National Hunt racing or “the Jumps” begins in earnest this month.
And since I moved to the Cotswolds, it has been my notional hobby. It is not that I know one end of a donkey from the other but if, as I do, you live within riding distance of Cheltenham then like the 20th century racing tipster Prince Monolulu who was notable for his cry “I gotta horse”, you have “gotta horse” or at least must follow a local nag if you want to be socially acceptable.
Cheltenham is the spiritual home of National Hunt Racing although nowadays (pre-Covid) it is as much a party as it is a race meeting. It is a winter Ascot where betting on horseflesh is less important than drinking and people watching. And that is my main pastime. However this year, thanks to Covid I will neither be able to party nor to play Tatler.
Cheltenham is the spiritual home of National Hunt Racing although nowadays (pre-Covid) it is as much a party as it is a race meeting.
In my days on the London Evening Standard my Features Editor Sarah Sands, later to be the editor of Radio 4’s Today programme, and I would once a month flick through the latest issue of The Tatler. We would turn to the Bystander society pages and bet a large drink on who knew the most people. One point was scored if you knew somebody well enough to say “hello”, two points were gained if you had had some sort of meal with them and three were netted if you had kissed them. Titles and Royals got extra points. She won the game every time.
Since then, it is a game I have played regularly at Cheltenham races. Last year, for example, my partner Rowena “Roly” Luard and I were guests of trainer Hughie Morrison and his wife Mary. As soon as we arrived Hughie put a jolly arm around the shoulders of former jockey John Francome to grab two points. Then Roly asked rhetorically how many points for TV’s Carole Vorderman before beetling over to the celebrity to say “hello” (only the one point). There was also some heavy scoring by Mary on an obscure Earl.
It is a winter Ascot where betting on horseflesh is less important than drinking and people watching.
I was trailing dismally. And then, blow me down, jockey Tom Scudamore stopped outside the Turf Club and greeted me like a lost spaniel. I had met Scudamore a couple of years earlier when we were both guests in a tumbledown villa in South West France. We had been drinking into the small hours and I had ended up playing air guitar with him to Deep Purple’s Smoke on the Water. I was so chuffed by his greeting that I backed him in every race – even though he told me not to. By the end of the day I was, for the first time in two decades, richer than when I arrived. I lost the Tatler game by some margin but I am at least now something of a Prince Monolulu.
Adam Edwards writes for Daily Telegraph, Daily Express, FT, Cotswold Life, The Field and others.
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