Forpadydeplasterer provides an all-too-brief bout of cheer at an edgy Cheltenham, writes KATHY SHERIDAN
WITH THE Wild Roverthundering out of the Guinness village, pints flowing from well before noon, and the first three winners carrying the magic "IRE" abbreviation after their names in the race card, it felt a lot like old times for a while.
“And I need you more than want you”, chanted a trio of Cockney wide-boys in two-tone shoes and blinding tweeds, savaging the chorus of the old Glen Campbell classic, as JP McManus’s Wichita Lineman cantered in, first in the first, yielding an early birthday haul of around €50,000 for his owner.
McManus pulled another €40,000 or thereabouts with a first, second and third in the fifth, which would have been enough for most men. But when The Irish Times asked him earlier in the morning what he hoped for on his birthday, he merely said “Binocular”. And how did the great man feel about being 58? “Better than the alternative”.
Was the economy affecting the turnout? “I’m not getting into the economy”, he said, looking a tad edgy. Ours not to reason why, but in any event, he wouldn’t be the only one not too anxious to go there.
“And I need you more than want you” might just be the mantra of the 2009 Cheltenham crowd, which according to one English bookie, was unusually edgy for the opening day – for the British side anyway. As early as the third race, there were already signs of ragged nerves and good money chasing bad, none of it helped by Binocular’s refusal to play ball for the birthday boy. The 6/4 favourite came third, sadly.
Still, without him, it would have been a duller day. Few of the usual political or corporate suspects put their heads above the parapet yesterday, not even Charlie McCreevy (although the old-timers here say he rarely makes it on day one). Michael O’Leary showed up, of course. Albert Reynolds turned up with his two sons and daughter.
Otherwise it was slim pickings, unless you count Liz Hurley, Trinny of Trinny Susannah, and Zara Phillips.
Earlier, while waiting in front of the stand for the famous Cheltenham roar that traditionally sends off the first race, Helen Doyle and her sister-in-law, Kathleen Coughlan, from Killarney and Tipperary, remarked that the crowd was significantly down. The traffic to the course was nothing like it used to be; even the crowds walking to it were noticeably smaller, said Helen. “Other years if you wanted to walk back from here towards the stand at this stage, there wouldn’t be a hope with the crowd. Today there’s no bother”. To cap it all, a lot of the little boutiques in the town had closed since their last visit (not that they should have been noticing that sort of thing anyway).
The restaurants and bars struggled to reap a harvest. One Irish trainer, accustomed to reserving the same popular Italian restaurant from year to year, was astonished to find only one table had been reserved for last night.
Assessing the size of the Irish turnout was always an inexact science, since they tended to make an impact – in every sense – grossly disproportionate to their size. Last year of the estimated 250,000 attendance, around 15,000 were reckoned to be Irish, but they accounted for about half the estimated €780 million of bets laid. This year, the official attendance figure for day one was 49,450; 6 per cent down on last year. Anecdotally, the Irish percentage of that was well down. Some groups here confessed they had booked the flights and accommodation well before the crunch; others had cut the stay from four days to two.
Cocking his ear to the crowd as the winner of the first – the Noel Meade-trained Go Native – was led into the parade ring, one veteran race-day steward judged that the welcome was “quite muted” for an Irish win. Maybe because Cousin Vinny’s backers were peeved? “No”, said Reg Brookes definitively. “The Irish horses always got a huge welcome . . . The Irish just aren’t here in the same numbers.”
All the more painful then for the lonely ones at home to see the exultant red faces of Charlie Chawke and the Goat Racing Syndicate (the faces a perfect match for the red and white scarves of Sunderland), marching towards the parade ring, roaring “Ole Ole Ole Ole” behind their victorious Forpadydeplasterer, trained by the “only serious professional trainer in Kerry”.
The Rose of Tralee, the Fields of Athenryand a version of Frosty the Snowman(sung with the words "Paddy the Plasterer") were belted out in the ring while the bowler-hatted stewards tried to persuade the 22 lads and one lassie to take themselves and their exultations outside.
The syndicate is a model of democracy. Ten were able to buy one per cent of the horse between them for €1,500 apiece, while the remainder is owned by the other 12. Richard Coffey from West Cork looked like a riot survivor as he mopped a bleeding lip. “Will I tell you what happened? My friend Brian O’Hagan here, when the horse was going up the straight, drove back his elbow and clung me into the mouth . . . ”, he said with a grimace, followed by a huge grin: “Then I knew the horse was going to win”.
The only woman among them was the rather shy breeder, Cork-based Anne Broderick, a 37- year-old with no horsey background, and an office job with Dairygold in Cork. “I bought my first mare when I was only in Inter Cert. I had a couple of cattle and swapped them for the first mare and that’s how I got into horses”.
She travelled to Cheltenham alone – “I’m footloose and fancy free” – because of course she still has a “grá” for the horse. “I had to follow him . . . Then I rang the group a week ago and they gathered me into the circle”. Next stop Forpadydeplasterer? No, not a tribunal; the Gold Cup. Yes, Paddy and his story live on in Cheltenham, a phenomenon that is proving quite fascinating to the non-Irish folk among us.
Three more days to go.