Robin Oakley

It was Frank Johnson who as The Spectator’s editor asked me to mix my then day job as the BBC’s political editor with writing this column. For someone starstruck by racing as a 12-year-old, bicycle propped against the old Hurst Park racecourse wall to watch the jousting jockeys in their myriad colours flash by, the opportunity was irresistible. It felt like a pass into a magic world: mingling in the winners’ enclosure with the titans of the sport, arriving at bustling stable-yards in the early hours amid the swish of brooms and clatter of buckets, relishing frosty mornings on downland turf as strings of skittish two-year-olds learned their trade.

Back in the days when politicians were real flesh and blood rather than social media pushovers, I sat down with the then-chancellor Kenneth Clarke for a BBC interview. ‘Live or pre-record, Robin?’ he asked as we were mic’d up. I have long relished his reply when I confirmed it was the latter: ‘Pity. I always prefer the lives. It’s that extra frisson you get from feeling that, in a mere half-sentence, you can destroy your entire career.’ Many of us like to add a little risk to our lives – if you include playing the National Lottery some 22 million people in Britain have a gamble in the average month – and betting on horseracing has always added a hefty frisson to my pleasures. It helps to make racing the most companionable sport there is: ‘How did yours do in the last?

To be a great jockey takes character as well as ability and Geoff Lewis, whom we have lost at 89, had that in spades. As the sixth of a Welsh labourer’s 13 children, he put in a 5.30 a.m. milk round before he went to school. When the family moved to London, and before he started on five shillings a week as an apprentice to Ron Smyth in Epsom, he was a diminutive pageboy at the Waldorf hotel, a role that wasn’t aided by his severe stutter. ‘It was sometimes so bad,’ he once said, ‘that if I paged somebody they’d probably left before I could get the name out.

It has been quite some year for jockey-churning, the latest example being the mid-season decision by owner-breeder Imad Al Sagar to drop Hollie Doyle as his retained rider. ‘A change of strategy,’ said racing manager Teddy Grimthorpe after Hollie’s 38 winners for the partnership including three Group 1s on Nashwa. It was nevertheless an eyebrow-raiser since the chosen replacement for Hollie, the rider of more than 1,000 winners including the first Classic success for a woman, is champion jockey Oisin Murphy. Oisin of course is one of the best riders in the world, as good at his post-race reporting and analysis as he is in the saddle, but his availability is the question. He already has retainers with Qatar Racing and Prince Faisal which will take priority.

With DJs and MCs inviting the crowd to dance on the parade-ring steps as if they were on a beach in Ibiza, and hectoring them into shouting ‘Yay’ or ‘Neigh’ to racing quiz answers, Ascot was a different place last Saturday – Dubai Duty Free Shergar Cup day. Grimacing traditionalists would have been stamping on their Panamas. But the traditionalists don’t come. Shergar Cup day, a series of team races between groups of three jockeys representing Europe, Asia, Great Britain and Ireland and the Rest of the World, is aimed at a different crowd and it simply doesn’t matter that it’s as artificial as a plastic Gruffalo. It’s an informal bouncy event which attracts a younger, less racing-fixated audience.

The only political party with a serious chance of winning office I will ever vote for again is the one which acknowledges that in all probability and at least for a while it will increase taxes. Every party piles up promises that they will be the ones to get Britain working again. But building power stations, reservoirs and schools costs money. So does hiring doctors and nurses, filling potholes and getting trains to run on time. Some claim they will finance their plans by creating growth, some by taxing the rich. Then voters discover that the growth fairy remains elusive and the rich have been re-defined to include them: public regard for politicians takes another dive.

I have always enjoyed Royal Windsor Racecourse, as it styles itself. It may not have quite so many dignitaries popping in from the castle up the road as Royal Ascot does, but it has long been famed for its friendliness and approachability. Jockeys moving from the weighing room to join their mounts under the parade ring trees pick their way between picnics and the Pimm’s and Caribbean cocktail outlets, readily pausing for autographs. In times long past, a former clerk of the course once responded to jockeys complaining about the cold autumn changing room by bringing in a bottle of whisky from the Stewards’ Room.

An inquest into the Derby in the Oakley household was to be expected. Mrs Oakley, who bets about as often as you will hear Liz Truss say ‘I’m sorry: I got it wrong’, called me at Epsom this year asking for a fiver each way on Lambourn. Since the ten-time Derby winning trainer Aidan O’Brien had two more favoured candidates in Dela-croix and The Lion In Winter, I persuaded her to think otherwise and had some explaining to do after his Lambourn came home a comfortable 13-2 winner in the hands of the veteran jockey Wayne Lordan. What has also surprised me is the downbeat tone of reactions elsewhere to this year’s Derby, with commentators bemoaning an overall lack of excitement and pizzazz.

Allegedly the most effective rain dance in the world is that performed by Native American Hopi Indians. The biennial 16-day rite conducted by the Snake and Antelope fraternities involves participants jiving around a column of rock in feathered dress carrying snakes in their hands and mouths. As our dry spring moves into what could be an even drier summer, the local shops in Newmarket, Lambourn and Middleham might be wise to stock up on feathers and plastic reptiles. Fortunately, before Sandown’s key evening meeting last Thursday there had been just enough precipitation to take the sting out of the ground and embolden trainer Ed Walker to run his talented Almaqam, an entry in the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe, in the feature event, the Group 3 Brigadier Gerard Stakes.

Nearly always a thriller, Newbury’s Lockinge Stakes, instituted in 1958 and a Group 1 race since 1995, is an ever-welcome signpost to the Flat season. The Guineas Classics have started the three-year-old stories; the Lockinge shows us which older horses will be battling for supremacy over a mile. For four-year-olds and upwards, it has been won by great horses like Brigadier Gerard, and I will never forget Frankel scorching away from his field to win by five lengths in 2012. This year’s running promised a special quality, perhaps the best for decades, with a jockeys merry-go-round adding to the intrigue. Notable Speech had won last year’s 2000 Guineas and Sussex Stakes, Rosallion the Irish equivalent along with the St James’s Palace Stakes at Ascot.

With racing there is always a little history involved. One of the few top races John Gosden has never won as a trainer is the one-mile 2,000 Guineas, and many of us hoped that after a scintillating performance in the Craven Stakes his Field of Gold was going to fill the most significant hole in his trophy cabinet. That eye-catching run had ensured that, like his Gosden-trained sire Kingman, Field of Gold started favourite. Sadly, just like his sire, he finished half a length second in the Guineas last Saturday, narrowly failing to catch the Charlie Appleby-trained winner Ruling Court. Gosden doesn’t do sour grapes and few would contest his post-race comment: ‘The winner has kicked and gone and we ran out of racetrack. Given another 25 yards, it would have been ours.

Through 30 years of living within walking distance of the Derby course I was ever hopeful of seeing Epsom’s status revived to the 600 horsepower training centre it once was with the likes of Walter Nightingall turning out winners for Winston Churchill. There have been brief dawns as when Laura Mongan won the St Leger with Harbour Law in 2016, or Adam West won the Nunthorpe with Live in the Dream. Hard-working and capable trainers such as Simon Dow and Jim Boyle have kept the Epsom flag flying, but too many yards were lost to housing developers as numbers dropped to only 150. Last Wednesday though I stood at the top of the seven furlong sand gallop on Epsom Downs with a man whose arrival with 46 horses to take over a historic Epsom yard could be part of a significant Epsom renaissance.

Where would racing be without Willie Mullins? Even for a man who regularly rewrites the record books, who has 17 times been Irish National Hunt Champion Trainer, has collected 113 Cheltenham Festival winners, including four Gold Cups, and who has won the Grand National twice before, his feat in training the first three in this year’s Aintree spectacular (and five of the first seven) was incredible. Only Michael Dickinson’s first five home in the Gold Cup of 1983 compares. Yet what was different about Mullins’s success in mopping up £860,000 of the £1 million of prize money on offer was the emotional intensity. The Irish maestro is maddeningly decent: invariably modest over his successes, graceful in defeat.

In racing, superstitions are rife. I once saw a trainer remonstrate with an owner for displaying a green handkerchief: green, he insisted, was unlucky (although it doesn’t seem to work that way for owners Simon Munir and Isaac Souede, whose ‘double green’ colours have been carried to success in many top races). Henrietta Knight, who trained Best Mate, is famously superstitious: straw on the way is OK, but if she sees a load of hay en route to the races she’s so sure of bad luck that she’s inclined to turn back. She couldn’t bear to watch Best Mate’s Gold Cups from the stands and hid in a tent behind the weighing room. Former jockey Sam Thomas, who’s making a name for himself as a trainer by successfully targeting big handicaps, seems to be of the Henrietta school.