Tag Archive for: Worcester

Roving Reports: Data Driven Drizzle

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It's a wet and cold Monday morning here in Nottingham, writes David Massey, and the news has just been announced that it's been the warmest January since they started measuring such things, which apparently was in 1919. As a slave to the data then of course - of course! - I believe the science when it tells me as such. It's just that the places I seem to have visited during that most miserable of months have managed to dodge any semblance of sunshine, as demonstrated by the fact I don't recall any tracks I attended having to miss out obstacles because of low sun.

I tell a lie - Doncaster on a Friday. Ah yes, I remember it well now. The warmth on the back of my neck as I wrote my notes about the brave and talented warriors about to contest the 0-100 handicap hurdle. A brief glimpse of potential spring, snatched away not two days later as I tried to make my way around a flooded Herefordshire.

Yes, I did one of my bi-annual excursions to the Welsh borders at the end of last month. After making a day trip to Cheltenham on the Saturday and remarking how much the water had receded around the Evesham area since my last visit, by the time Monday came back around it was starting to rise again, and quickly. I stayed in Worcester, by the cricket ground, on the Sunday night (although I didn't realise this until first light Monday morning, when the first thing I saw on opening the curtains was the Basil d'Oliveira Stand) and no sooner had I arrived there than the words "precautionary inspection" were uttered at Hereford, along with the phrase "cautiously optimistic". As I've said before, any clerk of the course using the word "optimistic" in an update should be fined five grand, and ten if they precede it with "cautiously". The BHA could, however, use that money to pay for trainer interviews, where famous Berkshire handler Willie Runnem-Ornot can tell us his horse has had a setback for the Cheltenham Festival, but he's "cautiously optimistic" he can get him back on track if Kempton will let the lad have a gallop round next Tuesday when there's no press about. That'll be two grand please. Cash in a brown envelope? Yes, that’ll do fine, thanks for coming along.

And so, early Monday, Hereford bites the dust, and I'm left in a hotel room in Worcester with little to do but look at an empty Graeme Hick stand and nowhere much to go. I'm tempted to hoik it up to Monmore Greyhounds for their afternoon meeting, but my next stop is Ross-on-Wye, in readiness for Chepstow on Tuesday, and I'd be heading the wrong way. I decide instead to do the sensible thing, and just do some pre-emptive Cheltenham writing whilst drinking more hotel coffee than is probably good for me.

The rain is still falling as I set off for Ross. A wise man would have gone back to the motorway at this point and stayed on the main roads but I'm a romantic idiot with time on my hands and decided to go the scenic route using the back roads. I'm glad I did, in some ways - stunning vistas as I drive in the shadow of the Malvern Hills and I also trundle past someone's training establishment - I still haven't worked out who it was - through one of the villages.

Then, about four or five miles out of Ross, there's trouble. I'm in a village where the only way through it is via a bridge, and that's flooded, badly. I stop and try to work out the situation. Gamble, drive through and potentially flood the engine, or (according to Google Maps) track back almost eight miles and add another half an hour to my journey time? I didn't need to wait long for an answer. A lorry goes past me and through the flood. It's deep, too deep. This is confirmed by a Range Rover who does the same, and barely gets through it. For once, common sense kicks in and I turn around. The Malverns look as lovely as they did twenty minutes ago from the reverse angle.

You know that feeling you get sometimes when you arrive somewhere and think "I've been here before, but I can't quite remember when?" - I get that as I pull up in Ross at my Premier Inn. I know I've been here, but I can't quite remember when, or why. Then it dawns on me. I came here once with a good friend a long, long time ago on the way back from our one and only trip to Ffos Las. We had dinner in the Beefeater next door and then a night of great sex in the hotel. Well, that's my recollection of things. She says we just had a poorly-cooked steak and the only pudding I got was sticky toffee before we hit the M50 half an hour later. I think she's probably right. I suspect I've let my imagination get the better of me. It was about ten years ago, after all. Anyway, I'm here again, and I ask the receptionist to book me into the (now) Travellers Rest next door for dinner.

"You'll have a job. The place closed months ago. It's derelict and being knocked down." That's the end of that, then. Serves them right for undercooking my steak.

There's a precautionary inspection at Chepstow tomorrow now. This journey could be a fairly expensive busted flush. However, some light emerges at the end of the tunnel, and for once it isn't an oncoming train.

To amuse myself whilst writing I've had an each-way Yankee at Plumpton and after a 25-1 winner (in a four-horse race too, all to win!) along with another winner and place it's looking pretty good. I'm offered a decent cash out. I never cash out. Never. But... the cash out would cover the price of the trip, and if Chepstow bit the dust tomorrow, it wouldn't matter too much. For the second time in a day, I do the sensible thing and cash out. Do I need to tell you what happened to the fourth selection? Of course I don't. It won half the track. The only consolation being I did have a few quid on as a single. Still, a bit gutting, although I remind myself the whole trip is now paid for if it all goes blank tomorrow. And as the rain falls down on a humdrum town, as The Smiths warbled back in 1984, it has to be said that looks a very likely scenario.

Tuesday morning. Miracle of miracles, Chepstow is somehow on. I'm actually going to get some racing.

I'm going with my friend Alex who I haven't seen in years. She awards herself the title of "Assistant Media Bitch" for the day, which not only suits her well, but could catch on elsewhere, I reckon. I know a few that would fit that title perfectly. Anyway, we have a cracking day, the highlight of which - for her - was making Richard Hoiles a cup of tea. "It won't get any better than that today", she excitedly shrieks. I manage to find a couple of losers before Royal Jewel digs me out, and then Lagertha is something of a paddock standout in the Mares Novice. It'll be a winning day, which is always nice. I don't have a penny on Jo Lescribaa but I'm delighted for my friend Andy who has a interest in her, and all in all it's been a really enjoyable trip despite the grim weather. Better still, it has rekindled Alex's love for a day at the races. She hasn't been for some time - "the game isn't the same as it was", she says, but I hope she will go racing, at least in midweek when it's a bit quieter, again in the near future. The drive home is a long one, but a call in at the ever-lovely Gloucester Services breaks it up.

Back to the present day. The app on my phone now tells me "Rain coming in under an hour." Any chance of a look at that weather data again, please? It's Leicester on Thursday and Haydock on Saturday for me this week. The Trackside bobble hat will be on, I can assure you. Say hello if you see me, or if it's as warm as the data says, Stop Me and Buy One. Either way, have a great week.

- DM

Roving Reports: To Cheltenham, eventually

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It's been a while since my last missive, mainly because after the last one the good lady and myself took ourselves off to St Ives to celebrate her milestone birthday, writes Dave Massey. You'll not want to hear stories about me traipsing around the coast, visiting art galleries and generally making out I'm far more cultured than I actually am; what you want to know is where I've been racing since I got back.

It started with my first visit to Plumpton this season, that coming on the Bob Champion Charity Raceday, a meeting I do try and get down to each year. Plumpton, like Fakenham, is one of those well-run country tracks where after about four visits, you know the crowd that go there on first-name terms. I love the place, full of genuine race enthusiasts that have their favourites. You can pretty much guarantee a roar going up every time a Chris Gordon or Gary Moore horse hits the front in the closing stages. The former had one winner on the day, the latter two, and I doubt very much that the bookmakers walked away winning.

I'm staying in a hotel in Horsham for a couple of nights, as Kempton and Fontwell are also on the agenda in the next two days. After a long drive down I'm really tired and fall asleep about half ten, only to be woken up around 12.45am as the fire alarm goes off. I'm on the top floor, right at the rear of the hotel, so quickly put trousers and a t-shirt on, grab the phone and wallet and get out as swiftly as possible.

However, I didn't put socks and shoes on, and am stood outside without either. What happens next is bizarre, to say the least; the potted version is a German woman took pity on me, gave me her dressing gown, chatted to me for 15 minutes before asking me my star sign to see if we'd be compatible, and then gave me her room number. I'm not making this up. I mean, I couldn't have looked any worse - disheveled without footwear in the early hours, hair all over the place, yet here we are. After being allowed back into the hotel (no fire, a sensor issue) you'll be pleased to hear, dear reader, I retired to my own room.

Tuesday. I decide, as I'm fairly near, to have an hour at Hove greyhounds before I set off for Kempton. It's depressing to tell you that there couldn't have been a dozen punters there. The place had all the atmosphere of a crypt. It's saying something when the evening Kempton meeting felt busy by comparison. Such a shame, as Hove used to be a really busy little place, even the afternoon meetings drawing enough to make playing the Tote worthwhile. No longer.

A change of plan. I'm supposed to be going to Fontwell on the Wednesday, but I've a share in one running at Worcester and the card, with three novice hurdles and a bumper, looks more appealing. So I set off from Horsham around 7.45 am in bright sunshine, but by the time I get to Worcester around 11.30 it's cold and cloudy and the wind is blowing.

My fallouts with the car park attendants at Worcester have been many over time, but on this occasion all goes smoothly and before you know it, I'm enjoying an early lunch. There aren't many bets to be had on the card, although I do like the giant (and wonderfully named, Trumpton fans) Cuthbert Dibble in the bumper and try a little each-way investment. Third place gets me a small profit back but he's definitely one you want to be taking forward. Lovely big chasing type, he'll do well once he sees some obstacles.

Sadly Blue Suede Shoes, the horse I've a small share in, doesn't complete and leaves us scratching our heads. Too green, or just not a racehorse? I've no doubt her next couple of runs will reveal a lot more.

Thursday. Southwell sees rain, lots of it. It's the usual crowd, and as they don't want to hang around outside between races, it is decided we will all bet to 15 minutes. This means no prices until fifteen minutes before the off, with all the books going up at the same time. This not only gives you time to get a cup of tea and a loo visit between races, but it gives a chance for the market to form properly.

So we open up fifteen minutes before the first. There is one, sole, woman punter in the ring. None of us are in a rush to get her business.

She comes over to me, and looks at the board. To the astonishment of us all, she announces...

"£300 number one, and £100 ew number three."

We all stand there, open-mouthed. What just happened there, then?

It turns out she's one of a party upstairs who have all chipped a fair amount of money into a pot and are basically betting whatever the majority go with. Number 1 wins, and she draws £1300 off us as a start. £300 is invested back and they keep a grand. Sadly for them, they barely back another winner and by the time the last comes around, funds have dwindled.

However, there's a twist. They have their last £300 as a £150 each-way bet on Superstar DJ at 28-1. When it romps home, you can hear the screams a mile away. Over £5k to draw. You have never seen a happier bunch of ladies and we're delighted to pay them out.

And so to the end of the week, and a return to the home of National Hunt. Yes, Cheltenham is back, and I'm working on the rails both days.

The Friday is a quiet day, despite plenty of runners, and there are few big bets flying around. The biggest I take is a £300 Music Drive in the novice hurdle at 13-8, but that stays in the satchel as Mofasa, who looked really well going to post, comes out on top despite a mistake at the last.

The rain just keeps a-fallin' even with the forecasts saying that it ought to have stopped around lunchtime; but Cheltenham, as we know from Champion Chase Day this year, has its own micro-climate and trying to guess the weather here is a game in itself. Two slip up on the Flat in the last and we all agree it's probably a good job there's no more racing on the day.

Saturday is busier. Some old familiar faces in the crowd including Cheltenham member Bridget, who always has her fiver with me. Good judge too, is Bridget, and after she's backed Shearer in the first I remark to her it's always the same old faces in the payout queue!

Things really get going in the handicap chase that follows but Lord Accord is an absolute skinner on my side of the book. Not one single person has backed it with me which, for a Cheltenham handicap, is remarkable. A total payout of £115 on the race on my side, with just the places to reimburse.

That means I can crack on with the next and here comes the money for Pied Piper. Plenty of £200 and £400 bets and they don't have much worry as he quickens clear after the last to win. This payout is bigger, but it's nowhere near as big as it is for Dad's Lad in the next.

Dad's Lad is one of those horses that the public latch on to in a big way. One in three bets I take is on the Mullins charge. The writing is on the wall from some way out as he cruises into contention and, although the winning margin is under a length, the result never really seemed in doubt. £3k to pay out and a bad result.

And of course, the tenners and twenties merchants all back the outsider of three in the novice chase, so Chemical Energy is no good either. Encanto Bruno wins the last as favourite and that puts the nail in the coffin for many of the books. The dark is already descending as we pack away; it's time to head home...

- DM