In which I apologise to Clare Balding. Or, a small cautionary tale.

Yesterday, I found myself in a little Twitter storm which is so illustrative of the perils of the internet that I am going to tell you the whole story.

It does not start well. I fear that I may have hurt the feelings of one of Britain’s most beloved broadcasters. Yes, even I, always banging on about good manners and kindness, may have not lived up to the standards I set myself.

Here is how it happened.

Channel 4 were showing the racing. I tweet a lot when the racing is on, partly out of excitement, partly to deal with big race nerves, and partly because I am still unsettled with the new coverage. Because the adrenaline is running, I type fast, and sometimes press send before I have thought carefully what it is I say.

As I was making my usual complaint that we do not get to see enough of the horses themselves, particularly in the paddock, two other Twitterers joined in. They were not people I know, but they shared my sense of loss for the old Channel 4 team, and soon we were in an orgy of regret for the departure of John Francome and Alistair Down.

One of them objected, in quite personal terms, to the choice of Clare Balding as the new front-woman for the show. I said that I like her as a broadcaster, which is absolutely true, but think that she is a generalist. By this I mean that she has a wide knowledge of all different kinds of sport, and works in a range of different mediums. (On a very personal level, what I crave from Channel 4 is a tight focus on specialist racing knowledge.)

However, in context, the whole Twitter chat came across as an ad hominem objection to Balding herself. I spend days twisting myself up like a pretzel to avoid ad hominem. So I was already started to feel uncomfortable, when Balding herself entered the conversation. I work hard, she said, and try to get people interested in racing.

Oh God, I thought. This is what happens when the internet flies too fast and tempers get heated. It can be forgotten that there are real people out there, with real feelings, who are only doing their jobs. I imagine that anyone in public life gets more slings and arrows than any human deserves, now that the green ink brigade has gone viral.

I was overcome with crushing angst. I sent Balding what I hoped was a polite tweet saying that all I too wanted was for more people to be interested in racing, and emphasised that really what I was crying out for was a view of the horses in the paddock. (This is an editorial decision, and absolutely not her fault.)

And here is the amazing thing. She tweeted back at once, saying that she would mention it, and that it might be possible once they were covering fewer races. I am a complete stranger, howling and yowling out on the prairies of the internet, and yet she took the time and trouble to reply.

How is that for grace?

The problem is that she was so generous and well-mannered that my angst only grew. I was now convinced that I had behaved badly and unfairly. I could not get the thing out of my head. I woke up this morning worrying about it.

So here is my own question for the day. It is: how may one object, without being objectionable?

I love racing with an unbridled passion. I loved the old Channel 4 team, and spent so much time with them that they felt like family. It’s a slightly peculiar thing to say, but it’s true. I loved that Alistair Down could recall every single Cheltenham since he was a boy. I loved that John Francome could tell you that an ordinary horse down the handicap had run a blinder on a wet Wednesday at Wetherby. Francome in particular wore his knowledge so lightly that it was easy to overlook how profound it was.

I am still a bit raw from the sudden change, and in danger of taking it personally. Channel 4 Racing, after all, does not exist just to serve me. Not everyone is a racing geek, and perhaps not everyone does need to know what happened in a mid-week card at Wetherby.

Where Clare Balding is brilliant is in her ability to translate the language of racing for a wider audience. She knows the world inside out, having grown up in it, and she knows the people. She is also an ultimately professional and accomplished broadcaster, who can take anything that a live programme throws at her.

It’s all very well, my yelping like a scalded dog, every time the programme does something I do not like. But this small episode reminded me that there is a danger, in this rushing internet age, of developing a nasty sense of entitlement. It is too easy for me to throw my toys out of the pram, and take to Twitter to shout and scream and set my hair on fire. Perhaps it is not a very edifying thing to do. My new resolution is to think before I tweet. Because, much as I hate to admit it, it really is not all about me.

Clare Balding is far too busy to read an obscure blog like this. But just today, I really wish she were one of the Dear Readers. Because I would like to say sorry. And to thank her for reminding me of a valuable lesson in manners.
 
Today’s pictures:

Too dull and snowy today to take out the camera. So here is a random selection from the last few days:















Autumn the Filly:



Myfanwy the Pony:



Can’t resist the free-schooling pictures:





Red the Mare, living up to her name in the winter sun:





Stanley the Dog enjoying some top ball action:





The hill, from a sunnier day:

A thrilling afternoon

A bright day with a frigid wind howling in from the north-west. Red the Mare gathers her little band together under the big tree which they love the most, and makes sure that they are all facing in the right direction. Autumn moves the wrong way and gets a proper telling off. Myfanwy stands right by Red’s flank, as if saying: look at me, did my homework, top of the class.

I get very excited about the racing. The mighty Sprinter Sacre comes out and does his thing. He wins in a gentle canter, as if he is out for a little bit of schooling, leaving perfectly good horses toiling in his imperious wake.

In a thrilling finish, Nigel Twiston-Davies almost gets the old warrior, Imperial Commander, back from two years off the course to win the Argento Chase. The bonny horse goes down by half a length, fighting to the line. I shout my head off, even though my cash was on the winner.

I win some money; I lose some money. Ironically, my saving bet comes in the race which I decided I could not unravel at all. My sure things weren’t quite so sure.

I think of my dad and laugh, ironically.

Channel Four Racing gets a little better, but still won’t show me the horses in the paddock, or going down to the start. At one point, I get so frustrated that I tweet it is as if they are doing espionage. Moscow bloody Rules. I rarely get cross and rude, but I think whoever is in charge is an idiot, whose sole purpose in life is to make me sad. I’m taking it very personally.

Just as I started to write this, the last televised race came on. My betting has not been terribly successful today; my certain trebles crashed and burned. I had everything riding on The New One, and he lost by a neck. My last flickering hope was a tiny long-priced double on Cape Tribulation, who had won the Argento, and Reve De Sivola, who was up against the talented Oscar Whisky. It could resurrect my gambling fortunes. But I could not believe it would come true.

Dear Reve de Sivola travelled beautifully through the mud, stayed composed and balanced over the undulations of Cheltenham, pinged the last, and hit the front. But the ferocious Barry Geraghty and Oscar Whisky were coming at him, coming at him, relentless. I leapt on the sofa and started yelling. Stanley the Dog started jumping and barking, in the manner of The Pigeon. It was on the nod. For a moment, Oscar Whisky drew ahead. But the doughty Reve dug deep, stuck his bold neck out, and said No, you don’t. He motored past the post, the winner by a nose.

Mr William Hill, who had been counting his money, ran and hid behind the sofa.

It was a really great afternoon. It had everything. The soaring class of Sprinter Sacre, the fighting spirit of Reve de Sivola and Cape Tribulation, the almost fairy tale of brave Imperial Commander. It was overcast by a fleeting shadow, when a very nice horse of Lucinda Russell’s, Bold Sir Brian, had a crashing fall and lay winded for a while. Everyone feared the worst. When he got to his feet, shook himself, and walked away, he got the biggest cheer of the day.

I love them all, these mighty horses. I love their guts and their beauty and their talent and their unquenchable will to win. It’s my perfect afternoon, to be in their presence.

 

Today’s pictures:

The herd:

Love that last face. It’s her ornery face.

Stan the Man:

Still enjoying the snow vastly.

Almost translucent hill:

 

If you want to see the astounding creature that is Sprinter Sacre, there is a link to the Racing Post here:

http://www.racingpost.com/news/horse-racing/sublime-sprinter-sacre-cruises-to-victor-chandler-chase-win/1193283/#newsArchiveTabs=last7DaysNews

In which I mourn the passing of Channel 4 Racing.

I am prone to sudden storms of sadness. I do not mind this at all. I regard it as the price I pay for happiness. The stormier these squalls are, the quicker they pass, and the more cathartic they are, and the sooner the sun comes out again.

At 4pm today, walking back through the still Scottish gloaming from seeing my mare, I felt a piercing sorrow. At first I thought it was because I had watched rather an emotional afternoon of racing, and it had made me think of my dad.

I’m just missing my old horseman of a father, I thought. That’s the rational existential reason; and that’s fine. It happens pretty much every Saturday afternoon, after all.

Then I realised something very peculiar indeed. It was not Dad. It was the new Channel 4 Racing coverage.

This is where the ‘horse thing’ as my ironical friend in New York City calls it, gets very, very nuts indeed. But all I can do is tell you the truth, however left-field it might be.

There’s been a big fuss over the racing. The BBC let it go; Channel 4 had a marvellous opportunity to pick up the baton. All terrestrial coverage would go to them.

There had been no complaint about what they did up till now. There were odd grumbles about some of the team, jokes about vulgar old McCririck and bumbly Tommo. (Derek Thompson is known in my family as ‘Toilet Thompson’ because he once said, live on air, ‘Oh look, that horse is going to the toilet.’ But now he is gone, I realise his talents and miss him keenly.) I used to get a bit annoyed about the endless Dubai idents, or whatever they are called, and the maddening amount of advertisements, especially when the paddock analysis was just getting interesting.

But, essentially, they had a great group of presenters, who knew and loved their horses. There was the particularly brilliant commentary of Simon Holt, the wonderful double act of John Francome and Jim McGrath, the knowledgeable and unflappable figure of Mike Cattermole, the smiling enthusiasm of Alice Plunkett, and the passion and depth of Alistair Down. There were weak links round the edges, because there always must be. But the technical side was outstanding, the retellings of the big races particularly fine, and the work in the paddock thorough and good.

Most telling of all, there was absolutely no popular outcry for Highflyer, the existing production company, to be changed. Surely there could be improvements, but it was one of those real cases of not fixing it, if it ain’t broke. It was not broke.

And then, someone, at some meeting, in some infinite wisdom, decided to throw all the cards up in the air. Get in a new production outfit called IMG, sack half the presenters, hire some not obviously better new ones, and start all over again.

The twitterers and the Facebook groups and the Racing Post comment section went into uproar. I mourned the loss of Francome and Cattermole and Down in particular, but held my fire. These were seasoned television professionals, after all; surely they must know what they were doing?

The awful truth is: I’m not sure they do. It’s early doors, and let us hope that they will allow themselves the humility to admit the things that are not working and keep the things that do. But just now, it’s a mess.

The graphics are ghastly, the music over the montages is ragged rave, or dubstep, or some banging thing that a middle-aged creature like me does not even know the name of. There is barely a glimpse of the horses in the paddock. There are hardly any replays of the races. The old, intricate ‘Story of the Race’ appears to have gone. In fact, outside the live races themselves, there is oddly little about the horses on the course.

There are some good new ideas. There is a focus on the people who work behind the scenes, which is long overdue. And there are some good interviews. But apart from that, it’s a big old buggery muddle. I grieve it like an old friend.

I am perfectly certain that the people who work at IMG and Channel 4 are intelligent and polite and good-natured and well-meaning. I am sure they are kind to animals and old ladies. I do not think that they ruthlessly set out to ruin anyone’s racing pleasure. I would put money on the fact that they did not sit down one day and say, rubbing their hands with glee: ‘Let’s make a crazed racing woman in Scotland cry.’ But they did. They made me weep actual tears of regret.

‘There is,’ I wrote to my most reasonable Twitter friend, who is more optimistic than I about the whole shower, ‘the very real possibility that I may be over-reacting.’

I can’t quite work out why. I suppose it is that I love the racing so much. Literally, and metaphorically, it makes my heart beat faster.

It is also that the old Channel 4 Racing has been with me through so many triumphs and tragedies. I can still talk you through Ted Walsh’s proud commentary as he watched his son win his second Gold Cup on Kauto Star. I can take you back through Alistair Down’s Cheltenham Festival paeans of praise, and the banter between Francome and McGrath before the 2011 Sussex. I can recite almost word for word Simon Holt’s thrilled commentary as Frankel won the Juddmonte. (‘They can’t get him off the bridle.’) I can still see poor Mike Cattermole’s face as he fruitlessly chased a head-shy pack of Rothschilds around the wining enclosure after the Eclipse, desperately trying to get any member of that family to say a nice thing about the lovely Nathaniel.

Those voices live in my head; those informed, engaged people have held my hand through big race nerves, wonderful wins, and crashing disappointments. They were not broke, yet someone came along and fixed them. They were, I suddenly realise now, like a televisual family to me, and now there has been an acrimonious divorce, and all that is left is shattered memory.

The really interesting thing is that there is not a single person, on the comment boards, on the social networks, in actual life, who is saying: oh, look what they have done; isn’t it all marvellous and shining and clever and new? There is only the low sound of sad grumbling, the distant crash of expectations, and the desultory scuffing of shoes, as people desperately try to look on the bright side.

It’s just television. It’s just a sport. The new lot will sharpen up. The memories of the fine old guard will fade. But just now, I am sadder than I can say.

 

Today’s pictures:

Stanley the Dog:

The little herd:

My glorious mare, furry as you like for winter, a million miles away from her own sleek racing days:

She was most consoling when I told her the whole doleful story this afternoon. She rested her head on my shoulder and breathed into my ear, and seemed perfectly sanguine about the whole farrago. Perhaps she and the optimistic Twitter friend are right. I just needed to get the whole thing off my chest. Better now.

Hill, from a wider angle than usual:

A tale of two worlds. Or, a story of racing and rudeness, of the triumphant and the taciturn. Or, mighty dynasty, nil; Shirley Teasdale, one.

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

I like almost nothing more than an illustrative vignette, and it turns out I have one for you. It’s quite a long story, so you might like to get a nice cup of tea.

Yesterday was the Eclipse at Sandown. The Eclipse is one of the most storied races in turf history. It was founded in 1886, as Britain’s richest ever race, with a prize of £10,000 donated by Leopold de Rothschild. It was named after one of the greatest racehorses that ever lived, the mighty Eclipse himself.

Eclipse was an extraordinary horse. He was foaled in 1764 during a solar eclipse, hence his name, and he was never defeated. He had to be retired because no one would take him on any more. When he went to stud, he produced a rattling roll of honour of great classics winners.

His own pedigree is equally stellar: he had the Godolphin Arabian on his sire’s side, and the Darley Arabian (my own mare’s ancestor) on his dam’s side. This means he is descended from two of the three founding sires of the entire thoroughbred breed. Almost every horse racing today can trace its bloodlines back to him.

This year, the race was very exciting. It was packed with quality horses, who had won races all over the world, from Italy to Dubai. The favourite was the progressive Farhh who was a fast-finishing third after getting boxed in at Ascot. The question mark in the race was the lovely big colt Nathaniel, who has class and stamina in abundance, but had been off the track since October. He had been seriously ill with mucus on his chest, and his preparation had been seriously affected.

His trainer, the thoughtful and brilliant John Gosden, had given some very downbeat interviews, talking about how difficult it had been to get the horse right again, and warning the betting public, very correctly, that he was not quite sure his horse was completely match-fit.

It’s very hard to get a horse tuned up for a big race without a run first. You often hear in racing the expression ‘he needed the race’. There is only so much you can do on the gallops at home. Often, these mysterious, sparkling creatures need the heat of battle to bring them to their best. The catch-22 is that often you can’t quite tell how near their best they are without running them.

Nathaniel went off in front. They all came at him; the Italian raider, the Dubai winner, and one by one he fought them off. Then, out of the pack, on the wide outside, came the blue colours of Farhh, with Frankie Dettori crouched over his neck, finishing like a train.

This was where the fractured training preparation would show; fitness and strength would be tested to the limit. Some horses would fold like a house of cards under a challenge like that, after a mile and quarter in front on testing ground. Not Nathaniel. He stuck his big, bonny head out a little further, and kept on galloping. He had a look in his eye which said: none of you buggers is getting past me today.

You couldn’t really call Nathaniel an underdog. He is a top class horse from a top class yard under a top class jockey. He holds the distinction of being the horse who has finished closest to the imperious Frankel, getting to within half a length of him when they were two-year-olds. But because of him having been sick, because it was first time out, because there were whispers of poor performances on the gallops, because of the doubts of Mr Gosden, he felt like the underdog. It made the victory a very sweet one indeed; he won that race on talent, but he won it also on heart and guts.

So, all was joy. Commentators were throwing about words like brave and brilliant. Everyone was delighted with the remarkable training performance from John Gosden and the stellar ride from William Buick, who was grinning all over his young face. Into this cauldron of happiness went Mike Cattermole, with his Channel Four microphone. He politely approached Lady Rothschild, the owner, and congratulated her, and remarked on the astounding fact that this was her seventh winner in two weeks. (She had just won the Lancashire Oaks with one of the nicest three-year-old fillies I’ve seen in ages.)

‘So they tell me,’ she said, rather oddly. I wondered what this could mean. Who were this mysterious They? Did she delegate minions to watch the races for her?

And then she ran away.

I’ve never seen anyone do that after a race. She actually scuttled away from poor Mr Cattermole, who was left on live television with no one to interview. Someone must have said in his ear that the gentleman standing in front of him was Nathaniel Rothschild, the son of the owner, after whom the horse was named.

In tones of joyous relief Cattermole said: ‘So you are Nathaniel!’

‘Nat,’ said Nat Rothschild.

Cattermole at this stage was clearly going into some kind of cosmic broadcasting nightmare.

‘Nathaniel is nicer?’ he said, hopefully, hopelessly.

‘We like Nat,’ said Nat Rothschild. A woman standing next to him giggled, as if this were a great joke.

Mike Cattermole made a doomed attempt to get him to say something, anything, about the horse, the race, the occasion. Nothing. There was an indecipherable mutter, and then silence. Eventually some sort of spokesman stepped forward and made some anodyne remarks, and poor Mr Cattermole must have been led away and fed valium and brandy.

I try not to do ad hominem, because I am thin-skinned enough, and I don’t like bitching people up when I can’t take it myself. But occasionally I am driven to it.

That little scene was one of the most peculiar, ungracious, downright rude things I’ve ever seen on a racecourse. Nathaniel Rothschild had just led his winner in, punching the air in triumph, as if he had ridden the horse himself. Would it have killed him to have said something nice to the good people at Channel Four? Could he not have paid tribute to the patience and cleverness and hard work of John Gosden? Could he not have mentioned that it takes a team of dedicated people to get a horse like that to win such a race?

If it had been me, I would have thanked the vet and the farrier and the head lad and the travelling head lad and the damn postman. I would have pointed out that the horse would not have been there without the devoted care of the person who looks after him every day, and the person who gets up at the crack of dawn to ride work, in rain and shine.

I would have hymned to the skies the determination and skill and strength of the young jockey, who timed his fractions to perfection, and got every last ounce of stamina and speed out of his horse. I would have sung a song of the horse himself, of his genuine character, his courage, his marvellous will to win. I might have had to be dragged away before I started on a paean to the long line of champions from whom he was descended. I would have been speaking of the Darley Arabian as some desperate producer shouted: ‘Cut to advertisements.’

I don’t know about the Rothschilds. Perhaps they were having a really awful day. Perhaps their dog just died or something. But what I don’t understand is that it is so much easier to be nice. Grace and manners not only add increments to the sum total of human happiness, but they are much easier to do than taciturn sullenness. It was a most inexplicable lack of sophistication or charm.

At the other end of the scale, Shirley Teasdale, the young apprentice I wrote of the other day, took the time to leave an incredibly polite and charming message on the blog. Teasdale, unless her family secretly owns Yorkshire, does not have Rothschild millions, but she could teach them a lesson in manners. Apparently, reading what I wrote about her made her mum very happy. This is one of the good miracles of the internet. I am almost more delighted by the fact that I have made Shirley Teasdale’s mum smile than by anything else that has happened this year.

Radio programmes often have regular contributors; this is a friend of the show, the host will say. I am going to make Shirley Teasdale a friend of the blog. I’m so impressed with her that I’m going to follow her through her season and report back.

I told my own mother about Shirley Teasdale today. She was enchanted by the whole story. ‘I tell you what,’ I said. ‘I’d take a bet on her being the first woman to win the Derby. I might ring up William Hill and ask if they are making a book on that.’

My mother fingered her iPad, on which her own William Hill account was showing. She was considering having a little punt on Andy Murray in the tennis. ‘It’s called the patriotic bet,’ she said. ‘7-2 to win the first set and then the match.’ But I could see her wondering if she might not be better off betting on Shirley.

 

Pictures of the day:

It’s been a rainy old two days, so Red and I have not been riding. Back to groundwork: circus tricks yesterday; moochy old donkey today. She was so sweet and biddable this morning that I only worked with her for twenty minutes and then just spent the next twenty rhythmically rubbing her neck, which is the consistently of velvet after the rain. I know I have my theory about not babying a horse, but that does not mean Red does not get the love. She adores the neck rub so much she goes into a hazy trance of pleasure.

Here she is this morning:

Later, the Pigeon and I played ball. Are you going to throw the damn thing?:

YES YOU ARE:

Hill, under a flat white sky:

So much for flaming July.