Roving Reports: Work til you’re Musselburgh Bound

About a year ago now, maybe a bit more, a plan was hatched, writes David Massey. It was a plan to go to Thailand as part of Mrs M’s sister’s 50th birthday celebrations. She’d like one more big holiday abroad, she said. I was all for it, as there was no way you were getting me on a plane to a country with the humidity levels of the Royal Ascot press room; I’ll be able to experience that without going abroad come June. So it meant that as the good lady and her sister sent me some lovely photos of sun-kissed beaches, wonderful food and quite lethal-looking fireworks displays that I found myself in the somewhat colder climate of Scotland. 

I’ve skipped ahead a bit here. Once it was clear I had little or no interest in the holiday - I detest flying, I detest heat - I started my own planning for these two weeks which began on Cheltenham Trials Day, took in the delights of Hereford and Chepstow where I was joined by my friend Alex for the day (she likes to pretend she’s my assistant for the day, which basically means having her photo taken with Mick Fitz and blowing smoke up his backside about how great he was as a jockey) and will finish at Warwick at the end of this week. Sadly, the weather played its part last week too, and the planned visit to Exeter will have to wait until the late spring. 

And in the midst of all this was my first trip to a Scottish course, namely Musselburgh. I went with my long-time friend Becky, who some of you might know as a racecourse photographer at Cheltenham. I’ve known Becky for a decade and more now; whenever people ask how we know each other, she says I stalked her one day at Towcester. She says stalked, I say "enthusiastically followed.” Big difference, as I told the court. 

So it is with great excitement we set off on Friday afternoon on our marathon five-hour journey (it’ll actually take six) to Edinburgh. I’m doing the driving, as Becky is cursed with bad luck when it comes to cars. She’s gone through more automobiles than Kia has trainers in the past three years, which is saying something. We have snacks (gone by the time we reach Sheffield) and great music, and the conversation on the way includes but is not limited to a Grand National quiz, my poor taste in music (she says), her ex-boyfriends (some household names in there, I’ll say no more, they’ll be in her autobiography no doubt), how many horses she plans on buying this year, and what they’ll win in the next four years. We hit Newcastle around six and the traffic grinds to a halt. It’s dark when we come out the other side and suddenly there’s just nothing around for miles; I feel we’re driving through some pretty bleak countryside, but as it’s as black as soot, it’s hard to tell. On cue, as we hit the Scottish border, it starts raining again. Still an hour to go. 

We arrive at our destination around seven, and grab some food. We do, of course, have separate rooms, there’s none of that shenanigans (a dirty weekend that’s squeaky clean) and agree to meet in the morning around eight. There’s some football on BBC Alba, St Johnstone vs Partick Thistle. I fall asleep with it on. 

Saturday. We make our way up to the track fairly early as I have some Trackside work to do. Part of the reason for coming up here is to try and get a few more bookmakers signed up to the on-course service as we’re planning to do a bit more work in the North this calendar year. I have a chat with the on-course books, they seem a friendly lot, and I know one or two of them anyway, who do the introductions. The course isn’t overly big but that’s a good thing, everything is easy to find and get to, and I have to say it has one of the poshest William Hill on-course shops I’ve ever been in. Plush seating? Very nice. There’s also some old-fashioned weighing-room scales in there for you to have a try on; there’s an overweight notice incoming when I give them a go. 

It’s good racing too, quality stuff. I’m against Lord in the first (too keen again pre-race) and just about cop, and Star Of Guiting is a small winner for me in the next. Easy, this game. And then it goes wrong, although I have to say I’m delighted to see JPR One, a horse I’ve always had a lot of time for, win the Scottish Champion Chase. Becky is chatting to his delighted lads afterwards; they’re off to Wetherspoons later to celebrate, they tell us. That’s how you do it. I try to get Absolutely Doyen beaten in the novice hurdle but fail, and that takes a chunk of the winnings back. Then I kick myself for not backing Magna Victor in the next (if it’s an Alastair Ralph runner at Musselburgh, just back the thing) but Kelce ensures the day at least finishes on a high. Becky, having had horses with Neil Mulholland in the past, is particularly pleased at Kelce’s victory, and Georgie, his lass, has been kind enough to sort us some owners badges for tomorrow which, with less work on, should be a more relaxing day. 

Back at the hotel, we sort-of plan on maybe going out before we realise we’re both old and knackered, and would rather just eat in-house again before falling asleep. I’m so tired I manage that much more easily than I did Friday night (always the case when I go away - awful sleeper first night, much better the second, weird that)  and don’t wake until seven the next morning. 

Becky’s already gone for a run, so I make my way down to breakfast about eight. With Leopardstown postponed for 24 hours, today is the first day of the DRF too, so I’m catching up on all the gossip via the WhatsApp’s from last night. Along with another cracking card at Musselburgh, it promises to be a great day ahead. 

Before we go racing though, we find the beach and go for a little walk. There’s always something very therapeutic about being next to the sea, hopefully when that big Lucky 15 comes in and we retire, it’ll be somewhere on the South West coastline. Failing that, there’s always a weekend in Skegness to look forward to. By some miracle, the sun has come out and the wind has dropped. For the first time this year, I’m fairly sure, I can feel some degree of warmth. It doesn’t last long, the cloud soon returns though.

So we’re back at the track. I tell you what, the music that the course is pumping out is best described as “eclectic.” We go from what appears to be some Ceilidh tune to - and I’m not kidding here - the House Of Pain’s finest moment with “Jump Around.” It makes my selection on the way home look normal. 

It’s also student day today, and the place is packed out with them. They’re very well behaved and cheer them home on every circuit, which is nice. I lose count of the number of times Becky says “you can see her arse in that skirt, and probably more” as the afternoon progresses. Being the gent I am, I don’t look. Obviously. 

Let me say how lucky we are to have the owners badges today as the hospitality is incredible. We both agree the meal is the best we’ve probably ever had on track, with a complimentary drink too (Becky has the wine, I’m driving so it’s just orange juice for me) and with sticky toffee pudding to finish off, well, superb work Musselburgh, that’s all I can say. Only Sedgefield on the one occasion I had cause to visit as an owner comes close to this. 

And then when Transmission wins the Edinburgh National and Becky has to collect the winner’s trophy, that’s her weekend made. She wears a smile a mile wide. I’ve managed to win enough off that one to pay for the weekend, which will do me fine. I’m not a greedy man. That said, if there’s any more of that sticky toffee going…

It’s soon time to go home. On this occasion, the light holds out and we enjoy the beautiful, rugged Scottish countryside that we couldn’t see on the way up. It really is something to behold, the sea never more than a couple of miles from the road. It’s been a fantastic weekend and I’m already looking forward to my next Scottish visit, which will be Kelso in a few weeks’ time for the Morebattle Hurdle. I get home by nine, and catch some shuteye. Back to the grindstone and Southwell on Monday - at least it won’t take so long to get there!

- DM

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