Ah, York, and more particularly Ebor week, writes David Massey. It’s well known I’m more a jumps man than the Flat but it’s a week that even I look forward to. Royal Ascot, with its regimented fun, and Glorious Goodwood, a more relaxing week but still a day too long, have their charms but Ebor week has that right balance of quality racing (just the Super Seven every day, no need for eight races and no requirement to be finishing at a stupid time - this is the North after all, teatime is half five), tremendous atmosphere, great nightlife (if that’s your thing) and the whole thing doesn’t require you to sell a kidney to pay for it all.
As ever these days, I’m working alongside Vicki for the week, the pair of us delivering our Trackside paddock reporting service, but I’ve plenty of tipping pieces that need writing up as well. Thankfully, the weather is set fair as there’s nothing worse than a changeable or uncertain forecast when you’re trying to get ahead of the game. “Well, we might get 5mm of rain, but we might get 30 if we’re unlucky.” At that point there’s nothing you can do except wait. So my week actually starts Monday morning once we get the Wednesday declarations through.
I’ve decided to stay in York all week. It’s right on the periphery of how far I’m willing to travel there and back in a day, but with two sets of roadworks on the A1 (still) adding 20 minutes to the journey both ways, it’s a case of finding a decent Airbnb, which I do, no more than ten minutes from the track.
The Placepot isn’t a bet I have much time for, if I’m honest; too many five-out-of-sixes, too many out-first-legs, I find it utterly frustrating, but I do partake during this particular week, mainly as my good friend James is at the track every day, and he loves it. As such, I just throw a score away each afternoon in his direction. We’ll forward ahead at this point to say we didn’t get any of the placepots up; a short-head away from landing it on one occasion, and a five-out-of-six where we doubled up on two legs on another. I repeat, I do not like the Placepot much, and it doesn’t like me back.
I’m currently dieting (1st 3lb so far, although by the end of the week, perhaps unsurprisingly 4lb will have gone back on) so it’s Shredded Wheat for breakfast and salad at lunch, but I eat like a king each night whilst I’m away, it has to be said. Wednesday night I’m out with James, having steaks. The food is superb and better still, my half of the bill has been taken care of by a friend of James who backed a winner I’d put up (I do that occasionally, you know) so it’s a free night. James enjoys a glass of wine or three, but as a marathon runner in training for his next, he assures me he’ll still be up for a jog at eight o’clock the next morning. I tell him I’d like a photo as proof of this, as I think he’s about a million to one to make it as we go our separate ways at the end of the night. Reader, no photo was forthcoming. I see him later on Thursday to pay for the next losing Placepot we’ll have. “It just wasn’t going to happen”, he admits.
Ombudsman bounces back to form to take the International, but not before Birr Castle scares the living daylights out of us all. Hasn’t it been a strange Flat season, this? Talented handicappers winning Group 1 sprints, pacemakers causing mayhem, 2yo form all seemingly up in the air? Makes you long for a 0-100 at Warwick (please re-read the opening paragraph if you think I’ve lost my mind.)
Thursday is very much a day for the favourite-backers, with five of the seven going in and bookmakers looking like the stretchers will be required to carry them out. My step count for the day is through the roof - just shy of 12,000 - which means, in calorie terms, I can “afford” a pudding tonight. And what a night it is too, with 16 of us booked into Delrio’s Italian restaurant in the city. There are three tables in the room we’re booked into; on the table to my right is Kia Joorabchian, along with a few owners, trainers and jockeys; to my left Charlie Swan, Ruby Walsh and many of the Irish lads. Quite surreal, let me tell you. I do my quiz that I’d prepared for everyone and that goes down well, too. Plans are already afoot for another one. Next morning, I do my round on “racecourse geography” with Richard Hoiles and Stuart Machin and I really wish it had been recorded as it would have been social media gold. To see two of our finest commentators scratching their heads as I read out a series of roads and ask them which racecourse they would end up at was a joy to watch. I was surprised how tricky they found some of them, given their vast knowledge, and a 7 out of 10 for Richard earned him a “see me” on his report card. Must do better next time…
Friday kicks off in the best possible fashion with Asgard’s Captain, who I was very strong on, and better still, was one of the paddock picks too. I pressed up again and gave him a roar as he came to claim the prize. Our new customers would have been delighted. Even more so when we find Lifeplan, Cape Flora and Frescobaldi as the afternoon progresses and it really is something of a red letter day for Trackside.
There are days as both an analyst and a paddock watcher when you can’t find your own arse with both hands and you can have a crisis of confidence in this game more times than is good for you, believe me; but on days like today, when everything just flows, and the winners jump out at you, it’s the greatest game in the world. Find me a better one and I’ll switch. But until then, this will always be king.
Friday night and we’re eating at eight o’clock. At a place called Ate O’Clock. You can imagine the anger earlier as I tried to get the relevant information out of the idiot that booked it. “What time are we eating?” “And where are we eating?” “No, you’ve already told me when, where?” “STOP TELLING ME WHAT TIME WE’RE EATING” and so on. He did it on purpose, obviously, as he knew full well he’d get a rise out of me, and he did.
The sooner he gets his HWPA Lifetime Achievement award and leaves the press room, the better. I won’t give him the satisfaction of naming him, he’ll only think he’s even cleverer. Anyway, Ate O’Clock (at 8.15, it turns out, ha!) do good food and I get to chat to some new people, which is always great. We end up going round a few pubs and bars and meet up with one of the Sporting Life lads, who tells me an utterly unrepeatable story from Delrio’s the night before. I’d have been better not knowing, I think. It’s 1.30am before I crawl back into bed, and whilst by no means pi$$ed, I know I’m going to suffer a little in the morning. Indeed, the Shredded Wheat next morning isn’t cutting it, and I weaken enough to have a bacon sandwich, a sure sign I probably had plenty the night before. God, I’d forgotten how good bacon is.
And so… we reach Saturday. Most of the work for the week is done and, bored, six of us in the press room have a round of Greyhound Roulette. I’ve explained the rules before, but essentially a dice decides your trap number for the first ten races on the card that morning, 3pts for a winner, 1pt for second. (Yes, it’s a game for degenerates. Don’t judge.) Anyway, all you need to know is we throw a tenner in each, winner takes all, and the winner was… me! A nifty in front before lunch. Could be a good day, this.
We’ve already had one visit from the Queen this week and today we’re getting another. I come barrelling out of the press room around lunchtime, head down, not really looking where I’m going, to be grabbed by a member of security as I walk into what appears to be a vacated area. “Sorry sir, sterile area.” I’ve never been so insulted. I’m on the verge of telling him I have two happy and healthy children when I twig he means Her Maj is on the way through. But what’s really strange is, once she’s gone past, I’m able to walk, quite literally, five paces behind her with nobody seemingly stopping me. I’ve never been part of a Royal Entourage before and although I’m not supposed to be part of this one, it’s yet another quite surreal event in a week of them.
It proves tougher to find a winner today, although the good news is that James has gone home, so I immediately feel I’m twenty quid better off, and I do locate both Never So Brave (another Group 1 winner that was in handicaps not so long ago) and Revival Power on the card. We at Trackside are big Revival Power fans; she’s going to be some horse at three. Mark this, and come back to it. (Only if we’re right though, obviously.)
Death, taxes and the Irish winning the Ebor. Seemingly, three certainties in life. Actually, add a fourth. Roadworks on the A1. They might be gone by this time next year. Then again, probably not. See you at Doncaster, and then at Newmarket. AND THEN, AT CHEPSTOW!! Hurrah!
- DM