Sunrise Tuesday morning – Cotswolds 11 years ago

Traditionally I have been in Cheltenham this week, enjoying three and then four days of fun, losing a bit on the horses and gaining a bit on the waistline as the Guinness flows.

Today will see me in a round table discussion at Cushon when the famous roar goes up for the Supreme Novices Hurdle. I will not be at Cheltenham , nor will Constitution Hill, nor will a lot of other regulars I know , tired of the relentless hype and the diminishing “fun to pounds spent” ratio.

Getting down there, staying down there and getting into Prestbury Park are now at such a premium to normal race-days, that you expect it to be justified by something more than you get. What you get is a lot of Irish race-horses , you’ve never heard of, winning all the races and a very large hangover for the joy of singing “Sweet Caroline” in the Guinness Village. Sorry, but it just doesn’t do it for me like it did.

In the day, the Pension PlayPen would get down to Cheltenham on a bus , or stay in a local house and we did a lot of singing from song-books that emanated from the Gracey Ritchie NAPF parties. The Jock would play the bread- head game, Dick would play the piano and we’d all find our way to the Arkle Bar – whether we had club tickets or not. We once bought 60 Tattersalls tickets for £900. Today it’s £85 a head and Fosters (now Best Mate) is £67.

All season , we’ve had small fields dominated by a few elite trainers. The rain has made most days heavy going , the crowds at weekends and on week days are down. National Hunt racing in this country is living in the shadow of its Irish neighbour. Even in Ireland, the predominance of a handful of super-trainers makes a victory for anyone else a rare cause for celebration.

We have had a few  fine days where the Good Guy won!

Our horse the Good Guy schooling over fences at Kim Bailey’s gallops

Those days are gone

I love the memories, but frankly I don’t see them returning. That crew is a lot older and Cheltenham is a different place where people bifurcate between the cabbage patch called Fosters and the  corporate boxes that stretch further down the hill each year. Cheltenham is just too much up its own arse for the Pension PlayPen.

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