Michael Church Racing Books

  When eventually, I got back to our party, Father Green had gone, apologising to Pat, that he had to get back, “But tell Michael, I’ll be here again tomorrow for the Coronation Cup.”

***

  The next day, I spotted Perry on the horizon, almost head and shoulders above the other racegoers, dog collar back on today and that distinctive Homburg – unmistakable.

“Glad to see you again Father,” I said, as we negotiated the revolving door into the Queen’s Stand.

“There is a cloakroom on the right if you want to check-in your case.”  Father Green handed in a very large Lieberman & Gortz binocular case, which looked as if it had survived its own private war. He then accompanied me to Channel 4 mission control, where I was told John Oaksey and Derek Thompson would discuss the chart in front of the cameras immediately after the first race.

At that time, Lord Oaksey very kindly came out and signed his latest book for me, a present from my daughter Mia. Soon after, Brough Scott came to reassure me that my chart was on the schedule.

Meanwhile, Father Green, having already accepted some liquid hospitality, was quizzing another TV pundit on the true state of the going.

However, with the first race off and running, I urgently called out,

“I’ll have to go now, Father, or I’ll miss seeing the chart on TV.”

Perry and I stood just behind the cameras as the double act of Thompson and Oaksey traced the lineage from the Byerley Turk down to Dr Devious, stopping briefly on the more recent horses to add a comment on their achievements. Finally, John Oaksey kindly gave viewers the phone number of Racing Post, where the chart was on sale.

It worked well. Perry congratulated me, and we celebrated in the bar with a pint or two of Guinness.

It was not until we emerged from the bar into the bright sunlight, that we realised we had missed yet another race. Nonetheless, Perry, undeterred, went about thumbing the pages of his form book.

Patiently waiting nearby for ten minutes in stony silence, I ventured to ask him what he fancied.

“Tis a terrible tricky race yer know. So, Michael, I’m going to let my heart rule my head and go for Allthruthenight. It’s a sort of lullaby yer know.”

He broke off to softly sing the first lines.

“Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee,

All through the night.”

“I remember my mammy singing it to me as a child. Silly, I know, but I’m having a tenner on it anyway.”

“And why not?” I responded, “Put me a tenner on too.”

Minutes later, Graham Goode cut in.

“All in for the Stanley Wootton Handicap, run over the fastest five-furlong course in the world, and…. they’re off.”

Father Green and I stood at the bottom the slopping Members lawn, glasses trained down the course and hearing only the names of Absolutely Nuts and Inherent Magic. Then, no more than half-a-dozen strides from the post, Allthruthenight thundered past to join Inherent Magic on the line – Photograph, photograph.

“Unbelievable,” said Perry, although his facial expression was still in no-man’s land, until finally, we heard “First, Allthruthenight.”

Having collected our £300 from the genial John White, BPA, we decided it was appropriate to revisit the bar. At the end of his second pint, Perry looked up to catch sight of himself in the mirror behind the bar. It was then he realised he wasn’t wearing his Homburg.

“Someone must have kept it behind the bar?” he said, hopefully.

But no, no-one had seen it and the barman couldn’t remember if he had it on when he was there earlier.

From then on, the rest of the afternoon was taken up with fitful visits to the Racing Office, Channel 4 mission control, the cloakroom check in, and then back to enquire at the bar again. But, for all that, no-one, and that must have included half the attendance of the Queen’s Stand, had seen Father Green’s Homburg.

Perry was now descending into depression. As much, I thought, from the booze as from the sentimental attachment he placed on his hat.

With my sympathy almost exhausted, I tried to uplift his mood by reminding him, “Last race Perry. Have you got a fancy?”

“No, but I suppose I should have,” he said, plunging into his brief case for the form book.

The race was a three-year-old maiden, over ten furlongs and the Gosden-trained Scrutineer, a recent second to Cezanne, looked according to Father Green, “The nearest thing to a certainty on a racecourse.”

Gathering perhaps the last of his optimism he walked along the line of bookies, taking £60 to 40 three times. The last bet synchronising with the commentators, “Off and running in the lucky last.”

Perry, hatless of course, never blinked after lowering his binoculars two furlongs out. But a weaker man might have, as Milzig began to rein in the favourite, with both jockeys hard at work.

Yards from the post, Scrutineer, responding well, got there by half-a-length.

Coming into the winner’s enclosure, Perry shouted out, “Well done,” to Ray Cochrane, who pleased him by touching his cap.

“Time to go home I suppose, Michael,” said Perry, stuffing £300 into his already bulging wallet. After which, his mood softened to admit, “In truth, you know Michael, that Homburg was really quite battered, and due for replacement anyway.”

Just then, coming out of the Queen’s Stand and across the grass, we saw three young lads, one on the shoulders of a donkey. They were laughing and fooling around. Suddenly, they all ran off and on top of the donkey’s head appeared a Homburg hat!

Perry instinctively ran towards them and when almost within reach of his beloved Homburg, two policemen came up behind him.

“What sought of a prank do you call this, Father? Surely, a man of the cloth ought to be setting the younger generation an example?”

Perry didn’t wait to explain, but took off to try and retrieve his hat. Thus leaving me with a picture, I was never to forget, of a tall priest pursuing a lively donkey wearing a battered Homburg!

 This story is from Michael’s book, 

 The Gambling Adventures of Father Green,

of which he has a few signed copies for sale.