C4 Racing  –  Waving or Drowning?

We are looking for reasons why 20 percent less viewers (than last year) watched C4 Racing’s Ascot Gold Cup  coverage. Possibly it’s because the programme’s lead presenters are just a little bit dull. Step forward Messrs Luck, McGrath, Cunningham and Fitzgerald.

I believe the IMG plan was to make the programme more professional, and that has probably been achieved. Perhaps the planners overlooked the fact that “professionalism” need not be very sparkling.  These guys aren’t particularly entertaining.  It is nobody’s fault; just one of those things. But it would tend to have a negative effect on viewing figures.

There is also the matter of ethics. When the gentlemen in question see bad things going on, they don’t use their privileged position to castigate those responsible. Dull, sober and ethically-challenged… not very inspiring.

Anything else?

Out in the Ascot sunshine Clare Balding bounds across the short grass like a Russian tank in Eastern Ukraine.  A hoot of laughter is followed by “You don’t look at all like a trainer…. more like an accountant!”

“Heavens!” the Donec TV critic gasps. “It’s the tooth fairy! She’s going to make him smile at the camera.”

In fact the bespectacled (hence accountant – very witty) young man she was attempting to engage in conversation was spared the ultimate sanction. He escaped tight-lipped and hopefully unscarred.

Miss Balding’s talents are legion. The very suggestion of an inferiority complex is ludicrous. What? Her? Inferior? Nonsense! She’s a sports presenter on TV and earns oodles of lolly. That could be the problem.  She is constantly surrounded by high-achievers, whereas her own talents are largely confined to talking and occasionally riding a bicycle. Put her on the small screen alongside one of the stars and her instinct is to land a rabbit punch. There’s a sort of logic there, but it’s not necessarily pretty to watch.

What else? The new girl who interviews (Gina Bryce) is very good, Rishi is superb. Both of them know their stuff, they are funny and they have good manners. I suggest that interviewees enjoy talking to them, which helps. The betting team crackles with expertise (and humour, especially when the Irishman is on board),  and we are not in the habit of criticising people just because they look too thin, but it does worry one a bit.

Bottom line: One empty seat can make a huge difference. C4R without John Francome is a shadow of its former self.  Which leads me to…

 

Book of the Month

Anyone who hasn’t read John Francome’s first autobiography BORN LUCKY (Pelham Books 1985) is in for a treat. I was looking at it the other day and found it just as impressive as I had 29 years earlier.

The young Francome’s first words are an apology that his writing skills may not be up to scratch, because at school he spent English classes gazing out of the window at a gym-slipped junior goddess exercising legs that reached up to her armpits. And yet the pages that follow are full of wit and wisdom, and written by a young man brimming with a natural talent for words, whether spoken or on paper. Apart, strangely enough, from the very last paragraph, which would have appreciated a tad more editing.

He describes his early attempts to make a fortune, which often ended in disaster, for which he quite happily blames himself, learns the lesson and tries again. The way he set about a racing career was a masterpiece of Machiavellian cunning and unswerving determination, which he is perfectly happy to admit. To an extraordinary degree this man is in love with the truth.

When he first won the jump jockeys’ championship, he wasn’t particularly elated, because he knew he wasn’t the all-round best jockey in Britain. He thought there were at least ten who were stronger than him in a finish. It took him five years and two further championships before he reckoned that he had “cracked it.” A wonderful insight into the mindset of a perfectionist.

Perhaps as interesting as anything is his description of Fred Winter, one of the truly great figures of post-WW2 England, and the relationship between the two of them. Both strong characters, very intelligent, dedicated and principled. The author doesn’t talk about principles, but every word of the more serious part of the story makes it clear that a moral compass is an important factor in his life.

All this, plus the bonus of laughter on virtually every page.

It’s a gem, and it holds the key to everything that he has done since 1985.

 

Starting

Mr Jamie Stier continues to amaze me.

When he announced that 39 jockeys were to be charged with misdemeanours at the start of the 2014 Grand National, he made repeated references to the regular consultations between himself and the jockeys on the question of starting procedures. As an example of “working together” he refers to “amendments to procedures successfully implemented for the 2013 running [of the Grand National].”

After the hearing, at which the 39 jockeys were “cautioned”, his press release returns to the subject of “working together” and again suggests that the successful start in 2013 was the result of cooperation between himself and the jockeys.

The truth is that the start of the 2013 Grand National was the first big-field start in recent NH history from which all trace of the “Stier modifications” had been removed.  And the start was indeed perfect.

Presumably those modifications were junked for good? Not a bit of it. They were back with a vengeance the following week and have been causing chaos ever since. Up to and including the 2014 National which led to the madness of the 39 charges – another aspect of the Stier mentality.

As long as he refuses to recognise the facts of life (what we common folk call “the truth”), Mr Stier is going to have problems and is going to create problems.

Now for something much less depressing…

Exercise

(See Sport End of May 2014 for the full programme)

You have now been exercising for a month and you’re feeling marvellous, or possibly nauseous. In the latter case, slow down, breathe deeply, and resist the urge to ring your lawyer… please….

Let’s concentrate on Part 1 of the regime. I wish to  add a couple of elaborations designed to enrich the process.

Remember this?

PART ONE (of four)

Jog very slowly up and down the short passage or round the tiny room. Or your cell, if you are banged up. 100 paces. Every 25 paces, jump high enough to clear a (horizontal) shoe box. Alternate the leading foot for the jumps. Then stand with your feet together and march on the spot, lifting knees so that your thighs are horizontal. 1,2,3,4,5,6! Then pivot the trunk round to the right, then round to the left… and again…. and again. Then try to touch your toes, once. Don’t force it – beginners may take three weeks to achieve meaningful contact. Repeat the above section in italics six times.)

ELABORATIONS

1. While you are marching on the spot,

a) gently beat out a rhythm with your hands on each side of the navel. The stomach will appreciate a wake-up call.

b) if your hamstrings (one or both, just below the buttocks) are stiff when toe-touching, raise your knees a little bit higher when marching on the spot, and the ache will diminish.

2) Now that you have invested in those v. expensive and comfortable trainers, why not do a bit of jogging for its own sake, later in the day. Take it v. easy but remember that every jogging stride involves lifting one’s whole body weight off the ground for a split second. You don’t have to jog for very long to give heart, lungs and joints just a tiny little daily work-out. Nothing could be more beneficial.

The Donec team wear trainers most of the time, and there isn’t a steep slope in Marlborough that we haven’t jogged up bits of.  The town is celebrated for its steep hills which is why the legs of Marlborough women are often sturdy as well as beautiful.

Take it easy.

  

Things I hate about Wimbledon

I really hate Nadal and Sharapova, their bathroom breaks, their delaying tactics, and in her case the grunting, squeaking, howling and screaming which she uses as clubs to bludgeon with.

I really, really hate the umpires who let them get away with their cheap tricks.

I really, really, really hate the ugly rasping tones of Mr McEnroe. In my opinion he was the pits when he was seventeen and he hasn’t changed one iota. Thank god for the mute button.

Who do I love? Lukas Rosol!

Postscript on July 1st: What a day! Sharapova given her marching orders, and Rafa  well and truly trounced by a young man whose build, and skill and fearlessness are exactly the same as those of…. LUKAS ROSOL!

Football 1

One door closes, another opens. Now that England have forfeited any claim to be taken seriously as a factor on the pitch, could this not be an opportunity for the leadership of our game (if there is one) to get stuck into FIFA?

There was a time when the sceptred isle was the home of integrity, principle, fair play and good sportsmanship, and respected all over the globe for its unflinching righteousness. If it could come up with a terrier-like determination to take its target by the nose and hang on until he cries “Enough! I surrender”, and the intelligence to know that the slimy  brute is bluffing, and the tenacity  to cling even harder as if the very idea of relaxing  was ridiculous – who knows? Possibly the little people of the world, followed by the not-so-little people would emerge from the undergrowth and sign up for a crusade that will grow and grow and eventually create a revitalised football game, [possibly with its headquarters in the Tower of London, with the cells that once held Anne Boleyn and Jane Grey packed to the gunwales with the parasites who have been exploiting the great game for so many years. Let the axe, the block, and the man in the mask be on hand and ready to do their stuff. PS: everything within the square brackets is optional.]

Football 2

There was a period last season when Liverpool “blew away” all opposition, playing a magnificent attacking game that had no equal anywhere in the world. Week after week they took the game and the opposition by the scruff of the neck, winning the former and shredding the latter. All credit to the coach, Brendan Rodgers.

That was the attitude and the fire that England, including a lot of the Liverpool players, didn’t even begin to show in Brazil.

But, one might object, those amazing Liverpool performances  owed much to the presence in the team of Suarez. True, but I have no doubt that even without him, even playing against him, England could have, and should have produced much more of the Liverpool magic in Brazil.

The manager must take the rap, and learn the lesson – or go. That which was available to Brendan Rodgers (apart from Suarez) is still available for England, but it needs to be properly deployed.

Would I keep Suarez, if I was Brendan Rodgers? Yes. My tactic would be to laugh at him the first time I saw him after the World Cup. “Bite? Like an animal? You? Come ON!” and I would shake my head and be quite happy to leave it at that. Thereafter, every time I saw him I would smile, and he would know what I was thinking.

Laugh at the brute, and in no time at all he will begin to hate the idea that his talent is unable to cope without the help of his fangs. He will remember the great players of the past who didn’t need to bite. “I have sunk to this level,” he will reflect, “and I’m out of work! And I’m being laughed at! I can’t stand it!”

As for the real reason for the biting –  imagine you’re introduced to a dog and the owner says, “By the way, he bites.” The normal human reaction is to maintain a bit of space between oneself and it. What do strikers need more than anything else? A bit of space.  So, if you get a reputation as a biter, it means more space, and perhaps more goals. It is to a certain extent cost-effective, but only if you don’t get caught. One bite, eleven opponents reluctant to get close – good business. One bite,  four months off and peals of laughter – not so good.