Racing Pilgrimage

It has been something of a high mileage week this week.

It started off relatively easily with some “local” racing at Leicester and Huntingdon but then went long distance later in the week.

Thursday was a day trip to Ayr and regular readers of my musings will be aware that I seem to have been fated when it comes to racing trips to Scotland with either the weather or volcanic ash conspiring to prevent my racing trips in the land of the haggis.

So it was with some surprise I woke on Thursday morning to the news that the volcanic ash cloud had not returned and my flight was still going ahead.

Of course the downside is I had to set off from home just after 05:30 in order to catch my flight and I am not a morning person. The disadvantage at being at the mercy of airlines to go racing is the flights are never at “convenient” times and I was in Ayr just after 09:30 with another five hours to the first race.

Whilst Ayr may be a delightful seaside town, once you have seen it there is little to see again. No problem as I had discovered a lovely gem of a café which serves a great full Scottish breakfast.

Actually to be correct I should say served a great Scottish breakfast, as to my horror I discovered it had become a victim of the recession and had shut down. I did find another café but it wasn’t as good.

It also still meant arriving at the course three hours before the start of the first race, which is a lot of time to kill.

Talking of things not being good the racing itself was pretty dire, with small fields and uncompetitive contests but we cannot expect every day to have exciting racing.

The flight home was strange. I flew with a budget airline, with whom for an additional fee, you can purchase priority boarding. Anyone who has ever flown with a budget airline and had to endure the unedifying scramble at boarding will realise it is a good investment to purchase priority boarding.

The odd thing was when it was time to board there was just me in the priority queue and 117 others in the “other” queue – it was an odd experience, although it did mean I got seat 1A so I could stretch my legs. The flight back was also notable in they had no food or drinks on board – well not quite true as they did manage to rustle up a M&S curry for the captain.

If a day trip to Ayr was not enough then the following day I was heading north again, for more racing. Actually to be accurate I should say we were heading north as this is the one race meeting my wife insists on attending as well.

For those of a religious persuasion pilgrimages to the Jerusalem, Mecca and the likes are an accepted norm. Indeed it is not unknown for some religious believers to make a pilgrimage to Cartmel Priory, however for lovers of “proper” national hunt racing a trip to Cartmel is as much a pilgrimage.

That nugget of a course in a beautiful Lakeland setting, the course which once visited will be on the come again list for the future.

On last years trip to Cartmel we made a fleeting visit to Morecambe and, on first impressions, it seemed to be a reasonably pleasant place. So we decided to make it our base this weekend.

What a mistake … it epitomises all that is wrong with British seaside resorts. Dare I say it even makes Blackpool look classy. Now bear in mind we were visiting on a Bank Holiday weekend yet on Friday evening when we were looking for somewhere to eat the place was shut. Although there may well have been a clue in our hotel where they announced that dinner is served between 5:30 and 6:00 in the evening – who, in God’s name, has their main meal that time?

Having said that the places that were shut looked more like greasy spoon establishments where the food would be cholesterol laden anyway.

The least worse place, which we eventually settled for, was Frankie and Benny’s.

The redeeming features of the place are the stunning views across the bay and a delightful promenade. It is just a shame that across the road from the prom there is so much dereliction evident. All in all a very depressing place.

To make it worse there was an unpleasant atmosphere when strolling along the promenade on Friday evening, there seemed to be more than a fair share of obnoxious youths high on booze and/or drugs.

Earlier on I complained of the boredom of having to arrive at Ayr racecourse three hours before racing started, I am now going to seemingly contradict myself and proclaim we arrived at Cartmel seven hours before the first race. Yep we were at the course at 11:00 with the first race due off at 18:00 and we were by no means the first to arrive.

You see one of the tricks at Cartmel is to arrive early, for the afternoon meetings the first arrivals are there in time for breakfast, for the evening meetings it is in time for lunch.

Seven hours seems a long time to kill ….. normally it isn’t but I have to confess this year it was, mainly because it began lashing down with rain from just after 13:00.

Our “ritual” at Cartmel tends to be the same each year.

First priority is to find a decent pitch to park up – this year we had a prime spot besides the open ditch.

Then it is time for a stroll round the delightful village before it gets too busy, always finishing at the delightful village store, home of the famous sticky toffee pudding plus a selection of goodies from their deli counter for lunch.

Then it is back to the track, strolling through the course section, taking in the various stalls and then back to the car.

For me it is then off to the press room to file my first updates and get the latest non-runner and going details, whilst Mrs O sits in the car making her selections for the afternoon.

Then it is back to the car and a chance to feast on the goodies from the village shop, hopefully as a picnic outside but this year in the car, but this year inside a steamed up car as a monsoon, OK heavy rain, lashed down.

Normally it would then be a pleasant stroll to walk off lunch, this time it was put the seats back and have a kip for an hour.

Finally two hours before racing it is back to the press room for me and a “normal” evenings racing commences.

Actually I say normal, however there are a couple of issues with working from Cartmel. Firstly the press room is very small, although luckily very few members of the press actually venture to the course so there is no great demand for the facilities.

Secondly, viewing of the racing is appalling, due entirely to the configuration of the course.

There is indeed nowhere at all where the entire course can be viewed and this weekend there was even a “blind spot” with the television pictures.

There is viewing of about 2/3 of the course from the owners and trainers section of the stand, which is OK when it is dry but when raining it is impossible to make any notes as I find attempting to write on papier mache somewhat difficult.

However the mainstay of Cartmel is atmosphere both with the appreciative friendly crowd and, with one notable exception, the camaraderie of those working at the meeting.

I am already counting the days until my next visit.

Happy Days

Last weekend I had a weekend off from racing, I had a good excuse though as it was my Dad’s 85th birthday.

Quite an achievement really as, having researched my family history over the past year, one thing that has become clear is longevity is not a family trait and by reaching the grand old age of 85 he easily holds the family record for longevity.

Sadly his health is not what it once was and there were some mixed feelings on the weekend as all the family gathered to help him celebrate his big day.

For as long as I can remember Dad has always bet, usually surreptitiously as my Mother does not approve of betting, also money was always tight when we were growing up and she saw betting as frittering away money.

Not that Dad is, by any description, a big gambler. He bets in pence rather than pounds. I think the biggest bet I have ever seen him put on is £10 and that is one I paid for on-course and I could not stand the embarrassment of him being with me and putting on a two pound bet.

Dad is the sort of punter High Street bookmakers love, what we snootily call a mug punter.

I think I can say with almost 100% confidence that in over 60 years of betting he has never once looked at any type of form line. He tends to bet on names, although the exact selection criteria does sometimes change. The most usual selection technique seems to be any horse with Red in its name, which is how he managed to back the Grand National winner Red Marauder, probably his best ever win.

I have no doubt I caught the betting bug from him and I still remember my first “big” win. We lived in Portsmouth and I had £5 e/w on a 33/1 shot, I am ashamed to admit it now but I chose the horse because of its name but at the time I did not care, a winner was a winner.

All I know is the £208 I picked up was a hell of a lot of money. It was on a Friday afternoon and to celebrate I rang home and told Dad I had booked two tickets on that evenings ferry to Guernsey and we were off for a “Father and Son” weekend away.

A few weeks ago I was having a tidy up in the loft and I found the photo album with reminders of that weekend away. Happy days.

Talking of happy days, my postman has been busy recently as in the last ten days I have received my press badges for both the Epsom Derby meeting and Royal Ascot.

It seems only yesterday I was excitedly gearing up for Cheltenham and now we have the highlights of the flat season looming.

I make no secret of the fact I prefer National Hunt racing to the flat, however I am not one of those who loathes the other code. I do enjoy the flat, especially the top quality races although, like many, I get frustrated that the top performers seem to get shipped off to stud as soon as their three-year-old season is over.

Epsom, especially on Derby Day, has a great atmosphere. I have to confess before Derby Day became a working day for me I used to go to Derby Day most years, yet I had never seen the race from the main enclosures. I always used to watch the race from The Hill.

I say watch the race, that is not strictly true, you don’t see that much on the hill, just the horses flashing past you briefly and unless you look at the big screen you have no idea how the race is developing. For all that however there is a fantastic party atmosphere on the hill.

One year I went down to watch the Derby Start. Now I have seen quite a few starts over the years but watching a Derby start is something else.

For a start these are not ordinary horses. There are no donkeys or non-tries after a handicap mark in this race. These are the best and you can see they are. All the runners trained to perfection, in perfect condition, muscles rippling.

The jockeys are somehow different as well. No joking, joshing or insulting. All with looks of intense concentration, even Dettori invariably looks serious.

When the gates open it is like a coiled spring being released, you can feel the release of energy. It is the sort of experience that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

Royal Ascot, on the other hand, is a meeting that has taken a while to grow on me. In strictly racing terms it has to be the highlight of the flat season. Five days of top quality, competitive racing.

OK it is hard work from a reporting perspective and trying to read a race with 32 runners charging at you head-on does little to help the nerves.

However there are the crowds. Now I know Cheltenham, especially on Gold Cup day, can be just as crowded as the Royal meeting. However at Cheltenham most of those there do have an interest in the racing. At Ascot far too many are there just to be seen and the racing is of little or no importance.

Now don’t get me wrong the non-racing “views”, especially on Ladies Day, can be a joy to behold and a more than pleasant distraction. However as the drink flows the afternoons can become less and less enjoyable, especially in the General Enclosure.

Luckily over the past few years I have managed to discover the “rat runs” which, with the benefit of a media pass, allows you to get around the place missing the bulk of the crowds.

This weekend sees one of my favourite racing days of the year. It is not a major festival and the quality of the racing is generally bottom draw. It is also the one meeting each year that my wife absolutely insists on joining me for. The first race is not until 18:00, yet in order to get a decent spot to watch the racing we will need to arrive at the course around 11:00 in the morning. I am talking, of course, about Cartmel.

The idiosyncratic course set in the middle of the Lake District, an impossible course to view the racing but a fantastic day out in a beautiful village. You park in the centre of the course and if you arrive early enough you can get one of the “cherished” parking spots by the rails.

We either park by the 2m 1f / 3m 2f start or by the open ditch. The barbies come out or, even better, go to the famous village store (home of the legendary sticky toffee pudding) and choose a selection of cold meats and pies from their deli.

There is something really special about a days racing at Cartmel. It is a meeting every NH fan should go to at least once and when you have been once it is almost an odds-on certainty you will want to go again and again.

The forecast for Saturday is for showers, they will not dampen the spirits at Cartmel.

Tales From The Press Room

This week saw my annual visit to the west country, going to Newton Abbot on Tuesday evening and Exeter on Wednesday afternoon.

Both are delightful tracks but there is something about Newton Abbot I really like. A friendly course with good viewing, the racing is never of the highest quality but it is an absolute delight for National Hunt fans.

For me one of the great attractions is racecourse announcer, the delightfully named Ivor Brimblecombe. He sounds a gentleman of mature years but he always makes me smile.

First of all he has his trademark way of finishing most of his announcements with “that is all” and that never ceases to raise a smile.

However last Tuesday he came up with one of the best announcements I have heard in years.

Those of you who go racing will probably know that flash photography is, understandably, prohibited – especially close to the horses as it can spook them.

I would say at most meetings I attend, especially evening meetings when the light can fade, there is invariably an announcement reminding racegoers that flash photography is prohibited and asking racegoers to refrain from flashing. (I just thought I would spice things up a bit)

Sure enough at Newton Abbot on Tuesday the announcement was made at around the time of the second race. That would, normally, be it.

However two races later Ivor was back to the microphone.

“Earlier on I mentioned about not using flash photography. One of you is still using flash after you were told not too. You will stop doing so immediately. That is all.”

It was brilliant, just like a headmaster telling off a naughty child.

Thinking about verbal traits, it isn’t just the racecourse announcers who have their “trademarks”, commentators do as well.

Stewart Machin used to have at least one mention of “passing the lollypop” in each commentary session, although this is something he has now dropped.

Another one worth watching out for concerns the marmite commentator Tommo …. If you are into spread betting have a few bob on the number of times he says OK when he is commentator. Virtually every time he begins speaking he starts with the expression “OK”.

“OK, they are coming out of the parade ring.”

“OK, they are going down.”

“OK, time to get your bets on.”

You haven’t noticed? Next time you are racing and Tommo is calling have a listen and begin counting.

Jim McGrath has his Australianisms, then again as he is an Ozzie that is possibly excusable.

Mark Johnson, now also a commentator at Churchill Downs, has less of an excuse for introducing Americanisms into his calls, the most annoying being references to the “clubhouse turn.”

I have to say the verbal tic which annoys me most of all though comes from Ian Bartlett. Now don’t get me wrong I think Ian is one of the most technically competent callers on the circuit, however his inability to say “them” really winds me up. Instead of them he invariably says ‘em.

So instead of saying, for example, “he can’t keep up with them” he will say “he can’t keep up with ‘em” and, for some inexplicable reason, it really irks me.

My current bedtime reading is Get Her Off The Pitch, by Lynne Truss. She of Eats, Shoots and Leaves fame. This isn’t another tome about misuse of grammar, thankfully. This book tells of a brief career as a sports journalist.

In it Horse Racing gets a brief mention and, unsurprisingly, she was not impressed.

She writes, “…. being a surprise female guest of the racing press garnered the sort of reaction you’d get if you turned up to do a striptease in a mosque.”

She went on to say, “I won’t go into how unpleasant it was in the press box, but you can understand why the racing press would have a certain Masonic air.”

I can relate to both her comments. The only female racing correspondent for a national newspaper is the excellent Sue Montgomery of The Independent, although according to the desk sign at Newmarket it is now The Independant and I thought it was The Guarniad which was renowned for its mis-spelling.

There are a few female broadcasters but few actually venture into the press room, probably due to the macho, sexist even, dare I say, boorish attitude of a minority of those who
frequent the press room.

Press rooms can be fairly ‘closed” environments and it takes some time to become accepted.

Generally there are three sets of racing press rooms, the Southern, Midlands and Northern circuits and the majority of reporters tend to generally stick to their own regions.

A very few, myself included, tend to go all over the country.

I recall the first time I walked into the press room at Musselburgh I was greeted not with a cheery “hello” but with “who the **** are you?”

Although it has to be said once I told them who the **** I was, the ice was broken and ever since the welcome in the Northern press rooms has been cordial.

The biggest danger of visiting a course and therefore the press room for the first time, is the danger of “stealing” someone’s seat. I recall my first visit to the Lingfield press room and being the first to arrive I found a seat, out of the way, in the far corner.

I was busily writing an update when I sensed somebody standing behind me, looking over my shoulder. I turned round to find a veteran of the press room (and a regular broadcaster) standing over me and when he caught my eye he asked if I was going to be long.

He went on to inform me he had been sitting in that seat for the past 25 years and his look left no doubt he still wanted to use that seat that afternoon.

I was tempted to comment that after 25 years a change of scenery would do him good – but I chickened out and moved elsewhere.

Ever since, I have always asked when visiting a press room for the first time.

Although I have to confess even I am becoming a creature of habit – I now have my favourite seat in the Ascot press room and although I would not cause a scene I would be quietly put out if I arrived to find somebody sitting in “my” seat.

I suppose press rooms are like most places of work, attracting a cross section of people and our own personality defines who we get on with.

When I first began going into the press rooms I used to find a quiet corner and keep myself to myself. I know some of my colleagues do not think I should be there and do not see the internet as being a “valid” means of news distribution. They do not see me as being a "proper" journalist, even though I have been trained as such and carry a UK Press card.

However over time I think I have now become accepted by most and I have a good working relationship with most.

As in all places of work there are all types. There are some of my press room colleagues whom I have a great deal of time for, who I like very much as individuals as well as professionally.

There have been some people who I have known about through their media work and about whom I have had pre-conceived notions. In most cases my expectations have been correct and they are just as, if not more-so, pleasant in “real life” as they are when on TV or in the public eye.

There have been one or two surprises. One commentator who I always thought as being aloof turns out to be nothing of the sort and he has a very acerbic wit, very rarely failing to make me smile.

Then there is another “marmite” broadcaster whose on-screen persona is almost the exact opposite to his off-screen persona.

Then again, one or two have been disappointments as well.

Of course, as in any workplace, there is always somebody who really spoils it for everybody else and the racing press room is no exception. This individual has nothing good to say about anybody, although it goes without saying he would not dream of telling people to their face what he says about them behind their backs. Recently he was being particularly boorish and really getting on my nerves and I e-mailed a colleague, who was at another course, saying this chap was really getting on my nerves and if he did not shut up soon I was going to deck him.

His reply said if I did I would then be “the hero of the press room” …. I’m glad it isn’t just me.

I wonder if he was in the press room the day Lynne Truss visited?

How To Pick Winners

I am going to begin this weeks musing with a look back at last week and the Racing For Change experiment with free admission.

I think it has been universally agreed that numbers increased at all the venues where the initiative was tried out. Of course, we still need the bean counters to look at the figures to see if free admission is financially viable.

I mention the experiment again as this week we had a first hand comparison as Huntingdon had a free evening meeting last week and a “normal” evening meeting this week.

The contrast between the two was stark. A crowd of almost three thousand turned up for what was really a sub-standard meeting. Yet this week, where the racing was arguably more competitive, I would be surprised if the figures would have reached 1,000.

So what does this tell us – well possibly that people were not attracted enough by the racing to come back as paying customers or maybe people just want something for nothing. I somehow suspect it is the latter.

Interestingly this week also saw the Chester May meeting, a meeting I have to say I avoid like the plague – not because of the racing but because of the boozed up crowd and the inability to be able to move around the course with any ease. Chester have the highest admission prices in the country, yet two of the three days were sold out well in advance.

Illustrating, perhaps, that offering free admission will not be a “one size fits all” solution.

Last week I received an e-mail from a regular reader of my musings, for all I know maybe the only regular reader of my musings, pointing out an experience he had point-to-pointing the previous weekend. (He is a great fan of the pointing scene and is always trying to persuade me to attend – one day I will, I promise)

He told me about the couple standing next to him who had managed to pick the winner of the previous race, their method – selecting the horse with the nicest teeth.

The annoying thing is, it does not surprise me in the least.

My wife tolerates, rather than enjoys going racing. Mainly because she feels left out and ignored when I am working in the press room. The only time she absolutely insists on coming racing with me is when I go to Cartmel and the attraction is more the village store and its sticky toffee pudding rather than the racing. Although the occasional foray to Ascot is sometimes on her agenda.

The mail about how to select winners reminded me of a trip to Ascot a few years ago. This was before I was working in racing and we had a family trip, my wife and I and my in-laws set off to a meeting at Ascot, which I think was the precursor to what is now the Shergar Cup.

My father-in-law, a great racing fan, and I both assiduously studied the form and came to the same conclusion in the big race – our nap of the day. My wife, on the other hand, likes to look at the runners in the parade ring, usually going for a horse that “smiles” at her. On this occasion though it was one of the jockeys who caught her eye, who she described as being “cute”. The fact he was riding the 33/1 outsider was irrelevant to her, that is where her fiver was going.

I suspect, dear reader, you are already ahead of me on this one and you would not be wrong.

Our “dead cert” may well have been dead – completely unsighted. Whereas the 33/1 “rag” was given a brilliant tactical ride, coming home some two lengths clear.

This isn’t the first occasion where studying the form has been futile. When I was working in the “real world” we had a night greyhound racing. Again a few of us spent hours going through the form and from the 12 race card picked up about four winners. One of the group, dare I say a female? Used the technique of betting on “the pretty brown ones” and I hate to say it she picked eight winners and was the only one of our group to make a profit on the night.

It does make you wonder if studying the form book really is worthwhile!! I know to my wife all the form book means is a big folder cluttering up the house she tries to keep tidy.

So I think I will throw away the form book. When I am in the parade ring at Towcester tomorrow evening I will forget all about the conformation of the horses. Instead I will look for the pretty brown one who turns round and flashes a smile at me and that is the one I will back.

If it also happens to be ridden by a cute jockey I will put my life savings on the beast.

With luck my next update will come to you from the Seychelles.

Have you seen any strange methods for picking winners? If so please share them using the "post a comment" link below.