WHEN the tape goes up at Aintree for today’s Grand National, Sir Peter O’Sullevan will be training his German Navy second World War binoculars on the horses taking part in the last great steeplechase to be filmed by the BBC. He will be sad to see a race uniquely identified with him relinquished by the BBC and taken over by Channel 4. His sublime commentaries at Aintree earned him the description The Voice of Racing and he remains the most imitated racing chronicler of all time. Sir Peter, who was born in Kenmare, Co Kerry, will be at Aintree today courtesy of the BBC to watch its final coverage.
Before retiring as the BBC’s racing commentator in 1997 he eloquently described a staggering 50 Grand Nationals for TV and radio. Who can forget his breathless descriptions of galloping and jumping horseflesh as he handed over to the late Michael O’Hehir when the horses reached Becher’s Brook?
“I loved Michael,” he recalls. “I still miss him. He taught me a lot about commentary and we were firm friends.” Despite the HD cameras, the helicopters and razor sharp technology, Peter doesn’t envy his successors the job of covering the greatest steeplechase on earth.
“It is much more difficult now,” he says.“The cameras pick up more. We had so few cameras you could always keep the viewers informed.” Remarkably, having celebrated his 94th birthday last month, Peter continues to drive himself not only to Aintree but racecourses all across Britain in pursuit of the sport he loves.
Lunch with Sir Peter is not for the faint hearted. It invariably commences at noon in the great man’s palatial Chelsea apartment, the walls of which are festooned with paintings and drawings of his favourite racehorses. The familiar voice booms: “Would you care for a glass of rosé? Immaculately turned out in tailor made sports jacket, cavalry twill trousers, windsor knotted tie and Jermyn Street shirt, he peers benignly from behind windscreen-sized tinted spectacles as he uncorks the bottle. It is swiftly emptied in a swirl of gossip (maddeningly off the record) about racing figures, members of the royal family and other luminaries.
Donning his trademark brown trilby, he leads the way to one of his favourite restaurants on Draycott Avenue. His chosen watering holes are invariably located within a 100-yard radius of a bookmakers. This allows him to monitor the progress of his daily wagers between his main course and cheese, refreshed with infusions of his favourite Sauvignon and claret.
He has rebuilt his life after the death two years ago of Lady Patricia, his beloved wife of 54 years. Peter stoically and lovingly nursed and navigated her through a decade of Alzheimer’s disease.
By design rather than accident, he and Canadian born Pat, didn’t have children. Explains Peter: “Before we married I asked Pat If she would mind if we had a horse instead of a child. She said that was absolutely fine by her. I never asked her why she was so unenthusiastic about children but we absolutely never regretted it.” But why did he ask that unusual question? “I had a most unsuccessful childhood,” he replies. “I was deeply sensitive about my very bad skin, I had the most virulent form of acne, and the last thing I wanted to do was to inflict that on somebody else. It’s a strange way of looking at it it. But it was something I wasn’t keen to do.”
Peter is immensely proud of his Co Kerry heritage. His father was Irish and his mother English. After his parents’ break-up when he was a year old, he came to England with his grandmother.
His obsession with horses can be dated to his solo ride around Tattenham Corner on his pony in 1925, when he was seven. On the outbreak of war he volunteered as an ambulance driver after being turned down by the RAF on health grounds. At the time a German invasion was expected and stables were dispersing their horses.
“My uncle had a half brother of Morse Code and I said for God’s sake let me have him,” recalls Peter. “He was delivered to me in Chelsea without a saddle. I rode him bareback down to the riding school at Robin Hood Gate in Richmond Park. It was a near thing whether we survived Putney Bridge. We explored the graves in St Luke’s Churchyard in Paton Street. Of course he’d never seen sandbags and the King’s Road was littered with them. It was a fairly hair-rising ride.” The upkeep of Peter’s horse was £4 a week, almost a pound more than his salary. “I had to work very hard at the punting. I had to be very selective.” He has been doing it ever since. For nearly 30 years at the Daily Express where he only tipped three horses a day, to win each way and a nap. “I would never tip a horse I wouldn’t back myself.” But while capable of the alchemy of making money from gambling Peter admits to losing lots on owning horses.
“They are so fragile. I remember asking Lester Piggott when he was training how he felt about the transition from riding. There was a long pause , he didn’t say anything for a while and then he said ‘Well, Peter you know they’re made of glass’. And they are.” Typically for this most compassionate of men O’Sullivan was present when his two best known horses had to be put down, Ayr Gold Cup winner Be Friendly and 1974 Triumph Hurdle champion Attivo. Recollection brings a tear to his eye.
“I loved them both. l. was there when the gun was put to Attivo’s head. I held him and said ‘Don’t worry son, you are all right’, and then bang. It was very emotional. When Be Friendly was put down he just pricked his ears looking at a pheasant; he wasn’t thinking of anything, just that bird. It was moving and he was watching as they gave him the lethal injection and down he went. They must have familiar sounds around them, familiar voices. Rather than be carted off to an anonymous abattoir with the smell of blood. It’s so terrifying to a thoroughbred.”
One of Peter’s dearest friends was jockey turned thriller writer Dick Francis who died six years ago aged 89. Recalls Peter.“I was at a lunch with Dick and his wife Mary in London not long before she died and mentioned to their agent that I had this collection of signed first editions of Dick’s books which I had collected for my old age. I told him it had cost me £6,000 to assemble but was worth a lot more. Mary overheard me and said that she and Dick didn’t have a full set to leave to their grandchildren and could she buy my set for £6,000? What could I say? It was worth a lot more but I said to Mary, of course!” According to his friend Sir Terry Wogan “perfect gentleman” just about sums him up. Says Terry: “He was the greatest sports commentator of them all and he is a truly wonderful man. I hope he lives forever.”