Chestivalians I give you Grubs' musings for 2009!
Willie Wumpkins And The Ne’er-Do-Wells
The Tale Of Tuesday 10th March 2009
The scent of the forest, the shadow of the hill
The ne’er-do-wells just can’t sit still
And in that shadow, not far away
A brave new hero named Golan Way
Down by Dingly-Dell, not far from the enchanted tree, there lay a magic forest called Prestbury Park. Here, a group of friends would gather each year to tell tall tales and seek their fortunes. They were a raggle-taggle bunch of ne’er-do-wells, truth be told, but good-hearted and jovial all the same.
“Willie Wumpkins!” exclaimed Master Martin, a mild-mannered boy from a far-off land named Ladbroke Grove.
“Well, Master Martin,” said Mystic Maxi, ruddy of cheek and broad of smile, “he sounds like the sort of fellow to have a jolly adventure with and no mistake!”
Master Martin looked at his friend the Oxford Seer with an ickle-pickle frownlet on his brow.
“No, Max, I don’t think you understand. One of the all-time superstars of the Festival, sir. Four victories with eight years between the first and last – and why are you talking like that? You know, Willie Wumpkins!”
“Willie Wumpkins!” repeated Little Tom, who was more familiar with the Magic Forest than most.
Master Martin heaved a sigh of relief straight from Pixieland. “Ah, a voice of appreciation at last. Remember his victory in ’81, Tom? What an achievement at 13.”
Little Tom plucked the cork-ette from his potion bottle. “I think Willie Wumpkins is a splendidy-wendidy name. Who should like a splishy-splash of sparkly pink to celebrate?”
And with that, two things happened. Little Tom poured the magical potion into the goblets of his chums (Maxi had a special silver one) and Master Martin had to go for a lie-down quite suddenly.
Geordie Graham hoppety-skipped to the top of the fairy staircase that led to the Golden Miller. He was as pleased as Punch (if only he’d been as good-looking).
“Little Tom, Little Tom!” shrieked Geordie, “charge the goblets with sparkly pink and prepare to make merry!”
There was much delight and boisterousness in the Miller. And why in the name of Arkle would there not be after a day of such import?
First there had been brave little Golan Way who, after a mighty tussle, had overcome the steed Cousin Vinny from across the sea. Then the Gallic giant Original had put The Plasterer and the mercurial Blues Singer to the sword. And the new Champion was Binocular – stories already abounded in the magic forest that his rivals had needed a pair to seek him out in the distance.
Mystic Maxi’s face, rarely seen these past few hours without a grin as wide as Cleeve Hill, fell. He had seen a friend perched like an ailing elf on a toadstool, chin resting in palm, and the Seer approached.
“Why so glum, Young Barry?” Maxi asked. “Your trusty servant Golan has carried all before him and won the day. I should have thought you’d be the cheeriest little lambkin in Toyland.”
Young Barry scowled the scowl of a petulant troll. He took a parchment out of his satchel and indicated his etchings.
“‘Tis my predictor, Mystic Maxi. I am a man of science, as you and the Chestivalians know. The algorithms clearly show a victory for the one they call Vinny, with my Golan a valiant fourth.”
The Seer scratched his chinny-chin-chin with his wand. “But I do believe, Young Barry of my parish, that the happy if unexpected occurrence has brought you many thousands of sovereigns, which are to be delivered to your castle in a giant chest by the Keeper Of Books.”
“That is certainly true,” conceded Young Barry. “Nevertheless, all the riches in El Dorado cannot disguise the fact that my predictor has failed. And that pains me.”
Mystic Maxi laid a comforting hand on the shoulder-ette of Young Barry, beamed the beam of a blood-scenting ogre, and proclaimed: “When I went to sleepy-byes last evening, I was visited by a ghostly spectre who foretold of Golan’s triumph. I say mysticism over science and may Mandarin strike me down if it isn’t so!”
Declan, The Bard Of Fulham, effervesced like the sparkly pink being supped by all. “Golan Way,” The Bard whispered, “his blue eyes like chips of ice, shades of Make A Stand. A tavern, sirs, nay an entire kingdom to be named for the beast – EnGoland!”
“Dear fellows, I must inform you,” boomed a confident voice from the nook, “that whilst you might have received three and thirty about dear Golan, I procured a leviathan six and sixty from the vendors at Fairly Bet.” It was the Coventrian Daniel.
“Verily, yon Midlander,” quoth Inn-Keep Seany, whose sartorial eloquence was known the length and breadth of Bow Street, “that was a right touch, and no mistakings.”
Ippy-Skip held his quill to his lips and declared: “One day, I shall scribe a fable about this very day, that all Chestivalians may know its true majesty.”
“Oh put a sock in it, you big ponce,” said Master Martin whose humour, it was plain for all to see, had remained rather sour, despite a short trip to Dosieland. “All I was trying to do was salute a Festival hero and everyone’s gone all Hans Christian Andersen. Well, except Dec – he always talks like that. It’s a bloody insult to the memory of Willie Wumpkins.”
The raggle-taggle ne’er-do-wells lifted their goblets and responded: “Willie Wumpkins!”
As darkness fell across the kingdom, the ne’er-do-wells fetched up, as was their wont, at a house of excellent repute, known simply as The Prince. Here, the rabble routinely rejoined in a rather raucous round of rumbunctiousness, the like of which was rarely regarded. Chief among the protagonists was the Cowboy from Rhinestone, whose restorative qualities could transform the most jaded of individuals into a dervish once more.
However, GeeJee, a somewhat sullen character, sipped mournfully at his potion, refusing to enter into the festivities.
“What is amiss with thee, oh brother?” asked Young Barry, whose own verve was still lacking despite the concoction of sparkly pink and velvetine black.
The Brothers Grim, indeed.
GeeJee sighed. “I should like to berate that rascal Ippy-Skip, whom I shall always know as Grub-Grub. He only gave me a pair of double carpets and a worthless Champion. I barely earned a sovereign. Furthermore, he only ever refers to me a single time in the Annual Rabbit Tales…and he depicts me as Chief Cardinal Of The Downbeat.”
“He is indeed a scoundrel,” nodded Young Barry, a smile returning to his countenance at longly last.
At the witching hour, it was customary for vagabonds and ne’er-do-wells alike to convene at The Palace Of Their Royal Highnesses. Two heffalumps stood firm at the gates of the regal home, blocking the path of weary wanderers with the words “Residents only, room number.” As fortune would have it, the ne’er-do-wells were well-versed in the way of the heffas, and gained entry by greasing their hairy palms. Once inside, they partook of the most pristine velvetine black. This was a place where acquaintances were re-made and long-forgotten friendships rekindled.
When they had supped deeply and chorused heartily and spoken at length of the deeds of the morrow, the ne’er-do-wells went to seek advice from the wise old Night Owl.
Night night, children. Night night.
By Mystic Maxi
Pisces
What a strange day yesterday was.
It was as if all around you were speaking a different language and, try as you might, you couldn’t make yourself understood, could you?
The name Mikael is significant for you today and will have a bearing on a property windfall. A predicted hurricane will blow itself out before reaching its destination.
Aries
Just because you get a decent price for something, it doesn’t necessarily follow that it’s a good thing.
And just because the cap bally fits, there’s no need to wear it.
Taurus
Your celestial halo has rather lost its lustre, which explains yesterday’s below-par performance.
A silky display today sees you buff your crown once more.
Look for a victorious psycho among the coral.
Gemini
It’s a case of ‘physician, heal thyself’ for you (or is it me?)
You will wake up with a sense of uncertainty gnawing away at you. Perhaps you did something yesterday that you now regret? A hearty breakfast will help to alleviate some of these feelings (if not the over-riding nausea) – so go for extra black pudding.
An old chief will surprise you with a display that rolls back the years.
Your restaurant secret is out of the bag, thanks to a mouthy waitress and a devilishly attractive colleague.
Cancer
Your cohorts will try to change your mind about a decision you’ve made – some might even laugh at your opinion and say things like “You’re living in a dream world, you muppet!” – but simply nod at the violets and success will come despite a bumpy ride.
A waitress will pass on a vital piece of information about a friend.
Leo
A fairytale day for you yesterday, sir.
You snuck (is there a word snuck?) off into the sunset with a fist full of dollars. Can the run continue, sir? Can it? One word, sir. Yes.
But if you think this is historic, wait till the end of the week. “Oh my God, he’s won the title back at 9!”
Virgo
If a man called Noel offers you a tip, take it. Don’t ask questions. Just take it.
Libra
Oh dear, oh dear. You can’t do right for doing wrong, can you Libra? Your supposedly infallible scientific approach to matters of chance is paying absolutely no dividends and, to make matters worse, you’re trying to use spreadsheets and pie charts to get out of trouble. For the love of Uranus, live a little!
Choose a wine just because you like the name (believe me, I’m an expert in this method of selection), roll dice to see where to go in town (even if you end up in the same pub with the same people), stick a pin in the list of runners in the 3.30 at Southwell.
Just stop over-analysing. Anything’s got to bring you better luck than your current tactics.
Diamonds will fail to sparkle.
Scorpio
You tend to see things in black and white.
But for every Alan Shearer there’s a Brian Penas.
Today, a character from your neck of the woods succeeds in proving that it’s a marathon not a sprint.
Sagittarius
It’s easy to be hoodwinked if you’re not careful. So watch out for a conner who might mischievously be trying to feed you duff information.
There are some easy wins to be had today. And you don’t need to be mastermind to work that out.
Capricorn
Alright, son?
Here’s a little story to help you work out what’s gonner happen today.
Fella’s brother owns a dog: MaGuire, he’s called. Fella goes to see his mum, then bumps into his brother’s missus. Missus gives it: “‘Ere, we’ve lost the mutt, any idea where he’s got to?”
Fella tells her: “Ma’s seen ‘is MaGuire.”
Aquarius
For breakfast, you will eat three sausages, four rashers of bacon, a couple of fried eggs and several rounds of toast. You’ll have a coffee. Hell, you might even treat yourself to another sausage.
You will then make a bet on your PDA that will pay for a good few bottles of LPR.
See you in the Golden Miller about 12.30, Tom.
The Curious Case Of Barry’s Blindspot
A Chilling Story From Thursday 12th March 2009
Daybreak. Outside the old townhouse, clouds gathered.
Tom drew the curtain back a fraction.
“Dark out there,” he reported, to no-one in particular.
With a heaviness of the soul, he tugged the brim of his trilby over his eyes, as if sheltering from some unseen malevolent force.
The tension appeared not to have permeated the chakra of Barry, who breezed in with nary a care in the world. The be-tweeded one removed a sheet of paper from his inside pocket and beamed at the now-assembled group.
“Chaps,” he said, “before we set off today, I want to give you an update on the TTF.”
In the attic’s alcove, Dan scanned his ante-post bets, ensuring his odds were at least double those of the others. Max had thrust his hands deep into his pockets and was staring at his feet. Kieron looked as if he’d just mistaken Fiveforthree for Forpadydeplasterer. Ip scribbled twitchily in his notebook. And Tom shuddered as he shot a glance once more out of the window.
“So, latest scores as follows,” announced Barry. “In reverse order: Mart on 202 points, on the heels of the jammy Rag with 204.”
Ip’s pencil lead snapped.
“Ha, ha! He loves it when I call him that,” chortled the ebullient mischief-maker. “Next comes Dan on 222, Dec on 241, then yours truly gathering momentum on 299, at the quarters of the nervous long-time leader, Tucker, on 303.”
The edgy characters shuffled towards the exit, having indulged their friend just long enough. A door creaked. Dust swirled lazily in a thin shaft of light leaking into the room.
“Dark out there,” repeated Tom.
And then all was still. Shuffling had been ceased, scribbling suspended, murmuring quieted. All was still. Deathly still.
“Hang on a minute.”
It was Max. Fixing Barry with flinty eyes.
“You haven’t added those points Made In Taipan scored on February 15th.”
The two Oxfordians conferred.
“Oh yeah,” conceded Barry, frowning. “Well, that puts you on 318, sir. Right, let’s be off – LPR calls.”
Max stood, hands on hips, and shook his head.
“Something weird’s going on,” ventured Kieron.
By the window, Tom continued to tweeze the curtain, staring his thousand-yard stare.
“Dark out there,” he said.
Dec, Bern, Sean and Mart stood like condemned men in the Arkle. So fretful were they that they’d forgotten to get the train home.
The other chaps arrived, bar Barry who had taken himself off into solitary confinement to work on his predictions.
Greetings were muted and the jollity of earlier in the week had evaporated.
“You OK, Bern?” asked Max, concerned. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Bern ran a trembling hand over his stubbled face. If he’d had any sleep at all, it didn’t show.
“It’s this thing with Barry,” he said. “I’ve been doing a bit of research and I think I know what’s wrong with him.”
“You don’t have to do this, Bern,” Dec told him.
“Yes I do, Dec!” Bern screamed, seizing Dec’s lapels in a vice-like grip. “It might be our only chance of saving him.”
Dec nodded solemnly. Bern composed himself and turned to address the group. The chaps huddled round.
“It’s called a kleptovisor,” Bern told them.
“What the hell’s that when it’s at home?” asked Kieron. Bern sighed and lowered his wavering voice.
“It’s an ancient spirit that steals bits of your perception.”
The chaps muttered to each other. Ip jotted the word in his notebook; he hadn’t heard it before.
“Knew something was wrong today. Knew it,” whispered Tom.
“So what does that mean, Bern?” asked Max.
“Well, he’s not seeing the world as we see it,” Bern continued. “There are some things that don’t exist as far as he’s concerned, because the kleptovisor has taken them. He’s basically got a blindspot the size of the Gobi Desert.”
“So that’s why his predictor model’s been so unreliable this week,” said Dan, “and there I was thinking he was just a terrible judge.”
“We’ve gotta keep an eye on him today, fellas,” Sean advised, twiddling with his hair.
Everyone nodded.
“That’s right,” said Mart. “If there’s one place you need all your faculties it’s here. Imagine the carnage…”
“Poor old Baz,” said Max. “If he gets worse, there’s only one thing for it.”
“You don’t mean…” began Kieron.
“Surely not…” continued Mart.
“Yes, chaps,” Max asserted, “a séance and exorcism.”
A collective shudder ran through the group. They supped their Guinness without much relish and set off on their respective rounds. Clouds massed in the skies above Cleeve Hill, menacing and angry.
“So dark out there,” said Tom.
Into the Mandarin Barry danced. Seeing his pals, he bounded over and sang:
“Rock The Kasbah! Rock The Kasbah!”
Ip greeted Barry and said: “Great tune, Baz, but I’ve got to tell you…”
“Have a splash of champers, mate,” interrupted Max, glaring daggers at Ip and making a cutting gesture across his throat.
Barry was beside himself with glee. “He is a special talent – how many horses have won a Stayers’ by a dozen lengths? Magnificent.”
Bern couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact. The rest of the chaps nodded and made approving noises in Barry’s direction, as one might to an elderly relative suffering from dementia.
“And as for Tidal Bay, how anyone could have doubted his jumping is beyond me. He couldn’t have done it more beautifully.”
And with that, he set off on another tour of the course, singing Sittin’ On The Dock Of The Bay.
“It’s worse than we thought, lads,” said Sean despondently. “Unless he’s mugging us right off, he actually thinks the horses that came second have won.”
“We’ll do it tonight, chaps,” Max confirmed.
“I’ll get us a couple of bottles of pink first,” said Mart. “May as well use some of the winnings from that big group double on Voy Por and Punchestowns.”
Max was in full warlock regalia for the séance. Tall, pointed, deep blue hat with yellow moon crescents and stars. Ankle-length cape with the same pattern.Metre-long wand in his hand. He ushered the rest of the chaps into the room above the Prince Of Wales and bade them sit around the table. Barry was there already, having been put in a trance with a combination of wizard dust and pink champagne.
“Right, chaps,” Max announced when all were seated, “hands on the table in front of you, with fingers connected to those of the person next to you.”
Everyone did as they were asked, carefully positioning pints of Guinness.
Next, Max opened the ancient tome on the lectern in front of him and read the incantation within.
“By the power vested in me, I summon the fiendish kleptovisor spirit that dwells in our brother Barry!”
The room fell cold. Barry’s torso stiffened and his eyes snapped open, no recognition behind them. Max drew a deep breath and, emboldened by supportive looks from the rest of the chaps, continued.
“Show yourself, evil demon!”
At this, a glowing red light emerged from Barry’s eyes, forming itself into an iridescent sphere that hovered above his head.
“Now, in the name of Moscow Flyer, be gone and return to the underworld!!”
An ungodly roar shook the building to its very foundations. The glowing red ball of light vibrated momentarily before hurtling across the room and smashing the window as it escaped.
Silence was all that remained.
After a minute, Barry rubbed his eyes.
“Evening, chaps,” he nodded to the group. “How good was Punchestowns today? Kasbah beat the rest by a dozen lengths so to finish ten clear of him was arguably the most impressive staying performance ever seen.”
A collective sigh of relief. Mart strode over to Barry and shook him warmly by the hand.
“It’s good to have you back, sir,” he said.
Barry looked nonplussed. Max, removing his wizardly garb, showed the chaps downstairs and then turned to his old pal.
“How you feeling, mate?” he asked.
“Never been better, Tuck,” said Barry. “So pleased for Voy Por. I bet Dec’s already campaigning for a bar to be named after him.”
“So, you coming down for a celebratory Guinness and a sing-song?” asked Max.
“You go, mate,” Barry said. “I’ll be down in a minute.”
Max descended into the bar, where strains of Sweet Caroline could be heard.
Alone in the draughty room, Barry stood. Stretched. Massaged his temples.
Then he giggled. Laughed. Roared. Tore thousands of pounds worth of bank notes from his pockets and let them rain down about him.
His eyes shone a dreadful vermillion. Viscous saliva hung like mozzarella from the corners of his black hole of a mouth.
“Mwah-ha-hah!” he cackled in his now unearthly voice. “My plan…it worked!!”
The Coup
Friday 13th March
Beautiful spring sunshine flooded the house. Tom made his way downstairs, knotting a tie as he went. He stood at the front doorway, stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and went up and down on his tip-toes a few times.
“It’s been a funny old week,” he mused, looking and sounding for all the world like Arkwright.
Then he turned on his heel and entered the kitchen, taking his usual place at the head of the table. Amanda plonked down the fry-up and Tom gazed at her with something very close to love in his eyes.
“Well, chaps,” said Baz from behind his Racing Post, “it’s been a Chestival of contrasting styles.”
“You’re not wrong there, Bazza,” agreed Maxi. “Compare Master Minded and Voy Por running them ragged from the front with Companero’s gutsy staying performance to nick it on the line.”
“Actually, Tuck,” Baz replied, “I was referring to the number of different genres in the Bunnies – Ip can’t decide if he’s Roger Hargreaves, Russell Grant or Stephen King.”
“Is there anyone called King that he’s not fixated with?” wondered Dan, aloud.
The chaps chuckled through sausage and black pudding. Ip took the ribbing on the chin, like the thoroughly great bloke he was.
“Fear not, chaps,” he assured, “everything’s back to normal today, I can feel it.”
From the doorway, there was a cheery “Anyone home?” It was Dec and Mart, looking remarkably fresh considering the week’s exertions.
“Come on in,” said Baz, sounding strangely like Mohamed Al-Fayed, “we’re just about to crack open some LPR.”
“Lovely job, Baz,” said Dec, rubbing his hands. “You sure you’ve got the necessary though, sir?”
Nods and assurances.
“Only, I’ve got some back-up bubbly just in case yours doesn’t appear.”
As if to prove that they really did ‘have the necessary’, Tom pulled a chilled bottle from the fridge. He popped the cork expertly and furnished everyone with a glass. When all were fuelled, the banter turned to the forthcoming day’s action.
“Hopes and dreams for today, fellas?” asked Mart.
Dan was first to offer up a nap.
“It’s got to be Walkon,” he announced, with all the confidence of a Mullins 1-4 bumper shot (Naas, November).
“Who now?” asked Conor.
“Walkon,” Dan repeated.
“Eh?” queried Maxi.
“You know, King’s Triumph horse – Walkon.”
“Just a small point on the pronunciation, sir,” suggested Mart, “I don’t think it’s supposed to rhyme with Halcon.”
“Well, whatever,” shrugged Dan, “I’m pretty happy with the 25s I got.”
A collective in-take of breath.
“Blimey, Lawrence,” whistled Baz, “I thought I was doing well with 14s. When did you back him?”
“2005,” Dan replied. “Shortly after he was foaled.”
Eyes rolled.
“I’ve got a lively outsider who’s got a squeak in the County Hurdle,” offered Mart, archly. “Form behind Cousin Vinny and also Mikael D’Haguenet in Ireland.I give you Realt Dubh.”
Next it was Baz’s turn.
“Bensalem’s got to have a favourite’s chance in the Bartlett.”
“I agree with Dan and Baz,” said Ip.
“Well, there’s a surprise,” grinned Dan.
Maxi took up the baton.
“One word, chaps. Kauto.”
No dissenting voices there. Then it was Conor’s turn to take centre stage.
“There’s one in the Foxhunter who’s a massive, and I mean massive, price. Carronhills, second last time behind Agus A Vic (who doesn’t make it here) and his trainer, JJ, a good and personal mate of mine, says he’s bouncing.”
“Price, Conor?” enquired Max.
Conor drew in a breath and leaned in conspiratorially.
“Two-oh, twenty to one, lads.”
Tom purred and tossed his hat into the ring.
“JP always scoops one of the handicaps,” he said, opening the Post on the kitchen table. “I think Sunnyhillboy has just the right profile to take the Conditionals race today,” he finished, stabbing the page with a greasy finger for emphasis.
Finally, the spotlight fell on Dec. He looked wistfully into the golden sunlight outside, his back to the chaps.
“Everyone happy enough with the naps, chaps?” he rhymed, unintentionally.
Shrugs, head scratching, a collective “ye-ee-ess”.
“Fair dos,” Dec replied, turning round to face them all. “But, remember, if you change your minds, I’ve got some back-up selections.”
“Any of your own at all, Declan?” Mart encouraged.
“Well, actually yes, Mart. David Johnson’s in the Grand Annual. None other than Chapoturgeon.”
Ip slammed his empty champagne glass down on the table.
“Here’s sport, chaps,” he said, eyes glinting. “Quids in for a Super 7 jackpot bet. I hear there’s over £100m in the prize fund.”
A tenner was immediately raised and had, within half an hour, been staked on course.
Dan: Walkon, Triumph Hurdle (5-1)
Mart: Realt Dubh, County Hurdle (20-1)
Baz: Bensalem, Albert Bartlett (5-1)
Maxi: Kauto Star, Gold Cup (15-8)
Conor: Carronhills, Foxhunter (20-1)
Tom: Sunnyhillboy, Conditionals Handicap (12-1)
Dec: Chapoturgeon, Grand Annual (10-1)
And nothing would ever be the same again…
“CHAMPAGNE…
…FOR…
…EVERYONE!!!”
It was gone 6pm in the Golden Miller but the party had only just begun.
“I’ve got to say, chaps,” beamed Maxi, “I’ve had unluckier Friday 13ths!”
“I can’t believe we didn’t lay off some of the six million in the last,” wept Dec. “I was nervous as a kitten, sir.”
And with that, another round of wild celebrations broke out, disbelieving chaps hugging each other, yelping and pogo-ing.
Calm descended briefly.
“What was the final total again?” asked Mart, arching an eyebrow.
Tom removed the promissory Tote note, cleared his throat and read, very deliberately.
“Sixty nine million, four hundred and eighty one thousand, six hundred and seventy three pounds...”
A moment’s silence.
… and twelve pence.”
Then utter pandemonium.
Baz climbed onto the bar and led the chaps in their new anthem. It took a long, long time before any of them came down.
Oh March the tenth sure represented history.
At Prestbury Park
On Tuesday lunchtime, I know there was Golan Way
A double carpet shock!
I ain’t had a soft drink now in over a week.
LPR for breakfast I can barely speak.
When that acca copped
I remember we got twelve more in!
An’ pour me something tall and strong.
Make it a pink champagne before I go insane.
We’ll always get our kicks and I know how.
It’s Chestival time now...
The 2008 Bunnies Are Finally Here!
Hold Me Close - Maxi's Story
Tuesday 11th March 2008
Nobody Does It Better - Mart's Story
Wednesday 12th March 2008
Last Night I Went To Sleep - Tom's Story
Thursday 13th March 2008
We're Gonna Make You A Star - Baz's Story
Friday 14th March 2008
Hold Me Close - Maxi’s Story
Tuesday 11th March 2008
7.30am
Wake up very excited. First day of the Festival and I’ve had a dream. Burst in to the guest room and shout: “Katchit’s going to win the Champion Hurdle!”Bit worried I might’ve startled the kids but luckily they resume hammering Ip’s head after just a few seconds.
Ip rubs his hung-over and increasingly bruised brow and reminds me I’ve backed Sizing Europe ante-post. But the Fundamentalist Dream Gods have spoken, they’ve been whispering to me all night, and the name on their lips was Katchit.
8.30am
Bazza arrives to pick us up. We’re just climbing into the car when he hands me a paper. Hang on a minute. It’s not the Racing Post.
“Tuck, you need to read your horoscope,” he tells me solemnly. Funny. He’s never been into the planets before. Maybe he’s seen the light.
Horoscope reads: “Lunar activity ended with a foreign friend.” I scan the words several times before the thunderbolt hits me. “Moon Over Miami, chaaaps!” I yell. They turn round from the front seats and I beam back at them. “He’s going to romp the Arkle.”
1.00pm
No finer sight than Cleeve Hill from the Golden Miller on Day One of the Festival. The positive energy from the chaps is palpable. Tom’s tapping his PDA furiously. Bazza’s a mass of tics and, in his tweed, reminds me of a country farmer waiting on the birth of a breached calf. Geordie Graham’s wondering aloud whether Spot Thedifference might be tempted out of retirement to manage Newcastle. Iany’s scouring the bar for rich housewives (with some success). And Ip’s crowing about the treble he’s about to have. If only he had the gift, like me.
Tom unleashes another Laurent Perrier Rosé, passing me the cork as he does so. We toast the day ahead. I drain the nectar and glance down at the small object nestling in my palm. “Chaaaps,” I declare. “It’s Cork All Star for the Supreme Novices’.”
5.00pm
The Istabraq Bar has never looked so beautiful.
“Max, let me shake you by the hand, sir. An average crop of winners today but how on earth did you pick all six?” It’s Mart, who’s just been told of the incredible events of the day. “More to the point, how do you intend to celebrate?”
Consult the tarot cards to see if I should get another bottle of Dom Pom in. They say yes.
I ask Mart where Dec is – no-one’s seen him all day.
“Tucker, I’m sure you can locate him using divining rods or something!” chirps Bazza.
But his childish insult can’t dent my mood (the lucky gonk round my neck confirms this to be true).
“Declan must’ve had a premonition about the shoddy standard of racing today,” Mart tells me. “He couldn’t make it due to work.”
Apart from Tom, who’s asleep in the corner, we all chorus: “Dec – poor.”
And thanks to the gift: Max – rich.
4.00am
Wake up restless and in need of comfort. The crystals wink at me in the moonlight under the vase of flowers on the bedside table. Under flowers or “sous fleurs”. The crystals tell me to hold them close. I do.
Exactly 24 hours before – Paul’s Prologue
Good of Maxi to put me up again. Almost makes me feel bad about the little stunt I’m pulling. Almost.
The usual pre-Chestival “quiet night” took a predictable turn at around 11 when the VSOP I was saving for tomorrow’s hip flask was cracked open round the poker table. Now, around 5 hours later with the bottle drained and all the other guests gone, Maxi’s descended into a soused, mumbling slumber.Show time.
I set my glass carefully on the felt and lean forward.
“Maxi,” I whisper.
His face turns a fraction, sending a sliver of dribble into the air, the eyes still shut. “Mmm…mmm…FIGHT YOU!” he spits. I edge closer. “Can you hear me?” “Mmm…mmm…hear you, yes.” I take a moment to run through the procedure in my head. Important to get this right. I draw a deep breath, shake my head to get rid of the brandy haze, and press on. “Maxi, I’m going to ask you a few questions and I want you to give me the answers, OK?” “Mmm…answers.” I try to put the similarity to Homer Simpson out of my mind. “If there were a highly contagious disease around, you’d be likely to…” A pause. A snort. Then an answer. “Mmm…catch it.” I smile. “If a batsman hits the ball in the air, the fielder will try to…" “Catch it.” “If a killer tiger escapes from the zoo, the authorities will do everything in their power to…” “Catch it.” “So, Maxi, who’s going to win tomorrow’s Champion Hurdle?” “Katchit.” I lean back and steeple my fingers, Mr Burns-style. “That’s right, my friend.”
Nobody Does It Better - Mart’s Story
Wednesday 12th March 2008
8.30am
I’m woken by a worried-looking Sean. He rings off the mobile and says: “That was Dec. He’s mugged us right off.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. It’s too early for games.
“He ain’t coming today. Something about having to work.”
I pick up the half-eaten kebab by the bed, think better of it, and put it back down. Then I remember Ruby gifting it to me outside the chippy last night, shrug and, not wanting to appear ungrateful, gobble a breakfast mouthful.
“That’s funny,” I say through the chilli and cold, congealed lamb. “That’s the excuse he used yesterday.”
Sean’s pocketed his mobile and is now teasing the tips of his hair with some sort of gel/wax combo, checking himself in extreme close-up in the mirror.
“Yeah I know,” he says, eyes never leaving his reflection. “But he sounded a bit…y’know…shifty, like he’s up to something.”
I stop eating for a second. Sean breaks off from preening.
“Well, even more than usual.”
9.30am
I cannot believe the Post sometimes. Katchit takes the worst Champion Hurdle in living memory and the arse-licking industry hacks make him out to be some sort of all-time legend. Purely because he wins by twenty lengths in a course record time. It’s the sort of schoolboy analysis that puts Best Mate, Moscow Flyer and Istabraq into the Hall Of Fame. Pathetic.
The more I think about it, the more Declan’s absence feels like a shrewd move. The standard of national hunt racing at the moment is feeble. If I had my way, I’d make any horse entered at Cheltenham pass a series of rigorous bleep tests to be able to take its place. That would make for small, quality fields, rather than the cavalry charges of dross we’re subjected to now.
3pm
In the Arkle, I greet the chaps, who are celebrating another (average) winner: Souffleur, who wheezed up the hill in the Ballymore to score as unconvincingly as possible by six lengths. Baz is pouring a round of champagne with one hand, and distributing chestival.com flyers with the other. Tom is curled up in the corner like the family dog. Max and Paul are deep in conversation. Paul’s moving his pint of Guinness back and forth as he speaks and I reckon Max must have a right thirst on as he can’t take his eyes off it. Paul’s saying something like: “The first one is Voy, the second one is Por and the third one is Ustedes.” Where have I heard that before?
I sigh. Another sub-standard championship race beckons. With a heavy heart, I head to the paddock. Right, let’s check out the so-called contenders.There’s the young pretender, Master Minded, strutting around as if he’s got some talent. And there’s Nicholls’ other one (over-rated, the champion trainer, in my view), Twist Magic. One hit wonder. Finally, the reigning “champion”, Voy Por Ustedes. Moderate, average, mediocre.
On sufferance, I back Voy Por.
5.30pm
“He’s only gone and done it, son!” Sean screams when I walk into the Istabraq.
Honestly, just because a horse wins at the Festival, people automatically assume he must be something special. Sadly, Sean’s not alone in having fallen for this deception. Baz wanders over with the ubiquitous bottle of champers.
“Chaps,” he slurs. “Today we’ve witnessed the birth of a golden generation of two-milers.”
Good God, I think I’m going to puke.
“For Moscow, Azertioup and Well Chief in 2005,” Baz continues, “read Voy Por, Twist Magic and Master Minded today.”
To my utter dismay, there are murmurs of agreement all round.
“They all jumped like stags,” says Tom, who’s just appeared, rubbing his eyes. “Not one of them touched a twig and Voy Por scooted up the hill like Spot Thedifference in his pomp.” The excitement’s obviously too much for him as he slumps back amongst the glasses and starts snoring.
I point out the transparent shallowness of the victory and Sean kindly leaps to my defence, blurting: “You backed him, you mug!”
Oh, how we laugh.
This is undoubtedly the worst Champion Chaser in my lifetime: Voy “Poor” Ustedes.
4am
I start awake with a heavy heart and heartburn. Two kebabs grin at me from the bedside table (one for Ruby, one for me).
After a couple of mouthfuls, I remember what has woken me: the replay of the finish to the Bumper in my mind’s eye. And no matter how many times I relive it, Zaarito can never get past Apt Approach. But let’s face it, neither nag has a career in front of him.
Cheltenham has become a graveyard. At least the Evesham Eatery is top quality. When it comes to fast food, nobody does it better.
Last Night I Went To Sleep - Tom’s Story
Thursday 13th March 2008
The following is a diary entry taken from a PDA being held in Gloucestershire Police’s evidence room.
8.00am
Yawn. Get downstairs just in time to catch Morning Line with the others.
All quite sweet on Our Vic for the Ryanair. Leaves door open for my betting coup of the week. L’Antartique, forgotten horse of the race. Note to self: wait till just before the off to take price; he’s friendless and will surely drift.
As credits roll, McCririck shouts something about “Chestival tomorrow”. Barry laughs shiftily and switches telly off. Strange lad.
9.30am
Cracking breakfast as usual. Three eggs, four bangers, half a dozen rashers and more toasts than a Jewish wedding. Will let it go down a bit, then might get a sneaky forty winks in before the off.
Paul passes Max a cup of tea. Max’s eyes flit from Racing Post headline – “Bank On Drever For World Domination” – to teacup.
“Something fishy here, chaaps,” he declares.
Amanda turns round from the Aga, saying “I can do kippers if you’d prefer, Max.”
Bit of polite explanation, then he carries on.
“Everything points to Inglis today.”
Paul chirps in with “Except his age – no way he’s winning at ten.”
Chiding looks all round. Max again: “Well, maybe Ip’s got a point ‘cos these tea leaves definitely suggest an upset.”
Roll eyes. Can’t believe he’s still falling for this. Ask him who might be causing the upset. He says: “According to the leaves, the answer’s walking through the door any minute.”
Doorbell goes. Amanda explains there’s some fella coming round to make delivery of fruit and veg.
Greeted by silence on her re-entry, she tells us: “That was the market man.”
Honestly believe Max’s jaw might hit the floor.
10.00am
Paul’s brother-in-law, Dom, arrives. Starts doing his Elvis dance. Again.
Conor’s latest whisper a daring bank robbery that’s taken place; rumour has it police searching for the money that’s still in town somewhere.
1.30pm
Is it ever too early to be drunk on LPR? My opinion: no. Not when winners are flowing like they are this week.
Take binoculars and focus in on some early prices in the ring. Our Vic 6-4, L’Antartique 10-1 from 8s. Sit tight.
Drink to continued success. Time for a nap before my nap.
3.04pm
Fuck fuck fuck…what time is it?
AAAAGGHHHH!!!!!
L’Antartique has hosed up at 16s. As for me, I’ve just woken up. Right, that’s it. Having 500 on that ridiculous coincidence bet, then going home to sulk.Then visiting Narcoleptics Anonymous on Monday.
3.04am
Follow Barry and Paul into back door of hotel. One final Guinness then off to bed. Been at least an hour since last kip.
Funny how a 50-pound note can open doors (or, in this case, persuade someone to let us in through one). Just as well there are about 199 more of them about my person. Come on The Market Man!!.
Sweetest (and most expensive) Guinness of the week.
Hang on. Is that a copper walking towards us now? Hope he doesn’t search m….
We’re Gonna Make You A Star - Baz’s Story
Friday 14th March 2008
7.30am
The most momentous Chestival day of them all dawns.
Phone Dec, who’s in place. He confesses to being “as nervous as a kitten, sir.” Give him a few words of encouragement, then hang up and set about rousing the chaps.
GJ belly-aches about jet-lag. Tips gets up at the first time of asking but stresses he’ll be needing a nap in half an hour. Ip’s his usual sluggish self. Tucker, who’s only stayed today because a cloud formation told him to, is lured out of his pit with the help of a crystal ball and a sausage.
8.00am
The Morning Line starts, pretty much as everyone would expect. The panel wax lyrical about the preceding three days and collectively salivate over today’s prospects. Kauto or Denman? The waiting’s almost over. Then, after the first ad break, the real fun begins…
Derek Thompson: Welcome back to the Morning Line. Well next, we have a world exclusive for you. Today sees the launch of Chestival TV, simultaneously broadcasting on terrestrial and satellite channels and over the internet. And we can now cross live to Cheltenham Racecourse and Chestival TV’s frontman, Declan Nagle.
[Scene cuts to a bar in the Centaur where we see Dec, grinning like an idiot and holding a massive Chestival TV microphone.]
Dec: Thommo, you’re a gent, sir. Welcome to Chestival TV, the racing channel for gentlemen of style and class, in association with chestival.com and today coming to you live from the Tony Hamblin Memorial Bar.
Here on Chestival TV we’ll be answering all the big questions. Will it be Kauto or Denman? Is Franchoek as good as they say? And, most importantly, where on earth have I been all week?
I’m delighted to say that our first Chestival TV guest is none other than the bookies’ curse himself, his eyes like chips of ice, it’s Mr John McCririck.
McCririck: Yes, good morning viewers, good morning Declan, and may I say how pl…
Dec: John, fantastic to have you on the show. Kauto Star and Denman. Denman and the Star. The greatest sporting clash since Ali-Frazier?
Mac: Declan, it’s certainly…
Dec [looking sideways to camera]: One word, sir, yes or no?
Mac: …well, if you let me…
Dec: Great stuff, super Mac. Will we be disappointed with this afternoon’s entertainment, we ask ourselves? As Ted Lowe said in 1985: ‘no’. We’ll be back here on Chestival TV from midday for the greatest show on turf. For now, it’s back to you, Thommo.
8.25am
The chaps turn to me as one, mouths wide open. And then we’re all in uncontrollable fits of laughter. Chestival’s journey from slip-of-the-tongue to multi-tentacled media entity is, extraordinarily, complete.
Now, let’s really get this show on the road.
11.45am
Incredibly, we’re all standing in The Tony Hamblin Memorial Bar. Dec’s spent the whole week setting it up. It’s fully stocked with a wide range of refreshments – as long as you like Guinness and Laurent Perrier Rosé – and there’s plenty of other entertainment to be had, like the Rhinestone Cowboy rodeo machine.
With the venue secured, it seemed only right that it should provide the setting for the inaugural broadcast of Chestival TV.
As I stand here now, champers in hand and surrounded by all the chaps, my sense of anticipation is not only down to the succulent racing fare on offer today, but also the fact that something special is being born, right here in the heart of the Centaur.
I’m choked with pride as I shout: “Action!”…
Dec: Welcome to Chestival TV, coming to you live and exclusive from Cheltenham racecourse. As you can see we’ve got a lively audience with us on this historic day.
[We see the assorted bedraggled chaps in the background]
Dec: Later on the show, previews and predictions ahead of the today’s clash of the titans. But, first, a question that’s caused a great deal of head-scratching – not to mention a load of compromising – at chestival.com in recent weeks: which heroes should be inducted into the Hall Of Fame? Doran’s Pride? Barton? Any thoughts audience?
[From behind Dec, GJ gets to his feet. He grabs Dec’s mic, accidentally ramming it into his right eye. Kieron, showing support for his friend, corpses on the spot. GJ presses on manfully.]
GJ: Well, Dec, I don’t know about the Hall Of Fame but I’d like to take this opportunity to berate Grubs for giving me one paltry mention in the Bunnies…
Dec [looking at the camera, as if for help]: Doran’s Pride, at all…?
GJ: …and even that was an insulting one.
Dec: Right, returning to our topic, anyone got anything to add to the Hall Of Fame debate?
[Dan’s next to get to his feet. Dec holds the mic for him]
Dan: I’d like to nominate Kazal.
Dec: Ladies and gents, we have a vote for Kaz…wait a minute, what the hell’s he ever done?
Dan: Well, I shrewdly took 150s antepost and he went off at 4s.
Dec: Great price, sir, well snaffled. And remind us where he finished in yesterday’s World Hurdle.
Dan: 6th.
Dec [rolling his eyes]: More top quality analysis after the break, viewers. Don’t go away now.
6.25pm
Wow. If ever an event has lived up to its hype it’s been today.
Franchoek confirmed himself as the finest juvenile around with a relentless pillar-to-post gallop. Nothing could get near The Tother One as he breezed through the top-class Spa Novices’ field. Denman seemed to have Kauto beat rounding the top turn, only to be denied in the shadow of the post. The cheers are still ringing around Prestbury Park.
Here, the chaps - battered, bruised, arrested, flushed, wealthy – fill their lungs as they’ve done so many times before. But this time, our shenanigans are being beamed across the globe. What will the 2009 Chestival hold for us? How huge will chestival.com and Chestival TV be this time next year? Which new heroes will emerge over the coming twelve months?
These are all questions for another day. Right now, it’s time to give our new-found TV audience a first-hand taste of Chestival magic. Chaps…
WE’RE. GONNA MAKE YOU. A STAR-AAH-AAH.
WE’RE. GONNA MAKE YOU. A STAAAAAAR!!!!!
www.Chestival.com
“There is no such thing as the last race”
Freddie Williams
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