Chestivalians I give you Grubs' musings for 2010!
Tuesday 16th March 2010
We open on the Golden Miller at high noon. The chaps – keen as Nacarat at Kempton and with Chestival dreams yet to be played out – surround the bar.
Over the action, we hear the voice of David Coleman, who’s come out of retirement to commentate on this historic event.
David Coleman: Cheltenham. 2010.
Mart (pausing with LPR just shy of lips): Did anyone else hear that?
DC: This is a truly world-class field. Some are saying the best ever assembled.
Maxi: Right, chaaaps. Time for more champoo.
Maxi strides towards the bar.
DC: And Tucker opens his legs and shows his class. Then he opens his wallet and shows his credit card. The class of the man.
Deco: The class of the man.
Mart: Is there an echo in here?
DC: And with me in the commentary box today, the doyen of cricket punditry, Mr Richie Benaud. Welcome aboard, Richie.
Richie Benaud: Morning, David. Morning, everyone.
Max pours fresh LPR into waiting glasses.
DC: There he goes, Richie. Tucker, who’s even smaller in real life than he is on the track, really is the consummate pro. See the way he expertly handles that bubbly. He’s struggled in recent years to break through to the very top echelons but that victory in the Silver Goblet has given him such a fillip.
RB: Yessss, David. Tucker’s got the lot. The skill, the craft, the finesse and not a little luck. Which reminds me, they say you need 90 per cent luck and 10 per cent skill to be a great punter at the Festival…but don’t try it without that 10 per cent.
DC: Good point, Richie. Something that The Rag Cheltenham Paul would do well to remember.
Coleman and Benaud chuckle in the comm box.
Mart: Gents, in all seriousness, can you hear voices?
On the floor of the Miller, Baz’s phone goes.
Baz: Shush, everyone. I’ve got Geej calling from Pretoria.
Cheers and the odd derisive jeer from the chaps.
Baz makes a ‘calm down’ gesture with hands that are clutching LPR and the phone.
Baz: What’s that, Geej? You want me to pass on a message?
DC (reverently): The crowd falls silent and you could cut the tension with a pin.
Baz (on the phone): Yep. You want me to give Grubs a stern talking to for making you out to be a miserable git in the Bunnies again? Consider it done, sir.
Massive roar from the knowledgeable Miller crowd.
RB: Well, David, I believe that’s what’s known as getting your retaliation in early.
DC: That’s right, Richie. It reminds me of Jamie Osborne riding Young Pokey to the 1992 Arkle. He went on to have five winners that year, but after that victory it was Osborne…one-nil!
Mart looks thoroughly discombobulated.
Mart: First Sublimity’s out of the Champion and now I’ve got auditory hallucinations. Wonderful, just wonderful.
With that, he makes his exit, off in search of strong medicine.
DC: Some dramatic developments down there, Richie. One of the favourites, Dunphy, has picked up a niggle and he’s left the arena.
RB: Yesss, David, he’s snuck out, alright. But if he wants paracetamol, he’ll have to go straight into the confectionery stall and out again.
Meanwhile, the Supreme Novices is off. The chaps watch open-mouthed as Dunguib sweeps from 24th to first in a dozen strides up the hill without coming off the bridle.
DC: See the way Tomassi, with that typical Italian flair, reads the report on his hand-held device while simultaneously draining his glass of champagne.
RB: And if there are any youngsters watching, David, they could do a lot worse than looking at this slow-motion replay of Nagle’s post-race victory celebration. Ab-so-lutely textbook. Though heaven knows how he’s managed to get both Tucker and Jessup on his shoulders. Super stuff.
DC: Oh my gunness. These are truly memorable scenes. If I can misquote our dear departed friend, Bill McLaren, they’ll be dancing in the Mandarin Bar tonight.
----------------
We’re in the Arkle Bar, post-Arkle and pre-Champion. Again, we hear David Coleman commentating on the action.
David Coleman: I’m joined this afternoon by Ted Lowe, renowned for his whispering tones and a legend of green baize commentary.
Ted Lowe: A very good afternoon to you, David. Thank you for those kind words. And can I say I’m particularly pleased to be here given that my very existence was recently questioned by messrs Nagle and Dunphy.
Mart: So, not only am I hearing voices but some of them are from beyond the grave.
TL: I’m 89, you know.
DC: Quite quite remarkable. And I believe you’ve made an interesting observation about the preparation of these competitors, Ted.
TL: Yes indeed, David. It puts me in mind of the great Canadian, Big Bill Werbenuik. Before a game, Bill would have to consume about 18 pints of lager.
DC: Extraordinary.
TL: Yes, and these young stars of the green turf are no different.
DC: Oh my gunness me.
TL: Oh my Guinness, indeed.
DC: No, I said ‘gunn…’ Oh, never mind.
Baz minces in, fifties stuffed into every orifice.
TL: Well, for those of you watching in black and white, count yourselves lucky you can’t see the full car crash that is Jessup’s outfit.
DC: That’s right, Ted. The tweed equivalent of an Olympic opening ceremony. And here comes young Wilson. Not as experienced as some of these competitors, the Jimmy White look-alike, but just look at that smooth action.
Silky sweeps into the Arkle. He brandishes a ticket at the Tote lady, takes a bundle of notes from her in exchange, folds them neatly into his inside pocket and runs his fingers through his hair.
TL: That’s why they call him Silky, David. And now the formalities are over, he bends down and ties his laces.
DC: And what about the boy Wheeler, Ted. An interesting snippet about him at all?
TL: Kieron. Comes. From Peterborough.
Silence.
DC: Remarkable.
TL: Fas-kin-ating!
Deco: What a race that was, fellas. The two of them miles clear. Captain Cee Bee, the Irish raider. Somersby, swinging away on the bridle round the top turn. His eyes like chips of ice!
DC: Oi, that’s my line.
Deco: Great stuff.
DC: The mercurial Nagle. There’s no doubt, Ted, that he’s a huge talent. But one has to say he’s the commentating equivalent of a magpie. Would you disagree?
TL: No-oo-oh.
----------------
We’re at the winning post, where the chaps are gathering before the Champion. Debate still rages about who will take the crown. Once again, Coleman commentates.
DC: The one they’ve all been waiting for. We’re running a little behind schedule here and the late start is due to the time.
Baz: Go Native should be 9/4. He must have a favourite’s chance. You alright, Mart?
DC: And Dunphy has his hands on his knees and holds his head in his hands!
Mart (hands on knees and holding his head in his hands): I can still hear it out here! For the love of Willie Wumpkins…
DC: And for the main event, I’m delighted to welcome to the commentary box the one, the only, Mr Sid Waddell.
Sid Waddell: There hasn't been this much excitement since the Romans fed the Christians to the lions, David. And there’s the lad Graham. He’s a big bonnie Geordie with a heart that could’ve been built by Andy Fordham’s cardiologist! He’s welcome roond me sista’s any day he likes for stotties and crumpet!!
DC: Sidney, I’m 83 years-old and I’m not averse to an elliptical turn of phrase myself, but I have absolutely no idea what you’re on about.
SW: Scaramanga!! With Dunguib in the bag and a plunge on this Punjabi, Geordie’s eyes are bulging like the belly of a hungry chaffinch!
Dan waits patiently for the hubbub to die down, then makes an announcement.
Dan (nonchalantly): Lads, you might want to stop wendying around when I tell you the price I got on Solwhit…
Tom: 8s at the start of the season, Dan?
Dan arches an eyebrow.
Geordie: 33s before his novice campaign? (Did I tell you that’s what I got on Punjabi?)
Dan whistles and looks skyward, fingering a rather dog-eared ante-post voucher.
SW: And that’s classic Lawrence!
DC: He does indulge in the odd mind game doesn’t he, Sid.
SW: Does he ever?! His ego’s swelling up like a hippo in a power shower!
Dan: 35,000/1. Yeah, backed him in 2003, a year before he was born. Breeders said his German/American profile would be ideal for the Champion so I filled my boots.
The race is run at breakneck speed. Taken along by a paint-fresh Celestial Halo, the field is well spread from the off. Zaynar’s challenge ends with a jarring error at the second last. Khyber Kim comes with a trademark late run but can only manage third. Punjabi sticks on gamely for second. But they all have to play second fiddle to the winner, who is simply untouchable. As for Solwhit, he’s unable go with the pace on this good ground and is tailed off last.
Dan (quietly): Yeah, thought that might happen so I laid a bit off.
SW: When he was 32 years old, Alexander of Macedon cried salt tears when there were no more worlds to conquer. Binocular is 6!
----------------
We’re up in the Mandarin after racing. For the final time we hear Coleman over the action.
DC: Well, it’s been a truly remarkable and historic day of championship racing. My thanks go out to my co-commentators.
Seany is held shoulder-high by Bern and Mart. He’s had a ‘right touch’ which has been shared among the group. As he’s cheered to the rafters, he reminds his chums that ‘these strides don’t come cheap, y’know.’
Maxi, Tom and Baz – saying something about rehearsals for Thursday – are singing Somersby to the tune of Summer Time (‘Somersby…and the winning was easy…stag-like jumping…and the margin was wide’).
Kieron and Silky are still counting the Bensalem winnings after a monster plunge (making up for Kieron’s earlier error in mistaking L’Ami for Garde Champetre).
Conor’s on the phone back to Ireland trying to name his house Quevega.
DC: The weltklasse of the men. As Steve Ovett told me in Moscow: champagne for my real friends, real pain for my sham friends.
The action fades away with Paul checking a Placepot ticket, a huge grin spreading across his chops.
DC: Now it’s time for our highlights package. Don’t tell those coming in late the result of this one, but let’s have a look again at Binocular’s 12-length victory.
Mart: The voices…please God, make it stop!
Prologue – The Week Before The Chestival
SFX: mobile phone ringing. Deco’s voice answers.
Deco: CP.
Paul: Ah yes. Deco. How are you?
Deco: Raring to go, champing at the bit.
Paul: Splendid. Now, I wonder if I might ask a favour.
Deco: Fire away, sir.
Paul: Well, you know I’ve been quite busy of late. Did I tell you we’d had a baby?
Deco: Er, yeah, you might’ve mentioned it once or twice, CP.
Paul: Right. Well, here’s the thing. What with work and the nipper and all, I’m afraid I haven’t had time to do the Wednesday Bunny.
Deco: CP. Poor.
Paul: So I was wondering whether we could use one of your famous Back-Up Bunnies. What do you say?
Deco (sharp intake of breath, like a mechanic about to charge a fortune): Ooh, dunno about that. Only in the event of your death…Baz’s orders.
Paul: Yeah, I know, Deco. But this is a one-off…
Deco: Not sure I’ve even got access to a PC, CP.
Paul: Go on, I’ll give you a tip.
Deco: Yeeeess?
Paul: Master Minded in the Queen Mother.
Deco: Hmm. What price, CP? It’d better be odds-on.
Paul: 4-5, Dec. Do we have a deal?
Deco: Go on then, you rascal.
Paul: Cheers, fella.
----------------
Wednesday 17th March 2010
Dec’s Back-Up Bunny
Gill’s place
The lad brings up half a dozen Racing Posts. Grab one off him and shoo him on his way with a Lady Godiva in his sky rocket and a ruffle of his hair.
Nothing beats a hot tub and a glass of bubbly in the morning. Slip into the spa between Bern and Ginger Chris. Boy Band Stu and Sean sit on sun loungers exchanging hair care tips. Mart’s cooling his eyes with a couple of cucumber slices from last night’s kebab.
“Master Minded, boys,” I say, pointing to the front page of the RP (headline is ‘I’ve Started So I’ll Finish…’ – great stuff, the headline writer). “His eyes like chips of ice.”
Mart flinches and removes his cucumber. I ask him what’s up.
“Just, er, go easy on the Colemanisms if you don’t mind, Dec,” he whispers. “Had a bit of a gutful yesterday.”
Go round the group for naps. Madness. Mart wants Drumbaloo at 10s, Sean fancies Manyriverstocross at 25s in the Neptune or whatever they’re calling it today, Bern’s picked Sir Harry Ormesher at 16s for the Coral. Double-figure lunatics!
“What about you, Dec?” beams Sean. “Something odds-on by any chance?”
The saucy bark.
“Only one bet today,” I tell them. “The Master at tips on. But I’m on at even shorter. Lovely.”
“Another bottle for my boys?”
It’s Gill, carrying a magnum of Veuve on a silver platter.
She’s a diamond of a hostess, Gill. Would we, fellas? One word, yes or no? Turns out we’re four to six on. My kind of numbers.
----------------
The Arkle Bar, 2.30
We’re in the Arkle after the second. None of this poncey Golden Miller nonsense.
Unbelievably, Sean’s had another touch, Manyrivers going in for him. He’s carrying two trays of Guinness (looks like that bar training’s paid off) and wearing the toothiest grin since Esther Rantzen drank lighter fluid.
In walk Baz’s two mates, Silky and that other fella. They march straight up to me. The other one delivers a Guinness and shakes me by the hand.
“I just wanted to say how pleased I am that Grubs has been ditched as today’s author,” says Kieran. (Kieran, that’s it!)
“Nice one, Kieran. Cheers,” I thank him.
“Yeah, he can’t even spell my name, the muppet.”
Meanwhile, I’ve talked myself into another bet: 4-9 an Irish winner of the Bumper. ‘Tastic stuff. Decide to ask the gaffer of the Arkle to bring back the little screen with the black mark.
----------------
St. James Hotel, midnight
Bang goes another dream. Dare Me goes and wins the Bumper. Hobbs called him his ‘story horse’ but it’s a tale of woe for those of us who had Mullins, Meade, Harty and the rest on-side.
Add that to surprise victories for Weird Al and Sir Harry Ormesher (how did Bern get that one?) and it’s been a punting day to forget.
At least the Master can be relied on to teach his rivals a lesson. For me he’s up there now with Fed, Banco Taylor and pre-crash Tiger as the odds-on backer’s friend.
“This one’s for the Covent Garden boys,” announces Frank, safely settled in his new venue.
We salute him with Guinness and raucousness.
“I’ve known them for 25 years,” he lies.
Hold Me Close comes on and, from nowhere, Max appears on the dancefloor. He loves this tune.
Baz and Tom – or Tweed-le-Dum and Tweed-le-Dee, as I like to call them – join us and we chew over the day’s action. I complain that it’s not been a day for favourites, the Master honourably excepted.
“What you talking about?” sneers Tom, checking his Blackberry. “There was Notus De La Tour in the Fred Winter.”
“The one I backed ran like Frances De La Tour,” complains Mart.
“Yes but Notus went off at 5-1 in an ultra-competitive handicap. 5s!” I tell them. “I was trying to find some odds-on value in the race but no bookie would give me a price on the winner being a four-year-old.”
“What, in a juvenile race, Dec? Poor,” titters Max.
“Chin up, Dec,” offers Baz. “Big Buck’s must be the banker of the entire Chestival. Roar him home and it’ll all feel better.”
“No, sir,” I remind him. “I’m away back to Fulham. We’re playing Juve.”
“I think you’ll find that’s pronounced ‘Yeovil’, Dec,” says Baz.
Ruddy comedian.
I turn to go to the bar and trip over. What the…? Hang about, it’s Cheltenham Paul on the blower.
“What you doing down there, CP? Early bird prices for tomorrow, sir?”
He stands up, rubbing his gouty toe.
“In a word, Deco, no-ooo-oh.”
He taps the side of his nose, leans in and whispers:
“Last-minute prep for tomorrow. Your final rehearsal’s at eleven, OK?”
I nod like I know what he’s on about.
“And listen,” continues CP. “Thanks again for covering for me today. It’s been great having the day off. I think the extra thinking time helped me to go through the card.”
Man alive, the nerve of the man.
To great cheers from the lads, Noel waltzes past with a pair of middle-aged women wrapped round him. He pauses in front of me.
“Declan,” he grins, “Can I give you a little tip?”
“Please,” I tell him.
“Big Buck’s at 8-13 tomorrow is printing money,” asserts Noel. “And that’s straight from the horse’s mouth.”
“Ah, come on, Noel,” I tell him. “The brunette’s not that bad.”
One slap in the face and one phone call to Stan James later and I’m back at Gill’s plotting the Great Bookie Bloodbath of 2010.
Will it come off? One word…
Thursday 18th March
2010
Chestival! The Musical
Scene 1
We open on the Golden Miller, where Mart and
Paul are discussing the day’s action.
Mart: What a Festival this is turning into,
Paul. I can’t believe you went through
the card again yesterday. Paul: Cheers, Mart.
Appreciate it. Now, Tranquil Sea
today, sir. The only one of your ante
fancies actually to make it over the white lines, yes? Mart: Sadly not, I’m afraid. You see the Irish Sea was far from tranquil
on the way over and he’s only gone and got himself a dicky tummy. Paul: Disaster, mate. I feel for you. Mart: Still, you’ve got reasons to be cheerful. Paul: Well, you say that. And I know you’ve got your troubles. But, heck, I’ve got mine. Mart: What do you mean? Paul: Let me explain. Ahem…
With that, the lights in the Miller dim and a
spotlight flashes onto Paul. A
microphone zips down from the ceiling and a fierce guitar intro is heard. Paul flings his trilby into the crowd and
sings to the tune of Elbow’s Grounds For Divorce.
----------------
Grounds For Divorce
Paul: I’ve been working on a cocktail called Grounds
For Divorce.
From behind the bar, Tom, Maxi and Baz pop up.
Tom, Maxi, Baz: Whooah, ooah, ooah, ooah, ooah, oh, oh.
Mart looks utterly perplexed by the unfolding
scene, checking his glass of LPR to make sure no-one’s slipped him a Mickey
Finn.
Paul: Polishing the coins that I’ve won from the
man.
Tom, Maxi, Baz: Whooah, ooah, ooah, ooah, ooah, oh, oh.
Paul: Em told me the name, then I backed the wrong
horse.
Tom, Maxi, Baz: Whooah, ooah, ooah, ooah, ooah, oh, oh.
Paul: No winnings are forthcoming. And I’m on a sex
ban. And I’m on a sex
ban. And I’m on a sex
ban.
There’s a hole in
my neighbourhood down which of late I cannot help but fall. There’s a hole in
my neighbourhood down which of late I cannot help but fall.
Tom, Maxi, Baz: Thursday is for drinking to the Barbers Shop
win.
Paul: There’s a rumour going round of a coup in the
first.
Tom, Maxi, Baz: Whooah, ooah, ooah, ooah, ooah, oh, oh.
Paul: So get the house on Door Boy, and then watch
as he scores.
Tom, Maxi, Baz: Whooah, ooah, ooah, ooah, ooah, oh, oh.
Paul: We’ll have choruses of Rhinestone, then we’ll
slake our own thirst.
Tom, Maxi, Baz: Whooah, ooah, ooah, ooah, ooah, oh, oh.
Paul: There’ll be LPR a-plenty. And we’ll suffer
no more. And we’ll suffer
no more. And we’ll suffer
no more.
There’s a hole in
my neighbourhood down which of late I cannot help but fall. There’s a hole in
my neighbourhood down which of late I cannot help but fall. There’s a hole in
my neighbourhood down which of late I cannot help but fall.
The lights return to normal as the final
dramatic guitar solo finishes and Paul drops to the floor, completely spent by
the exertions of the number.
----------------
Mart: What in the name of love is going off?
(Exits stage left, massaging his temples.)
----------------
Scene 2
We’re outside, near the winning post with Cleeve
Hill shimmering in the sun haze.
Dan, Baz, Deco and Mart are deep in discussion.
Baz: What a Thursday. One day like
this a year will see me right. Deco: Money money money, sir. Favourites obliging left, right and centre. Mart: And as we all know, the winner takes it all,
but a winner’s still a winner, however short. Dan: There’s still value to be had, though.
I still haven’t found what I’m looking for but I have managed to scoop a
few prices in the jungle (the mighty jungle). Mart: Nice snaffling, sir. Tell me more.
A section of the turf rises beneath Dan, taking
Deco (fiddle) and Baz (penny whistle) with him.
He clears his throat.
Mart: Mama mia, here we go again.
To the tune of Some Say The Devil Is Dead, Dan
sings.
----------------
Some Say The Value Is Gone
Dan: Some say the value
is gone. The value is gone. The value is gone. Some say the value
is gone. But I got three
and thirty.
I got it on the Fairly
Bet. Got it on the
Fairly Bet. I got it on the
Fairly Bet. It made me feel
quite dirty.
Some say the value
is gone. The value is gone. The value is gone. Some say the value
is gone. But I got three
and thirty.
My horse is 18
hands. He’s 18 hands. He’s 18 hands. My horse is 18
hands. He’ll win and land
a huge plot.
At least he would
if he were here. Least he would if
he were here. At least he would
if he were here. He’s poorly in the
car lot.
Some say the value
is gone. The value is gone. The value is gone. Some say the value
is gone. But I got three
and thirty.
The mare she’ll
have another one. Another one. Another one. The mare she’ll
have another one. It’s due the end
of August.
I covered her a
while ago. Covered her a
while ago. I covered her a
while ago. I’ll bet the sprog
is gorgeous.
Some say the value
is gone. The value is gone. The value is gone. Some say the value
is gone. But I got three
and thirty.
Big Buck’s was
long odds on. Was long odds on. And long odds on. Big Buck’s was
long odds on. So I backed
Powerstation.
The price I got
was fabulous. Price I got was
fabulous. The price I got
was fabulous. And thirteenth
place was taken.
Some say the value
is gone. The value is gone. The value is gone. Some say the value
is gone. But I got three
and thirty.
Deco and Baz complete the instrumental. Dan, Deco and Baz bow with a flourish and the
gathered crowd bursts into applause – except Mart, who has long since left.
----------------
Scene 3
We’re in the Mandarin Bar after the day’s
racing. The chaps are gathered and
already chatting about the clash of the titans the following day.
Maxi: What a day ahead tomorrow, chaaaps. Boom-bang-a-bang. Don’t know about you boys but I got chills. Baz: And they’re multiplying. Mart: As long as no-one bursts into song, that’ll
please please me. Baz: Actually, Dec, I was hoping you might give us a rendition of Highway
Star by Deep Purple. Deco: Not likely.
You see, sir, I have a dream. Let
me explain.
Deco clears his throat, the lights descend to a
moody glow, and the crowd are hushed.
Mart: Surely not again. That’s it.
Dec, this town ain’t big enough for the both of us.
(Storms off).
Deco sings to the tune of Andy Williams’ The
Impossible Dream.
----------------
The Unbeatable Star
Deco: To dream the
impossible dream To beat the
revenge-seeking foe To run with
untouchable prowess To score whether
rain, shine or snow
To win the
unwinnable race To trounce your
old rival by far To round the top
corner by ten lengths To be the
unbeatable Star
This is the quest To follow that
Star No matter he’s
odds on Let’s get to the
bar
To get this one
right Without being
abashed To be willing to
march up to Frank And demand Johnny
Cash
And I know if I’ll
only be true When he wins on
the bit That those men
will go pale in the face And they’ll pay me
for it
And the chaps will
salute him for this That one horse
with no trace of a scar Will show such
resilient courage And be the
unbeatable Star
----------------
Chestival! The Musical opens at the Drury Lane Theatre on 1st
April 2010. For tickets and enquiries,
contact our Chief Press Officer, Martin Dunphy.
The full show
includes Could This Be Magic? (But Not Twist) by Mystic Maxi, Whiskey In The
Jar (And Sausages On My Plate) by Tom, Forever In Blue (Diesel) Jeans by Seany
and the show-stopping Blind Punter by Baz and Paul.
Friday 19th March 2010
Come friendly chaps and charge your glass
Gold Cup day’s here, let’s spend our brass
And toast that man, that bonnie lass
The Chestival awaits!
Let’s gather in the Miller bar
The finest venue there by far
We’ll warm ourselves with LPR
And memories of Best Mate
Our dreams and fears will be decreed
We’ll wear bold hopes and likewise tweed
And surely make the bookies bleed!
To scurry off, shame-faced
“I have the winner”’s what we’ll say
He’ll make us rich, he’ll make our day
A certainty,
he’ll romp away
Or, failing that, be placed
The Triumph’s won, good serving wench!
It’s Here I Am, except in French
“A shame Mille’s on the subber’s bench,”
Declares a rueful Mart
“One word, sir, yes or no,” says Dec
“The Tank, The Star, a nervous wreck”
But Kauto takes it by a neck
Through class and pace and heart
“I’ve twice the price,” boasts Watford Dan
And says it with such great elan
He could’ve won (and nearly ran)
The value’s without peer
“Massini got the treble up!”
Announces Baz, then fills his cup
They’ll talk of this whene’er they sup
For years and years and years
Now Maxi had a dream today
Outrageous acca, had to play
Tom wrote it in his PDA
And now we’re rich and high
So as the carnage nears its end
Let’s toast a dear departed friend
The Williams man, a true leg-end
“To Freddie!” let us cry.
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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