Robin Oakley

At the degenerative stage of a dinner party recently I heard related with perfect timing the tale of the gent who saw a sign in the window of his local newsagent/tobacconist/sweet shop offering ‘Condoms personally fitted’. Finding a pretty blonde behind the counter when he entered, he inquired, ‘Do you really have the service you are advertising in your window?’ ‘Oh, yes, sir.’ ‘And who does the fitting?’ ‘I do, sir.’ ‘Well, in that case, young lady, would you mind washing your hands, because all I want is half a pound of liquorice allsorts.

Trainers used to come into racing with Aunt Agatha’s legacy after a short service commission, having probably worn a trilby in their playpens. These days some come by different routes. To describe Dean Ivory as a small trainer, as the media do, is technically accurate but missing the point. Drive along a lane in leafy Hertfordshire, past care homes, stockbroker villas and driving ranges, and you come across an imposing set of electronically operated gates next door to a bustling premises embracing self-drive hire, recycling and road haulage. The commercial yard, run with brother Christopher Ivory, is a thriving business.

Cape Peron was my easiest choice for our Twelve to Follow. When Henry Candy smiles his gentle smile, as he did after Cape Peron won the Park Hill Hospital Handicap at Newbury in early May, and tells you ‘this one could be pretty good’, you take notice. Cape Peron has run twice since and hasn’t won yet, but he will. Both at Royal Ascot and Goodwood, the ground was too firm for him, yet at Goodwood only a brilliant tactical ride by the champion jockey Richard Hughes on the Richard Hannon-trained Wentworth denied Cape Peron victory in the Betfred Mile. Entering the straight, Dane O’Neill was well positioned, ready to pull out Cape Peron and make his effort.

Driving to Newmarket through a biblical-style deluge that had sheep, cattle and horses queuing in twos in case Noah had to get busy, I feared for my day’s sport last Saturday. But it takes more than rain to stop the British enjoying themselves and there they all were: the fashion train-wreck hen parties in garish satin and flimsy chiffon, the likely lads in hair gel and shiny grey suits, the county set in panamas and brogues. At the flower-filled July course you get up close and personal with the horses and their handlers in the parade ring or the winners enclosure; there is a sense of involvement that simply isn’t possible on some other tracks, and after a season seemingly dominated by drug scandals and warnings-off the sheer buzz of enjoyment was hugely reassuring.

As part of the after-dinner entertainment on a cruise ship recently, I encountered a couple of comedians. One claimed he had recently shared a booking with a topless ventriloquist. I bet nobody saw her lips move. What was noticeable in both acts, given the seaborne clientele, was the concentration on jokes about ageing, like the chap whose wife, after five gins, undresses back in the cabin, looks in the mirror and bursts into tears, lamenting that she’s got a double chin, her boobs have dropped and everything is sagging: ‘Say something, Henry, to cheer me up.’ ‘Well there’s nothing wrong with your eyesight, love.

A fresh new breeze is wafting through British racing. Led by the enthusiastic Sheikh Fahad Al Thani, the Qatar ruling family is investing heavily in buying British bloodstock and, through their Qipco holdings, sponsoring the richest day’s racing in Britain. At first British racegoers accepted the newcomers with a polite smile, seeing them as another bunch of mineral-resources-rich foreigners who would enjoy a few nice days out at Newmarket and Goodwood and then pass on to a new fancy such as founding theme parks or financing movies. But that is not how it is: the Qataris love their racing and are spending cleverly — a key example being the racing yard at Robins Farm near Chiddingfold to which Sheikh Fahad recruited Oliver and Hetta Stevens.

Clive Cox, once a conditional jockey in Lambourn, fell at the first fence one year in the Grand National. ‘Mind you,’ he told the owners, ‘we were going well at the time.’ It helps in handling horses to have a sense of humour and there is nothing conditional now about Clive Cox’s presence at the trainers’ top table. Once again a man who struggled to make it pay as a rider is proving that he knows how to bring the best out in horses as a trainer, and it was a significant moment when Cox’s Lethal Force went to Newmarket last weekend and in the hands of Adam Kirby scored a one-and-a-half-length success in the Group One July Cup.

Ginger Rogers, clever girl, did everything that Fred Astaire did — but she did it backwards. I am looking backwards in this Turf column and doing so without apologies because it was such a wonderful Ascot. The sheer delight on the Queen’s face when Estimate made her the first reigning monarch to have a winner of the Gold Cup would have made the meeting on its own. But emotions were high, too, when we had two winners from the late Sir Henry Cecil’s yard, now presided over by Lady Cecil, although triumph became tragedy when one of them,  Thomas Chippendale, collapsed and died after the finishing post.

For a moment it seemed incongruous reading obituaries in the same week of Sir Henry Cecil and of Esther Williams, the Hollywood star whom most of us only ever remember seeing in a swimsuit amid whirling patterns of leggy lovelies in water ballets. Then I recalled her comment that the only thing Hollywood’s moguls ever changed in her series of films were her leading men and the water in the pool and I realised there was something of a parallel. Esther Williams did her thing so exquisitely that all people ever wanted to see was a repeat. Those whom she did it with became irrelevant, and there was something of that about the master trainer too. He did his thing superbly and he did it in a highly personal style that nobody else will ever be able to match.

After Ruler Of The World had won the 234th Derby, the owners, the Coolmore team, were asked if it hadn’t been something of a hostage to fortune giving the horse such a name. Drily John Magnier replied, ‘Not really. There have been plenty of bad American presidents.’ Given the struggle between the two top racing empires of Coolmore and Sheikh Mohammed’s Godolphin, it did however look like a case of ‘anything you can do…’ Back in 1998 Sheikh Mohammed was so impressed with the two-year-old Yaazer that he renamed the horse Dubai Millennium and in 2000 Dubai Millennium duly won the World Cup for Godolphin. Now Ruler Of The World has won the race everybody wants to win.

Working partnerships don’t always bring the results expected. I heard lately of a 12-year-old girl encouraged to spend a day on work experience with a relative in the building trade. After a day sorting correspondence, tidying files and making cups of tea on demand, young Emily returned home with a crisp ten pound note. Her proud mother took her down to the building society to open a savings account. ‘Well done,’ said the lady on the till. ‘And will you be working again next week?’ ‘Oh, that all depends,’ said the child, ‘on whether the sodding bricks turn up.’ This column was to have been devoted to our Twelve to Follow. But selections must wait.

In last week's Spectator, our man in the know Robin Oakley let us in on the secrets of who he's backing in the Grand National, and his view on the 'jump reforms'. With Irish trainer Willie Mullins having blitzed the Cheltenham Festival with no fewer than five winners, I am hoping that his luck continues. I backed his Prince de Beauchene for last year’s National and didn’t get a run after he was injured. I have backed him again for this year’s contest but with Willie’s other runner, On His Own, now the favourite for the race you can still get the 12–1 I got two months ago.

Nothing hurts quite so much as the ones that get away. Unable to be at Cheltenham’s Festival the day the improving Holywell, one of this column’s Twelve to Follow, was running in the Pertemps Final, I had assumed I would be able to phone in my bets. Alas, where I was I had no access to a laptop and my phone went dead. Holywell, partnered as usual by the admirable Richie McLernon, ran a blinder to win ahead of Captain Sunshine and Jetson. The good news for those Spectator readers who have stuck with this winter’s selections was that his victory was secured at the heart-warming price of 25–1.