Does the arrival of the Grand National signify winter coming to a reluctant end, or is it one of the first harbingers of spring? Let me declare an interest. I have not the remotest interest in dobbins, and I share with Sherlock Holmes the problem of failing to be astonished by the simple truth that one horse can run faster than another. You could offer me a day at the Derby in a corporate box,and I'd take advantage of the race itself to slip a couple of bottles of Bollinger down my trousers while the ret were watching the donkeys.
But the GN has always pulled me toward it. Something about the enormity of the spectacle, the real danger,the sheer physical achievement of the beasts leaping those mighty fences. I remembe back to 1967 when I sat enthralled as the whole bloody bunch crashed on the smallest fence of the lot, whereupon the only lame nag too slow to have got involved in the melee romped home to bring a few lucky £1 punters an unexpected windfall.
Thanks to the wonder of Utube's memories on demand, I was able to replay this race to Dan & Emma, and was amazed that they were as excited by it as I had been then.
Like Columbo, the race has waxed and waned in my consciousness through the years, but last year my attention was caught by the participation of a Neddy called Simon, and this year he is back again, prompting Emma to join in my anticipation.
It's a similar scenario to boat race day, but on a larger scale, with he beeb devoting most of the day to it. Again we are taken into an alien world of dung filled stable yards, a surfeit of impossibly small people who still refer to their bossess "Mr Edward" or "Mr Charles", whilst they in turn refer to their paid hands as "Jack" and "Jim"
The owners are all very country, with the exception of the odd business guru or multi millionaire footballer who has barged into the party, wedge in hand. Clearly it is the name of the game that human forelocks are still touched, albeit with more subtlety than in yesteryear.
And talking of forelocks, we are loaned, as with the boat race, a new vocabulary to use for the day, and we are even allowed to keep it for later when we discuss the day's events at the pub, and try to present ourselves,for this day at least, as knowledgeable racing folk. So we through terms such as tack, fetlocks, mucking out, shortening the reign amongst miriad others now forgotten.
We move back and forth form stables to the track, where another vocab, that of bookie and punter is reintroduced to us, again after a year's absence.
The horses are also ascribed faintly absurd human traits. Staright faced owners or trainers tell us that "he absolutely adores Aintree!" or "Criminal Record's small, but so full of guts, he never gives up!" This of course is nothing to do with the fact that the midget on his back has a whip in his hand which he will use with some alacrity if CR shows any sings of wishing to give up, but there we go.
As we get closer to kick off we mingle with the little people, who appear this year to be entirely from across the Irish sea. An english accent is not heard the whole day through. I really have no idea why this should be so, unless there is major unemployment in the leprechaun community of theme park Ireland.
Minor races take place during the afternoon, evoking not a sprig of interest in me, but at about half three the bog build up begins. The little people jump up on their enormous mounts, the wander round in circle, and gradually assemble for the start.
The start itself almost seems to happen by accient (Apparently the starter is quite a big honcho in the racing business), but all of a sudden they are charging towards the first fence. I listen out anxiously for mention of Simon, and see them all clear the first fence. Now let's be honest, this wouldn't be half the fun if lots of the jockeys didn't fall off, and their horses go tumbling with them. In the back of my mind is the thought that maybe once before I shuffle off this mortal coil, I may witness something akin to the carnage of '67. The horses and jockey start to tumble as from fence number two. As I non racing bod, it's always good to see the horses without riders leading the pack, and I note that once there's no one on their back, all their human characteristics go with him. The minute the midget has parted company, they are no longer the plucky little fighter we'd been told about. In fact they loose their identity entirely,and become merely "loose horses".
Round and round they go,the field steadily diminishing. The jockeys fall and curl into balls as they await the oncoming thunder of hooves. In the background those who have survived this stride forlornly yet purposefully between the fences.
Simon, sorry "little Simon" briefly appears in fourth place, but just as quickly dissapears back into the chasing herd. The commentators change hands due to the vastness of the course (still with an obligatory Irish member, but none as manic or strident as Michael O'Hare of 67 and for many years thereafter) The big fences approach. Beechers, The Chair, Valentine's the Canal Turn. I suspect many of these have been sanitised in recent years and hold less fear, but that's the way of the world.
They've been round once, and start all over again, sometimes crashing through the fences now partly dismantled by their first passage. Still the loose horses disfigure the procession, but none lack the organisation to stay up front for long.
Simon meets his doom at fence 25, same as last year, and the rest jump the last and head for the end. It's quite an exciting race, and a gera horse is in with a chance. I transfer my allegiance to him, and enjoy the excitement of the finish.
They follow the horse back to the unsaddling enclosure, grabbing a few words with the jockey on the way. Two things are missing this year. Often there are clouds of steam rising from the nags, but the sunny weather prevents this today. Also absent is the plod in ceremonial uniform. It appears the health and safety commissars have deemed that their horses provide an unacceptable risk in the paddock, and so that tradition has been dumped.
That'll do for me, I've had enough of the gee gees for another year, though wen Emsy comes home we re watch the race as she has missed it. She roots for "Tumbling Dice" who scarcely gets a mention. It transpire he fell, annanounced at the fourth fence.
We go out to the Bell in the evening.Not only is it a nice pub, but they also do Thai food, which it transpires is delicious. One to revisit for sure.
And then to bed!
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