IT HAS BECOME A HOLLOW SPORT

It's eerie that the person who to most racing fans of a certain age was the most iconic figure of the sport, has passed at a time when this once great sport whose future seemed safe and assured is in a state of turmoil with no easy solutions on how the decline can be halted.

Make no mistake, when the sport was on a tier a couple of levels above now which it perilously sits, the true legend of Lester Piggott was a household name on the level of Ali, Roger Moore, Jackie Stewart and Joan Colllins. 

The aura emanating from him was not as hectic and coloured as some other household names, but he was wholly revered by racing fans, an idolisation that crossed over into non racing confines, similar to non tennis fans looking up to Bjorn Borg, or those who don't consider themselves golfing fans looking up to Jack Nicklaus as though he was a figure of worship.

A chapter ends as we are left with an emerging generation of ' racegoers' who call the horses by numbers, and talk of their 'accas' on the footy, never visit the paddock, drink themselves stupid and often snort white powder too. 

Ironic really when the great man fought against the scales for his whole riding career without becoming hooked on drink - a regressive habit that took hold of many other great riders who by no means should be criticised or thought less of for finding solace and comfort from the bottle.

Eddery, Cauthen and Swinburn junior amongst those falling under the spell of various alcoholic potions. In fact it's amazing how many work colleagues of both sexes that you will discover to your surprise are hiding a drinking habit and hiding it well, such is how well they function.

Testament after testament indicate beyond doubt that Piggott was  fervently self disciplined, and would restrict himself to a single glass, mainly of champagne, to accompany his cigars and classical music. A difference to those of us who without being alcoholics find comfort in a bottle of red or the odd long session on the beer, and who peruse offers from the wine club they belong to with the excitement they displayed as a child when watching the toy adverts on the telly as Christmas approached - come to think of it I never did get that Evel Knievel toy that was popular in its day.

Luckily, I've managed to gather a tiny collection of Piggott memorabilia which I cherish. From his library of form books, presumably sold off when he moved to Switzerland a decade back, I have his 1965 Raceform Annuals, which on opening, fittingly landed on the page recording Meadow Court's King George success.

Thousands of maturing racing fans may or may not be able to recall the first time they saw this icon in the flesh. I think I was first present at a meeting he was riding at some time during the summer of 1976, but what I'm more certain of was the first time I saw him ride a winner live was not until August 1977 on the Tuesday of the York Ebor meeting, quickening late on to seal the Harewood Handicap on the popular Derek Kent trained sprinter Epsom Imp.

Piggott had been turned over earlier in the day on the Mrs Getty owned Artaius in the Benson And Hedges   Gold Cup. His stable companion, the charismatic dual Derby and King George winner The Minstrel, had just been retired in order to beat an impending USA horse import ban in the face of an outbreak of equine gonnorhea  - by York week he would already have been in Kentucky in preparation for his first season at stud the following year.

Eclipse winner Artaius looked set up to take over the mantle of the top three year old but found the long priced previous year's Derby runner up Relkino too good for him. In another twist to the chapter, another Ballydoyle colt, a certain Alleged, took York by storm the following day when destroying his rivals in the Great Voltigeur. He would win the first of his two Arcs that autumn and topped the middle distance ratings in Europe.

But my most memorable day involving Piggott would be eight years on in 1985, when the master showed he had just as good a clock in his head as Cauthen when executing a wonderful ride from the front on Commanche Run ( in picture) to deny the Kentucky Kid aboard the mighty Oh So Sharp.

Other live moments from the top of my head would be another fine front running ride in the same race on Hawaiian Sound back in 1978. The Barry Hills trained colt had been narrowly beaten in both the Epsom and Irish Derbies under the miniature, stateside established racing icon Bill Shoemaker. Many were under the impression that the little man been jocked off but the truth was The Shoe was committed to riding at Saratoga that week, the nearest equivalent North America has to Royal Ascot.

Then two days later, in the William Hill Sprint Championship on Solinus, an animal who never really got the credit he deserved - he'd won the Kings Stand and July Cup in his previous two starts. 

And finally pulling up Miller's Mate and holding him and probably saving the animal's life in the 1985 Chester Vase after he broke down, meaning the Mill Reef colt could be saved for stud where though far from successful, would still achieve a small portion of fame by siring the dam of Best Mate. 

Then there was the time I experienced a most bizarre moment when a baby faced York native who claimed he was on friendly speaking terms with Piggott when he worked in Newmarket, and who would approach him at York fixtures for a chat, actually rang the legend up and spoke to him - one of the daughters initially answering the phone and handing over to her father,

I and one other person were in the phone box and we heard the legend's unmistakable nasal tones who advised that he thought Popsi's Joy would go well for him in the following day's Cesarewitch - he made the frame. During the brief conversation the York native, who could have been cast for a role in  'Kez', addressed Piggott as ' Less'. 

Fast forward to the present and I did not hear a single mention of the great man's name in the workplace today. That is testament to how far horse racing in this country has fallen. Hardly anyone has any respect or appreciation for the game or any of its participants. It's a game truly on the skids.

image taken by author

This track from a strong throughout album without any real filler, which was released less than a fortnight on from Sir Ivor's Derby triumph.

A TIME TO SIT BACK AND LAUGH

Hardly a day or two now passes without a negative report expressing concern for the immediate future of horse racing in the UK. Prize money, the impact of the pending affordibility checks, racecourse attendances - on all these fronts there is no bright sky far on the horizon.

Observing the Chester May meeting via  TV, it was clear from the paddock shots that the crowd looked down on what would normally be expected. I chuckled at this sight. And these visual impressions were backed up by the facts - the crowd for the whole three days was an eye popping third down compared to the corresponding three days in 2019, the last time it was staged pre covid.

Many of us maturing racing fans have fond memories of a Chester racecourse with a gentler atmosphere,  when the actual racing racing was the focus point. I first visited on the day Mr Bigmore won the Summer Handicap in 1976 and would never have believed that I would one day take delight at misfortunes suffered by this historic venue.

Attempting to pinpoint when Chester racecourse began to turn from class to trash involves some subjective guessing but the signs were there as you moved towards the late eighties. It was certainly evident in the nineties, the decade when there was an increasing trend up and down the country to target the party racegoers who'd pack the bars all day long. 

In the noughties the changes took hold at an increased tempo, all days being theme days, then soon after the likes of the Chester May meeting and York's Dante and Ebor fixtures moved forward a day to take advantage of the cult attendees increasing availability the closer to the weekend the race days fell.

Chester became too big for it's boots once the noughties arrived, becoming almost unbearable as recent time progressed.Tatts was no more the home of the normal racing fans who sought a day of visiting the paddock, placing a bet and watching the action. It had become a second club enclosure, for the suited and groomed, but with only a secondary interest in the racing, meaning a day watching the action from the centre field enclosure became more preferable - even though you have to endure that irritant, endless, waffling voice reverberating from the speakers. 

My last visit was on the day the hugely talented but ill fated Sir Dragonet stormed home in the Vase. I intended to go into Tatts, unaware they had seen fit to bring in, out of the blue, a strict dress code, no doubt having become pretentious enough to change the long established status of Tatts, a domain for keen racegoers who don't want to go in the club enclosure, are most comfortable in casual attire, and for the real genuine fans, having access to the paddock - something that had long been the norm at all courses.

I arrived well over an hour before the opener. The gates were quiet and as I pulled out the cash to purchase my ticket I was met by four gate staff, three male, one female, all in the 40 - 60 age group, none of them the most friendly looking individuals.

"Unbutton your jacket", one of them demanded. Surprised because this had never happened to me before entering Chester's Tattersalls enclosure, and despite appearing what I would class as smart casual quickly, I was not in the mood for protest thus made a quick decision to opt for the Dee Enclosure, the entrance conveniently being at the same location.

"Show me what's in your pockets", another of the four ordered. On producing a home made ham cob I was offered the choice of eating it right then on the spot or binning it - I chose the latter as it was meant for later to avoid being ripped off by the ' Carvery' or whatever fancy name they apply to the just average in quality food stands whose vendors admittedly pay trumped up charges and would have been hit hard the other week.

Finally, as I entered through the gate the character handing me back my portion of the ticket, cautioned,     "make sure you keep hold of that because if you're asked to produce it inside and don't have it, you'll be told to leave." As I descended the steps, already befuddled, I heard the eldest of the four declare, "they think they can just turn up." 

Well, switch the clock forward just a few years and we have the same venue now on the verge of pleading with the masses to 'just turn up' as a third of their attendees have had their fill of ridiculous entry fees,       (particularly at the weekend meetings that host relatively mediocre cards), overpriced drink and food, arrogant staff, and an overall trashy ambience.

What is so tickling about this recent development is that these falling numbers are made up predominantly of the cult attendees whom Chester and numerous other courses went out if their way to court, happy for them to replace the traditional racing fans

Those racing fans will not be returning in any meaningful number. Moreover, the prioritised cult attendee numbers won't be on the increase again. In fact their numbers will for sure continue to shrink. Remember, they fit the profile that other sectors of the entertainment industry will be seeking to entice. And as the actual racing is not the core interest of these attendees, then the likes of an outdoor beer festival  would be capable of diverting many away from the course as a venue such as Chester could not compete on a cost level, and even it's cheapest spot, the course enclosure, would offer little in rivalry.

The bubble has finally burst with little help on hand to ease the casualties. We can have a good guess which venues will sail through with limited damage, while also having a list of those who could be close to locking the gates for good. Chester will no doubt survive but will cease to be the Chester Race Company Ltd's cash cow it had become since the turn of the century. It's self inflicted and something to rejoice over.

This was high up in the charts in the week Sea Pigeon won the first of his two Chester Cups in 1977, when race days were designed primarily for racing fans.