America – it’s brilliant.
Everything about it is terrific - You’ll not find a single soul in these parts that has a bad word for the place or it’s great sporting people.
Go Yankees!
It’s been a while I know, but a cruise around the Aegean is not to be scoffed at, especially when one has the chance to live the highlife courtesy of a beast by the same name. Highlife Dancer’s five timer this season won me enough to fill the coffers tenfold and with coffers the size of mine, that’s a pit of financial fodder too tempting to leave alone.
The Russell Brown Trophy Entries - The Trainer's Attempt, Bottom Left
My absence has been sorely missed in and around the environs of Ilsley. The Village Fete for example descended into farce such was the enthusiasm that The Trainer and his Odd Eldest approached the Victoria Sponge contest. Under its inaugural title as “The Russell Brown Trophy”, Senior and Junior went all out for victory in a tragically doomed attempt of culinary ineptitude.
As keen as they were to win, neither The Trainer or his bungling Assistant share a single gene of cookhouse competence and after half a dozen abysmal attempts, they panicked and entered the Fete Tent with a last minute botch job of crass insensitivity.
The Trainer's Victoria Sponge.
Thieving a burger bun from an adjacent stall and filling it with the jam from a fellow contestant’s entry is hardly the sort of behaviour that encapsulates the community spirit a village fete sets out to achieve. It also doesn’t make the end result a Victoria Sponge.
It makes it a Jam Butty.
Not Happy in The Harrow. Apparently, "It was all his idea"
Thankfully the disingenuous duo were seen for what they were and held up as such in front of a baying mob of locals. The Trainer raged off to stew on the unfairness of it all in The Harrow blaming his Assistant, who suffered the humiliation of having to devour the “sponge” and smile at the same time.
Mick Kinane's Eyebrows Enjoying a new role in the Public Eye
Such public shame hasn’t been seen in the village since Jamie Magee was caught fiddling the cricket scoreboard during the traditionally bad tempered East v West match for the Ilsley Challenge Cup in 2008.
“I’m Irish” was his only defence.
Time moves on at pace and there have been several scandals that made my summer sabbatical more than a little timely. The Great Fire of Hodcott for example made huge headlines in the Newbury Weekly News, with The Trainer being asked by one of the local paper’s newshounds as to the extent of the disaster.
The Newbury Weekly News ran with the headline: "SH*T HOT"
How many people have lost their homes? Did the horses survive? Will the yard recover? That sort of thing.
“What? It’s the ******* muckheap at the bottom of the gallops. Don’t ask me how it started, I’m just about pissed off with it. It’s blowing right through my ******* house” was The Trainer’s response.
There was a cat stuck up a tree a few years back, but as stories go in West Ilsley, this was a big one. “The Fire”, as it’s referred to in hushed tones by the locals, will pass into folklore.
That was high summer however and now the depths of winter muster on the horizon. Essentially, next season has already begun.
The yearlings are nearly all in. They are challenging and incredibly complex and that’s not just the horses. Their names must be learnt overnight to ensure that mistakes aren’t made with The Trainer drumming the mantra “Detail, detail, detail” into each and every member of staff – so much so that paranoia soon reigns supreme.
Indeed, whilst sound engineers, a lighting director, a seven man camera crew and producers arrived last Friday, Michael Junior put together a list of yearlings to be filmed for the excellent website www.mickchannon.tv.
Fat Ali was then despatched to polish and parade the yearlings with the instructions, “Start at the top and work your way down the list.”
This seems like a simple enough set of instructions, until the aforementioned paranoia is taken into consideration. The staff no doubt have all heard of Refuse to Bend and Clodovil, they are even familiar with Footstepsinthesand Colts 1, 2, 3 and 4. Occasionally however, unfamiliar or first season sires can confuse those that handle them.
With the film crew waiting for almost half an hour and with storm clouds now gathering, it was feared that Fat Ali had done a runner. He was found a short time later, sweating and confused in the top barn, scouring the nameplates looking for the elusive juvenile:
Filming Friday - Not the name of a first season sire
Sandwiches took their toll on Gazebo construction
It’s been a while, but I’ve been locked away in rehab for the past fortnight. When you reach three figures you see, the sheer scale of the finger food on offer means that The Royal Meeting is a tough course to navigate. Not as tough as the six furlongs of the Coventry Stakes you understand, but I’ll let that one lie.
It wasn’t the alcoholism that did for me over the five days though, it was the fog of sandwiches offered up that make it such a hard slog. The sort of week long diet that made you hanker for a wheat allergy.
Gazebo construction in the rain - A bad idea on Day 5 of the Royal Meeting
Bollocks to it
As I decended into a bread fuelled shambles, I allied myself to that David Evans chap – the one who insists he’s not Welsh. He might be a common type, but at least he didn’t offer me a sandwich.
The Pork Pie was preferable to Evans's other offering
Indeed, all he offered in the car park throughout the week was a month old pork pie. He became quite attached to it actually and stopped offering it to anyone after Thursday.
It was one of those pork pies with an egg in the middle, so at least he made an effort.
Running the gauntlet of sandwiches reminded me of the good Earl himself. John Montagu was also a man of the turf and he and my father became great friends when he was appointed First Lord of the Admiralty.
John Montagu, The 4th Earl of Sandwich
They spent many a happy time playing pontoon on Brighton Pier and spent 30 Guineas on a colt called “Rustic Chambers”.
He wasn’t the best put together and not a comfortable ride, in fact he proved to be the most miserable experience the pair had together. Mind you when you think of the stunts you could pull in the company of the 4th Earl of Sandwich in Brighton during the mid 18th century, a disappointing experience on the racecourse was a small price to pay.
In the 21st Century however, Rustic Chambers certainly are not acceptable.
Michael Junior continues to be a source of amusement and The Trainer’s soon to be second tallest son has yet again become the victim of Secretary Susan Harding. Indeed, her moronic inability to book any hotel room that combines a convenient location with a small degree of civilized comfort is reaching proportions of legendary status.
For the past two years The Trainer’s Son has done nothing but complain about the hotels he’s been booked into by Miss Harding. Indeed his two previous visits to the Bosphorus Cup saw him booked into hotels of real distinction.
Racing Secretary Susan Harding - Not a Tour Operator to trust
In 2009, Susan found him a hotel that the cab drivers of Istanbul simply could not find. Having walked for several miles he found it situated next door to Mosque.
In the middle of Ramadan.
With tannoys blaring.
Sleep was not included in the price.
With the entire English racing fraternity staying at the Marriot Hotel overlooking the Bosphorus only 2 miles from the track, the Intrepid Assistant Trainer stressed in no uncertain terms his desire to be in the Marriot ahead of Halicarnassus tilt at retaining the Cup in 2010.
He was in the Marriot Hotel this time, but the one 25 miles away from the track. Which in Turkish road system terms is about 3 hours away.
Michael Jnr - Will be booking his own hotel rooms from now on.
By coincidence, Newcastle Racecourse also has a Marriot Hotel nearby.
Ahead of last weekend’s Northumberland Plate, Michael Junior was yet again booked in by Susan Harding although not in the Marriot by the track.
This one was a little further away, but that was the least of his issues as the accompanying video makes clear.
Michael Jnr’s North East Nightmare
I can’t say anything more about that really. Apparently he was found scalped by Apaches the next morning.
Not a single one of Michael’s colleagues at West Ilsley found it funny either.
"I'll put you through now Jaber....."
They’ve all been here this week. Whilst walking the grounds on Monday the Irish lilt of former crash test dummy Mick Fitzgerald was clearly visible behind the shoulderless frame of Luke Harvey ahead of the Oaks contest. It was the usual press scrummage as the Trainer was yet again reminded that he hasn’t won a Classic.
He loves that.
In the meantime, Sam Hitchcott has faced the media amid a frenzy of rags to riches style questioning, although it’s blatantly obvious that he’s far better suited to rags and the riches would be wasted should they ever be bestowed upon East Grinstead’s smallest celebrity figure.
You can just see though, in the back of his mind, a question as to whether the Oaks ride aboard Zain Al Boldan will actually happen.
Indeed, The Trainer is also up in the air, whilst Susan Harding has had to install a new phone to alert Hitchcott to any developments to his fate.
It's not rung yet, to the relief of Hitchcott
It’s a tricky situation alright but the little man has done everything asked of him. His A-Z of the North of England has been jettisoned from his battered Audi in favour of the byroads of Epsom and Ewell, whilst he’s also brushed up on his cliches with “Better than sex” very much at the forefront of his mind on the advice of Mick Fitz on Monday morning.
The nervous energy surrounding the yard has called for even higher security than ever, with Gotham City’s finest drafted in to just mill around wondering what to do. That’s what all high profile organisations do – look at the BHA – Mark Johnston will no doubt take on the role of Batman to prompt anything sensible to take place with that lot.
A little bit of politics there.
Not long to go now, so good luck Sam Hitchcott. No doubt the bunting will be out on the streets of his adopted town of Hungerford if ZAB brings home the bacon, or even wins the Oaks.
The Trainer will probably moan about the Friday traffic.
We’ll take the phone off the hook on Friday morning.
The office at West Ilsley is awash with the clueless and concerned
A heartening moment on Sunday that shows the true spirit of racing really can make a difference and bring a smile to the faces of the public.
Zain Al Boldan’s win in the Lingfield Oaks Trial has not only opened the door to yet another series of reminders in the press that the Trainer is yet to win a Classic, but it also thrust Sam Hitchcott to the forefront of his own conciousness and gave a few others a timely reminder that he’s the bloke we seldom see in the flesh, but often calls on his way home from places called “Pontefract” and “Carlisle” in order to be heavily criticised by He who knows best.
The Racing Post described young Hitchcott’s role as that of “Stable Backroom Jockey” which raised a few eyebrows at West Ilsley.
For a kick-off, we were unaware of the fact that there was a frontroom for jockeys so where on earth we keep the backroom was anyone’s guess. As it happens, the diminutive Evertonian was tracked down after early lot this morning drinking coffee in his very own backroom next to a stable, so it appears that the Post’s Jon Lees was 100% accurate in his description of Sam’s role at the yard.
Sam Hitchcott's Backroom
So, The Oaks may very well beckon for both Zain Al Boldan and Samuel Hitchcott who, to prove he’s not lost the common touch amid all of the press jamboree made an appearance at Lady Ilsley’s 123rd birthday on Sunday afternoon.
It was a modest affair – hula hoops, scotch eggs, caviar, Blue Nun – that sort of thing, whilst I was forced to turn the Queen away as she wasn’t on the guest List and I hadn’t anyone on hand to open doors or listen to her husband.
“Lady I” was in great form though and thoroughly enjoyed the company of her four young children and newborn baby Horace, before a certain high-profile backroom jockey strode into the room to the delight of everybody. Just have a look at the photo my biographer managed to capture below. In the words of Barry Davies, “Look at his face! Just look at his face!”
The modest, camera-shy Sam Hitchcott (Front, Centre) makes Lady Ilsley's day
I’m not one to blow my own trumpet.
The Trainer - No longer the owner of the UK's widest gallops
Let’s face it, it’s far easier to have others do it for you, but on this occasion I’m more than willing to claim responsibility for hitting the right note.
Time and again we hear of the Trainer’s pride in his gallops at West Ilsley. The downland grass and the fresh West Berkshire air, untouched by the plough since the dawn of time (the grass, not the air) and all that blather. But it’s not what you’ve got, it’s how you use it.
Only the other day, the resident handler was waxing lyrical about the width of the all-weather track and how it offered horses under his care “the widest synthetic surface in the country”. To a degree this was very true, but I felt the need to point out that from his perspective it was a cambered gallop, six furlongs wide and only twelve feet long.
I suggested that it might be far better utilised if he were to work the two year olds up the camber, across the gallop if you will, allowing for a far more testing exercise.
Especially on work mornings.
Five juvenile winners on the board already since this change in regime, with the animals markedly improved from the obese, asthmatic throng that they were beforehand.
This is no time for false modesty – it truly was a Cecillian piece of equestrian genius on my part.
World Cup Semi Final 2011
It’s not often that there is disharmony in the ranks at West Ilsley, but today started out with lighthearted banter, descended into minor bickering, before progressing on to vile threats and mindless violence.
That’s what cricket can do to men and women (let’s not be sexist) of a certain disposition.
As ever, The Trainer was the instigator of abrasive tendancies as first lot passed by the gallop wagon at the top of Hodcott Down.
“Who’s going to win the cricket Abdul?”
“India Boss!” came the reply.
Who’s going to win the cricket Kashif?”
“Pakistan Boss!” came the reply.
“Jhabar?”
“India Boss!”
“Asif?”
“Pakistan Boss!”
When the string took another turn around the collecting ring The Trainer continued.
“Ere Ali!
“Yes Boss?”
“Gordhan says that Pakistan are useless and that Tendulkar is going to score a ton batting left handed. Oi Ahir! Maroof says that India are a pub team!”
It shouldn’t have been so.
There’s enough troubles in the world without revving up the rivalry between two cricketing superpowers. The World Cup Semi Final between India and Pakistan makes the England v Scotland Home Internationals of the 1970′s look like a knitting class with Thora Hird.
An "Unplayable" Lord Ilsley. Calcutta, 1923
Having swung the willow in India myself, I’m well aware of the hotbed of cricketing passion. Indeed, I even challenged Gandhi to a game to sort out those “Independance Issues” that he had such a bee in his bonnet about. He duly accepted the challenge and the date was set.
December 4th 1923.
It was a scorcher of a day in Calcutta as I opened the bowling, with little success at first. Indeed, I was tonked all over the park and the Indian National Congress XI were 190-3 before lunch when Gandhi came out to bat. Having changed ends, I started to hit the straps and fortunately with my fourth ball to Mahatma, I also hit the prominent ridge situated just short of a length at the Pavillion End. The great pacifist fended off a rising delivery and it looped into the hands of a grateful Lord Hawke at cover point. The game swung our way and an irate Gandhi returned to the hutch without bothering the scorers five minutes ahead of the tea interval – not a happy bunny.
Gandhi - Hopeless against the short-pitched delivery
Now it’s not right to speak ill of one of the most influential civil rights campaigners in history, but as a middle order batsman he was dreadful. He was angry with me for my controversial selection of Kumar Shri Ranjitsinhji for ‘The Empire And Any Talented Subjects XI’, but it was his own selection that I tackled him on at tea.
Having pointed out his woeful shortcomings (he insisted on wearing the glasses, yet he didn’t even wear spikes!), he stormed out and refused to eat with us. In fact, he refused to eat for some time after that, although I might be confusing that with another period in his life.
Anyway, what I’m saying is that sport shouldn’t create barriers between people. The Calcutta match for example had a happy outcome. We kept India until 1947 thanks to my impeccable figures of 27-8-74-5 and Ranjit’s stunning 232 not out.
Passions ran a little too high at the staff hostel
Today, a tight finish saw Pakistan lose in Mohali by 29 runs to progress to the World Cup Final.
At West Ilsley though, the Indian residents’ celebrations were somewhat short lived.
A strange morning as I popped in for my weekly update. The Trainer was in uncontrollably fine mood, laughing out of the office window at Andy Larkin and Michael Junior attempting to change a flat tyre on the gallop wagon. For Larkin it’s very much a labour of love, whilst Junior wouldn’t know his arse from his elbow in such matters.
‘Clueless’ would be far too generous an adjective, whilst the sight of him trying to turn the flat side of the tyre to the top was tragic. The worst advertisement for University education you could ever concoct.
Like a rural Bernie Ecclestone in the pits, The Trainer hurled abuse at Larkin and ‘The Moonman’ through tear-stained spectacles.
Not content with simply holding down a job, Junior’s riding career is a sight to behold, although at six foot nine and eighteen stone, his hack isn’t your regular thoroughbred. His health and safety awareness might also have got the better of him too, as he can regularly be seen clattering up Whitehall on a weekend off chasing protestors. A strange man indeed.
Michael Jnr - Quickly went from getting to grips with things to losing the plot in a matter of days
All such lunacy leaves me hankering for the Riviera where I’ve spent the last fortnight courtesy of my latest betting plunder as mentioned in the blog previous to the last. Sad to hear of Liz Taylor’s demise whilst I was away. Shame, as I always thought I’d get an opportunity.
We met, but only during her Burton phase, where nobody got a look in, least of all Dick who spent the entire time with myself and Bogart on the sauce. We even went in on a two year old together, Hindsight Kudos. He was a super two year old, but never progressed.
Looking back, he never got the credit he deserved.
Ecstacy at Hodcott, with The Trainer for once in a stress free mood on a work day. Like Henry Cecil, there is a Channon coat of arms raised on the lawn of The Trainer’s garden, but it’s not there hailing a Group 1 winner.
"The Bastard"
‘It’ has been caught.
You may or may not be aware of the fact that the grass at West Ilsley is almost a deity in The Trainer’s eyes and following a mole hunt lasting for the best part of four years he’s finally snared his Tapidaen nemesis. Affectionately known as “That Bastard” (a name the unfortunate late mammal shared with Richard Hannon), he finally succumbed to a trap placed by the gate of Hodcott House.
He’s been a worthy adversary over the years, one that has driven The Trainer potty, but an era has come to an end. As a mark of both glee and respect, it’s been stuffed and mounted on the bonnet of the gallop wagon, possibly as a warning to others that the grass is off limits to everything other than equines and the new John Deer.
That'll learn him
