How well I remember….

Last Saturday at Sandown…. the 3.35, the Bet365 Gold Cup (3miles, five furlongs, over many fences so cunningly positioned that untalented jumpers would be well advised to follow their profession elsewhere; the race with which Colonel Whitbread’s brewery  gave birth to the practice of race sponsorship by vast businesses with a love for the Sport of Kings.

Did the sun shine? I think so. Did it rain? I was watching on the box. Did I see anything worth watching? I watched a miracle which, unlike most miracles, has become almost commonplace these last six months. Thus: you pick a horse that, on form, has no possible chance in a race of this calibre and you back it each-way at 25 – 1. It takes a prominent position from the start, jumps every fence without even the semblance of a mistake and finishes third. Is that miraculous? Well, if not miraculous, quite unusual. Many people have noticed that whenever Briony Frost gets on to a horse on a Saturday, the beast runs and jumps infinitely better than the bookmakers expect and the combination of horse and rider is a source of easy pickings for its followers.  I’m a believer.

At 4.05, a horse named Call Me Lord won a rather grand hurdle race by 14 lengths. This was payback time for Call Me Lord. The last time he ran at Sandown he was buffeted by a singularly aggressive rival, and then shafted by the Stewards who failed to disqualify the assailant, which had passed the post a neck ahead of him.

In a mysterious way Saturday’s race was a satisfactory settlement of any disharmony between factions – not that there had been any sign of grumpiness. In the original encounter, Call Me Lord (representing the Henderson stable) was maltreated by Mr Antolini (representing trainer Twiston-Davies). On Saturday the tables were turned. Excellent!

On Saturday evening I was back in front of the TV screen. Google gave me access to foreign fields and I was watching the Maryland Hunt Cup – in the U S of A. Even via television it is not for the faint-hearted. Every obstacle is four rails high (I suspect the third has a fifth rail and is jumped twice). The rails look like railway sleepers and are almost as formidable. No wonder the Americans were quite good at winning our Grand National even in the days before the fences were shrunk and sanitised. Survival in Maryland requires bold and skilful jumping, and this occasion proved no exception. On the second circuit there was quite a lot of carnage and three leaders drew away from the rest. Two went on and fought out a very close and exciting finish and the third, which had jumped every fence superbly, was ridden by a young man called Hadden Frost, brother to the young lady mentioned above. What a family.

In my youth I spent several years under the influence of GB Toby Balding. One regret is that I missed the years when Jimmy Frost (Father of the Briony and her brother) was Toby’s jockey of choice. The tale I heard was as follows: one autumn Toby was consulted by a young soldier who wanted to buy a safe conveyance on which to win a military race in the spring. A suitable specimen was identified and bought, and I don’t think he cost very much. He joined the Balding stable and the Master gazed at him speculatively for a number of days. He then announced that this was a National Horse. Would his new owner like to win the National? Very much! Would he mind if a professional jockey rode him on that occasion? Not a bit. Result – Little Polveir wins National ridden by Jimmy Frost, who I believe also won the Champion Hurdle at Cheltenham for Toby (Morley Street 1991).

I have never met Jimmy Frost, but I have seen him. His hairstyle is quite wild and artistic and he is a good mover, often pursuing his daughter up the run-in as she wins race after Saturday race. Sometimes he is accompanied by son Hadden, who is taller and leaner but equally athletic, and a considerable jockey by any standards.

What happened on Sunday? More TV. In the après midi I find myself at the new-look Longchamp racecourse watching Cracksman win the Prix Ganay, and enjoying a French commentary. By accident I let the video continue, the race was replayed and this time the commentary was in Anglais – thank you, my French amis! Cracksman looked magnificent and did the job pretty well. He took rather longer than I expected to respond to Frankie’s “Let’s Go!”, but when he got the message he was formidable! (as spoken by a Frenchman).

I find him almost too good-looking to be an absolutely top-class athlete (I am not sure what I mean by that), and my expert at the betting shop reminds me that he was a bit of a “nearly” horse in the first half of his three-year-old season, so it will be fascinating to see what he does this year. Intriguing to think that the horse who might give him a real test could be his stable companion, Enable.

Am I right to suggest that horseracing, if allowed to become an addiction, is perhaps the best addictions that life has to offer?

That’s all for now….

Best wishes from

that nice Mr Donec