David Ord York diary: His Sky Bet Ebor Festival diary

Horse Racing

Sun August 23, 2026 · 16h ago

Our man at the course with his diary of Sky Bet Ebor Festival week at York - away from the action on the track.

Tuesday, August 18

I like to catch the train to York for the Sky Bet Ebor Festival. A little quality me-time before the four days fly by. The 14:27 Dewsbury to Scarborough was my three-carriage conveyance. Luggage stowed in the designated area, seat secured, and headphones on.

The conductor waltzes by to check my ticket, the green tick on his screen means all systems go. Then he says: “Keep an eye on your luggage mate, lot of it being nicked at the minute".

And the demons descend. I look around for passengers who might want a 46-inch chest jacket, 38-inch waist trousers M&S blue suit. Five shirts, all 17” collar, and a collection of panic-bought Sainsbury's underpants and socks. Two men immediately strike me as likely suspects and I watch them like a hawk until disembarking at York.

The “budget” hotel is too close to get a taxi, but far enough for me to cut a shambolic figure carrying four bags walking. I literally stumble through the door with my right foot trapped in an errant handle in the suit bag.

I land in my room; which is small and has an unrivalled view of the wall next door. I turn the air conditioning on, it sounds like two cats squaring off outside, and head to the Preview Evening at York.

I’m next to Oli Bell for the entire event, both sat on high stools. He mounts his with far more grace than I manage. It goes well. Nice people there, they’re always nice there. Tips galore. I nap Mirzimaan in the nursery on Thursday. One kind fellow on row two wrote it down. They all seem to scribble away furiously when Mark Howard speaks.

The curry at the interval and a pint of Theakston's mean I’m desperately in need of part two ending early, which it does at 10pm.

Taxi back to the room. I decide to transcribe Kieran Shoemark’s column. Done. Try to get onto the hotel Wi-Fi. Fail. Try to pair the mobile phone to upload it to the site and the giant wall is blocking out the signal.

So, a beaten man, I fall asleep having forgotten to switch off the air-con. I wake up at 4am after a dream that I’m in a field of screeching Cheetahs and turn it off.

Wednesday, August 19

Juddmonte International Day. Shower, shave, get dressed and open the window ready for action. The wall is still there. No breakfast booked. Not paying £11 for what the man on reception described as “what you’d expect for £11”. I pick up a rasher sandwich at Fred’s café en route instead. It's splendid.

Walk through the gates, the sniffer dog takes a liking to my rasher sandwich, and but for the brave intervention of his handler it would have gone. Not all superheroes wear capes. I eat it quickly just in case the dog is also press room-bound.

It isn’t.

It’s not the day we expect on the course, but compelling nonetheless. Plenty of talking points to get through but I have a tight 17:20 deadline as it’s the annual ITV v Sky Bet Rounders Match.

Because of my advancing years – and crippling lack of mobility – I’ve cemented my role as bowler in recent renewals. I produce a masterclass once again – if you like seeing a bearded, balding, middle-aged man struggle to throw a light-weight ball six foot forward.

The ‘looper’ is my best delivery – it starts at head height only to drop to a legitimate height in the nick of the time. It’s deemed illegal this year. I’ve written to the British Rounders Association for clarification.

Not that I think I’ll be selected next year after Ed Chamberlin dispatched me over the big screen three times and Oli Bell twice, despite the latter paying the price for drinking on an empty stomach and resembling a young Father Jack Hackett by the time the second innings is over.

I make little impact with the bat other than damaging my calf when waddling to first base after completely missing the ball. I pay a price for that as I’m the last one to the post-event pizzas and desperately grab the only box I can see. It’s a Margherita for the vegetarians. I keep my hand over that label while devouring it on one leg.

It’s a 20-minute walk back to the hotel but that’s off the radar given the injury. Even the Uber driver tells me it would only take 20 minutes on foot after picking me up. Bet Derek Redmond didn’t get the same treatment after tearing his hamstring at the 1992 Olympics.

I place the injured calf on a Welcome To York cushion and attempt to sleep.

Thursday, August 20

I manage it. But as a man of a certain age there’s a 4.30am call of nature to contend with. I awake, forget the calf injury before literally dragging my leg along with me. I then can’t sleep after googling ‘why does my calf burn’.

By the time I awake for the second and final time, I’ve got a sore lower back to contend with too. If only people could see what we have to put up with during Festival weeks. To be fair I’m on day off today and have a splendid lunch in the RMG box. I had to head down shortly after arriving to sort an issue out with tickets I’d left for a relative and by the time the calf and the back have propelled me back to Box 20 in the Melrose Stand, the door is closed.

I open it and almost walk straight into Ruby Walsh who is taking my fellow guests through the card. I’m very intimidated by Ruby so cower behind him until he’s finished and apologise three times when walking past him. It soon becomes apparent he didn’t even know I was there.

The afternoon is a lovely mix of bumping into friends and family before a meal with press room colleagues in a new venue. We switched to Casa, where “meats are carved tableside at this Brazilian steakhouse with a salad bar and weathered wood décor”.

And are they carved at the tableside. Once you’ve loaded the plate with some salad, the conveyer belt starts and a host of men with joints on skewers and large knives thunder over. Armed with a small pair of tongs, you grab what you want.

You have a card which is green on one side (keep em coming) and red the other (no mas). It briefly took me back to a hellish evening at the Pontefract Speed Dating evening many moons ago.

It's a yes from Ben Linfoot

I’m next to Ben Linfoot who urges caution and patience but proceeds to say yes to the first eight offerings, which in turn I do, before he turns puce and morose and I’m working up a worrying sweat. It’s still there when I'm one of the few to take on the final offering – pineapple with cinnamon, which I label a palate cleanser.

But, dear reader, Ben and I can hold our heads high. A late dash with pork sausages was met with two red cards. I was told straight afterwards they were the best bet on the card but that information was too late. I was still sweating and Scoop still puce.

And Dave Massey’s 30-question quiz which acted as dessert did little in the way of comfort. The highlight in round three came when a Grand National-winning jockey plus his partner, a legendary Irish photographer, decided to pass on five of the questions in a true or false section.

We still don’t know the winner as three people sent aubergine emojis to the quizmaster rather than their answers and he's refusing to tot the numbers up. I forgot Usain Bolt won a 200 metres Olympic gold. I blame the meat sweats.

Friday, August 21

A poor night’s sleep off the back of the meat sweats. It took two showers to bring me round – well, one but I accidentally backed onto the off button halfway through it and took two scrambling minutes with shampoo rolling down my face to find the one to fire it back into action.

I swear I’ll never eat meat again and walk purposefully past Fred’s sandwich shop. No rashers today, thank you. No breakfast either.

Then when lunch arrives I add two large slices of gammon to the plate, take a mouthful, and the flashbacks and sweat momentarily returns. It’s a good day’s racing – Juan Hernandez attempting to get to Heathrow and on a flight in the space of two hours after winning the Nunthorpe on Bacio baffles me.

I have a glass of champagne before leaving the racecourse and a glass of wine with my Italian meal. I have sea bass and am very proud of myself with my meat-free approach. Then my partner can’t finish her lamb and I help out. Such a weak man.

We find a remarkable book shop near the Minster where you can climb ladders to browse the titles on the top shelves. Not like there used to be in newsagents of yesteryear, I hasten to add, they’re just very high bookshelves.

I try to go up to have a gander at the sports section but the creaking and wobbling of the ladder sends me scuttling back down. Instead I spend 25 minutes looking at the philosophy offering as it’s the only thing I can see. The woman who kept walking round saying they were closing in five minutes knew I wasn’t buying anything.

I return to the hotel room, pack, and fall asleep halfway through a Liam Neeson film. It was ever thus.

Daiquiri Bay wins the Sky Bet Ebor

Saturday, August 22

A disastrous start to the day. I need to take some luggage back to the car but - with the bad calf and stiff back from rounders - can’t carry it all in one run for some reason. Two trips it is then. I’m told it’s a ten minute walk having not parked the car there in the first place. Google Maps says 28 minutes and 1.1 miles. I only discover this after setting off down the completely wrong road.

Back past the hotel and down to the correct one and I plough on, like a rotund Sherpa Tenzing. I’m very thirsty and awash with sweat when I finally make the industrial estate where the car is. I find it – and bang next to it are a couple who in what years gone by would have been referred to as... heavy petting.

They’re more horrified by the sight that greets them than I am as I prize open the VW Golf boot, drop off rounders kit, spare suit and bag of dirty clothes. I mutter a swear word as I have to return for the rest.

When I get back Romeo and Juliet have gone – but only to another spot in the same car park. You don’t expect this in York. 3.6 miles walked before racing. I told my doctor I’d get more active, but I have to admit didn’t really mean it at the time.

And the afternoon again flies by.

Notable Speech's victory in the Sky Bet City Of York feels like a significant moment for the newly-anointed Group One. Daiquiri Bay's Ebor success a moment Alan King savours.

The brass band are in full cry as a sun-kissed parties on with their easy-listening playlist.

I don't want to leave - but have to. The train at 18:36 is calling. It usually takes 39 minutes but is slated for an extra hour this evening. I'm beyond caring.

From rounders to an elite carvery, calf strains to frenzied dreams, it's been some week. But isn't York always?

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