HOBBY HORSE

🎧 AUDIO QUACK 🎧

Skip Introduction | 1:40

Cheltenham Festival is one of the most famous horse racing events in the world. Around 200,000 people attend over the four days. 28 jump races take place, and 5 tons of cheese is consumed. If you’re into horse racing, like my Dad is, it’s an unmissable event.

“Are you going to Cheltenham?” Dad asked me. We were having lunch with my brother, Jack.

“Nope,” I said.

“Why not?” He frowned. “Jack is going.”

Jack smiled proudly across the table, like he had just scored points for his Hogwarts House. 5 points to Hufflepuff. And then Jack added, smugly. “I’m going for two days!”

Dad nodded in my direction, as if to say, see, look at your brother.

I shrugged. “It’s not my thing.”

I have a vague childhood memory of standing by the white fence at Newbury, feeling the drumming of hooves in my tummy.

“Here they come!” Dad said. The crowd roared, and then a stampede of shimmering horses thundered past us.

This could have been the moment when I discovered my love for horses, started riding, and then became an Olympic gold medallist in show jumping. I’d hold up my medal and give an emotional speech about the first time my dad took me to the races.

But this did not happen. Instead, I covered my ears as the horses charged past. I looked up at my dad with my palms stuck to the side of my head. His fists were in the air. “Come on 5! Come on 5! Come on 5!”

After that, horse racing was added to the list of ‘Things Mary Was Shown as A Kid, But Did Not Like’. Also on the list was: Football, Ballet, Hot Wheels, Fishing, Piano, Maths, and the clay head from Art Attack.

I was outnumbered though, because the rest of my family loved horse racing. And so, we became that family who ‘went to the races’. I suppose it could have been worse. We could have been that family ‘who went sailing. Or worse, skiing.

It became a tradition to get stuffed into a car and go to Kempton Park on Boxing Day. We would cure our Christmas hangovers with a four-course meal, eight hours of wine, and betting. My brothers would listen to Dad’s advice about odds, rankings, trainers and what not, but I was more swayed by the jockey’s outfit. If the jacket had a bright pink star, then that’s where my fiver will go. Needless to say, I was’t much of a winner.

I understand why people love the races. It’s thrilling when your horse creeps up behind and charges toward the finish line. You think of all the money that could be coming your way. I could buy a rosemary scented candle! A beige roll neck! Three Gail’s Mixed Olive Sourdough Bagettte Sticks!

But my excitement could never compare to that of my dad’s. He displayed almost (but not quite) the same hyper exhilaration as when a Tottenham striker is running toward the goal.

I’ve previously Quacked about how a man’s simple hobby can get out of hand. One minute they are taking a photo of a sunset on their phone, the next, a drone is hovering in the back garden. “A bird’s eye view of our home, Steven. How artistic.”

Dad’s horse racing hobby was the same. It started with a tweed blazer, and then one day he came home and announced he bought part of a racehorse. I imagined a pack of men in pink shirts, surrounding an anxious horse, as they pointed to the parts they wanted. “Bill, you have the head. I’ll have the back. Jon, you get the legs.”

Naming a racehorse is not like naming a pet. There are strict rules to prevent anyone calling their steed something crude, like Wide Legs. According to Horse and Hound, these are some names rejected by the…. err…. The Horse Board?

Ben Dover, Biggus Diccus, Penny Tration, Ophelia Balls, Ho Lee Fook, E Rex Sean and Sofa King Fast.

Dad’s horse was innocently named Good Effect, which sounded like something you would read on the side of a paint pot.

Good Effect wasn’t welcomed into the family like our West Highland Terrier, Duncan. She lived far away in a stable somewhere, and the only thing we heard about her was her jumping progression. When Dad did see her on race days, he would have to dose himself with antihistamine… as he was severely allergic to horsehair.

It turns out that owners don’t tend to get emotionally attached to their racehorses. Good Effect was soon gone. (Hopefully she was taken to a field to mince in for the rest of her days, and was not turned into mince).

Her replacement was, Laudatory.

There were high hopes for the new horse. It was announced that the renowned jockey, AP McCoy would ride her at Taunton. Dad was buzzing, and told absolutely everyone to tune in to watch the champion jockey ride his horse. And so, absolutely everyone did. And absolutely everyone saw McCoy fall off and have his chest kicked in, breaking his ribs. The Guardian wrote about it here.

Laudatory was soon replaced by another paint-pot named horse, Rare Edition. And then another, and another. It was last year that I realised Dad’s hobby had gotten out of hand, when he bought a horse in the Ascot racecourse carpark after a nine-hour drinking session.

I bought a horse in a car park last night! He texted.

I was going to text something resposible back.

“…Do you think that was a good idea? ”

But then decided, like the rest of horse racing, to stay way out of it.

And so I write this Quack, quiet in my flat, far away from the tweedy-cheesy munching Cheltenham. Dad has sent me a photo of him standing on a balcony with his buddy Lawson – happy as a horse.