Royal Ascot Tour Diaries – Day 1 – Frank, Joe and the Guv

 

London. 4am.

The sun already streams.

Australian trainers would love fart-of-sparrow track-work in such early brilliant light.

My own body clock is either still rooted, or the excitement of Royal Ascot opening day, and particularly Frankel, has me doing form and absorbing video previews and tips at this ungodly hour.

It’s like Christmas morning for racing fans. Or a Laura Ashley discount sale for Lady Brooke.

A jetlag-busting morning stroll around the not-so-mean streets of Kensington culminates in a Racing Post purchase.

An old geezer, hair as white as snow, mans the Gloucester Road news-stand.

It feels I’m on the set of Minder. I stop short of actually calling him “guvnor” (or “old guv”). I assume he’s been selling tabloids, broadsheets and tittle tattle on this same spot since the days of Hitchcock – who lived a few doors down on the Cromwell Road.

Old guv’s swapping today’s fancies with Arthur Daley types, various track-suited spivs, and veteran City boys picking up The Times before heading off on the tube.

I patriotically chime in with Ortensia. The lads aren’t convinced.

He sends me off with a tip in the St James Palace Stakes.

“Power, ‘e’s a class ‘orse. Gotta go with the class ‘orse in ‘dees big meetin’s”.

I take the four tube stops to Westminster, and opt to walk to Waterloo station from there. It’s then about an hour’s train to Ascot.

The older charms of Big Ben and Parliament (opposite the Clark W. Griswold roundabout end), work their magic in the sunshine. And it’s bouncing off at all angles on charms newer, the London Eye.

Upon arrival at Ascot, there’s a ten minute hike up a rising yield to the track. It trends as per the testing straight course itself. The ladies are struggling in heels.

It’s a scene from a Sherwood Forest fairy tale. Shades of green both Kermit and Robin Hood, fill the backdrop. Union Jack bunting lines the entire route.

There’s no mistaking what country we’ve landed in. It all feels an appropriate start to the week.

I’m handed a “Go Frankel” paddle. It fits snugly enough in my suit jacket. Suit jacket of the non-morning non-Royal Enclosure variety, sorry to disappoint. But an eight quid blue trilby is complementing today’s aqua palette. The maturing monkey-bum scon thankful for the UV protection.

The Ascot grandstand proves a striking structure. It dominates the landscape once you top the rise. Like the aforementioned London Eye, or the Lord’s media centre, glass is dominant. If Superman were rebuilding the Fortress of Solitude, the Ascot architects would be consulted.

It’s still two hours before the first race. I meet up with Rooboy Kev on the grandstand terraces. All the bookies are out the front here too. R.Kev’s temporarily absconded his package tour under the guidance of messrs B.Martin, W.Wilson and Terry “TK” Kennedy.

The first beer is ceremonially purchased from the Choisir bar. It’s a Fosters. The international brew a socially acceptable option here.

John McCririck, At The Races’ eccentric old mutton-chopped nutty professor, wanders past towards the plum TV hosting seat of the immaculate parade ring. McCririck is a dissenter of, seemingly, most of the human race, but particularly us “uncouth” Australians. He might be in for a tough week. There are antipodean accents everywhere.

Heads are then quickly turned from beast to beauty.

“Friend of the almanac” Francesca Cumani appears. On her home turf, this is indeed a treat. Far removed from the ills of the Channel 7 megawall, strutting purposefully in lilac.

I recall John Harms’ tale of a lead ballooning joke with Ms Cumani at the Geelong Cup. A fondue platter was mentioned. I will seek other openers should I have the opportunity to crack wise (I won’t).

But the paps move straight past Francesca.

There’s all manner of hullaballoo in front of the betting stand for the Queen’s hat colour. By the way, as per my own headwear, the blue was victorious, at 2-1.

Michael Owen, English football demi-god, and major racing enthusiast, had wandered in. I snap the photo of the commotion, and tweet it. I can’t hear a word, but I suspect the BBC’s vox-pop with Michael concerns England’s prospects against Ukraine at Euro 2012 later that night, as opposed to his runners at the meeting.

“The Australian” bar is downstairs from the parade ring. It features photos of all our Ascot winners. Choisir, Takeover Target, Scenic Blast, Miss Andretti, Sparspangledbanner.

It also features Little Creatures and Tooheys New stubbies. Could you imagine paying for the latter in GBP at Royal Ascot? It’s morally conflicting enough parting with AUD for a New at Flemington.

The picnic tables and lawn area adjacent provide a retreat from the madness of the building parade ring area.

The locals are chugging down Pimms. White English skin is being burned. The top hats and tails set are mingling with, for story purposes, the common folk. The whole scene reeks of snobbery, but snobs themselves seem to be light on.

We line the fence to welcome the Queen’s procession. Rooboy Kev thinks we are waiting here solely for Frankel. He is displeased.

Liz and Phil make their grand entrance among the three royal carriages. I take crap photos.

Some Australian lads are alongside. They’ve either just finished a Contiki tour, or will be pouring beers at the Walkabout in Covent Garden tomorrow. They are “well on the way”.

It’s time for racing. Sheikh Mohammed and his endless entourage now stroll past in their top hats, fitted to within an inch of their life.

“Ay Sheikyyyyy, there he is, there he is. Sheikyyyy, you beauty”, cries said lad.

The Shiekh looks over in complete bewilderment.

For this moment, McCririck’s words are ringing true.

Frankel then wanders past towards the ring. Camera’s again flash wildly. He is not actually that impressive to the naked untrained eye.

Caulfield Guineas winner Helmet, the Sheikh’s charge, arrives last to the ring, to little fanfare. Maybe the Sheikh just burned him off, knowing the embarrassment all runners not named Frankel would soon suffer in the Queen Anne Stakes.

Resuming a spot on the packed terraces for the race itself, all are waiting for Frankel, the world’s greatest horse, to deliver his patented “pop”.

At the three furlong mark the super colt obliges, easing to the front. The cheers begin.

What Frankel then unleashes can only be described as “equine brutality”.

He extends his lead so rapidly, and with such power, you can physically feel his force as he powers past. An hour earlier Melbourne suffered from their own tremors. Frankel dispelled any feelings of homesickness with thunderous ground-shaking of his own.

Frankel’s reverberations are distinct. There’s no one within cooee distorting the perfection. No muffled trampling of the remaining field. For those few seconds, it’s him and him alone. It’s some whoosh.

The Frankel whoosh.

Each thundering stride multiplies the feeling of privilege in witnessing this destruction.

For each point of his odds-on quote, he justified it by a length. Eleven of them.

It’s the first race of the week, and possibly the greatest equine performance of all time.

The toughest act to follow in the history of race meetings.

Eyes then focus on Ortensia in the King’s Stand. She’s firming in the ring, despite sweating up in the yard. There is an Australian victor, the jockey at least. Zac Purton on Hong Kong’s Little Bridge.

Black Caviar’s odds are quickly eased owing to Ortensia’s failure. Idiocy is rampant.

Old Guv’s tip Power then comes a cropper in the St James Palace.

Suddenly we are half way through the day’s racing, and we retreat back to the Australian bar.

A familiar face of modern day Ascot renown, enjoys a Fosters.

It’s Joe Janiak. Takeover Target’s trainer. He the Canberra taxi driver who bought a horse for $1,250 + GST, earned over $6 million, became a Royal Ascot legend, and famously met the Queen along the way. In the grandstand proper, there is also a Takeover Target bar.

I make myself known, and Joe happily obliges my request for a happy snap. We pose a reverse “Blue Steel” in front of a photo of his beloved Takeover Target. It’s Joe and his wife’s first return to Ascot since 2009. I mention our similar hiatus. I was here in 2009 on Jubilee day, seven days into marriage, when his great horse was unfortunately scratched on race morning.

They can’t wait to see Black Caviar on Saturday.

Famously donning the top hat and tails back in the day, I ask if that’s on the agenda again.

“Nah, I’ve done enough of that shit mate!”

Joe is shouted a beer.

“Oh, crikey!”

We return to the terraces for the 2yo Coventry Stakes.

My fancy, Dawn Approach, salutes. My saver on Funk Soul Brother, the obligatory omen bet in respect of my brother’s band name, was not required.

The continued big fields in the final two events ensure punting is a tough gig here.

The bookies boards can confuse as the day’s refreshments kick in also. On some boards saddlecloth numbers run down the left, prices on the right. Others are the reverse. Some then sort the board by price, others by saddlecloth. Some field without the favourite. It feels like a sting – like much of their odds, it must be said.

Most unlike home, patrons are then encouraged to stick around.

It’s Bandstand time. P.J Flynn had ensured me Roll Out the Barrel will feature.

We miss out on song book distribution, the running sheet is unknown. But hands are laid on Union Jack flags. At this point, I’m not sure what year it is. It doesn’t feel like 2012. It feels like we’re back celebrating the liberation of France, or the continued production of Coronation Street.

But the opening song proves music to my ears.

“Oh when the Saints….”

Reality quickly becomes “surreality”.

“Turn it up, you blokes”.

This particular version of When The Saints Go Marching In did not feature the line “I want to be there at Moorabbin”, despite my best efforts.

McCririck is tut-tut-tutting away again somewhere.

The Union Jacks are waving. People are digging this shit. Rooboy Kev, despite possessing the most Anglo Saxon surname possible, engages in some sort of Republican style monarchist diatribe.

I keep the peace as an amiable Commonwealth subject.

Thirty second ditties dominate first.

Pack Up Your Troubles, I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles, Daydream Believer.

And they romp home with the usual suspects.

You’ll Never Walk Alone, We’ll Meet Again, Rule Britannia, Jersualem, God Save Our Queen.

Indeed, there is certainly no doubt what country we’ve landed in.

The refreshed express soon escorts us back to Waterloo. Warbling on the train turns a little more unwieldy.

The entire day has been an incredible entrée to the week.

We’ll do it all again tomorrow.

Toodle Pip.