SPECTATOR SPORT
Less appeal for the fancy
Frank Keating
LIKE THOSE shopping-spree figures which are always millions of pounds more than two years before, I do not remotely believe the Surrey constabulary's annual guess about the official size of the throng on Epsom Downs for Derby Day. 'Well, what do you think, lads? Yep I think we can settle for half a million, right?' says the uni- formed 'media officer' flatfoot, who comes up to the packed cluster of caravans, tents, and funfair 'attractions'. It was doubtless the same on Wednesday.
The truth is that the Derby has nothing like its former appeal for the fancy. Flat racing has turned its already narrow eyes even further in on itself.
The nation relates far more with relish to National Hunt racing, as the many millions more in ante-post bets piled onto the Chel- tenham Gold Cup and Grand National tes- tify. Television's midweek viewing figures for Cheltenham's NH meeting in March tower over those of Epsom in June. But I cannot see, as some do, that it is the fault of the Arab princes, who have heroically bailed out the flat with their petro-dollars since 1977 — although their nags' names could have a more homely ring to them. This week's two main favourites, Erhaab and Khamaseen, for instance, may mean something romantic in Arabic, but Auntie Doris can't relate to them; well, Erhaab doesn't inspire a quid each-way when she used to have a flutter on a name that reminded her of a favourite nephew or a place she went on holiday when Uncle Bert was alive.
No heroes any more. Every few years the flat does throw up a genuine out and outer — but as soon as the filly or mare has won a couple of classics at a breathtaking lick they are banished into purdah at stud and that is the end of that. Very differ- ent from familiar old friends over the sticks. Also, season after season, National Hunt provides much-loved human heroes on two legs — regular, approachable guys like you and me, albeit a darned sight braver. Anyway, not private, parchment- skinned and wasted waxwork millionaires, who are flown from track to track, counting their banknote wads in private planes. All the articulate writers and com- mentators are former National Hunt fellows.
To dilute even more any human appeal for the flat, the Jockey Club has this year, dottily, changed the rules of the jockeys' championship, so it takes in every scrub- ber's winter winners on the all-weather tracks, instead of just the traditional flat season as of old.
To prove the point, National Hunt stages next week its latest sensational finale to its jockeys' championship after a coruscating ten-month challenge between the two Irish- men, both dazzling in their different ways, regal Richard Dunwoody, from the north, and coiled and cocky young Adrian McGuire, from the south. This one could run and run for years.
And always astride cargo with a recognis- able name. Mind you, Weatherbys, the administrative agents for the Jockey Club, who vet and pass the names of all British racehorses, probably welcomed the influx of new Arab names. The old registers were beginning to defy originality.
Owners had been forced to dream up ever more unlikely names, so took mis- chievously to testing the rule which banned anything, well, rude which might seem innocuous but would get the television race-readers' vowels in a twist at a scream- ing crescendo at the finishing post. Far Call was always being tried on and turned down. So were the names of famous people, unless Weatherbys were inclined to clear them. The late Phil Bull submitted Ho Mi Chinh. It was passed.
Llamedos was another name allowed. Also, one year, Selosra. What's wrong with them? Holiday resorts in Wales or Italy perhaps? No, Weatherbys had simply not bothered to spell them backwards.
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