The Last Straw: Amid stiff competition, the prize for the most aptly-named horse at Cheltenham this week went to Lough Derg, a runner in the 4.40 on Wednesday. True, unlike the racing festival in the Cotswolds, the ancient Donegal pilgrimage has so far resisted pressure to expand to a four-day format. But in other respects, the similarities between the events are striking.
Pilgrims to St Patrick's Purgatory are restricted to drinking black tea, for example, while - although it's still not compulsory - many race-goers at Cheltenham voluntarily confine themselves to black beer. Sleep deprivation is also central to both experiences. Again, it's not required that you stay awake during Cheltenham. But it is strongly advised, if you want to retain your shirt during all-night poker sessions.
Anyone who's been to Lough Derg would recognise the ritualistic aspects of the festival. The Cheltenham faithful spend many hours, if not in prayer exactly, then in reflection: reading the so-called "form book" in the naive but sincerely held belief that it will help them identify "winners". And then there are the famous circling rituals, in which pilgrims make repeated tours of certain parts of the shrine: the parade ring, which is regarded as a holy place, and the betting ring, which reminds us of the forces of darkness with which we must struggle.
Most people depart Cheltenham financially impoverished. But the experience is about spiritual growth rather than material acquisition. There were a lot of growth opportunities on Wednesday, when every no-hoper on the card won (except Lough Derg).
Afterwards, bookies celebrated the biggest heist since the great train robbery except that, as one said, "in our case it's legal". Maybe so. But are they better people now?
MY FAVOURITE FESTIVAL moment was not Ruby Walsh's brilliant ride in Tuesday's opener. It was his father Ted, before the same race, lecturing a caller to Channel 4 who referred to a certain horse as "Moriarty". "The name is O'Muircheartaigh," he said sternly.
Then, in a comment aimed at his English fellow presenters, who seemed to regard the name as a challenge equivalent to brain surgery, he added: "If you can say Moulin Riche [ another horse in the race], you can say O'Muircheartaigh." As usual, Ted was cutting to the heart of the issue. Despite having had 800 years in which to take lessons, our former colonial masters have not found the time yet to acquire even the basics of Irish pronunciation. The contrast with French is telling. Although France is the poor relation in Cheltenham's tri-nation contest, its horses can usually rely on being impeccably pronounced by the race-caller, right up to the time they unseat their jockeys. Meanwhile, we routinely win their big prizes, and the English still won't learn how to address their betters. In fairness, the course commentator made an effort with O'Muircheartaigh. But hopes of an historic breakthrough were soon dashed when a horse called Eamon an Chnoic was referred to as "Eamon Schnock". Luckily he was a non-runner.
THE IRISH STILL stand out at Cheltenham, and not just because they sometimes call their male children "Ruby". Often, they're the only people in the parade ring not wearing green. Green tweeds are the uniform of the English country set. But watching what looked like one typical group of Cotswold toffs, whose colours ran the full spectrum from moss to seaweed (green seaweed, obviously), I was taken aback and sideways to realise they were French.
The Irish at Cheltenham are sometimes criticised, fairly, for politicising the event. English horsey folk would no more flaunt the flag of St George in the parade ring than they would be caught in public without hats. Similarly, French jockeys would consider flag-waving quite beneath them (not always something they can say about their horses). By contrast, it's a rare Irish winner that makes it into the winners' enclosure without a tricolour.
It's too early to say, but there are signs this is changing. As Irish winner after Irish winner came steaming back this week, receptions were sometimes on the polite side, and jockeys occasionally forgot to wave the flag. Success is making us blase, no doubt. But the muteness of applause was also in inverse proportion to the length of the odds on the winner, as Irish fans failed to get excited about the success of horses whose talents had been unheard of outside the townlands where they were trained.
The risk of class warfare, in which downtrodden Irish, English, and French punters make common cause against the knowledgeable few, is minimal. But it could be that Ireland's relationship with Cheltenham is entering a post-nationalist phase. We can only hope the transition will be achieved without resorting to the indiscriminate use of tweed.
