The Racing Post is really getting on my goat. Racing folk have to deal with it as it has the monopoly of the genre and can therefore charge what it likes - an extortionate amount.
We have to deal with it though. But the recent 'Brian or Ben' about the radical shake-up racing needs to attract a new audience has sent the Post potty.
The authorities hired a consultant agency (at a cost of £250,000) to look at the sport and see how it can be re-branded. And they concluded that racing at the moment is like Brian - "a bit boring, traditional, thinks he's old fashioned, with friends who are loyal but talk in a language people don't understand, can be arrogant, but when you get to know him can be fascinating."
This sounds pretty true to me. The large majority of everyday racegoers are just this and I would add that they are reluctant to accept newcomers into their sect.
But I suppose, the general make-up of a bookies during the week is pretty much the same, all bar the odd student popping in. This has more to do with the admission prices at racecourses. Especially in these financially harsh times, many just can't afford to go racing often enough and it is only the Brians of this world who can.
Anyway, the agency gave its idea of what racing should be like in five years time, Ben - "approachable and athletic, younger-minded, has travelled more, can talk as easily to a grandmother as a teenager, is inspiring to be with, enjoys a good time, and is entrepreneurial when people work with him."
Accepted, this Ben does sound like the perfect human being and is probably not 100% achievable but racing would be in rude health if it were this persona in the near future.
Back to the Racing Post. What annoyed me was their reaction to the whole findings. They refused to take any of the advice on board and come across as a right Brian.
It was disappointing that we were not given a strategy to implement the re-branding and it is a disappointment to me that I don't think their is anyone in the game who has the balls to grab the sport by the scruff of its neck and sort it all out.
At the moment, racing is just grumbling along and because it isn't making a loud enough noise, the media are dropping it: from the papers and the television.
Granted, the big meetings will always sell, but it's the Redcars and Wincantons on a Saturday that we really need to show to the public as a great day out.
The Post needs to drop its humiliation of Brian and Ben - they were just ways to convey the idea - and it needs to realise that the racing industry will eventually go underground if nothing is done.
Then no-one will by their fucking paper!
26 May 2009
4 May 2009
Travels with the Doctor.
Twenty-four hours of travelling for three minutes of action sounds like a waste of time, but not with the Doc.
Last weekend, five intrepid gentlemen amateurs set off to France led by the great Dr Phillip Pritchard to take part in the annual Brissac Challenge, a race at Angers contested between French and British jockeys.
Sailing out on a boat taken over by the Winchester Rugby under-13s, we couldn’t really get much rest during the six-hour journey but the Doctor had prescribed himself some medication which knocked him right out.
Once on hostile territory, with the help of the Doc’s sat-nav (that didn’t recognise many roads and thought we were going off-road for a fair while) we managed to turn a two hour journey to our accommodation into four hours but the banter was good despite my map reading being poor.
Dinner at the B&B was a remarkable occasion. What we thought would be just a quiet meal turned into a full blown three course job as the Chairmen of France-Galop, Angers racecourse, the gentlemen riders’ association and some expert who we saw on the television the next day all decided to join in as well. It was interesting to ponder whether such an event would take place back at home - the most senior men of the turf having a good old booze up together.
The wine flowed and spirits were high, with the Doc trying to communicate with the French in an accent that a foreigner would use if they were talking English. Whether this helps others to understand, he cannot say is clinically proven.
After a night cap of a cognac that would clear the lungs of a polio sufferer, we retired to bed having been awake for nearly 24 hours.
Despite the threat of having to muck out in the morning, we enjoyed a proper lie-in and, after a traditional croissant breakfast, made our way to the track.
For those who don’t know the Angers, it’s rather like a small Kempton - good facilities but nothing inside it. There was no catering for the jockeys and my weak French was fully exposed by some bar lady who got the tip of her life when we ordered a few Oranginas.
The language barrier came into force soon after when we received our riding instructions. With the help of a lot of hand gestures and a couple of diagrams we sort of understood what we were meant to do.
Understanding the clerk of the scales, however, was an entirely different matter. There’s a reason why we don’t use kilos over here - because they’re rubbish. All of us were the wrong weight and there was no lead anywhere, so, as it was unlikely to rain, I think they got a bit of the roof.
It’s always the most unnerving part when you look into the paddock and see what your going to ride; mine was an athletic grey who walked round like he’d had an ACP. Ben Brisbourne had a squeaky bum though when he saw his dripping with sweat and refusing to leave the track. Needless to say, he went quick to the start.
The race itself was stereotypically French - crawl for most of the way and then sprint for the last two furlongs. It’s not racing really. You go a 1m6f and finish like an animal running over 5f. If such an event was taken more seriously, it would probably be investigated by the BHA - nobody can ever remember an English jockey winning the event in its 31-year history. 2009 was no different - Phil Collington came a close second after sitting last and then storming on the outside to try and catch the winner who made all. The rest of us filled the places from fourth onwards. Everyone said they should have won.
Dejected and tired, we had a meal, drank more wine (is that the only beverage they have?) and departed.
But the adventure wasn’t over yet.
AJA chief Sarah Oliver couldn’t find the airport to catch her early flight back to the UK so she hired a car to meet us on the way to the port. Well, eventually we found her, after stopping at a Chinese restaurant not dissimilar from those seen on ‘Gordon Ramsey’s Kitchen Nightmares’. But then we needed to get rid of the hire car. What do you do? Leave it with a hotel. So, if you see a man who is driving a new Renault around Le Mans, tell him to take it back to Hertz.
Eventually we made it back to the port, despite the best efforts of the French to kill us after the driver in front fell asleep at the wheel, proceeded to climb the adjacent bank and miraculously kept the vehicle upright, returned to the tarmac then continued on his way. We were bricking it in behind but the Doc didn’t even flinch.
It was a terrific weekend and myself, Ben, Phil, Josh Moore and David Turner are thankful to Sarah and the Doc for granting us this opportunity to ride abroad and I hope we did Britain proud. L’annee diernier!
Last weekend, five intrepid gentlemen amateurs set off to France led by the great Dr Phillip Pritchard to take part in the annual Brissac Challenge, a race at Angers contested between French and British jockeys.
Sailing out on a boat taken over by the Winchester Rugby under-13s, we couldn’t really get much rest during the six-hour journey but the Doctor had prescribed himself some medication which knocked him right out.
Once on hostile territory, with the help of the Doc’s sat-nav (that didn’t recognise many roads and thought we were going off-road for a fair while) we managed to turn a two hour journey to our accommodation into four hours but the banter was good despite my map reading being poor.
Dinner at the B&B was a remarkable occasion. What we thought would be just a quiet meal turned into a full blown three course job as the Chairmen of France-Galop, Angers racecourse, the gentlemen riders’ association and some expert who we saw on the television the next day all decided to join in as well. It was interesting to ponder whether such an event would take place back at home - the most senior men of the turf having a good old booze up together.
The wine flowed and spirits were high, with the Doc trying to communicate with the French in an accent that a foreigner would use if they were talking English. Whether this helps others to understand, he cannot say is clinically proven.
After a night cap of a cognac that would clear the lungs of a polio sufferer, we retired to bed having been awake for nearly 24 hours.
Despite the threat of having to muck out in the morning, we enjoyed a proper lie-in and, after a traditional croissant breakfast, made our way to the track.
For those who don’t know the Angers, it’s rather like a small Kempton - good facilities but nothing inside it. There was no catering for the jockeys and my weak French was fully exposed by some bar lady who got the tip of her life when we ordered a few Oranginas.
The language barrier came into force soon after when we received our riding instructions. With the help of a lot of hand gestures and a couple of diagrams we sort of understood what we were meant to do.
Understanding the clerk of the scales, however, was an entirely different matter. There’s a reason why we don’t use kilos over here - because they’re rubbish. All of us were the wrong weight and there was no lead anywhere, so, as it was unlikely to rain, I think they got a bit of the roof.
It’s always the most unnerving part when you look into the paddock and see what your going to ride; mine was an athletic grey who walked round like he’d had an ACP. Ben Brisbourne had a squeaky bum though when he saw his dripping with sweat and refusing to leave the track. Needless to say, he went quick to the start.
The race itself was stereotypically French - crawl for most of the way and then sprint for the last two furlongs. It’s not racing really. You go a 1m6f and finish like an animal running over 5f. If such an event was taken more seriously, it would probably be investigated by the BHA - nobody can ever remember an English jockey winning the event in its 31-year history. 2009 was no different - Phil Collington came a close second after sitting last and then storming on the outside to try and catch the winner who made all. The rest of us filled the places from fourth onwards. Everyone said they should have won.
Dejected and tired, we had a meal, drank more wine (is that the only beverage they have?) and departed.
But the adventure wasn’t over yet.
AJA chief Sarah Oliver couldn’t find the airport to catch her early flight back to the UK so she hired a car to meet us on the way to the port. Well, eventually we found her, after stopping at a Chinese restaurant not dissimilar from those seen on ‘Gordon Ramsey’s Kitchen Nightmares’. But then we needed to get rid of the hire car. What do you do? Leave it with a hotel. So, if you see a man who is driving a new Renault around Le Mans, tell him to take it back to Hertz.
Eventually we made it back to the port, despite the best efforts of the French to kill us after the driver in front fell asleep at the wheel, proceeded to climb the adjacent bank and miraculously kept the vehicle upright, returned to the tarmac then continued on his way. We were bricking it in behind but the Doc didn’t even flinch.
It was a terrific weekend and myself, Ben, Phil, Josh Moore and David Turner are thankful to Sarah and the Doc for granting us this opportunity to ride abroad and I hope we did Britain proud. L’annee diernier!
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