Charlie Brooks

How would you feel about going to lunch among people who don’t want you to be there? Nervous, skittish or plain bloody minded? It wouldn’t be quite fair to say that I was blackballed by the Garrick club; I was merely rejected. Loads of decent coves signed on my page in the ‘New Members’ book but the membership committee, like the computer in Little Britain, said no. So I admit my nerves were jangling a little as I entered the magnificent building recently. I wore my best dark suit, pink shirt, proper collar stiffeners, favourite Michael Kidson tie (never to be tied in a Windsor knot) and an admittedly highly dodgy pair of black trotters.

By the age of 13, Alex Wood was a virtuoso violinist, though he was later sentenced to seven years in prison for fraud. He is now a renowned expert on cybercrime, money laundering and illegal betting operators. Oh, and for good measure, he is a Fellow of the Society of Arts. Just the sort of chap you want in your corner. Recently, as an experiment, he and I opened a black-market betting account together. I say ‘together’ because we used my identity and his credit card. The unlicensed bookmaker could not have been more helpful. They didn’t care how old we were, whether we had any addiction issues or the fact that our personal and financial details didn’t match. But their attitude soon changed when we struck a winning bet: they wouldn’t send us our winnings.

Inspecting yearlings in the rain at Newmarket last Thursday was a bit like looking at girls in the Windmill Club – in the old days, of course – with their wet weather cycling kit on. You just don’t get much of an idea of what they might be capable of. But whatever the weather, when you enter the sales ground at Tattersalls, you step into a parallel universe populated by an eclectic bunch of coves. Over the three days of the premiere yearling auction in Europe, 400-odd colts and fillies went under the hammer. But there were two very different games being played out. The heavyweights in the ring were Sheikh Mohammed Al Maktoum, the ruler of Dubai, and MV Magnier, spearheading the Coolmore Stud from Ireland.

With the recent passing of Johnny ‘The Fish’ Ferrand and Graham ‘Brad’ Bradley, racing lost two of its most loved and colourful characters. I was in business with both of them – one more successfully than the other. I remember one time when Johnny the Fish and I thought the chef of our pub, the Pheasant Inn, was in the small, grotty kitchen. But when we walked in, there was no sign of him. Then we looked behind the serving counter and saw him sitting on the floor, injecting heroin into his arm. The Fish’s eyes got bigger and more watery than normal, he puffed his cheeks out and dryly observed: ‘Well that’s a bit strong… before lunch.’ At St Michael and All Angels church in Lambourn last week, trainer Nicky Henderson regaled us with tales of the Fish.

Yay! It’s Glorious Goodwood next week. Which reminds me that the Richmond family were breeding and racing horses when George I was still struggling with his English. They founded Goodwood races in the early 19th century. I, on the other hand, am directly descended from one of the many illegitimate sons of George II, so it’s quite fitting that I became a carefree stable lad immediately after leaving ‘school’, while Charles Gordon-Lennox, 11th Duke of Richmond and Gordon, had to take his responsibilities rather more seriously when he left eight years before me. Charles Richmond is now one of the most intriguing figures in British racing, the rarest of modern creatures, a man with enthusiasm and entrepreneurship coursing through his veins.

In 1949, the 18th Earl of Derby revived the tradition of the Derby Club dinner in London, three days before the race. His guests of honour were the Prince of Wales and Winston Churchill. No one can remember which of them spoke, so they can’t have been very interesting. Encouraged by this, I foolishly accepted the invitation from the 19th Earl to address the dinner last week. I say foolishly because the Derby Club has a reputation for being a rough crowd. Its members even pelted the great Martin Bayfield with bread rolls when he cracked a few rugby jokes in 2008. One tie-less guest, who for some reason had come in his slippers, was drinking beer from a bottle I’m delighted to say that times have changed.

I broke into a skip last week as I walked up the steps of Carlton House Terrace towards the Turf Club, under the watchful eye of Frederick, Duke of York, up on his plinth. I have a habit of skipping and scrunching up my nose with my knuckles when I’m very happy; apparently, it’s quite an alarming sight for people walking towards me. But I was just bursting with bonhomie, and my feet were full of it. My day had got off to a good start at Oxford railway station. A bloke who wasn’t, shall we say, dressed for lunch at the Turf, dropped his ticket as he walked along the platform. And everyone, except one woman and I, looked the other way. I nodded to her as if to say ‘I’ve got this’, and went in pursuit with the errant ticket.

You meet an eclectic bunch of people in the horse-racing business. Yet it was at prep school 55 years ago that I first met Simon Marsh, who is the guiding light at Andrew and Madeleine Lloyd Webber’s Watership Down stud near Newbury. ‘Bog’, as we knew him, didn’t reappear after the summer holidays and word got to us that a garage door had fallen on his head. We were told to clear his locker. RIP Bog Marsh, we thought. Many years later, someone called ‘Pie’ Marsh arrived in Lambourn. He looked and sounded like Bog and had a slight dent in his head, but apart from that he was very chipper. It turned out that Bog had skulked off to Harrow where he’d scooped up two F-grades in his A-levels. There must have been difficulties with the third subject.

Trainer John Gosden is a colossus in Newmarket, the centre of the horse-racing industry. Two-and-a-half-thousand horses are trained here and the most sought-after bloodstock is also bred in the surrounding studs, then traded in the sales ring at Tattersalls. Forty-seven years ago, Gosden left Vincent O’Brien’s yard in Tipperary, Ireland, to set up in California – with just three horses. Since that pioneering venture, he has conquered the racing world and is now considered to be ‘The Godfather’ of flat racing in this country. So my heart should have been dancing at the prospect of shooting the breeze with him last week at his Clarehaven stables on a gloriously sunny afternoon, and looking at his three-year-olds, who have taken all before them this season.

Flipping heck! Thank goodness the Cheltenham Festival only happens once a year. There’s only so much chaos and controversy my liver can take. But oh boy, did the 230,000 racegoers who turned up have some good craic. Although Willie Mullins swept the board in the big races, nine UK-based trainers got on the score sheet, winning 13 races, just two short of the Irish. A big improvement on recent years. If Thursday night’s post-racing horse sale at Cheltenham is anything to go by, however, the dominance of Irish trainers in the big races is set to continue. The star of the sale this year was a stallion called Goliath Du Berlais, who stands at Normandy-based stud Haras D’Etreham. Three of his sons sold for £400,000 and the fourth made £530,000.

What better way to limber up for the Cheltenham festival than lunch with Richard Phillips? Thirty years ago, Richard was heralded as the next big thing. From his yard in Adlestrop, he trained his first Cheltenham winner, La Landiere, in the Cathcart Chase in 2003. He also won big races with Noble Lord, Time Won’t Wait and Gnome’s Tycoon. But fate had other ideas for him. Richard, a brilliant speaker and raconteur (think Ben Pauling crossed with Rory Bremner), was beset with problems. Tricky owners and repeated bouts of viral infections in a yard drags you down, as I know all too well. Still, his loss is our gain. The racing world now has a wonderfully rounded observer, and he is my all-time favourite to shoot the breeze with over lunch.

You can always judge a country by the reception you get at passport control. America is aggressive. Don’t even think of answering ‘certainly not’ when asked if you packed your own suitcase. But when I arrived in Saudi Arabia last week, I was greeted by the most friendly, charming man, even though he was an Arsenal fan. He must have had a busy week with the Prince of Wales’s entourage arriving the day before. Which football teams do equerries and royal reporters support? Probably not Millwall. The future of horse racing, a sport conceived in the UK, is now in the Middle East I was of course here in Riyadh for the Saudi Cup – the richest horse race in the world, with £15 million up for grabs.