Cecil draws deep as Midday provides yet more glory
0 Comments | Racing Post (London, England), The, August 1, 2010
Byline: Steve Dennis
HOW long is a cigarette? That depends. Depends on what you’re doing while you smoke it.
If one acts as the peaceful coda to a nocturnal spree, you might stretch it out, smoke it with a smile. Snatch one between trains, or drinks, and it becomes more functional, a few desperate drags in a windswept doorway, a brief halo of blue smoke billowing around your head.
If you’re watching the Blue Square Nassau Stakes, on the other hand, and you’re Henry Cecil, wearing red socks as any gentleman does, the cigarette will last 2min 07.25sec.
Cecil sparked up a gasper as the seven runners spilled from the stalls, and as Tom Queally headed towards Portsmouth aboard Midday with the race in the bag, slaps pattering on his shoulders and congratulations ringing in his ears, he lit another.
He may have drawn deeply on it when he heard the bell announcing the stewards’ inquiry, given that he has a little previous with the stewards this season, but seeing as Midday, brave and getting braver, had put her whole length between herself and the unavailing Stacelita there was never any real worry that she’d lose the race.
When the ‘placings remain unaltered’ rang out it would have come as a relief to Cecil, Queally and all, although they treated the news in less ostentatious fashion than one racegoer in a linen suit, who crumpled to his knees and punched the air, head back, sunglasses falling to the floor.
He must have won a few quid and just as well; getting the grass stains out of his trousers won’t be cheap.
Goodwood may not have been at its most glorious today, the sunshine too ephemeral and the grey clouds too prominent, but the weather improved as the day went on.
It can be changeable here – I once watched the first race of an evening card here in brilliant sunshine, but before the second race a storm came in off the Solent and the sky was as black as Blackbeard’s beard, the rest of the meeting being rained off.
But this ridge of the South Downs is a better place than most for glory-seekers, and for some this week glory has been commonplace, picked up almost as easily as Klondike nuggets before the goldrushers rushed in.
The names Hannon and Hughes have been more of a guarantee of excellence these last five days than Rolls and Royce, more reliable, a better investment, the only sound you can hear the clock in the jockey’s head.
Pausanias showed plenty of grit for a debutant in the 7f maiden when taking the deadly duo to eight winners apiece and Eucharist had to man up – despite being a filly – to make light of any inrunning impropriety when making it nine, but such grit and glitter are a given down at Herridge and Everleigh and both in abundance.
Hannon may look after more horses than most but he gets more out of them than most, and there isn’t a better trainer of two-year-olds walking around. Much is made of his position propping up the bar of the Shears when celebrations are in order, and certainly when this week is out the manager will need to spend most of next week stocktaking.
I went to visit Hannon at the start of the season and he spared nothing in giving me the full tour
shoulder bags