Armchair view helps me hold on to my money but nothing beats being there
Alan Tyers spends a day trying – and failing – to recreate the Festival atmosphere at home
There might have been around 60,000 hardy souls at Cheltenham, but there are hundreds of thousands more who follow from pubs, sofas and bookies around the country. So can the Cheltenham atmosphere be recreated a hundred miles away from Cleeve Hill?
I have a sofa, I have a selection of refreshments and I plan to find out. I also have the princely sum of £20 with which to gamble. And I am not afraid to use it.
The day begins with some diligent study of the selections from experts at Telegraph Sport;i will be employing the traditional mixture of poring over the form, selecting horses I like the look of, and the blind, clueless optimism that makes bookmaking such an enduringly profitable industry.
I fire up the television, where there is a nice early boost for ITV viewers when professional silly billy Matt Chapman attempts to hurdle one of the track rails and falls over. I feel it is sure to be a good day.
As the rain hammers down, the award-winning presenting team of Ed Chamberlin and Francesca Cumani look like they would happily swap their recent Sports Journalists’ Association gongs for a good cagoule apiece.
Chamberlin says the gloomy weather sums up the mood of the nation with Brexit; you might say the false start for the first race does as well.
My selection in that is Al Dancer, partly on the name. As they prepare for a mulligan at the bungled start, the unflappable
Richard Hoiles identifies my fellow. Looking good, is he? Raring to go? Hoiles: “Al Dancer is facing the wrong way.”
Not really what you are hoping for. My near-namesake eventually gets all four of his left feet pointing in the correct direction, but that is as good as it gets for a creature seemingly less Darcey Bussell and more John Sergeant on Strictly Come Dancing.
Twin impostors, and all that. And a timely reminder of the human passion that goes into getting these equine heroes (not you, Al) to the start line, via a lovely interview with the winning owner in the first.
Cheltenham always brings its share of tear-in-the-eye moments, and the post-race chat with Joanne Coleman, widow of Klassical Dream’s late owner John, will take some beating this year.
“My husband passed away in July: it was his dream to see this horse run, but he never did. His
ashes are in my handbag. He hadn’t missed Cheltenham for 20 years, so we brought him along.”
I feel phlegmatic about Al Dancer’s slump, and thoughts turn to lunch. Over at Prestbury Park, or so a press release tantalises, “critically acclaimed pan-asian restaurant Theatre @ The Festival is delivering a fusion of flavours”.
Alas, there will be no “dish of poached noodles served with a luxurious lobster oil drizzle, shallots and coriander cress, Cantonese ginger, spring onion and Brixham lobster tail” for me, at least not until I can get some winners. I settle for a locally sourced sausage roll from Greggs @The High Street. It delivers a fusion of flavours.
I up my stake for the second race to an eye-watering £3. The burden alas proves too much for Glen Forsa, who unseats his rider pronto.
I note Willie Mullins has won the first two races: experts explain that Irish visitors will be enjoying the ground. This stirs me into dual action: I back the Mullins entry each way in the next race, and I open a can of Guinness. This seems on the one hand a fitting accompaniment to Cheltenham, but does not taste quite the same absent a plastic cup and makes me pine for the atmosphere at the track.
The sun has come out there, but the Mullins winning streak ends at two: Up For Review looking quite well before making a jumping error at the third last. I decide I need a change of scene and head out to the bookies.
What this establishment lacks in glamour it makes up for in simmering anger. Most people are generally cross in here, and by the time a friendless 16-1 shot wins the big race the mood has darkened further. Aside from a man fighting with the fixed-odds betting terminal, everyone else is soon focusing on the Mares’ Hurdle, and specifically on the red-hot favourite that is going to get everyone out of jail. I am out of the shop by the time Benie Des Dieux gets up off the floor.
Back home, Rich Ricci, a wolf in loud check clothing, is on telly justifying various things to Alice Plunkett: Mr Ricci is very much not the sort of tonic one needs at this difficult time.
Against the run of play, however, I back the favourite A Plus Tard in the Novice Handicap with my remaining £2, and he only goes and wins at 5-1. I pile on to the last, and fluke a bit of each-way place money on Jerrysback.
And so that is my Cheltenham away from Cheltenham. I have defied the odds to emerge financially unscathed. I am neither cold, nor wet, nor waiting hours for a train – but there is still nothing quite like being there.
Richard Hoiles picks out my bet. Raring to go, is he? Hoiles: ‘Al Dancer is facing the wrong way’