XMAS LITERATURE

There are certain books that transport the reader into a different world, but they are few and far between. Very few and far between, hence rare and precious. I can only think of three. As Xmas is just round the corner I take this opportunity to share a bit of happiness with my literate friends and acquaintances.

The Diary of Samuel Pepys is one such book. In Volume One (1660) you find yourself on the boat that is bringing a certain Charles Stuart back to England to revitalise the monarchy as Charles II. Seawater wakes you up as a sailor swabbing the decks above allows an overflow to find its way through the roof of your cabin and on to your head as you try to enjoy a lie-in.

In 1666 London is burning. Fried pigeons fall out of the sky on to the heads of sightseers in boats on the Thames. Pepys is among them and the reader is by his side, watching the greatest disaster ever to strike the capital. However it wasn’t all bad.  Just the end of a London made of wood.  The invention of the brick made all the difference to the new version.

There are eight or nine volumes of the Diary, all introducing the reader to one of the most amazing eras in British history. Every aspect of life is revealed in intimate detail – but not for some time – for 250 years, in fact. It was then that the original texts (devilishly encrypted) were discovered in the Pepys Library at his old Cambridge college.  Discovered, and decoded.

Men and Horses I have Known, by George Lambton, is another prime example of a book that works wonders. You find yourself at St Pancras Station, and who is that earnest looking young fellow deep in conversation with a very smartly dressed gentleman of a certain age? Of course, it’s Fred Archer and Lord Falmouth. Wrong  –  that’s the Duke of Hamilton talking to Fred Archer. Poop! Poop! Chuff! Chuff! And off we go to Newmarket.

The one you may not have heard of is “Fifty Years of My Life (in the world of Sport at Home and Abroad) by Sir John Astley. He is the best company you will ever enjoy, the best tonic you will ever swallow, the best writer of his particular type of reminiscence that has ever been or will ever be. He will take you from Everleigh in the 1840s (Hannon territory nowadays), via  Eton, Oxford and the Scots Guards,  just in time to go to the Crimea and get shot in the neck by a Russian. Back home to recover, and then back to the Crimea. What a hero!

He is indeed a hero and yet he doesn’t take himself at all seriously. He is intelligent, literate and a sportsman through and through. When he has money, he behaves like a gentleman. When he loses most of it, his behaviour remains the same. And the respect with which he is treated by his peers, whether he is in funds or out of pocket, is a tribute to the character of the man. In addition, his account of love and marriage is enchanting. Do yourself a favour, reader. Buy this book, read it, and then prepare to keep reading it for the rest of your life.

As for BETWEEN THE STIRRUP AND THE GROUND, by Andrew Simpson, Amazon will sell you a copy if you ask them nicely. The book is taking its time to develop its full potential. I grit my teeth and soldier on.

HORSEMANSHIP

Talking of Sir John Astley, he recalls that when he was a small boy his father supervised his riding lessons, and the main feature of the first six months was a folded blanket secured by a surcingle, instead of a saddle. That meant six months during which the tiny Astley bounced quite a lot. Seventy years later he had no doubt that this was the origin of the strength which developed between his thighs; a strength which is the basis of security and balance in the saddle. It may also have been responsible for Sir John’s ability to beat almost all challengers at sprinting and hurdling. Wherever he went on the giddy social round of his youth, word would be sent to the local athletes to pop up to the big house and take on “the Mate” (as he was called) and the betting would be fast and furious. He was seldom beaten. Enough – I mustn’t give too much away. Back to the blanket.

It is a little known fact that John Francome attributed his seat on a horse to the several months during which the Francome family finances could not run to a saddle for his first pony, and he uses virtually the same words as “the Mate” to describe the advantages that developed therefrom.

You want more? You shall have it.  When Sir Gordon Richards was a very small boy, his first duty was to go down to a nearby paddock and ride the Richards pit-ponies up to the pithead on their way to work underground. Bareback. No saddle. This routine continued until he went into racing aged 15, and he said it was the making of him.

Whatever your age, dear reader, any newcomer to riding should be prepared to put up with a certain amount of pain for a little while. The consequences? You will become immovable in the saddle, you will look like a horseman, and your horses will respect you just a little bit more than they would if they could hurl you to the ground just by sneezing.

I remember the watercress beds beside the road from Letcombe Regis to Letcombe Bassett. Half a dozen of us trotting along, gracefully rising and falling to the beat of the hooves. At Letcombe Bassett the road curved to the right below the yard where Tim Forster was training Last Suspect to win the National. Now we were heading towards Childrey, with a mountain range on our left. Half a mile further on, the redoubtable Major Ginger Dennistoun ordered us to “Walk” and we turned left along the road that led up the mountainside in the direction of Lambourn.

Clip-clop, clip clop and the Major was beside me. His eyes were as usual rather bloodshot but the blue bits were laser-sharp.

“Cross your stirrups!” he ordered.

“What?”

“Do you not understand English?”

It seemed that he wanted me to slip my feet out of the irons and cross the leathers across the horse’s withers, just in front of the saddle. Naturally I obeyed.

“Trot on!” he commanded, and off we went. Five of the six resumed the graceful rise and fall of the trot.  The sixth was me. Without the support of stirrups, graceful is not the word that would have occurred to the casual spectator – thank goodness there was no spectator, casual or otherwise. I bounced uncontrollably in four directions at once – and it was the sideways bounces that were the dangerous ones. I had to keep grabbing the pommel of the saddle and heaving to avoid being decanted on to the tarmac.

 

The road was straight and rising. I caught sight of it intermittently between my horse’s ears. It seemed to stretch for ever. It did stretch for ever. Things could not get any worse, and yet worse is what they got. Pain had decided to make a contribution to my education.The inside of the thighs from knee to pelvis became a simmering stretch of savage discomfort and the unmentionables protested almost audibly. I glanced down at my jodhpur-booted ankles. No sign of blood as yet, but it must be thereabouts: no pain could be that intense without blood appearing at some stage.

Enough!

The treatment was a daily thrill for six months (two months, actually). Was it worth it? Of course it was. Subsequently I enjoyed years and years of not particularly competent horsemanship, but no horse ever grounded me by sneezing. This is the only context in which I can feature in the same sentence as Sir John Astley, Sir Gordon Richards and Mr John Francome. Naturally I am extremely proud of it.

NOVEMBER

The month has its gloomy side. What makes me shudder more than normal? That expletive-deleted woman, with her microphone, burrowing like a mole into a succession of saddling boxes to chatchatchatchatchat to the trainer, the trainer’s assistant and the horse. She makes an effort to disguise herself as the ultimate in sporting chic. But she’s an imposter. Anyone who knows about racing knows that trainers detest talkative moles scurrying around their horses in the confined space of a saddling box while the trainer is trying to saddle it.

It seems to be a clue to the dire financial situation in which British Racing struggles to survive that nobody in the sport dares to tell the broadcasters to keep their moles away from the saddling boxes. BHA, where are you? Trainers Federation, where are you? Horsemens Group, where are you?

Is it all just good clean fun? No, it isn’t. It stinks.

FAIRY TALE.

Ascot 23 Nov 2019. What a joy to see Capeland leading Diego de Charmil in a Paul Nicholls one, two! Justice was done, unlike the debacle that featured these two horses a month previously at the same track. What a handsome beast that Capeland is!

If the BHA could bring itself to learn from its mistakes (I think that it was a mistake to allow Diego to keep the race), perhaps it might look at its Interference Rules. In the current rule book I have been unable to find any definition of what a “fence” or “hurdle” consists of, nor any instructions as to which bits of an obstacle a horse must jump in order to achieve a legal clearance. The waffle after the First Ascot Fiasco about tall birch, shorter birch and flags of various colours suggests to me that the regulations are at present inadequate.

BIG-FIELD STARTING

During recent periods of intensive televiewing I have noticed small areas of grass defined by handsome plastic rails adjacent to starting areas. Could this be an attempt to give large numbers of runners a safe haven where they can prepare for start time – without going all over Europe in a close-packed mass which is dangerous and stressful?

If it is such an attempt, well done the BHA!  I have also seen several good-ish starts featuring large-ish fields using these safe havens. On the other hand, none of the satisfactory starts I have viewed have had more than 17 runners, and the system is not perfect until it can accommodate 35 runners. What I am saying is that no process is acceptable if it is going to fail at the Cheltenham Festival, where most of the races have much larger fields than 17. Does anybody object to my setting the standard that high?

If I look again at 17 runners in their new “facility”, I see that they are still tight-packed. This means that the Rolling Maul is still being used. A pity.  It means that stress and danger are still features of the process. Two black marks. Also unacceptable is the fact that the field will leave its new “facility” in a processional formation, and more often than not the starter will start the race before they have had any chance to create a formation recognisable as a line (a level break) before the gate goes up. Hence three black marks that need to be addressed.

I am intrigued by the survival of the Rolling Maul. Clearly once upon a time some Genius came up with the bright idea that the Rolling Maul helps to get races started exactly on time, to the last second, which is considered important in order to maximise betting opportunities and the revenue for racing that will accrue therefrom. Clearly safety, stress and unfairness didn’t matter to the Genius concerned, but it is quite clear to me that the principle was (and is) totally wrong.

I do not expect Mr Brant (a man more at home in Australian harness racing, now BHA Raceday Supremo)  or the gentleman who has recently joined the raceday team from South Africa, or the even more recent arrival from America, to understand what I am about to explain, so I hope all three are paying attention.

A proper job requires the authorities to forget about prepared areas surrounded by rails just off the track. Let 35 horses stay on the track some 25 yards behind the starting gate. Let them walk round and round, anti-clockwise, nose to tail, while the clock keeps ticking.

When the starter mounts his rostrum he will look at the runners and what will he see? 35 horses, perfectly relaxed, walking quietly in a big circle that encompasses the full width of the track.

Concentrate on that circle. It is in fact egg-shaped – oval even. Twice as long as it is broad. Trust me. That is how good jockeys will manage the situation. They will walk across the full width on the course and before they reach the rails they will turn left-handed and walk back again. There you have the basis for an oval shape – twice as long as it is broad.

Round and round they will go, relaxed and comfortable, until the starter calls them forward.

When the call comes, all the horses will turn towards the tapes at the same time, still relaxed, still comfortable, still walking and now very nearly line-abreast across the track. There you have a formation which offers all the runners access to a fair start, as well as reducing stress and danger to a minimum. Other benefits? They will be guaranteed a good view of the first fence or hurdle, and they won’t be tempted to kick each other. That is the system which satisfied British jump racing for 250 years, before it got into the hands of foreign bodies.

What’s more, that is by far the quickest way to get the job done on time, every time. Think about it! The distance to be covered is minimal. The time required is also minimal. And there is no need to hurry. Have the authorities tried it? No. Will they try it?  Don’t hold your breath! Might well be dismissed as too much like hard work…..

But I can say with some confidence that the “safe havens” will prove inadequate when the really big fields are involved, and the perverse practice of blaming the jockeys will not be accepted. I hope that is understood.

Writing these final paragraphs has been great fun because I’ve been doing it for six or seven years, and my essays get better with practice.

Happily I still have enough energy left to wish you a Happy Christmas and a prosperous New Year.

Donec

 

BIG-FIELD STARTING postscript

I watched the 24-runner chase at Newbury this afternoon (30/11/19). What do I remember?

24 horses rushing round in circles, first one way, then the other, at the jig-jog, with the occasional burst of cantering thrown in for good measure. No calm, no relaxation, no effort to help the field make a line.  Just stress and hurry-hurry. Undiluted rubbish.

Eventually, when the field was some considerable way behind the starting gate (100 yards?) the starter let them go because the situation was becoming an embarrassment. Check it out for yourselves, BHA moguls.  This is the future, if you don’t get your act together.

By the way, just one more time, when things go wrong (which they will) don’t even think of blaming the jockeys. And don’t try blaming the starters. The guilty parties are to be found in High Holborn and they are a disgrace.