LEOPARDSTOWN AND IRISH RACING SHOULD BE VERY PROUD
Yesterday wasn’t all bad, and we not only showed a profit but, in every race’s shortlisted summary, we managed to mention every winner and, in a couple, the second as well. It’s just a question of my being a bit bolder. Still and all, that’s three Saturdays in profit so far this year.
As I write, more rain has fallen, and the 2:30 pm Friday inspection became the 8:00 am Saturday Look-See. That, in turn, became the Sunday 8:00 am Maybe-Maybe.
Whatever the outcome of that inspection, we should all be in awe of the crew at Leopardstown! They have pulled off a remarkable recovery of the ground, given that they have had over 190mm of rain in just 12 days. Two days ago, the back straight looked like a salmon river in full spate, and there was standing water everywhere. On Thursday, officials declared that all was well and that racing would proceed, after what they called “a Trojan effort” by CotC Paddy Graffin and his ground crew. Ok, More rain has fallen, but they have pumped, swabbed, drained, brushed, and done all they can.
The Course and HRI have also played a blinder with the fans. In essence, Saturday’s tickets get a full refund, and if you want to come on Monday (St Brigid’s Day is an Irish bank holiday after all, so why wouldn’t you?), it’s half price! To achieve that, they moved Punchestown’s Monday card to Wednesday.
I can only imagine that HRI have never read the BHA’s guide to running racing!
For tens of thousands of Irish racing fans, all will be well, because they will still be able to keep the entire European economy going for another hour or so, because, trust me, the two-day craic will be ferocious.
An Irish Festival raceday crowd is a spectacle, a vibrant tapestry of society where the gentry and the ditch-digger stand shoulder to shoulder, united by the driving rain, the flying mud, and the shared, fervent belief in a dark horse. Of course, you might think that of Cheltenham or indeed Plumpton - but in Ireland it is somehow manifestly obvious.
I once stood next to a man in Punchestown, who I took to be an elderly stable lad who had fallen on hard times. We discussed the racing, the weather, the bars on course, the pubs in Naas, Dermot’s daughter, who was doing terribly well, and good veterinary practice when it came to greyhounds’ doing a toe or getting flinted. All of these subjects merely required me to agree, nod sagely, make the appropriate noises of admiration, disgust or forlorn hope and generally be pleasant. It was no hardship because he was a nice old cove. He then asked me to join him for a drink in his Club’s room on the course - The Kildare Street. I cannot recall his name, because I was, at the time, terribly, terribly drunk, but his membership of the Kildare Street suggested he was no stable lad and less likely to be in dire straights.
Inevitably, there are whispers of “inside information” that travel like wildfire, from one enclosure to another, bar by bar, through Tote girls and Travelling lads, and yes, members of the Kildare Street, a communal plot against the bookies, each tip shared with a wink and a conspiratorial grin. Tips exchanged, bets on, the spectators aren’t passive observers; they’re the last horse loaded in every Flat race and the horse that always whips round as the bungee is released. They shout from the off; urgent, often contradictory, advice to jockeys battling through the mire. The advice and the encouragement, and the dismay rise with each step nearer the post, even when you know you’re cooked when there are only three places being paid and that brute has been done for toe and come fourth, and you still shout - and often because in a split-second, your angst about your loser, has turned to joy and admiration at seeing the winner hose-in under a gutsy driving ride.
Losing a bet with grace and elan, however, is only a preamble to a grander, longer tale of “what might have been” recounted later over a pint or seven, while victory transforms even the humblest punter into a temporary legend. It is always a day where the unpredictable charm of the Irish spirit gallops unfettered through the crowd, lightly brushing each participant, even the curmudgeon who hadn’t listened to the priest who named the winner at Mass last Sunday. This isn’t a sporting event; this is a theatrical, muddy, joyous celebration of life.
Put it on your bucket list; a promise if you will… Two days at an Irish Racing Festival, try to do three. (Do not attempt four if you are untrained for excess, or, like the grown-up I have sadly become, unwilling to die trying.)
Talking of attempting four days of profit , here are the tips for Day 1 of the DRF and all the televised racing from Musselburgh.
