For the high jump in a ski jacket
Above: My Little Pony
In the spring of 1986 my slightly unhinged friend ‘Cotswold’ Charlie said he would introduce me to National Hunt racing by taking me to the Gold Cup at Cheltenham. I had never been to the races and, as I was raised in the metropolis, the only nag that I had been aware of until that point was my sister’s plastic My Little Pony.
Charlie didn’t elaborate on his invitation but suggested I drove down from the capital to the spa town on the morning of Thursday, March 20, where he would meet me at the racecourse, outside the Cottage Rake Bar, at 1pm.
He forgot to tell me about the traffic, the parking, the crowds, what to wear or which enclosure to enter. The result was that I was late, so late in fact that we only met minutes before the Gold Cup ‘off’. I was togged up in my skiing jacket and Charlie, after expressing surprise at my garish attire, pulled me into the nearest lift. We got out at the top floor and walked into a large glass-fronted room where a sea of ruddy faces turned and glowered at what they correctly perceived to be illegal immigrants. A couple of old boys started to bear down on us but before they could remonstrate the race started. Some things are more important than ejecting a pair of badly dressed gatecrashers.
And so Charlie and I watched my first race from this prime position. As the nags came up the final hill there were three horses in contention. The favourite carrying red and black colours had hit the front, run out of juice and fallen back to third. Then the unthinkable happened. At the last fence the second horse faltered and in the straight the new front runner hung to the left – the blood and blackberry nag that was running on empty rallied and was cheered to the post as if he were an encore by Elvis. Dawn Run had won the Gold Cup in record time.
Hundreds of brown hats flew into the air. Chaps in covert coats embraced each other and wept and one stiff-lipped gent offered us a glass of vintage champagne while attempting to repress his sniffles with a large red spotted handkerchief. Eventually, when the celebrations began to die down an imposing figure collared us. “The best horse won,” he said with pride. “It won the best race at the best racecourse in the best time. And now that you’ve seen history made, eff-off out of the Jockey Club.”
It was a seminal moment. Jump racing became my passion, the National Hunt Festival my winter break (who needs skiing?) and 10 years later I moved to the Cotswolds.
And now that I live here I have learned that in early spring the single word ‘Cheltenham’ means the Festival. Once the snowdrops have sprung the inquiry ‘are you going to Cheltenham?’ does not mean are you popping into town for a bit of shopping. ‘Cheltenham’ is the annual centrepiece of these hills that is as important as beer is to Milwaukee and running bulls are to Pamplona.
A recent report on the economic impact of the National Hunt Festival on the town claimed that some businesses make over 10 per cent of their annual profits from the quarter of a million visitors in that week.
“It is four days of full hotels and full restaurants, pubs clubs and bars,” said Ken Jennings, Cheltenham Borough Council Director of Tourism. “It is ‘Christmas’ for the town’s hospitality industry. In fact the only Cheltenham business not obviously benefiting from the Festival is the undertaking profession.”
On the racecourse itself it is estimated that over £40 million is bet at 226 bookmakers’ pitches during the four days (that’s almost £2 million a race). There are around 350 horses housed over the week in 300 stables looked after by 500 handlers. Thirty thousand cars, 2,000 coaches, 220 helicopter flights, 35 stretch limos, three special trains, a couple of rickshaws and a blimp combine to ferry the fans to the racecourse. And while there the punters tuck into 50,000 sandwiches, 25,000 burgers and 20,000 bags of chips sluiced down by 10,000 bottles of champagne, 200,000 pints of draught beer or lager and 150,000 pints of Guinness.
Of course those figures don’t take into account those who stroll from ‘Cotswold’ Charlie’s house, which is within walking distance of the racecourse; nor do they include the hip flasks of whisky in the pockets of ski jackets by those nervously standing outside the Cottage Rake Bar.
Furthermore, there are no reliable statistics on the chances of those who might slip illegally into the Jockey Club this year to witness the prospective battle royal between Kauto Star and Denman. My guess is, and this is of course only a wild sporting punt, that that number is likely to be two and one of them will be called Charlie.