I’ve loved racing for 35 years, now it revolts me
NElliott’s pathetic account was right out of the ‘Desert Orchid ate my homework’ excuse book
obody will care – bar that bookmaker who was banking on a new conservatory – but there will be no Cheltenham for me this year. And no Newbury this Saturday … and no Aintree next month.
In fact, there will be no afternoons sitting on the sofa financially immersed in the racing until my disgust of the
Hollow spectacle: The Cheltenham Festival has lost its allure following this week’s revelations past few days is overridden by my 35-year love of a punt on the gee-gees.
I sincerely hope my willpower conquers the habit of a lifetime and lasts for ever, because the grotesque carryings-on in Ireland should prove the straws that break the camel’s back, if not the backs of those poor dead horses.
First came the picture of a grinning Gordon Elliott, sitting astride the body of Morgan, a seven-year-old who had died from an aneurysm on the gallops.
Then followed the garlanded trainer’s pathetic attempt at explaining it away – an account right out of the “Desert Orchid ate my homework” excuse book.
And yesterday came the video of Rob James, one of Elliott’s many Cheltenham-winning jockeys, jumping on another corpse, while enjoying a great craic with the lads. And through all this repulsion emerged the cries from the horse-racing industry that “this is not at all representative of our sport”. Heard that before.
No doubt the overwhelming majority of those involved in the Sport of Kings adore their animals, in the same way that Sheikh Mohammed adores his daughter. Certainly, if you ever dare to suggest that animals suffer for entertainment, the insiders round on you like the fanatics they are. They insist you do not understand the culture and are not witness to the five-star affection in which the horses reside. They accuse you of cliches and being grossly uninformed.
It happened to me a decade ago. My passion for racing – stoked as a 16-year-old when my Saturday job entailed scribbling the odds on the local bookie’s boards and then fanned with regular shifts on the racing desk of a national newspaper – was starting to wobble when I saw Kauto Star feted like a departing sporting superstar after being pulled up in his final Gold Cup in 2012.
It was quite the contrast to the first day of that Festival, when three horses were put down and the news barely prompted a shrug in the betting ring. What stopped us admitting that we regarded Kauto as more than an animal and ascribed him human characteristics? Yet when it came to those also-rans who perished, our indifference showed we regarded them as dumb creatures and nothing more. They were expendable in the pursuit of our pleasure, victims of our indulgence.
There have been thousands more since. Animal Aid runs a website called horsedeathwatch. com, which records every fatality of a thoroughbred in Britain. On course that is – not the overwhelming majority, such as Morgan, who expire away from the circus. The count as of yesterday morning was 2,177 in 5,104 days. Or, to put it another way, three a week.
The last entry was Wudyastopasking at Plumpton on Monday. A 66/1 shot, the five-yearold broke a leg before the second fence. The chestnut gelding was destroyed on track. Condolences to the connections, but at least his demise was not your run-of-themill, screens-up and carry-on tale. They had to stop the race before removing Wudyastopasking’s body.
Still, he lived like a royal, a pampered life which he would never have experienced but for National Hunt. Phew, that is OK then. Of course, it is fine to give an animal life with the caveat it may suffer a painful death.
Think about that over the next few days and weeks when the morons are employing their whataboutery and pointing out that those dead horses did not know they were being disrespected.
Think about that when a runner ultimately trained by Elliott – but quickly transferred to another yard to avoid the ban – wins at the Festival and the owners and punters cheer and toast this magnificent sight, this blessed connection between beast and man. Not for me. Not this year, anyway. The spectacle stinks.