David Massey enjoys himself on the first two days at Chester, despite ground-gate and getting in Jackie's bad books.
“What have the Romans ever done for us?”
As far as the good city of Chester goes, quite a lot, as it happens. Gardens, amphitheatres, the Grade 1 listed walls of course, quarries, shrines, you name it, they installed it in this charming place. Be great to think that they raced the chariots around the walls here, some spectacle that might have produced. Wonder whether they had gladiatorial withdrawals on the day due to horses not “eating up” or were “off colour” once they found out they were drawn somewhere near the M53. I reckon so.
It’s a pity the Romans didn’t install decent wifi, the lazy so-and-sos. Patchy doesn’t begin to describe how bad the signal is in this bowl of a city, which isn’t helpful when you don’t know where you’re going and Maps just drops out at will. Also, Chester was not designed for traffic. More than a dozen cars in the city centre and the whole lot grinds to a halt. Roman roads were one thing they didn’t bother with here. Time to get off my gluteus maximus and walk it to the track.
The course is a joy. Someone said to me, rightly, that York and Chester are the two best tracks to go to for a racing day out. If York is the whole package of a tremendous all-round day of racing at a remarkably good price for a working man, Chester is very much for the younger Instagram generation. There’s so many opportunities to have your photo taken here and show others what an amaaaazing time you’re having, darling, that you’d think you’d wandered onto the set of Love Island. Speaking of which, she looks quite familiar…
Never mind that. Last year we saw two Classic winners on the first day of Chester and I’ve been packed off here to see if history can repeat itself. Before we get to the main event, though, we’ve the Lily Agnes. Normally the game for me, when I’m looking at three-mile chasers, is to find the biggest horse in the paddock and go with that, but around Chester’s tight turns the opposite is oh-so true. Find the diddymen. There’s two I can narrow it down to, Adonius and Wait Geordie. I back Wait Geordie. What a beautiful day, missus, for backing the wrong one.
Cheshire Oaks time. She's a big girl, is Amelia Earhart. Filled out, as the paddock judges say. She’s not 100% fit by any means but then again, neither was Minnie Hauk last year. She strides around like she owns the place, dwarfing her rivals in the paddock, and she’s two lengths too good for the opposition. Aidan previously described her as “a bit quirky and kinky” - sounds like a old girlfriend from my Skegness years - but she was neither here, good as gold in the main. Bring it on, Epsom.
It’s a shame the Chester Vase didn’t go off five minutes earlier, as the multi-talented Benvenuto Cellini, in real life, was born in 1500, and if I’d put my mind to it, I bet I could have found a good line here. But five past three it was, so that becomes redundant. Author, sculptor, dabbled in gold, Cellini had it all, and his equine namesake lives up to his billing. Like his stablemate thirty five minutes earlier, he’s the paddock best, and by some way. He dips under standard time as he proves four-and-a-half lengths too good for pacesetting stablemate Proposition, with the game giant Mr Colonel back in third. I’ve never seen a horse drink so much water as Mr Colonel afterwards, by the way. Buckets of it. Thirsty work, chasing these bluebloods. Benvenuto Cellini is going to be joining Amelia Earhart at Epsom by the sounds of things, and I’d say it’s a shortish price we’ve seen at least one Classic winner.
Ladies Day. As I walk in, there’s a couple of enterprising (but I’m also going with “unlicensed”) lads setting up a stall outside selling ties, hats and sunglasses. I don’t think the trade in sunglasses is going to be high, if the early cloud is anything to go by. The press room is full of bright young things with bunches of flowers by the time I get there. Ladies, you shouldn’t have. And it turns out they haven’t, as these are part of the prizes for the Best Dressed Competition. My tie has seahorses on; if that doesn’t get me some daffs, nothing will. Given how cold it is outside, though, I reckon the winner might have a duffle coat on. Is Nigel T-D here?
The gates open, and the crowds come flooding in. It’s not before Jackie, from Birkenhead, sees me lurking by the beauty stalls (I’m picking something up for Mrs M, before you ask), gives me a blast of the aftershave she’s selling, and asks me for some tips. I give her Roman Dragon in the first, and Factual later on the card. She disappears after the first one wins, which makes me think she might have had more on than a fiver, and has disappeared off to the champagne bar for the afternoon. And then, as the jockeys come back in from the first, there are some concerned faces.
The news is not good. Some of the jockeys are reporting their mounts have slipped on the final bend, more than once according to a few. A delegation is sent out, as delegations are on these occasions, to inspect the offending patch. There are a lot of shrugging shoulders and non-committal looks as the delegation comes back in; we gather around the weighing room, awaiting the verdict. And we wait, and wait some more. There’s some excitement as Hayley Moore emerges, looking like a woman that knows something; she doesn’t. Or if she does, she’s not letting on. More shrugging. I’m offered evens it’s off. I decide it isn’t quite a coin-flip at this point and leave it alone. It’s been half an hour now, and we’re starting to worry. But just as all hope appears lost, hurrah! Oli Bell, on leave from doing Milk Tray adverts, breaks the good news, we’re on!
All kinds of everything for the Dee. But the O’Brien bandwagon just keeps on a-rollin’ with Constitution River, who is most people’s second favourite horse called Constitution something. He thrashes the opposition, by seven lengths in a very quick time, propelling himself towards the head of top end of the Derby market in the process. Half an hour later and it’s Jan Brueghel’s turn in the Ormonde. For all he looks like a run will bring him on, he’s still too good for the game Mount Atlas, who looked in great shape beforehand. That Aidan O’Brien makes the game look easy.
This crowd, buoyed by the first four favourites bombing in, are piling in on McMurray in the fifth, and the roar as he gets up is deafening. “Black armbands, gentlemen”, one of the bookies is heard to remark to his mates near The White Horse. They’re crowning the Best Dressed Lady. Her hat is incredible. If she stood at the right angle I reckon she could pick up Sky Sports. On the way out Jackie reappears; seemingly forgetting I tipped her a winner, I get berated for Factual getting beat. In racing, you’re only as good as your last winner. I’m off to the pub with everyone else. Because, when in Rome…do as the Romans do.
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