Goodwood is one of those weeks of the year that, as a racing fan, even one that prefers jump racing, you look forward to, writes David Massey. A wonderful setting, quality facilities, a chance to catch up with friends both at the track and outside of it.
Sure, it helps that I’m not working for one of the books this week (only the Ebor left to do now, and that’s my career as a bookie's workman done) and that I’m working alongside my new work partner Vicki for the week - more of what we’re up to later - but first, a leisurely drive down on Monday afternoon to stay in Haslemere at my friend Sarah’s house.
Sarah is kindly putting up with me for the week and her hospitality is second to none, and again that’s a lot nicer than staying in a hotel on your own. Sarah, a Goodwood member, intends going every day, and knows her horses inside out.
As if to show how hospitable she can be, there’s lasagne in the oven when I get there, which goes down very well with a Peroni. I think I’m going to be just fine here for the week.
Tuesday morning and my word, it’s hot. 24 degrees on the car dashboard as I drive in at 8.30am, and the air conditioning is on full. As is my music. “Bit lively for this time in a morning, isn’t it?” the car park attendant enquires as he tells me where I’m parking for the week. Clearly not a fan of the Prodigy then, or at least their older stuff.
I’m right at the back of the press room, which means I can see everything going on in front of me, and can keep an eye on certain photographers, inevitably up to something that will involve money coming out of my wallet for some gamble or other they have had wind of.
Two coffees in and I’m ready for a walk of the track but the temperature is up to a scorching 27 already and I decide that a quick 3f dash is all that’s required. I don’t want to be dripping in sweat before we’ve even started. Vicki arrives around 10.30 and we start planning our week.
A few of you, as you’ve seen me around, have asked what the new venture is. Well, in a nutshell, Vicki and I both had the idea of doing live-time paddock updates earlier in the year, and Goodwood is our trial week. Various companies and on-course bookmakers will be taking our feed across the five days which, alongside my mark-your-card on each day, we hope proves beneficial to them.
We’ve three separate feeds, for which we use Telegram and WhatsApp, and although I’m skipping ahead here, by the end of the week it seems to have been a success. Indeed, the bookmakers that have taken it are already asking about the Ebor and the Leger Festivals. If it’s good enough for them, and they’re a picky lot at the best of times, then we’re doing something right. I’ll get the plug in - tracksidemediaservices.com if you’re interested.
The mercury hits 30 as we start the afternoon’s work. And there’s no fresh air. It doesn’t take the bookmakers long to realise this is going to be a very quiet afternoon for them. “Everyone’s just staying in the shade, nobody’s coming out to bet”, moans one of them. “It’s like working in sodding Cyprus”, complains another. I know what they mean, and from someone that lives in Nottingham, not Nicosia, this is far, far too hot. Fair play to the Goodwood executives who have made the sensible decision that jackets may be taken off. Common sense has prevailed.
I’ve no strong fancies on the Tuesday and that’s just as well, as my selections are sunk without trace. I immediately have a crisis of confidence and stopping short of slapping me around the face and telling me to have a word with myself, Vicki does her reassuring thing that I’ve not gone at the game in a day, and it’ll all be fine tomorrow. However, Vicki asks a favour of me that, she says, is well above my paygrade - would I iron two items of clothing she’s brought in with her, as her place doesn’t have an iron? If it gets around the press room I’m running an ironing service I’ll not hear the last of it, but I agree to her request, as I’m a nice guy.
Tuesday evening sees us finishing up the lasagne, along with some salad. This will be one of only two occasions on the week when something even reasonably healthy passes my lips. I’ve said before how awfully you tend to eat when you’re away from home for any great length of time and as a man left to my own devices, the profits from nearby takeaways would tend to soar for a few days when that happens. However, Sarah is a tremendous cook, and indeed baker; every morning she bakes for her friends that will be attending Goodwood, starting the process at 7am, and I kid you not when I say her planning for putting it all in the oven is to the minute. She tells me she almost made The Great British Bake-Off back in the day, but the final heats before the TV stage were Cheltenham week, and so she told them she couldn’t make it. Sarah, my friends, has her priorities right.
Wednesday. It is no cooler, maybe a shade hotter, in fact. I’m wearing the lightest shirt I have and I’m still cooking by the time I’ve reached the entrance gates at 9am. My suggestion to racecourses on days like this is to let everyone walk through the cooling fans that the horses use after a race, charge them a quid a time for a minute in front of them. Here, Goodwood, take my money! I hang up the two items of clothing I’ve ironed (beautifully, I might add) for Vicki and crack on.
Poor Vicki comes in with bites all over her. No, she’s not had a good night, dear reader, not those sort of bites, but mosquito bites. Luckily for her I carry antihistamines at all times (hay fever) which help her cause, but she needs more medication than that. She battles on through the bites and heat and the pair of us have a much better day, getting Henry Longfellow beat, and my confidence returns. Business is still very poor in the ring, though, and I’ve basically turned into a waterboy for them. “Same problems as yesterday, nobody wants to move”, says Martyn Of Leicester. “Get me two cans of Coke, will you?”. I’ve turned into a gopher for the books.
Sarah and I, along with her two children, go out for food that night, which saves the ache of cooking at the end of a long day. Nothing I eat that night is healthy. Thank God I’m doing about 12,000 steps a day to make up for the rubbish I throw down me this week.
There’s talk of rain around on Thursday and the weather breaking, which it needs to, as it isn’t getting any cooler. My linen suit is on its last legs, and I fear after one more sweaty day it’ll find its own way to the dry cleaners. Speaking of which, word is out about my ironing exploits earlier in the week, and the jokes are starting. “How much for a full bag?”, asks photographer Alan Crowhurst, the leader of the clown pack. “Some of it might need a wash, mind”, he states, pulling a face that says I wouldn’t want to go anywhere near whatever it is he’s got lined up.
Mid-morning, one lad comes over with a cup of tea for his boss, sat next to me. It’s fair to say we’re packed in pretty tight next to one another and as he leans over to put the tea down, the cup rocks, almost in slow-motion, and I can see it heading for my laptop. After what seems like an eternity, the cup settles, as does my heart, but not for long. Five minutes later he’s back, with a phone on a selfie stick, which again hovers above my laptop; the phone falls out of the holder, hitting the table with a loud thump about three centimetres away from my keyboard. Sharp words are exchanged between the lad and his boss, and he’s told just to go downstairs, where she’ll join him shortly; I require the defib.
We’re gaining confidence as the week goes on, Vicki and me, and find both Approval and Mr Chaplin at decent prices on paddock looks, which is nice. We’re also meeting some lovely people as we go this week, with a few asking what it is we’re up to, including a delegate from the Hong Kong Jockey Club, who wishes us well with our project. Ebt’s Guard almost nets us a hat-trick on the day in the last but we have to settle for second. Vicki and I are out in Bognor after racing (seems rude not to go to the seaside when you’re so close) and let me tell you good people, the reviving effects of seawater on tired feet cannot be overstated. Ten minutes standing on the edge of the sea chatting racing and it feels like I’ve a new pair of plates. Fish ‘n’ chips are the order of the day, followed by half an hour throwing money away in the arcade. Except my luck is in, and I’ve an absolute pocketful of pound coins by the time we leave. (They’ll go in the pound jar when I get back. I save them all for the Eastern Festival at Yarmouth every year.) Vicki has won a foam glider from the 2p pushers. Everyone’s a winner.
Friday. No rain has been forthcoming, although clearly Epsom had their share last night. Maybe, just maybe, it’s down a degree or two but as Phil Collins might have said, there’s no jacket required.
On the drive in I spot a place in Midhurst that, if Bad Manners didn’t open with a song, I can only assume the owners missed a trick:
It’s all happening in the press room. One prominent member of the press corps has had a new jacket go missing: he’s not happy. My good friend and photographer Debbie arrives; she’s the latest to suffer The Attack Of The Night Mosquitos and, as well as her legs, one has bitten her just under the eye. She too gets help from my drugs stash, which sounds a lot harder than saying you’ve got paracetamol and antihistamines.
Business is improving for the bookies (“it’s ten times better than it has been”, says one, perhaps exaggerating ever-so-slightly) and as we continue to have a decent week, the pair of us finding the nursery winner at a good price, it definitely starts to cool as a breeze gets up, which is almost greeted with a cheer. Friday night is fish ‘n’ chip night, again; I did have an apple and an orange earlier, which makes me feel slightly better about it.
And finally to Saturday, and cooler weather, thank God. Sarah is back on her feet, and baking again, which is good to see. The smell of chicken pies in the oven at 7.15am is making me hungry. There’s a tea and bacon sandwich on the way, she tells me. God, she’s good. Why would I want to stay anywhere else? I think I might be making more trips to Fontwell this winter…
It’s actually drizzling as I drive in, and I’ve never been so happy to see it raining. The press room is virtually empty, compared to the rest of the week. Once the Group 1’s are done, it does tend to quieten down. Which is fine, it means the rest of us can spread out a bit! Also, more cake for us in the afternoon. I play Dog Roulette with a couple of others to pass the time in the morning (you’re best not asking, all you need to know is it cost me a tenner).
Vicki’s friend Jenn is arriving today, and when I say arriving, I mean from Luxembourg. Jenn has never been racing before, and is excited to see what it’s all about. Needless to say, as it’s her first visit, she’s allowed to back winners (it’s how we all get the bug) and finds Term Of Endearment at 15-2. “I’m a little tipsy!” she exclaims after her winner. Well, when you hang around with a certain Paul Binfield (Paddy’s PR) for the afternoon, that’s gonna happen, lady….
Before the Stewards Cup gets underway, the strangest thing of the week happens. I’m stood near a bar when, seemingly from nowhere, four police surround a bloke sat on a bench near me. It appears the man in question has been missing for a while, but now they’ve found him. He claims mistaken identity and rather helpfully has his passport on him, but the coppers aren’t buying it. The words “we can sort this at the station” are heard, and before you know it, he (and his mate) are taken away. I can only hope he didn’t back Get It, or he’ll never get his money now.
Somehow I find 40-1 winner Witness Stand (no aftertiming here, it got a good write up beforehand) and that, along with Align The Stars, puts the cap on a good week. Our trials appear to have worked well, with the books asking if we’re thinking of running this for the Ebor (we are). Even the drive home is kind, with no traffic on the M25 or M1. Back home for 9, tired but happy. York, here we come…
- DM
