Is there is a gaping editorial hole for some insider straight-talking? Not the cod-blunt crap that so many of racing’s supposed straight-shooters indulge in, rather more along the Guardian’s notorious ‘Secret Footballer’ Diary. Anonymity famously allowed one player a licence to tell it as it really is, and with authority. A ‘Secret Jockey’ Diary could go far beyond mere “he’s a nice horse” cliché? It would be a service. People would pay to read it. So here’s an un-authoritative prototype.‘Today had been the day. The horse bouncing, ground OK, the topweight staying in: everything set. And then I walk into the parade-ring and the owner shakes his head. Apparently a few of his pals couldn’t wait, took morning prices, and everyone got their card marked before he could get on. So now he’s steaming mad and laying it like crazy on the exchanges, on the phone, with one of the stipes practically standing next to him.
‘It’s not like I can say anything. Any peep out of me and I can whistle for the ride the next day, not to mention anyone ever talking to me again. And the last thing a stipe wants to hear is someone bleating because then they might have to do something about it. They’re not stupid: they know better than anyone the last thing any of the top brass want is the apple cart upset.
“It could be worse, I suppose. As owners go, he isn’t the worst. He’s dropped me before and he’ll get a good few quid out of this. I actually don’t know why he bothers punting so much. It’s not like he needs the money. Some lads need to bet in order to make it pay somehow. But this fellah’s buzz seems to be carving things up for the sake of it.
‘The trainer’s practically got his tongue out trying to keep him happy too, which is fair enough, I suppose. He’s got to keep his owner onside. But it’s hard to take sometimes because he presents himself as this pillar of the community and he can barely lie straight in bed most of the time. Not that he ever gets called on it by those press bastards - lazy bullshit merchants — frightened of their shite.
‘It’s the same with some of the other jocks. You’d swear they’d never given one an easy in their lives. Not because they’re dodgy - although there are a few dodge-pots around. We’re practically all snow-white though compared to some of the owners and trainers. But we’re the ones who get hung out to dry for doing what we’re told. And if anyone gets an attack of the morals, there’s no problem finding someone who will, and probably for cheaper, so they can keep the ride.
‘Speaking of which, everyone’s talking at the moment about how a lot of us haven’t got a pot to **** in but what’s new? There’s always haves and have not’s: bleating about diesel, and the price of it falling like a stone, is like listening to trainers complaining about being broke while they’re sitting in tax-deductible 2016-1 Pajeros.
“Some of the lads seem to think they’re entitled because we put our necks on the line every time we get up on a horse which is true enough. But it’s not like we doing it at gunpoint. No one’s making us. Everyone agrees it’s a tough game, and that the cream gets to the top, so what’s the alternative? Some sort of subsidy? One man — one grant? Don’t annoy me.
“Anyway, the trainer’s annoying me now, whispering in my ear that this late change of mind means I might have a job with this horse since he hadn’t been left in his box for the last week. But even if we wind up sticking out, all I’ve got to do is get in fast, say the horse didn’t feel quite right, and then we can talk afterwards. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a job to do. And someone else, a lot more qualified, can tell you how it’s done.” — Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental!