Pay peanuts...get monkeys

Ha! So all of those of you who voted against me updating this blog in a week were wrong. Oh, no one voted at all.

There was a little debate on the way to the races yesterday in respect to prize money - notably the lack of it. People moan that there is too much racing and not enough prize money. I take argument to this view; the amount of racing at the moment is sustainable and provides a regular flow of action to punters and fans alike. The problem is though that those associated with the upkeep of the horses (owners, trainers, staff etc) will not be able to provide the horses for the action because they can't afford to.

The recession hasn't dramatically altered the training of racehorses which has been the same, more or less, for hundreds of years but people are now being more economical - instead of trecking to a venue with one runner, they'll fill the box up with two just to make the trip more cost effective. Similarly, trainers' steeds now share lifts in horse boxes thus reducing the cost as well.

None of this is bad, in fact it saves money and reduces carbon emmissions because less boxes are travelling to the races, but it doesn't detract attention away from the problem of prize money.

You see horses racing round Wolverhampton on a Saturday night for roughly £1500. This barely covers a month's training fees for the nag. Ownership should be profitable for everyone and this would surely bring new faces to the game.

To boost the pot at the lower end of the scale, I think the authorities need to trim something off the top of the tree. Why, for instance, does the QE2 need to be £142,000 to the winner when there are only 4 runners and most years the quality of horse is substandard to Group 1 level?

Yes, the big handicaps should have valuable pots to attract competition but why does the Derby need to be worth almost £1m? Surely Chris Tsui, owner of this years winner Sea The Stars, wouldn't mind if he only won half that amount because, at the end of the day, he's still going to get insane money for him as a stallion.

Basically, the big Group 1s don't need big prizes because the value of the win comes with the horse, at sale or through breeding. Little handicap winners won't be worth much more for winning a class 6 event, they don't have a future in the industry after retirment, but if the prize is good, then things are more affordable.

Say you trim £200,000 off the prize money of the Derby, this could be redistributed as an extra £1000 prize money for 200 other races.

It seems that the rich only get richer in this game and for that reason, racing is excluding 99.9% of the British population.

He's the Long-Champ

And so, after a period of Baby P-style neglect, this blog returns. It was getting a bit above itself you see; being rowdy in public, upsetting the neighbours and generally doing things that Cliff Richard wouldn't approve of. But it's back (for now) and, who knows, it might even get updated more than once a month.

The Arc this week will be the highlight of most people's weekend, I've always wanted to watch racing behind the red button because it feels dirty, like looking up Claire Balding's skirt. Oh yeah, and Sea The Stars runs.

I was lucky enough to go to Longchamp for the Arc, the year Hurricane Run won under Kieren Fallon, and I can confirm that the rumours are true - the Paris track licks the arse of anything we've got on these shores. The place has charm yet leaves you in awe at the sheer size of the place, atmosphere but decorum and, most notably, superstars that you can almost touch.

Alas, how I would love to touch (and take a few hairs to sell on eBay) one of this year's invaders, the imperious Sea The Stars. A brute of a horse who has the physique of a wild stallion but holds the temperament of an eight year-old's pony. He's got a few gears as well.

Whatever Messrs O'Brien, Stoute or Mohammed throw at the son of Cape Cross, he catches, spits on it and leaves it in a jibbering wreck on a horsebox, probably on the M25 stuck in roadworks. We apologise for the inconvenience.

Tour de bore

As the Tour de France has just rolled to a ceremonious end in Paris today, I have been left with a feeling of disappointment.
Billed as the great clash between the old warrior Lance Armstrong and the new sensation Alberto Contador, this year's Tour never really lived up to it's hype and despite some flashes potential history making moments, the surprises came few and the racing came slow.
The problem was probably due to there being far too many flat stages where the peloton race in a bunch very steadily for a few hours and then the last kilometre is a mad sprint, usually won by Britain's Mark Cavendish.
Cav let us down, he didn't have the passion to win the green (sprinter's) jersey. He may look back on the Tour with regret. The fastest man on the road he was but points aren't just won at the finish and Thor Hushov deserves all the plaudits for making breaks midway through stages to collect some points for himself.
One rider who can hold his head high is our very own Bradley Wiggins. I may be disappointed that he didn't nick a podium place (a fiver each-way at 200/1) but coming fourth is the best any Brit has done and the bravery he showed up the mountains was admirable. He looks like a skeleton but the legs are obviously strong and this experience is sure to bring him some big prizes in the future. I want his autograph!

And Sir Michael Stoute didn't do bad at the weekend either but I think it was a weak renewal of this now substandard race. Year on year, we are left with the also rans to collect this big prize and it's about time someone did something about it.

Accountability in horseracing? That's a whole new debate!

A Quick Thought

Would it be hard not to laugh if you had an argument with race-caller Simon Holt because when he's having a go at you it would sound like he's on some epic commentary, Persian Punch and Jardine's Lookout style?


I'll be posting in the next few days...that's a promise!!

Where Have I Been?

Apologies for the lack of updation but my second year at university is now complete and the broadband quality is not quite comparable here in sunny Suffolk as it is in the multi-million pound computer facility of the uni.

So, what's been going on? Derby (tipped you the winner didn't I?), 'Conegate' at Salisbury and Royal Ascot. Plus, the weather's pretty mild at the minute isn't it?

Before we speak of the Derby, I just want to get something off my chest. It involved a participant in the feature race on the Friday of Epsom's Classic meeting. A horse that goes by the name of Phillipina. Hype horses are aplenty in Newmarket and this must be the one on the highest pedestal of the lot. Gambled on debut (got beat), punted on at Chester (got beat) and supported in the Oaks (got beat), there must be a group of stable lads absolutely broke because of this horse and I can't think of a way they'll get their money back. Run the filly in a maiden and she'll win... at odds of 1/10 on a good day. But try and get a bigger price in a group race and she won't win. Lesson learnt = if it can't win a maiden, it can't win a Classic.

The Derby itself was like taking candy from a baby. The best horse in the race was favourite and duly obliged, so why was anybody trying to oppose him?

Royal Ascot was another whirlwind of glamour and sunshine. I don't mind the BBC's coverage of fashion, it's actually quite entertaining. That camp guy Sherwood cracks me up with his catty remarks and constant pouting. He's more use than Willie Carson anyway.
What surprised me the most was the success of the American horses. Who would have thought that their two-year-olds would be so good? And the sprinter Cannonball was no slouch either. This invasion is sure to become a annual event from now on and it would be good to see some more visits from our friends across the Atlantic. The only concern I have is the use of drugs and if some horses have been on steroids, surely the muscle they have gained will remain even if the drug is clean of the body, and this muscle will create more power and speed. An unfair advantage? Just clean up the drugs Obama.

There is little I have to say about the Salisbury ice cream fiasco but it has opened up a whole debate about customer care at the races and this is something that desperately needs revising. Admission prices need a radical makeover.

Being at home has it's perks; regular meals, comfortable accommodation and a regular income from the job but this has lead to some trouble, notably an increase in gambling. Gone are the days of the 10p Lucky15s all my budget could afford, now I'm rolling with the Harry Findlays of this world on Betfair, backing and laying all the same. Although my figures are showing a nice profit, it's the laying where it all goes wrong. On good days you can only make a small profit, bad ones yield a huge loss. It's the old mutts that do me in, things I've seen running around places like Folkestone and Beverley that I'm confident will never win a race but oh no, when Birkett's backing them to lose, they find a new lease in life (and 20lbs improvement) and scoot up. Ouch.

Derby Drivel

It's Derby time, roll out the same old debates: Is Epsom a suitable place to run racing's most prestigious event? Can the Irish dominance ever be overturned? Yawn, sleepy, yawn.

The fact is, if it wasn't for the Irish, then there would only be five runners in the Classic. That would be a farce. Thanks to Aidan O'Brien alone the number horses starting the race is in double figures.

It's all swings and roundabouts - some years the Irish seem to be taking over British racing, other times they can't get their name on the board. Come the Breeders' Cup, the media are all to happy to adopt any Irish success as 'ours'.

It is a bit of a sorrowful state though this year that the most fancied English participant is available at odds of 20/1.

What surprised me about the race was the number of runners who are sired by a Derby winner themselves: five by 2001 hero Galileo and one by 2002 victor High Chapparal. This goes to show that far from being unable to inject class, speed and stamina into their progeny, Derby winners can produce Derby winners themselves. Gone are the days when the Cheltenham Gold Cup was the most likely race an Epsom winner would create.

Albeit, and timely with the death of Coolmore genius Vincent O'Brien, this fact has been helped by the impetus of Messrs O'Brien (x2), Magnier and Tabor.

Anyway, you probably want to know who's going to win. I don't know but I'll have a guess:

1st - Sea The Stars
2nd - Crowded House
3rd - Gan Amhras

The Guineas form will be crucial and Sea The Stars won at Newmarket like he was a horse who would get the Surrey venue's 1m4f with ease. I genuinely feel that he is a horse who could win the Triple Crown, ironically, 39 years on since the last horse who did it, Nijinsky. Trained by? Vincent O'Brien. But more is the case that he'll go to Longchamp for the more lucrative prize of the Arc d'Triomphe rather than a gallop on Town Moor.

Crowded House is a tentative selection. The manner of his victory at Doncaster late last year is still fresh in the memory and it thrusted him to the head of the market during the winter. Since then though, he has disappointed in the Dante. The son of Rainbow Quest may have come on since then and if he's back to his best, stays the trip and Spencer doesn't f*ck it up, expect him to be coming home with a surge.

As said the Guineas is a terrific form guide and Jim Bolger's Gam Amhras should stay true to my word without reversing the Rowley Mile form of his conqueror.

Or maybe not...

Hitting Ben with a Post

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!

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!

Brighton Mitre Hove Park Circuit Race 1 REPORT

A bright, warm evening greeted the new Hove Park racing season hosted by Brighton Mitre Cycling Club. A record high turn out in the Cat 4 race saw a group of 10 riders pull away from early on and they stayed away until the finish which inevitably resulted in a messy sprint. Andy Edwards (Rollapaluza) just pipped the Mitre’s own Mark Mergler on the line.

The star of the day, however, had to be teenager Felix English (Team Corridori Specialized)
who demolished his Cat 2/3 field by a whole lap and even when reunited with the main bunch, he had to be held back from attacking again. From the off, English looked determined to take the race by the scruff of the neck as he had already pulled 200 metres clear after just five minutes, accompanied by Josh Cunningham (Ingear Development Squad). These two youngsters worked together until the 20 minute mark when the eventual winner cunningly attacked his, up to this point, ally by letting him lead going towards the main climb and then storming past him up the hill. The InGear rider did not have the legs to go with English who now set his sights firmly on lapping the peloton and putting the race to bed.
It took him just over 20 minutes to do so but by this time the light had became an issue and the five laps to go sign went up prematurely. There was still the matter of the remaining places to be sorted out and as the sign went up, Andy Waterman of Dulwich Paragon accelerated away from the bunch and put a good amount of daylight between himself and the others. He looked booked for the runners-up spot until the pack began to chase him down on the last lap and it was only by a matter of millimetres that he held on from the fast finishing Sebastian Ottley (VC St Raphael) closely followed by the rest.

Weakest Name = Kay

My quest for fame and riches this week led me to the Weakest Link - a shabby hotel in Cambridge to be precise. After applying for the show over a year ago (when I had time to watch such things, different story nowadays), I was surprised to receive a call during the week, off a lady with a pretty delicious voice, telling me that I had been selected for an audition. At first I was reluctant; did I have the time to participate? Was it worth it? After telling a few of the lads I decided 'hell why not'. After all, an opportunity such as this is unlikely to ever arise again and even if I didn't win anything, it would generate some decent banter.
So, I travelled to Cambridge, got to the hotel and sat in the waiting room with the eight other auditionees. There was a wide range of people from Cliff, a retired teacher, loved the sound of his own voice and just kept chatting about random crap to Kay-Anne, a bit of a hippy, she and got really annoyed when you called her Kay. Like I kept doing.
We were then asked to enter the conference room where there were chairs set up in a semi-circle and first of all we had to introduce ourselves. Bog standard stuff, I went first and mentioned I had size 8 feet just to say something and then everyone else said what size feet they had. Why?
There were a couple of other students there who were pretty fat and did waste-of-time subjects like philosophy and politics at Cambridge and Manchester respectively. One right nerd worked in a chemists laboratory and he bored me a lot.
After, we played a round of the quiz, with all the banking included. It worked out that we answered three questions each and I got one wrong - "What country is Budapest the capital of?" I knew it was somewhere in west Europe. "Czech Republic". Wrong. It's Hungary.
Despite this, Kay-Anne got voted off by everybody because she got two wrong, even though they were tricky ones: "How many points does a touchdown score in American football?" Six apparently.
Following the round, this camp guy then grilled us like Anne Robinson would have. I got slagged off for being a 'lazy' student but it wasn't too severe. For others though it was pretty harsh: Kay-Anne got slagged off for this floral dress she was wearing and this old woman got done for being precisely that, old.
Finally, we were all individually interviewed for five minutes in front of a camera, just telling about ourselves. Easy, just talk shit.
They'll give me a call in the next four weeks to tell me I'm in. Here's hoping!