwhile. Harry went on laughing at his own jokes and when someone picked him

up on it he said with incredible logic, "I

laugh at my own jokes because it's the first time I've heard them." By now I was falling for that silly old thing of picking prices and not horses. It was obvious that either Border Incident or Tree Tangle would win the Black and White Gold Cup, but I had to back

Cromwell Road to get out of trouble and so got deeper into it. I managed to forget my

troubles for a few minutes when a lot of us watched the Night Nurse v Bird's Nest race on television. I looked at Bob Turnell's face as much as I looked at the television set : watching a trainer's face when he's got something in a big race is one of my favourite racecourse occupations. I stood next to Bernard van C'utsem a few years ago when his £210,000 charge Crowned Prince got stuffed at Newmarket. It was unnecessary to look at the race. I could read it in his face. As the face got longer I knew that Crowned Prince was finding nothing.

Last Saturday when Bird's Nest came to the second flight from home Mr Turnell's entourage started bobbing up and down• By the time he cleared the last they were jumping up and down almost hitting the ceil ing. To win the Black and White Gold Cup and the Fighting Fifth Hurdle on the same afternoon is no mean feat. Perhaps doubters will now give Bob Turnell credit for being one of the greatest National Hunt trainers in post-war years. Perhaps they will also now give me credit for being one of the greatest losers of post-war years. I'd arrived at Ascot determined to back Spanish Tan. Loveble, laughable, Harry put me off it and it's all his fault. Bronco II couldn't be beaten he said and I went along with him especially since he was a better

price than Spanish Tan. What folly, what insanity. I was now breaking into the weekend money having done the housekeeping

money after losing the gas and light money.

With one race to go Harry was still laughing —I think his pockets might be deeper than

mine--and I was near tears. Fred Winter s Outpoint was a certainty for the last raCe, everyone knew it. So it was the second horse of the day to start at an unbackable price.

Of course, what I should have done was to shovel everything on, float a quick loan and

bang that on too. But off I went looking for outsiders again. It's a funny thing that it never occurs to one, when one's having nervous breakdown that is, that outsiders are outsiders because they're not very good. So I backed almost everything in the wretched race that was more than 6-1.

I couldn't even bring myself to watch it. I stood on a balcony and took the occasional

peep round the corner while hoping that the

racecourse commentator had got his colours confused. But, damn it, the last peep I took

revealed the royal blue, yellow diamond on

body and cap of Out point zooming across the finishing line like Ribot. By now it was getting dark. The champagne was running out and a sausage roll left over from 50n1e other meeting was playing havoc with MY guts. The girl I was with was looking at Me with more disbelief than pity. I made the usual futile remarks about Monday being, another day and Harry quite rightly pointed out that so was Tuesday. Switching to large ports to fend off the evening air and general angst, we stayed In the bar until the course was almost deserted. I sat there uttering the usual clichés abOot racing teaching one to lose. Suddenly, for the life of me, I couldn't see what was s° good about learning to lose. We now come to the Hennessey G°Id Cup. In spite of your threatening letters reserve the right to pass my opinion as to the result of this contest. I am backing the e'`.. hunter chaser Mickley Seabright and also Tamalin from Penrith. I suppose I should back the favourite Ghost Writer. After Ascot, I feel like one.