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CASSIDY, R. The Sport of Kings PDF
CASSIDY, R. The Sport of Kings PDF
Rebecca Cassidy
Goldsmiths College, University of London
The Pitt Building, Trumpington Street, Cambridge, United Kingdom
http://www.cambridge.org
Preface page vi
Acknowledgements xi
1 Introduction 1
2 Headquarters 13
3 Keeping it in the family 31
4 At the races 49
5 Having a flutter 66
6 Going once, going twice . . . 88
7 One of the lads 106
8 Doing it for Daddy 124
9 Blood will tell 140
10 Conclusions 161
v
Preface
vi
Preface vii
Fieldwork in Newmarket
I arrived in Newmarket in October 1996, an experienced rider, but a relative
newcomer to the world of racing. I enjoyed going to the races, but I did not know
anyone with a professional involvement in racing. During my undergraduate
degree I had acquired the habit of driving over to Newmarket to watch the horses
on the Heath, and it was during this time that I began to notice the interesting
characters surrounding the practice of horseracing.
As later chapters reiterate, my pre-existing knowledge of horses and my
ability to ride and handle them was one of the most significant factors influenc-
ing my fieldwork. Evans-Pritchard famously said, ‘“cherchez la vache” is the
best advice that can be given to those who desire to understand Nuer behaviour’
(1940: 16). Of course, in relation to Newmarket Evans-Pritchard’s advice would
read instead, ‘cherchez le cheval’. My acceptance by many racing people de-
pended upon my ability to perform tasks involving horses with the minimum of
difficulty and fuss. On meeting people for the first time, I was often asked to ‘just
grab hold of that old mare for me’, or ‘hand me that scraper will you?’ Though
the manner was casual and the task usually straightforward, its completion often
depended upon a confidence with horses and a knowledge of their specialised
equipment, which indicated to ‘horse-people’ that I was ‘one of them’.
This book is based upon fifteen months’ fieldwork in Newmarket. Although
Newmarket was the primary site of my fieldwork, my object of study was
in fact ‘racing society’, a collection of people involved in the production of
racing, found in high concentration in the town. I also gathered data from a
variety of locations outside Newmarket, specifically, from racecourses all over
Britain, from the Ascot and Doncaster bloodstock sales, from racing’s service
providers in Wellingborough (Weatherbys) and London (the Jockey Club and
the British Horseracing Board) and from Lambourn, the centre of National Hunt
racing in Britain.
I began my fieldwork in the autumn, when most of the important sales take
place at Tattersalls Park Paddocks in the centre of Newmarket. The breed-
ing season for English thoroughbreds runs from February to July, and all
thoroughbreds share a nominal birthday of 1 January. Foals are the produce
of a particular ‘dam’ and ‘sire’, a mare and a stallion. Female racehorses are
referred to as ‘fillies’ up to and including the age of four, after which time they
become ‘mares’. If the filly is ‘covered’ (mated) before she is five, she automat-
ically becomes a mare. A ‘stallion’ refers to a male horse at stud, a ‘gelding’ is
a castrated male horse, a ‘colt’ is a male horse up to and including the age of
four years who is not at stud or gelded. A ‘horse’ is a male horse over the age
of five who is neither gelding nor stallion.
Most English thoroughbreds are sold as yearlings, ready to go into training
and to race the next season as two-year-olds. Yearlings are either brought straight
viii Preface
from the stud on which they were born to the sales, or go through a ‘preparation’
with a sales agent. The sales run until the end of the year, and once they had
finished I began working on a stud, at the beginning of 1997.
My experiences of working as a stud hand are described in detail in chapter
eight. The early part of the year was dominated by foaling and then by ‘covering’
(mating). Once the foals had been born and the mares covered, the emphasis
changed and the turf flat season began (all-weather flat racing continues through-
out the winter, but is not as prestigious or valuable as turf racing). My fieldwork
also moved, from stud to training stable, where my own initiation into riding
racehorses began. My experience of working as a ‘lad’ is described in chapter
seven. The yearlings bought at the sale are sent to the training stables chosen by
their owners. Racehorses are trained on behalf of their owners by professional
racehorse trainers, who may board between six and two hundred ‘horses in
training’.
Once a yearling has been placed with a trainer, it becomes a ‘horse in training’,
and is ‘backed’ and ‘broken’, that is, accustomed first to a bridle and saddle,
and then to a rider. Two-year-olds may be too ‘backward’ to race and need
time to grow before they can withstand the pressures of training. Others are
quick to learn, growing into what is referred to as an ‘early’ two-year-old. Once
the two-year-old is broken, he will be ‘tried’ against his peers, to see whether
he ‘shows’ any speed. A two-year-old who is ‘showing’ at home will be tried
in a race, the outcome of which will determine his future. The majority of
two-year-olds will be given several chances to race as they may not show their
ability due to being ‘green’, i.e. lacking in experience. At three, the racehorse
is thought to be mature enough to have ‘shown’ his ability although there are
some who are ‘slow to come to themselves’ and continue to develop. Once
a racehorse has established his ability, after several runs at two and three,
it is unlikely that he will ever run in a better ‘class’ of race, and will run
at the same level until he loses his physical ‘soundness’ or ‘form’. At this
point the horse may be retired or tried over jumps. Mares are likely to be
‘put into foal’ whilst only the best bred and most successful colts become
stallions.
The major phases of my fieldwork were thus spent working on a stud, in a
training yard, on the racecourse and at the sales showing yearlings. In addition,
I met members of racing society who were eager to describe their families.
These interviews were conducted throughout fieldwork, at the races and in
informants’ homes. My association with the professional punter, who explained
a great deal about gambling, stemmed from an introduction by a racecourse
commentator with whom I spent a day. Over the course of fieldwork I also
spent time with breeders, owners, farriers, vets, bloodstock agents, Jockey Club
officials, racing correspondents, bloodstock experts, local councillors, the local
Preface ix
Member of Parliament, the London Racing Club, and at Weatherbys, the Jockey
Club and the British Racing School.
I choose not to describe this thesis as an example of ‘anthropology at home’.
In Newmarket, I was ‘at home’ in relation to my nationality, skin colour,
upbringing and affinity with horses. I was also, of course, not ‘at home’, because
I was always a member of a community of anthropologists, that membership
being the purpose of my presence in Newmarket. Writing up has reinforced this
separation. If ‘anthropology at home’ refers to a purely geographical notion of
‘inside Britain, Europe, or North America’, then it is merely uninformative.
However, if it implies something more profound, such as a sharing of con-
cepts significant to the conduct of anthropology in that area, then I believe
that it is misleading. It is not necessary to leave the society in which one feels
‘at home’ in order to question the founding principles of that society, whilst,
as McDonald has argued, it is possible to go to any distant society, only to
return with fulfilled and unquestioned expectations. (‘We now realise, I think,
that some anthropology never left home, or never really returned with its home
categories and values seriously challenged in any way other than that in which
we expected them to be disturbed. We expected the natives to have lots of rit-
ual, religion, kinship, metaphor, myth and meaning, and that is what we found’
(McDonald 1987: 123).) I would prefer to emphasise Cohen’s statement that,
‘any mind beyond the ethnographer’s own is Other and, therefore, requires to
have interpretive work done on it’ (1990: 205).
Whilst it no longer seems necessary to rail against exoticism within anthro-
pology, it does appear that some societies remain more suitable subjects of
anthropological enquiry than others. In particular, anthropology seems suited
to understanding the most under-represented and least powerful societies. Part
of the purpose of this study was to discover whether anthropology was equally
well suited to characterising a Western, aristocratic elite. I feel that anthropo-
logy met this challenge, with the anticipated benefits to the relationship between
fieldworker and informant. Shovelling muck at 6 a.m. one freezing morning,
with a broken finger and a strapped ankle, covered in horse secretions of various
sorts, I pondered my place in the scheme of things that was my fieldwork. I was
shaken from my reverie by a loud blast from ‘the boss’: ‘Rebecca! Get your
anthropological arse out here!’ As Ortner said of her high-school colleagues
whom she made objects of study, ‘it’s healthy to be in this more symmetrical
position vis-à-vis my informants. Nobody can accuse me of silencing them’
(1995: 271).
Those who might feel that horseracing is too technical and specialised a world
to comprehend from so short a piece of work have succumbed to the exact state
of befuddlement that racing knowledge is intended to induce. No understanding
of the handicap weighting system or the tongue-strap/blinkers controversy is
x Preface
necessary in order to approach this book. I hope that it will become obvious
that the technicalities of racing are strangely unfounded, and therefore that their
significance lies less in what they enable an individual to do and more in the
appearance of knowledge they communicate. This awareness is intended to help
the reader to concentrate less on what they do not know about horseracing and
more on what I can tell them about the people who have racing lives.
Acknowledgements
The major period of fieldwork on which this book is based took place during
an Edinburgh University Studentship. I am very grateful to the university for
their support, and to the people who helped me to secure the award. The PhD
that formed the basis for this manuscript was written under the expert guidance
of Janet Carsten, and examined by Tony Cohen and Sarah Franklin. All three
of these people have been great sources of inspiration to me. The writing-up
process was completed during a British Academy Postdoctoral Fellowship held
at the department of Social Anthropology at Cambridge University under the
enjoyable mentorship of Stephen Hugh-Jones. I am very grateful for the support
I have received from the British Academy. Needless to say, numerous people at
both Edinburgh and Cambridge have contributed to the book in different ways,
and I thank them all. Of course, I must also acknowledge my debt to my friends
in racing, human and equine, not least Waders, Homer and The Golden Anorak.
I didn’t know that it was possible to have so much fun until I met them.
Whilst I hope that the description of peoples, places and events is an accurate
reflection of the period when I conducted my fieldwork, some changes will
inevitably have taken place since 1996, and readers should not assume that what
was, to the best of my ability, a true record at the time, is necessarily still so.
xi
1 Introduction
This book does not concern itself with identifying the first ever English horse-
race or with tracing the ancient history of racing generally. It is concerned with
the modern period of horseracing, from the time at which it was codified in
the nineteenth century, to its contemporary form. The main impetus for this
codification came from the Jockey Club.
The Jockey Club was established in 1750 as a gentlemen’s club, meeting most
often in the Star and Garter in Pall Mall. The Club also met at the Corner, Hyde
Park, owned by Richard Tattersall. When Tattersall moved to Knightsbridge the
Jockey Club moved into the Bond Street residence of their agents, Weatherbys
(Black 1893). This trio of institutions – the Jockey Club, Weatherbys and
Tattersalls – are still dominant forces in English racing, though their roles have
changed since the formation of the British Horseracing Board in 1992.
The records of the Jockey Club do not reveal its original purpose, and there
does not seem to be any explicit statement of intent to control racing. Mem-
bership was almost exclusively aristocratic. The term ‘jockey’ referred, at the
time, to the owner of the horse, rather than its rider, and so it could be said
that the Club was, initially, a racehorse owners’ association. In 1752 the Jockey
Club leased a plot of land in Newmarket, and the original ‘Coffee Room’ was
built. According to their own history, the Jockey Club was soon approached for
advice where disputes arose on ‘the turf’ (Jockey Club History 1997: 1).1
Horseracing at Newmarket had been established well before the Jockey Club
chose to locate itself on the High Street. Newmarket’s place as the ‘HQ’ of
racing developed with royal patronage, beginning with Richard II, ‘But it was
under James I that the village really became Royal Newmarket’ (Lyle 1945: 4).
This royal association culminated with Charles II, who famously conducted the
court from Newmarket during autumn race meetings:
1
2 The Sport of Kings
Thus we find the turf, rising like a Phoenix from the ashes on the accession of Charles II,
thoroughly reinstituted as our great national pastime during the Merry Monarch’s
reign . . . To this resuscitation the king extended his powerful patronage and support.
(Hore 1886: 92)
any Jockey Club land remains. Two men were warned off for ten years in 1998
after collaborating in the formation of an allegedly fraudulent syndicate. There
is no right of appeal, and a ‘warning off’ ends any professional involvement
in racing. The Jockey Club retains the right to end individual careers where it
feels racing has been brought into disrepute.
The authority of the Jockey Club began to extend beyond Newmarket after
1832 when a notice in the Racing Calendar effectively called the bluff of all other
local authorities by announcing that the Club would only adjudicate on New-
market races, as those elsewhere were run under such a wide variety of rules.2
This was a first step towards the standardisation of the rules of horseracing, and
the contemporary Jockey Club notes with satisfaction that it has ‘finally culmi-
nated in reciprocal agreements with the Jockey Club, and Turf Authorities of
practically every country in the world where racing takes place today’ (Jockey
Club History 1997: 3).
The introduction of a series of revised rules of racing after 1858 reflects
the rapid period of change undergone by racing at this time. Although the
old rules had remained unchanged for over one hundred years, the new rules
lasted until 1868, only to be revised again in 1871 (Jockey Club History
1997: 2–3). Where race meetings had been a haphazard affair with the atmo-
sphere of a local fair or carnival, they were now becoming highly organ-
ised with formalised procedures for starting, weight allocation and judging.
Of course, the increased sophistication of the rules of racing succeeded in
reinforcing the role of the Jockey Club and its place in the government of
racing.
Weatherbys employees still describe themselves as the ‘Civil Service’ to rac-
ing. Weatherbys is a family business, its current head being Johnny Weatherby,
descendant of the original agent of the Jockey Club. Weatherbys holds the
records of owners’ colours (the unique colour and design of the silks worn by
the jockey on a particular owner’s horse), names (horses’ names must be regis-
tered with Weatherbys before they may race) and financial affairs for the Jockey
Club. It takes entries for races and deals with the administration of licences and
permits. It has recently registered as a bank and can provide a variety of finan-
cial services in addition to handling racing accounts which pay entry fees and
Heath tax, and hold winnings.
Richard Tattersalls, the original host of the Jockey Club when they held their
meetings at the Corner in Hyde Park in the 1750s, founded his own dynasty of
thoroughbred racehorse auctioneers (Orchard 1953: 1). Tattersalls is no longer
family-owned or run, but remains perhaps the most prestigious bloodstock
auctioneers in the world, located in Park Paddocks in the centre of Newmarket.
Tattersalls attracts the best bred yearlings to the annual Houghton Sales, where
215 horses were sold for a total of 34.5 million guineas3 over three days in
October 1999 (Tattersalls website 2000).
4 The Sport of Kings
The role of the Jockey Club has changed since the inception of the British
Horseracing Board in 1992. The Board is now responsible for racing’s finances,
political lobbying, the form taken by the fixture list, marketing (an innovation)
and training:
The BHB will strive to maintain significant improvements to the finances of Flat and
Jump horseracing, as an important spectator sport, leisure industry and betting medium.
It will aim to do this for the benefit of all those who invest in Racing and derive enjoyment
from it, and in order to enhance British Racing’s competitive position internationally.
(British Horseracing Board Annual Report 1993: 1)
The Jockey Club retains responsibility for discipline, security, ‘the conduct of
a day’s racing’ and the licensing of racecourses and individuals; its current role
has been described as racing’s policeman. Membership of the Jockey Club is
still internally elected and retains its male-dominated, aristocratic emphasis;
thus in 1997, of 112 members, 89% were men, 44% were titled. Of the fifteen
honorary members, five were British royals, four Sheikhs, two held military
titles and two were Weatherbys.4
In addition to regulating racing, the Jockey Club is the major land owner in
Newmarket. The Jockey Club estate extends to 4500 acres in total, of which
2800 are training grounds, plus three stud farms, a farm, seventy-five residen-
tial properties, twenty commercial properties and The Jockey Club Rooms.
This portfolio includes both the Rowley Mile and July Racecourses, the Links
Golf Club, the National Stud land, the National Horseracing Museum, twelve
leasehold training yards and, in a surprising diversification, two Happy Eater
restaurants. Trainers pay a Heath tax to the Jockey Club (£69 per horse per
month in 1997), that entitles a horse to use the training grounds.5 The Jockey
Club has defined its new role as ‘setting and maintaining standards for racing’
(Jockey Club Annual Report 1997: 1).
The funding of racing in Britain has developed in accordance with its ex-
ecutive growth. The Horserace Betting Levy Board (HBLB) was instituted
in 1963 in order to assess, collect and apply the ‘monetary contributions
from bookmakers and the Totaliser Board (the Tote)’. Until January 2002,
a levy was raised on all legal bookmaking, at a level of 1.25% of turnover
(approximately £50 million annually). Betting off-course had been liable to
General Betting Duty, at 9%, of which the government took 6.5% (approxi-
mately £300 million annually). Betting on-course was tax free. Racing also
has its own betting enterprise, the Tote, the profits of which (£4,457,000 in
1999) go directly into racing. The HBLB spent £29,471,000 on prize money
in 1999, which constituted 49% of expenditure (Horserace Betting Levy Board
2000).
Racing is therefore, for the time being, funded primarily by contributions
from the betting public, collected by bookmakers and distributed by the HBLB.
Introduction 5
Nowhere have bookmakers come to play such an important role in the betting market as
in Britain and Ireland, though they remain legal in many other parts of Europe and the
world. (Munting 1996: 110)
The relationship between the bookmaker, the punter and the producers of rac-
ing is unique to British racing, and is a reflection of broader dynamics within
British society. In 2000, 7422 races were held during 323 days racing at the 59
British racecourses. Fourteen thousand racehorses in training ran for £72 million
in prize money. According to the British Horseracing Board’s website, five
million people went racing. Racing remains the most televised sport on British
terrestrial television, and a huge ten million people watched the Grand National
in 2000. Racing and breeding employs 60,000 people, or one in eight agricul-
tural workers in Britain. It provides an estimated 70% of income for the betting
industry that employs some 40,000 people. In the year 1999–2000, £7 billion
was bet off course in Britain’s 8500 Licensed Betting Offices, generating
£344 million for the government in betting duty. In addition, £94.5 million
was bet on course with the Tote. In the breeding paddocks of the UK and
Ireland, 30,000 mares and 1000 stallions produced approximately 14,000 foals
in 2000, the next generation of champions.
Making connections
Although kinship was central to anthropology throughout the twentieth century,
English kinship was not the focus of any sustained or influential study until the
1980s. Even after this time, as Cohen indicates, it did not receive the same
attention as more ‘exotic’ kinship systems/patterns might:
We seemed to be apologetic for taking up readers’ time with descriptions of systems
and processes which were manifestly less elaborate, exotic, mysterious and, therefore,
intellectually demanding than those to be found in Africa, Asia, the Pacific or the Middle
East. In short, we were defensive. (1990: 218)
Part of the explanation for this defensiveness can be extrapolated from the
centrality of kinship to the classic anthropological texts and its perceived pe-
ripherality ‘at home’. The proper subject of anthropology before the latter half
of the twentieth century was ‘primitive society’; studying kinship ‘at home’ re-
quired an explanation where studying elsewhere did not. In more recent anthro-
pology, however, ‘primitive society’ has been revealed as illusory, a construct
fashioned in opposition to the society to which early social anthropologists
belonged.
Kinship had been presented as the source of sociality in those societies that
apparently lacked an institution which anthropologists could equate to either
a state or a commercially driven division of labour. Thus unilineal kinship
Introduction 7
Though these observations seem unremarkable now, they make a stark contrast
to Jamieson’s descriptions of the pre-modern era:
the intimacy of close association did not necessarily result in empathy, because this
was a highly stratified social world in which each knew his or her place in the social
order . . . Marrying and having children were economic arrangements and the relation-
ships which resulted were ones in which men were assumed to rule and own women
and children. This was sanctioned by religion, law and community norms. (1998: 11)
Bott, working amongst the middle class, was reluctant to correlate class status
with extra-familial kin contact. Firth, however, was prepared to reproduce,
however apologetically, a sweeping framework in which upper and lower classes
were characterised by the greater importance of extra-familial kin, whilst the
middle class exemplified the Parsonian nuclear family:
Crudely generalised, such views seem not too implausible. They place the kinship at-
titudes of the middle classes somewhere between the interest – both co-operative and
competitive – in perpetuation of economic and political assets shown by the upper classes
and the warm protectiveness of the propertyless working classes. (1969: 16)
Firth concludes that extra-familial kinship amongst the middle class is ‘expres-
sive rather than instrumental’ (1969: 461–2).
The dismissal of cognatic kinship and the accompanying reduction of English
kinship to family and class was halted in the late 1970s and early 1980s with
Fox’s The Tory Islanders (1978), and Strathern’s Elmdon (1981). Whilst Tory
Island kinship provided a framework, manipulation of which could enable the
distribution of scarce resources in a harsh setting, Strathern went further in
showing that:
Village and kinship together provide images of class. It is not just that they are about
particular classes in the direct way in which Elmdoners experience their situation, but
they are about class in general. A person’s own particular position need not totally
determine his view of the overall structure. (1981: 200)
Nature in Newmarket
The idea that relationships with animals can tell us something about rela-
tionships between humans is not new within social anthropology, as Evans-
Pritchard’s comments about the Nuer confirm. Recently, however, the study of
animal–human relationships has enjoyed a period of intense attention, partly due
to an invigorating cross-fertilisation between academic disciplines, particularly
Introduction 9
the ban on British beef and the bomb threat at the Grand National. More gener-
ally, racing society confronts outsiders, including those who bet and attend race
meetings, in ways that highlight their own uniqueness. These encounters are
discussed in chapter three. However, it was the ‘literalising process’ (Strathern
1992b: 4–5) implied by the technologies of Artificial Insemination (AI) and
cloning which led racing society to explain their ideas about nature with
greatest force.
Summary
Chapters two and three of this book describe Newmarket and its inhabitants,
and, in particular, those people involved in the production of racing. In chapter
three I describe the means by which racing people are reproduced. I concentrate
upon the elite of racing society, those who see themselves as ‘real’ Newmarket
families, and claim a familial connection to Newmarket and to racing. A par-
ticular family, and their ideas about their own ‘pedigrees’ and those of others,
is described in order to suggest that racing is thought to be ‘in the blood’.
Chapters four and five engage with the public side of racing, but go beyond
the image presented on television or by the tame racing press. Chapter four is a
guided tour of the racecourse, where racing is made public. I discuss segregation
on the racecourse, the differences between the variously priced enclosures of the
racecourse and their correlation with sumptuary distinctions and dress codes.
Chapter five discusses the consumption of horseracing by punters in the betting
ring and in Licensed Betting Offices. Betting on horseracing is the dominant
form of gambling in Britain.10
Chapter six describes a different kind of gamble: the action that takes place
in the auction ring, where pedigrees are articulated financially in the sale of
yearling thoroughbreds. The purpose of the chapter is to present the ideology of
pedigree in the context in which it is most fully played out, amongst horses when
they are being treated as objects. Chapter seven describes the apprenticeships
experienced by lads in Newmarket.
Chapters eight and nine combine to describe the ideology of pedigree in
greater detail. The intersubjectivity between humans and animals that makes
pedigree such a powerful organising principle in Newmarket is examined.
Chapter eight takes as its starting point Ingold’s assertion that, ‘Contrary to
the normal assumption, the borderline between humans and animals is any-
thing but obvious, clear and immutable’ (1988: xii). In chapter nine I iden-
tify the ‘natural facts’ of reproduction assumed by the ideology of pedigree. I
examine the sales catalogue as the site of graphically reproduced ideas of hered-
ity and procreation and therefore of kinship, gender and class. The impact of AI
upon the racing industry, and the means by which it is opposed are discussed
Introduction 11
notes
1 Huggins (2000) reassesses the role of the Jockey Club and argues that its influence was
not felt until much later, ‘In reality, up to and sometimes beyond the 1860s, outside
Newmarket and a minority of elite courses, the Club was ineffective, with some
influence but little actual power, except in parliament . . . But by the later nineteenth
century the Jockey Club’s response to changing economic imperatives gave it much
more influence over major “recognised” meetings’ (2000: 174).
2 Huggins dates this extension of influence a little later, ‘The first truly effective move
to extend the Club’s power beyond Newmarket came in 1870 when new rules were
introduced and more attempt was made to ensure that the majority of major courses
would use them’ (2000: 182).
3 Racehorses are still sold in guineas, units of a pound and a shilling. The shilling
originally paid the fee of the auctioneer and the auction house.
4 These percentages are calculated from the list of members provided by the Sporting
Life, on 10 November 1997.
5 Huggins identifies the role of the Jockey Club as Newmarket land-owner as the source
of a great deal of its historical influence, ‘Any original power the Jockey Club pos-
sessed lay almost entirely in the control it exercised over Newmarket . . . all trainers
there were required to be licensed. Licenses had been refused to several trainers,
putting others under more pressure to conform or lose their livelihood’ (2000: 176–7).
The same pressure can be seen in operation today.
6 At the time of going to press the British Horseracing Board was celebrating the
completion of what has been referred to as the ‘Go Racing’ deal. On 25 June 2001
the BHB website trumpeted, ‘BHB reaches historic decisions on Go Racing Contract
and Future Funding Plan’. The Go Racing consortium (later renamed ‘Attheraces’)
of Arena Leisure, BSkyB and Channel Four, have made a media rights deal with 49
of Britain’s racecourses worth £307 million to racing plus £80 million for marketing
(Ashforth 2001: 6). Racing will be televised on a free to air policy in the format
pioneered by Channel Four, in order to exploit new digital technology that will enable
armchair punting. The relationship between betting turnover and televised coverage
is extremely strong, and it is the existing audience of terrestrial viewers that the
consortium will hope to build on through marketing and betting innovations. This sort
of interactive television betting produces margins of around 10%, the reason for Go
Racing’s eagerness to invest in racing, the most popular betting medium in Britain
and the world (Broen 2001: 7). The effects of this change in the basis of the funding
of racing, and in the nature of the betting experience, will be profound, but it will also
presumably affect the bloodstock industry if the demand for racing increases and so
more horses are needed to service this demand. In essence, the effects of the deal may
spread throughout the industry.
7 See also Haraway 1989, Carsten 1999, Strathern 1992a, Bouquet 1993, Yanagisako
and Delaney 1995.
8 For an overview of this process see Mullins 1999.
12 The Sport of Kings
Introduction
The nature of a first encounter with Newmarket is determined to a large extent
by the season and the time of day at which the unsuspecting visitor arrives.
Arrive on a wintry afternoon and an eerie calm permeates the town, the most
energetic activities being shopping, pensioner-style. Late at night, particularly
during the summer, the stable lads venture out into the town. One may find
a brightly clothed, noisy mass of people moving between the four nightclubs
and numerous pubs of the High Street, buzzing with excitement and creating
an atmosphere described by locals as ‘like a street party’. Arrive in Newmarket
early on a spring morning, however, and something of its true purpose will
be revealed. The hundreds of racehorses who spend the rest of the day hidden
away in the stables that are tucked into every corner of the town take over,
and standing amongst the milling horses one is reminded that this is a town in
which, as I was told, ‘everything is horse’.
This chapter is based upon a discussion of landscape, language and appear-
ance. I shall begin by introducing the town of Newmarket through a historical
account of the development of its link with horseracing. This account reflects
the dominance of racing voices amongst the historians of Newmarket. I have
not found a history of Newmarket told independently from that of horseracing,
and my own account reproduces this symbiosis and is thus ‘bad’ history, but
consciously so. This is followed by a description of contemporary Newmarket
that attempts to communicate the influence of the racing industry upon its daily
and seasonal rhythms.
The landscape of Newmarket and the surrounding countryside will then
be discussed in order to illustrate the attempts to improve the environment
that appear as the corollary of controlling the processes involved in breed-
ing and training racehorses. The landscape of Newmarket is that of immaculate
hedges and white painted fences, raked gravel driveways and chessboard lawns.
Attempts to control nature disguise the minimal human ability to explain, and
therefore repeat, many of the breeding and training successes thrown up by the
industry.
13
14 The Sport of Kings
The language of racing, and its capacity to include and exclude, will then
be considered. Racing language not only serves to distinguish between insiders
and outsiders, but also offers a field of expertise in which knowledge is scarce
or even absent. Proficiency in breeding racehorses, perhaps unobtainable, may
thus be replaced with fluency in the language associated with this proficiency.
As the people called upon to explain why a horse ran badly, jockeys must be
experts in this language, or, as champion Frankie Dettori has stated, a jockey
‘must be able to bullshit’. Communication maps class relations amongst the
insiders of racing society.
The distinction between upper class and working class in Newmarket is re-
silient. There is no straightforward career path between, for example, working as
a lad and training, and the two roles are created as separate social spaces, across
which communication and mobility are generally discouraged, as a trainer
explained to me:
The best lads know their place . . . they tell me what I need to know in order to do my
job and get on with the rest themselves. This is what good lads should aspire to, just as
I aspire to training winners.1
Newmarket’s history
Running across Newmarket Heath and beyond is an enormous defensive ram-
part, called the Devil’s Dyke. Excavations of the Dyke have revealed something
of the early history of the Heath. People frequently thought that I was studying
the Dyke, on the grounds that anthropology was ‘about digging up bones’.
The past is important to Newmarket people, and is constantly employed as a
source of justification for the present, as in this description by the Racing Post
bloodstock correspondent Tony Morris:
Racing has developed from a pastime for the few to a massive global industry since Herod,
Matchem and Eclipse established their reputations at Newmarket. Forty generations on
from the founding fathers of the breed, the town’s unique status is preserved, its history
and traditions preserved, its commitment to the sport and the industry more vigorous
than ever. (1998: 4)
Historical portraits tend to linger over Charles II’s affair with Nell Gwynne,
whose house was apparently attached to the palace via an underground tunnel,
16 The Sport of Kings
and the sporting exploits of the King and his followers, as in this description
by the nineteenth-century historian John Hore:
Take him all round he was a thorough English sportsman, who could hold his own against
all-comers in the chase, on the racecourse, at angling, shooting, hawking, billiards, tennis;
none could excel him in his morning walk from Whitehall to Hampton Court. (1886: 93)
Charles II even took his nickname, ‘Old Rowley’, from his favourite horse.
Contemporary Newmarket historians discover in their predecessors the qualities
they admire in themselves, qualities admired by all Newmarket men, who should
express their masculinity by being charismatic, ‘sporting’, good horsemen and
successful lovers.
The topography of Newmarket and in particular of the Heath, combined with
a proximity to both Cambridge and London, promoted royal patronage initially
stimulated by the hunting and hawking possibilities on offer. The town’s asso-
ciation with racing was consolidated by the relocation of the Jockey Club from
the Star and Garter in Pall Mall, to the Coffee Room on the High Street in 1752.
The Jockey Club gradually became the governing body of racing, resolving
disputes and determining the rules of racing, as described in the introduction.
Newmarket’s status as the ‘HQ’ of racing since the eighteenth century has been
subject to fashions, such that, at times, the Heath was considered too hard, the
climate too drying to provide good ground on which to train, leading to injuries
and lameness. However, this association has been resilient, and has reached a
peak in recent decades.
Contemporary Newmarket
More than two thousand racehorses are currently trained on the sixty miles of
Newmarket gallops by sixty-eight trainers. Racehorses travel between gallops
and stables on the fifty-seven miles of ‘horsewalks’ (concrete paths that criss-
cross the town, with trigger-operated traffic lights at rider height at every road
crossing). Despite the horsewalks, racehorses can also be seen on the roads
every morning, weaving in and out of cars and jogging along paths reluctantly
deserted by pedestrians. Newmarket residents complain bitterly that whilst the
horsewalks are strictly maintained the roads themselves are pitted and in dis-
repair. As the horses head for the gallops and the commuters head to work, the
antagonism between the two kinds of road users is often in evidence. Petulant
horseriders smoking cigarettes cross roads in front of cars without acknowl-
edgement, assuming that drivers will give way. Cars squeeze through lines of
horses, separating stable mates and causing panic amongst the horses, before
careering off at top speed in anger at having been held up yet again.
Surveying the town from the top of Warren Hill, one sees an expanse of
trimmed green, scarred by artificial gallops, separated by white plastic rails and
Headquarters 17
dotted with hundreds of horses and riders in all colours. The sight is suggestive
of order on the brink of chaos. Horses are easily startled and ‘shy’ at anything
from puddles to suspiciously shaped leaves. Moreover, when one horse ‘shies’
in this way, the adjacent horses will often follow suit, the fright travelling like
a shock wave across the Heath, occasionally dislodging riders in the process.
Riders are particularly vulnerable whilst waiting for their turn to travel up the
gallop, when horses become excited in anticipation of their run. On winter
mornings, when the turf is frozen and the horses must use the artificial surfaces,
backlogs of circling horses build up at the bottom of the gallop, like queues of
skiers waiting for a place on the lift. The potential for chaos is enormous, and
yet most mornings pass without incident, the rhythmic movement of horses
travelling up and down and to and from the gallops that is repeated six days a
week, in all weather. Rates of attrition on the Heath are higher for horses than
humans, although there were two human fatalities on the gallops whilst I was
riding. The Jockey Club provides emergency phones on the Heath, as well as
two horse ambulances and a carcass collection service. Newmarket in the morn-
ing is a surreal place, buzzing with the activities of hundreds of centaur-like
figures, nonchalant but serious, as though unaware of the danger and absurdity
of answering rich men’s whims by teaching racehorses to run faster.
Contemporary Newmarket fields, on average, just under a third of all British
race winners in a season, and these wins are often concentrated in the better
races, referred to as ‘Group’ races. In 1996, for example, Newmarket-trained
horses won 72% of English Group One races and 60% of Group races overall.
They also won all five of the English Classics (Jockey Club Annual Report 1997:
42). Newmarket is conscious of its status as a flagship and centre of excellence.
Despite the rivalries that exist between individual yards in Newmarket and all of
the other training centres, such as Lambourn, competition between racing cen-
tres is mainly along the axis of Newmarket versus the rest. Yard rivalries may be
ritually resolved in organised football matches, or less formally in scraps after
closing time. Rivalry between Newmarket and other training centres focuses
upon results and the quality of the lads. A Northern trainer told me that: ‘New-
market lads are the worst in the world, ham-fisted yobbos’, whilst Newmarket
lads told me that other lads had no idea of the modern job and were: ‘playing a
different game to us’, seeing themselves as the standard-setters for the industry.
Landscape
In Britain, the best example of a town which is intimately identified with sport,
and owes its raison d’être and visual character to it, is, in my view, Newmarket,
home of British horse racing . . . My own impressions are that it is somewhat
more ‘horsy’ than Saratoga, New York.
(Bale 1994: 137)
18 The Sport of Kings
stores are locked and feeding is the task of the trainer himself or his trusted head
lad. The trainer is responsible for, and must explain, the presence of any illegal
substances in the samples of any of the horses in his charge. The Jockey Club
may enforce the ultimate sanction of a ‘warning off’, should the trainer fail to
provide a convincing explanation as to the origin of the drug in question. The
fortunes of the yard can be judged according to the state of the paintwork on the
stable doors, and by the appearance of the lads in the yard. The most successful
yards have colour co-ordinated jackets, caps, rugs, bandages and stable doors,
the least successful make do with peeling paint and whatever moth-eaten jacket
and hat come to hand.
Riding on the gallops suggested to me that a familiarity with the landscape
was expected and even demanded. I often had no idea where I was going
when told that we were heading for ‘the back of the flat’, or ‘the woodchip’,
names referring to particular gallops that were learnt by experience. Thus my
instructions were often something like: ‘Trot round the rings first, then go half
way round the sand, canter up to the four furlong marker, pull up and come back
down the woodchip.’ Which sand? Where is the four furlong marker? Which
woodchip? Am I in control? I remember the exasperation of my colleagues
when I asked for directions, before I had worked out which paths were referred
to in each vague instruction. As Gow found in Western Amazonia:
Such imprecision has a precise meaning. Once you already know where ‘Over there’
is, or where old Julio Felipe is making his garden, you can locate the spatial meaning
of the incident. If you do not know, how could it matter? You, as a listener, are not
implicated in the landscape in which these things happened, so can only relate to them
in the abstract. (1995: 51)
By calling the client a ‘punter’, the stud groom reveals the risk shared by betting
on and breeding racehorses. He also implies that by mowing and clipping, the
stud is communicating its ability to manipulate the environment, a message that
he hopes owners may extend to the process of breeding. The pitiful inadequacy
of this gesture is a reflection of how much influence the stud can actually exert
upon the outcome of a mating. The landscapes of the countryside surrounding
Newmarket have thus become an analogue for the genes that the stud farms are
attempting to map.2
Fieldwork taught me that when racing people get together they do indeed talk
about racing, often in an incomprehensible language, filled with references to
horses, people and places of which I had little or no knowledge. I was fortunate
in being able to ‘talk horse’ before I arrived in Newmarket, and it was onto this
related, but simpler, language that I grafted the pieces of racing vocabulary that
I managed to pick up in the field.
The most commonly identified purpose of jargon is to exclude outsiders from
that which does not concern them whilst enabling insiders to communicate with
Headquarters 21
greater efficiency, as Burke states: ‘The use of jargon is one of the most potent
means of inclusion and exclusion’ (1995: 14). In Newmarket, however, any
practical benefit gained by excluding outsiders is overshadowed by an ideo-
logy of exclusivity as intrinsically valuable. As Barth’s analysis of Baktaman
ritual suggests, ‘it is their secrecy and exclusiveness, not their potential for
enlightenment, that give them value’ (1975: 221). Status in Newmarket is often
determined by access. Access to the training yard is determined by wealth.
Access to the Jockey Club is subject to wealth, success and pedigree. The
more exclusive the institution, the more highly it is valued by Newmarket
racing society. The style and content of the language is also significant, because
communication is not only intended to exclude, but also to create the impression
that the interlocuters are in possession of greater power than is actually the
case. The content of the language serves to mystify the outsider or newcomer
by implying that the speaker holds powers over uncontrollable processes.
The language of racing thus offers opportunities for mystification on two
levels: primarily through the use of a specialised vocabulary, and secondarily
through discussions of whole relationships that are taken for granted by racing
society. Thus, discussions of ‘stayers’, ‘sprinters’, ‘tongue straps’, ‘blinkers’
and ‘prickers’ initiate the distancing process of excluding outsiders, a process
that may be completed by whole conversations based around ‘the influence
of the going on a field of maiden hurdlers with good flat form but unproven
jumping pedigrees’. Whilst the specialised language of equipment for horse and
jockey seems warranted, much of the discussion of the taken-for-granted rela-
tionships within racing are contradictory, and even absurd. The complexity of
the vocabulary and style of the language of racing conceals the uncomfortable
truth that fluency will not enable the speaker to predict which horse will win a
race or which stallion will produce champion racehorses. I would suggest that
the language of racing serves to conceal the unknowable aspects of the industry,
replacing proficiency of action with that of speech. This explains the tendency
of racing conversations to alternate between highly technical and entirely mys-
tical notions, the one often unfamiliar, the other completely untestable. Like
Baktaman discussions of ritual, racing conversations are exercises in mystifi-
cation, ‘instead of developing a “theory” of growth and health and fertility, the
Baktaman develop a “mystery” of these themes’ (Barth 1975: 221).
Successful communication of accomplishment in racing is role-dependent.
Thus lads learn at the British Racing School or during their apprenticeship that
‘keeping schtum is usually the best option’; jockeys speak in clichés, changing
horses’ and owners’ names, distance or other variable whilst keeping interpre-
tative variables fixed, and trainers speak with self-assured composure, slowly,
whimsically, often turning the question back onto the interviewer, delighting
in their own cunning. In all cases, as if to prevent the realisation that nothing
definitive can be stated with complete certainty regarding the ability of a horse,
22 The Sport of Kings
referring to the contrast between the body shapes of the jockey or work rider
and the trainer. Bourdieu’s argument that class is literally embodied, is al-
most too obviously illustrated in Newmarket. The ideal jockey is short, thin,
tough, quiet, hunched, reticent. The ideal trainer is tall, elegant, straight-backed,
self-assured and charismatic.
The lad’s body is not valued at all, and is generally lightweight, but not
sufficiently so to be a jockey. His hands are rough and large, his face chapped
and windburnt. Lads often look tired from their early mornings and late nights,
but they are not credited with any definitive qualities. When I asked my trainer
the favourable shape for a lad he replied: ‘Nondescript’. And so, ‘one can begin
to map out a universe of class bodies, which (biological accidents apart) tends
to reproduce in its specific logic the universe of the social structure’ (Bourdieu
1984: 193).
The oppositions between the important bodies in Newmarket extend to the
culinary preferences that enable the body to express these differences. Trainers
were often associated with expensive and scarce foods, which are difficult
to prepare and perhaps an ‘acquired taste’, for example, seafood, particularly
shellfish, game, salads, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, high-quality preserved meats
and vegetables, champagne, gin and tonic, and whisky. Jockeys are limited to
small, low-fat meals of chicken, fish, dry toast, salad without dressings, black
tea, mineral water and, occasionally, champagne. Lads eat crisps, tinned soups,
sliced bread, chocolate and take-aways and drink beer and fizzy drinks. The
prevalence of smoking amongst all of the groups is stunning, and was often
associated with weight control. It was suggested to me that genetic engineering
had been extended to humans in Newmarket, but of course the body is worked
on by society rather than being simply biologically determined. The sixteen-
year-old son of a former jockey, for example, who weighed 4 stone 4 lbs fully
clothed, and had gone straight into a yard at fifteen, told me that he would much
rather have finished school.
Jockeys were originally boys, thrown up onto horses at a time during which
a premium was placed on weight rather than strength. Racing has become
increasingly tactical and modern jockeys must be strong as well as lightweight.
Strong jockeys can ‘anchor’ keen racehorses at the beginning of the race in
order to preserve their strength for a fast, hopefully winning finish. In addition,
a jockey must be able to ‘ride a strong finish’, squeezing the last ounce of effort
out of his horse by pushing with his hands and legs, and by using his whip.
Modern jockeys are thus incredibly strong, fit and athletic, capable of riding
out in the morning as well as riding six races in the afternoon, all on a negative
calorie count. Naturally lightweight jockeys have less of a struggle than those
who are tall or heavy, but almost all jockeys have to ‘waste’, a combination of
dieting and sweating, that is potentially debilitating. Ex-jockeys told me that
their appetites were permanently affected by their need to waste. In one case
24 The Sport of Kings
the jockey had gained four stone when he gave up race riding through bingeing,
returning to ten stone through a diet of oysters, jalapeno peppers and raw onions.
This individual had retained something of an obsession with his weight, and
told me that he had found himself disgusting when he weighed fourteen stone.
The most recent high-profile case of a jockey experiencing problems with
weight was that of Walter Swinburn, nicknamed ‘the Choirboy’ because of his
angelic looks. Swinburn’s high-profile fall from grace was attributed to an eating
disorder and a resulting intolerance of alcohol. After a near-fatal fall in Hong
Kong in February of 1996, Swinburn lost control of his weight, culminating
in an assault on the owner of a popular Newmarket Italian restaurant. In his
defence, Swinburn said:
Wasting does get you down and I was fasting for two days and then eating. When you
haven’t eaten for two days, you suddenly eat too much. I want to get back to eating like
normal people. (Morreau and Taylor 1997: 1)
The health food shop in Newmarket’s shopping centre was packed with weight
loss products, and energy supplements. I used vials of guarana root in order
to give a boost of energy for the early mornings, which were apparently very
popular amongst lads, jockeys, and those members of racing society who had
no practical need to regulate their weight but were still obsessed with dieting,
yoghurt energy drinks and wonder drugs. Perhaps these members of racing
society were modelling themselves upon the racehorse itself – lean, fit and
muscular, thus making sure that the racehorse could be seen as created in the
image of its ‘connections’.
Jockeys’ bodies are routinely damaged by the accidents common to race
riding, particularly over jumps. The death of jump jockey Richard Davis in
1996 prompted an inquiry into safety, but the foregone conclusion was that
riding over jumps is a potentially fatal occupation. Jockeys routinely break
bones and speak of their injuries in terms of how long they will take to return
‘to the saddle’. Flat jockey Lorcan Wyer, for example, was kicked in the face
during a fall, and suffered a smashed cheekbone, a split palate from the top
to the bottom of his mouth, a fractured pelvis and collarbone, two broken eye
sockets and a broken jaw. He returned to riding after three months, and said:
I don’t want to sound like a punch-drunk jump jockey full of bravado but I don’t feel
my confidence has been affected in any way. More often than not this game gives you
up before you give up the game, but, though it’s a brave shot for me to say it, I don’t
think that’s happened yet. (O’Ryan 1997: 10)5
Headquarters 25
Retired jump-jockeys to whom I spoke cited injury as the reason behind the
end of their career, and always attributed to others a loss of ‘bottle’.
Dress
Physical differences amongst racing society that betray class affiliations are
embellished by the additional markers of dress. An obsessive preoccupation
with weight extends to all sections of society in Newmarket, but those who
ride face the particular challenge of wearing appropriate clothing, which is
tight and unforgiving. Jodhpurs and chaps are tight, following the contours of
the body in order to prevent the chaffing which loose material generates as it
accumulates between the body and the horse or saddle. On the Heath, jockeys
often wear jeans and boots, and brightly coloured jackets, perhaps emblazoned
with a prestigious international meeting such as The Breeders Cup. They wear
jeans because very little of their leg will be in contact with the horse at any time.
Trainers wear jodhpurs because their legs are long, and they have long stirrups.
On the Heath, which is really the domain of the horse and jockey or lad, the
trainers look ridiculous, they do not have the right body in this context. The
absurdity of the trainer out of his element is completed by his horse, referred
to as his ‘hack’, that is usually of a different type to the thoroughbreds he helps
patrol. Hacks must go calmly away from their stable mates so that the trainer
may gain a vantage point from which to watch his string. They must then stand
motionless whilst the other horses gallop by, something few thoroughbreds
would tolerate. Thus the hack is often a thicker set type.
Trainers on the Heath employ two techniques in order to deflect the impres-
sion that they are, in fact, out of place. The first of these is that attempted by the
more confident trainer, who seeks to make a virtue of his physical difference, by
riding flashy, spotted or patchy ponies whilst wearing colourful and outlandish
clothes which jockeys or lads would ‘not be seen dead in’.6 Alternatively, the
confident trainer may adopt the traditional role of trainer, wearing breeches mod-
elled on the fashions of circa 1930, combined with a dark hacking jacket and
hat, on a sombre and solid coloured large hack, probably a retired racehorse.
His tack is English whilst the outlandish trainer may prefer to take a chance
with a Western saddle.
In opposition to those trainers who seek to make a virtue out of necessity
are the actions of those who detract from their discomfort in this setting by
being extremely casual, thus dissociating themselves from any active attempt
to fit in, as though preserving the excuse that should they try, they also could
move unnoticed amongst the jockeys and lads. These trainers are scruffy, and
may have one glove, a cigarette, a scruffy old hack of indeterminate age, breed
and colour, stirrups of unequal lengths, and no riding skill whatsoever. One
morning, as I stood on the Heath with a scruffy trainer on his mangy old hack
a traditional trainer who had just won the Derby rode over and berated him for
26 The Sport of Kings
his appearance. When ignored, the traditional trainer found purchase in a hole
in my friend’s jodhpurs and tore them from hip to knee. He rode away saying,
‘Get yourself some new jodhpurs. You’re a disgrace to the Heath!’
The difficulties of the trainer on the Heath should not suggest that the clothes
worn by jockeys and lads, those who are in their element, are somehow devoid
of symbolic impetus. Lads on the Heath often wear caps that bear the trainer’s
colours, and may also wear uniform jackets. Lads with aspirations to race riding
wear their stirrups far shorter than those who have given up this dream. Most
obviously, jockeys wear the silks of the owner of the horse they are riding during
a race. ‘Colours’ are unique to their particular owner, and still retain an element
of the significance of the livery worn by servants from which they originated.
They signal ownership of the horse, and an element of control over the jockey,
who must doff his cap to the owner as he enters the paddock and the winner’s
enclosure. As Hoffman states, ‘dress communication is always a mirror of the
social condition’ (1984: 11).
The importance of clothing also extends to that of the horse in Newmarket.
Whilst it has been suggested that clothes fuse the biological and cultural bodies,
merging private and public (Tarlo 1996), in Newmarket, animal and human
bodies are also merged. Riding a horse fuses the two bodies so that it is difficult
to establish where one ends and the other begins, both are wearing whatever
either is wearing. All racehorses wear rugs during the winter when they are
ridden out, which bear the trainer’s monogram. Often they may need several
rugs as well as the towel and pads which fit beneath the saddle. All of these
items must be put on in a specific order, and folded back from the shoulder in
accordance with strict conventions, which vary between trainers and must be
learnt. The horse must always be immaculately clean, as I discovered when I
left the yard with straw in my horse’s tail. The trainer for whom I was riding
jumped from his horse and brushed it clean, saying sharply, ‘Do you want me
to be the laughing stock of the village?’ The horse is thus an extension of the
rider’s body as are clothes, but the horse is also an extension of the trainer
whose reputation and monogram he carries. This explains the role of clothing
in Newmarket, which is important because, ‘clothes are frequently perceived as
expressions and even extensions of the people who wear them’ (Tarlo 1996: 16).
The horse’s clothing reflects its status throughout its career. The racehorse
is naked whilst a foal, and before it is sold as a yearling. Once a yearling, the
racehorse is most closely worked upon by its human handlers, and begins to
wear rugs in order to control growth of its coat. These rugs must be tolerated
and mark a point from which the horse will wear rugs for the majority of the rest
of its career. Only rarely are racehorses left ‘naked’, even when stabled. One
of the horses in our yard was adept at removing his rugs during the night, after
which he would delicately pull all of the fluff from one of his woollen blankets
with his teeth. When his lass found him ‘naked’ each morning she would blush,
Headquarters 27
as though he was being inappropriate in some way, and say: ‘Oh gosh, he’s
undressed himself again!’ Perhaps the most significant horse clothing of all is
the rug presented to the winners of big races; usually brightly coloured and
bearing the name of the race and its sponsor, the horse carries its status on its
back.
What of those members of racing society who are not giving away their
status as such by riding a horse or shouting at people on the Heath? It is still
possible to discern racing elements amongst the shoppers in Newmarket. Racing
society in mufti does not submit to sociological exposition, but is rather an
overall impression forced upon the observer, as Le Wita found in Paris, where
‘ethnographic observation did for its part offer an appreciable glimpse of the
“existential reality” of the bourgeoisie’ (1994: 25).
The ability to recognise racing society grows from an accumulation of small
experiences which gradually fuse into a single semiotic pattern. For exam-
ple, watching the tall, middle-aged man who drives his Mercedes Estate (the
Mercedes is the trainers’ car) along the High Street, swings into a miraculously
appearing parking space and rushes into the bank. The first impression is of
his height, which is above average. He is wearing a yellow V-neck pullover
(definitely no logos or brand names), and light moleskin trousers, a solid blue
shirt, open at the neck and suede Gucci loafers (essential). In addition, he has
a healthy, but not too obvious tan, straight white teeth and smells clean but
not of scent. He is in a hurry, does not lock his car and leaves it running. His
expression is preoccupied, although when, as is inevitable, he is hailed by an
acquaintance, he breaks into a smile, shakes hands and offers excuses to hurry
on with his mission.
Details are obviously where the fine distinctions within racing society can
be made. New shoes are not a good sign, whilst a trainer friend spent a week
in mourning for his deck shoes which were pinched whilst he was in the sauna
at the gym, ‘You know Rebecca, I’d just got them to that perfect worn stage, I
hadn’t undone the laces ever.’ New clothes are also undesirable, clothes that are
worn in, without being scruffy, are favoured. New clothes may provoke some
sort of judgement by others, whilst older clothes go unnoticed. New clothes
imply an investment of energy and taste that reveals something of the wearer,
whilst older clothes do not express an active choice which can then be scru-
tinised, and possibly found wanting. The detail on a shirt can be significant,
particularly the collar which must be wide cut and should not be button-down.
Ties are silk, and often decorated with horses’ heads, bits or stirrups, in a style
that echoes not only equestrian links but also the traditional or classic, ‘The
obsession of the gentleman is to avoid all extremes at all times’ (Lurie 1983: 130).
The penchant for the traditional extends throughout racing and reflects an in-
nate conservatism that naturalises class membership by making it apparently
effortless.
28 The Sport of Kings
The best place to see racing women is in Waitrose on the High Street. A
trainer’s wife described her diminishing fortunes to me thus: ‘I used to shop
in Waitrose, but now I go to Tescos’; I nodded in sympathy. Newmarket is the
smallest population in Britain capable of supporting a Waitrose, and its stock
reflects its place in racing life as a source of food for racing families who have
to entertain visiting owners at short notice. Thus the freezers are full of vast
seafood platters, to be defrosted at a moment’s notice, and ridiculously luxurious
desserts, with curled caramel trimmings and fantastic price tags. Racing women
are usually what I was repeatedly told was ‘petite’, which seemed to mean short
and slim. Many trainers’ wives ride out, thus in the morning they are to be found
in boots and jodhpurs, short jackets and perhaps a neck scarf. Their boots are
particularly well fitted, and old enough to have adopted the precise curve of
the ankle and calf without being the least bit scruffy. The leather is soft and
well treated, self-evidently expensive. They are usually picking up a few rushed
things in the morning such as butter or eggs, orange juice and bread.
Later in the day jodhpurs have been replaced by jeans, and, as in Paris, ‘there
are jeans and jeans’ (Le Wita 1994: 64). Women’s jeans are tailored and cut
fairly tight in the ankle. Jeans in Newmarket are certainly not unisex, thus whilst
men may wear Levi’s or Wrangler, women told me that they preferred Moschino,
and a specifically ‘feminine’ cut. During my stay in Newmarket the staple top
of the racing woman, the polo neck, had been embellished with tiny patterns,
often of animals or flowers. This style was championed by Lesley Graham, the
female presenter of Channel 4 Racing, and trainer’s wife. These polo necks
were sold from a stand at a Fair held just before Christmas on the racecourse,
which sold out. Jewellery is simple, restricted to discreet earrings (not hoops),
watch and wedding ring. Handbags are leather, plain but smart, again of good
quality and classic rather than fashionable shape. The same rules apply to shoes.
Jackets are Puffas or Goretex, often of a strong single colour, rather than earth
tones, which are avoided due to their association with the waxed jacket that has
been appropriated by people outside racing and is thus rejected.
The dilemma of the racing man or woman is that the rules of their dress code
dictate that they must look wealthy, whilst at the same time remaining discreet
and understated, because being wealthy and displaying wealth are aspects of two
opposing value systems. The motivation to express wealth is particularly strong
in racing society where success translates directly into wealth, via the mecha-
nism of prize money. The fine line between being obviously wealthy without
appearing vulgar is negotiated by the wearing of items of high quality but of
conservative styles, thus appearing effortlessly and therefore ‘naturally’ of high
class. The display of wealth thus becomes almost accidental, and the desired
effect is achieved. Where brash styles are preferred, wealth is obviously on dis-
play, reflecting the cardinal sin of racing society: insecurity. In order to function
successfully as a badge of high class, wealth must literally be worn lightly.
Headquarters 29
Conclusion
The reproduction of the two important types of body in Newmarket is facili-
tated both genetically and socially. Jockeys’ children are more likely to be short
and lightweight, whilst trainers’ children are often tall and well built. However,
both are likely to ‘inherit’ their father’s occupation because of the expectations
generated by their involvement in racing. This chapter also introduced themes
of landscape, language and appearance. The introduction to the landscape of
Newmarket and its environs identified a concern with the improvement of na-
ture. Controlling nature yields prestige and status through selective breeding
which enables racehorse breeders to claim credit for the English thoroughbred
as ‘man’s noblest creation’.
The specialised language of racing can serve to exclude outsiders, but it also
reflects distinctions within racing society. Communication maps class bound-
aries in Newmarket, and terms of address, silence and body language all reflect
negotiations between classes. In its most extreme form, lads of all ages may be
classified as children by their trainers, in accordance with the Victorian prin-
ciple whereby they are ‘best seen but not heard’. In addition, racing language
serves to obfuscate the scarcity or even absence of knowledge. In keeping with
the emphasis on appearances, competence in racing talk can compensate for an
absence of real knowledge. Throughout my fieldwork, maintaining the appear-
ance of confidence and expertise got me into all sorts of interesting situations
for which I was entirely unqualified. However, although I could ‘talk racing’
or at least ‘talk horses’ with no effort at all, my body was on the margins of
acceptability, being what was described as ‘horizontally challenged’.
Although I was sufficiently light to ride racehorses, I was seen as over-
weight and therefore desirous of every weight loss pill and potion available in
Newmarket. I received tips about weight loss constantly, and was practically
force fed a variety of high-energy, low-fat supplements whilst working on the
stud and on the training yard. Whenever I was under physical pressure, such
as when a horse was pulling with me, or generally misbehaving, I would hear
the inevitable comment, shouted from the following horse: ‘That’ll sort you
out!’ On an early morning gallop up a hill, Bill, who was on the lead horse,
complained about the sun having been low and in his eyes, whilst Mick, who
was behind me, retorted that he had been fine because my backside had eclipsed
the sun.
The obsession with appearance amongst racing society is one mechanism by
which ‘pedigree’ is elicited from the racehorse. It arises from the importance
of embodied knowledge as the mechanism by which pedigree is translated into
class. Knowledge is expressed as talent, not learnt, and therefore, an individual’s
future is envisaged in accordance with his breeding. This is the ‘natural’ order
in Newmarket, and belonging there depends upon knowing one’s place and on
30 The Sport of Kings
perpetuating the mechanisms guaranteeing both that place and also the hierarchy
of which it is a part. The following chapter examines these connections in more
detail.
notes
1 A similar separation was found amongst agricultural workers in East Anglia by
Howard Newby in the 1970s. Interestingly, it is again the system of inheritance that
appears to support the division of labour responsible for the character described by
Newby as ‘the deferential worker’, ‘most farmers have not achieved the ownership of
their land or their position as employers by demonstrating their expertise in agricul-
tural skills but because they have inherited their property and the rights and powers
attached to it from their fathers. Their dominant position in the local social structure
is therefore based upon the almost unquestioned acceptance of the right of the farmer
to acquire his farm on the basis of birth. Since the possibility of upward mobility from
farm worker to farmer is so remote in East Anglia as to be virtually non-existent,
employer and employee roles tend to be ascribed rather than achieved’ (1979: 420).
In the case of the trainer, the inheritance of the means to train is de-emphasised, and
what is stressed is the inheritance of the ability to train.
2 As Bender observes, ‘the landscape is never inert, people engage with it, re-work it,
appropriate it and contest it. It is part of the way in which identities are created and
disputed, whether as individual, group or nation state’ (1993: 14).
3 This is just one of the mechanisms by which unsuccessful trainers remain unsuc-
cessful. Forced to retain useless horses rather than forfeit their training fee, they run
hopeless races and cement their association with losers. The sale of even a useless
horse produces a time of insecurity for the trainer during which he faces the poten-
tially disastrous possibility that the horse may not be replaced. As I was told, ‘Better
a useless horse with a good paying owner than no horse at all.’ Uselessness is, of
course, relative.
4 The significance of the information withheld by the trainer does not reside in its
practical value, but in the fact that it is concealed, as in Bellman’s discussion of
the Poro, ‘Secrets cannot be characterised either by the contents of the concealed
message or by the consequences and outcomes that follow exposure; instead they are
understood by the way concealed information is withheld, restricted, intentionally
altered and exposed’ (1984: 143). In Newmarket, secrecy often communicates class
difference, thus the content of the secret is almost always secondary to its status as such.
5 According to Newmarket myth, Wyer’s surgeon came to speak to his wife after repair-
ing her husband and told her that the operation had been a success and that they had
even managed to save the gap between his front teeth. Nora Wyer, somewhat surprised,
asked ‘What gap?’, and Lorcan was wheeled back into the operating theatre.
6 This approach may have been borrowed from American trainers who sit on the track
on beautiful Quarter horses, the quintessential cowboy’s horse. The most successful
American trainers make an impressive display of belt buckle, ten-gallon hat, silver-
dollar bridle, and shiny white teeth. Few trainers on Newmarket Heath would be able
to carry this off.
3 Keeping it in the family
Introduction
In this chapter I discuss those people who identify themselves as ‘real’
Newmarket families. These are individuals involved in the training, breeding,
buying and selling of racehorses, and I shall refer to them as the upper class of
racing society. They are the primary source of ideas of pedigree, and it is their po-
sition in the social structure that is safeguarded by this ideology. In Newmarket
there are a number of interconnected families who could be named by most
people involved in the racing industry. The true extent of the dominance of a
few families in Newmarket is not the focus of this chapter, but rather the source
of this image of dominance and its purpose.1 I use a composite case study in
order to illustrate the ideology of pedigree as it is employed by members of
these families. The case study is supplemented by more general observations.
I begin by introducing the family I have chosen to present as a case study, and
describing the methods I used in order to record them. I draw upon informants’
discussions of marriage and, by extension, their ideas of gender. The male
dominance of the sport of racing is described, and suggestions made in order to
explain its resilience. In the second section of the chapter I deal with death. In
relation to the ideology of pedigree, death represents a loss of blood, and is thus
opposed to possible gains through marriage. This loss is less pressing when the
individual in question has fulfilled the ideal life path and reproduced. Those
who fail to do so are seen as incomplete, ideal candidates for ghosts, whether
in the memories of the living, or gliding around the stables of Newmarket.
The ‘connection’ crystallises notions of identity and relatedness that recur
throughout Newmarket society. In racing parlance, ‘connections’ refer to the
humans associated with a particular racehorse, its trainer, owner and jockey.
Thus access to the exclusive zone of the paddock is restricted to the ‘connections
of horses in the present race’. In this way, a ‘connection’ has come to signify
an object as well as a relation. It is interesting to note that a connection is a
particular type of person made such by a relationship with a horse, a reversal
of the convention whereby animals depend upon an association with humans
in order to gain status.
31
32 The Sport of Kings
Whilst ‘connections’ may refer to the owners and trainer of a particular race-
horse, an association which confers prestige, connections as relations can also
be made to apply to kin, to good business, and to Newmarket itself. Both being
a connection and also being connected in and to Newmarket are intrinsically
valued. Those who describe themselves or others as ‘Newmarket families’
identify two important connections. The first of these is to Newmarket itself,
described in the third section of this chapter. Newmarket families also claim
connections with racing via individuals successful in its sacred arena, the race-
course. I shall consider the resilience of this particular system of relatedness in
the fourth section of the chapter.
Finally, I shall examine the response of Newmarket families to outsiders
(those perceived as lacking connections to Newmarket or to racing) in the
context of events which framed my fieldwork in 1997; these were the bomb
scare at the Grand National, the General Election and the ban on British beef.
Though these seem unconnected events, the response to them was consistent.
Informants resented any force that they considered a threat to their freedom.
Thus, the Referendum Party provided a refuge from European invasion, animal
rights activists ‘should all be shot’, and banning beef was the act of a ‘nanny
state’: ‘I’ll eat what I bloody well like!’
This chapter is not a systematic description of the kinship practices of
Newmarket’s racing families, although I believe that it gains coherence from
the idea of pedigree as a way of imagining connections between people. It is
fieldwork led, in that it focuses upon those concerns repeatedly articulated by
informants, as in Strathern’s study of Elmdon:
In so far as my account imitates a case study in the traditional anthropological sense,
its main line of enquiry takes its cue from what Elmdon people themselves seem to be
interested in. (1981: xxxi)
‘out of racing’, whilst marriage ‘into racing’ could introduce a brand new
association.
Marriage
During my stay in Newmarket, an important wedding took place, between
champion jockey Frankie Dettori and Catherine Allen, the daughter of ‘Twink’
Allen, a Cambridge University equine fertility expert. Their wedding in the
centre of Newmarket reflected many of the features of the networks of kin and
connections common amongst racing families. Horizontally, the wedding list
was described as a ‘who’s who of racing’. Dettori is the son of the former
champion jockey of Italy. He was sent to Newmarket as an apprentice to Luca
Cumani, the Italian trainer, with £300 in his pocket, and has been incredibly
successful, particularly as the retained jockey for Godolphin.3 He is currently
the most famous and popular jockey in Britain, rising to stardom by riding
all seven winners on the card at Ascot in 1997, costing the bookmakers an
estimated £25 million.4
This was racing’s wedding of the year, and it was reported in all of the
newspapers in exactly the same way, concentrating far more upon ‘racing’ than
on ‘wedding’. The concentration of racing people was highlighted, to the extent
that some of the papers reproduced partial guest lists that recorded only this
category of guest. The anecdote most frequently recounted of the wedding
was that Dettori had been pleased to lose a bet of £50, that the day would be
sunny. Also quoted were members of the two hundred and fifty-strong crowd of
well-wishers who gathered around the church, telling the journalists how much
money the jockey had won for them through bets.
The public reporting of this wedding concentrated solely upon its significance
for racing. Reassurance as to the ‘horsy’ nature of the bride, a strong show from
racing folk, a wager on the weather, all of these things submit easily to the idioms
in which racing identities are expressed. Outside the public eye, my informants’
discussions of their own relationships focused upon compatibility, which is a
family matter. Despite the variation in celebrations arising from marriage, I was
struck by the constant relevance of family to their predicted outcome.5
Discussions of the likely success or failure of a marriage amongst informants
were conducted within a familial frame of reference. Most commonly, the
parents of the couple were discussed. Where either of the couple had divorced
parents this was identified as a possible threat to their future. This belief was
summarised by a farmer friend, ‘like begets like’, and has been fully explored
by Simon Barnes, a journalist with Horse and Hound:
Serious horse people look at the breeding, for today’s aspirant or hero is merely the
culmination of the mingling of bloodlines; of the collision between dam and sire. Sire:
Keeping it in the family 35
a champion jockey, a single-minded man who demanded respect which crossed the
boundary of fear. Dam: a trapeze artist. Produce: Frankie Dettori, out of a show-off with
perfect balance and a love of danger, by a ruthless ‘sonofabitch’. (1997: 24)
Along with those who had shown a tendency towards divorce and infidelity,
parents with no affinity with horses were seen as a potential weakness, par-
ticularly where the individual in question lacked this affinity him- or herself.
All discussions of compatibility were skewed towards considerations of the
compatibility of women with men. The man was the fixed point in many of
these conversations, and women were characterised as suitable or unsuitable
in relation to him. The dominance of men in racing’s most powerful roles is
overwhelming, to the surprise of one male racing administrator:
We get quite a number of women trainers and there are no restrictions in operation. I
don’t really know why there aren’t more women, they have equal opportunities. There
are a lot of female administrators, 11% in the Jockey Club for example. It manifests
itself more in the press room, when on a day to day meeting you wouldn’t get a single
girl.
That the 11% female membership of the Jockey Club was singled out as an
example of a field in which there are ‘a lot’ of women reflects their virtual
absence from other racing spheres. The highest concentration of women in
racing occupations is, predictably, amongst ‘lads’, the least prestigious role.
The ratio of male to female ‘lads’ through the years 1991 to 1995 ranged
from 1712:1395 to 1473:1202 (The Racing Industry Statistical Bureau Statistics
1996: 210). At apprentice jockey level, the ratio of men to women (or ‘boys’ to
girls’ as the industry would prefer) is greater than five to one for these years.
Even this ratio is not upheld into the professional ranks. In December 1992, the
Jockey Club had licensed 112 flat jockeys, 8 of whom were women, and 148
jump-jockeys, 8 of whom were women. By contrast, amongst apprentices on
the flat, 43 of the 205 were women, although over jumps of the 160 apprentices
only 7 were women.6
Racing is controlled by men, and this situation is self-perpetuating. Accord-
ingly, women in racing are often perceived as strident and self-assured, having
struggled against this bias:
She’s a truly awful woman Rebecca, you wouldn’t like her one bit. One of those women
with a terrible chip on her shoulder, you know. Always on the offensive. She knows her
stuff, sure, but she’s fallen victim of this terrible business whereby successful women
seem to need to push it down your throat. You know? (Senior racing administrator)
Jockey’s licences have been granted to women since 1972 (on the flat) and
1976 (over jumps) (Hargreaves 1994: 276). However, attitudes towards women
jockeys remain largely unchanged, as the Director of the British Racing School
observes, ‘There is no doubt that you will find more male chauvinism in racing
than in any other industry, apart from male bastions like coal mining’ (Rory
MacDonald quoted in Lovesey 1994: 32). The Jockey Club’s former Chief
Medical Officer offers this explanation:
It is perceived in racing that women are weaker. Therefore if you have a strong horse
and you want it to be ridden hard, there is, as I understand it, a reluctance on the part
of owners and trainers to put up a woman jockey when the chips are down. (Michael
Turner quoted in Lovesey 1994: 32)
The place of women within racing has been determined by a theory of gender
based upon physical attributes, made evident in this quote from ex-jockey and
Channel Four racing presenter Lord Oaksey:
To say that the Sex Discrimination Act came as a shock to the British racing world
would be an understatement. A large majority of the men who make their living in that
world are, to say the least of it, conservative by nature and their reaction to the idea of
female jockeys ranged from genuine horror to chauvinistic mockery – with a fair amount
of ribald humour in between. Lester Piggott, never a man to use two words when one
will do said simply, ‘their bottoms are the wrong shape’, and, as usual, he had a point.
(1978: 7)
I was given a similar explanation by a trainer, who told me that, ‘In relation
to jockeys, it’s obviously a physical difficulty.’ Not all trainers prefer lads,
however, those who prefer ‘girls’ use a similarly stereotypical idea of both men
Keeping it in the family 37
and women in order to justify this choice. So, I was told, for example, ‘You
know what lads are like, they want to be jockeys day and night, so we stick to
girls, they really care about the horses and do a good job.’
Characterising women as ‘the weaker sex’ has enabled men to justify their
exclusion from the roles of jockey and stallion man. Women are thought to
require protection from colts and stallions, which were likely to become aroused
by the scent of a woman and to cause her harm as a result.7 I would suggest
that using a primarily physical idiom of gender has eased the crossover of ideas
from animals to men and women, so common in Newmarket:
There’s no difference between a woman and a mare, except that a mare is more agreeable.
The mare is a self-contained foaling unit and nursery, and that’s all a woman would be
if she didn’t talk so much. (Bloodstock agent)
At first glance, these comments may appear to support Ortner’s idea that
women’s physiology makes them seem closer to nature (1974). Ortner arrives
at this contention by asking what every culture devalues, believing that there is
only ‘one thing that would fit that description, and that is “nature”, in the most
generalised sense’ (1974: 72). However, Ortner’s characterisation of nature as
universally demeaned in relation to culture is a simplification that masks more
than it reveals in Newmarket. Women are associated with birth and nurtur-
ing, perceived as ‘natural’ processes, but ‘nature’ is also powerful and violent
and, in this guise, associated with male virility, as the following description
indicates:
The business of women and horses reminds me of Roger Mortimer’s theory that a
stallion needs to be something of a shit to be a success at stud. He even predicted that
Mill Reef would be better at stud than Brigadier Gerard because he was nastier, and he
was absolutely right. (Bernard and Dodd 1991: 58)
I’d rather have a man simply because at the moment we deal mainly with other men.
But, as I said, things are changing, and in the future, who knows, I may need to employ
women too. (Bloodstock agent)
The idea that men and women communicate more efficiently with members
of the same sex was institutionalised in the maddening convention by which
women chatted in the kitchen before supper whilst the men enjoyed a whisky
in the lounge. Talk in the kitchen was often of the children or other domestic
concerns, whilst conversation in the lounge was of business (so I’m told). These
ideas were raised in a number of my interviews with women, for example:
My official role is to look over the stable door and say ‘Ahh’. It is a sexist industry, and it
is because of being a woman. I don’t fit in because I have my own career [as a teacher].
I won’t stay in and answer the phone and polish the step like the last two stud groom’s
wives. This world isn’t like a job, it’s a culture or a way of life. (Wife of stud groom)
This woman identifies the expectation of racing society that a woman’s sta-
tus, occupation and lifestyle will be determined by that of her husband. The
only variable capable of transcending this discrimination in racing is class, as
Hargreaves states:
The few women who broke into horse-racing were exceptional and from middle or
upper-class backgrounds. Lower-class women only held supporting, subservient roles
such as stable girls, cloakroom attendants, payers-out at the Tote windows, barmaids,
trainer’s wives, daughters and sisters. (1982: 120)
Death
The retrospective appreciation of fellow members of racing families reveals
traits valued amongst the living. Deaths are greeted with tributes to life
in the form of riding skills, training skills, risk-taking and good humour. Racing
triumphs are always mentioned, greatest winners listed in newspapers and on
television, associations with good horses recalled, whether jockey, trainer or
bloodstock agent. The individual’s contribution to the particularity of each race
Keeping it in the family 39
A beautiful horseman, Bob is well remembered for riding a talented but wayward filly,
Scarf, as a hack, setting off as many as thirty two-year-olds at the bottom of the Bury Hill
canter, before following them up, with a long rein and not a care in the world . . . One of
his great expressions was that when a difficult horse appeared, he would say: ‘I’ll ride
it.’ And he did! (1997: 4)
Primarily, one must have an affinity with horses. This affinity may take the form
of ‘an eye for a horse’ in the case of a bloodstock agent, an ability to ‘keep them
sweet’ in a trainer or an ‘eye for a stride’ in a jockey.
Generosity is valued because it reflects both success and also nonchalance,
an absence of anxiety about the future, the confident undertaking of risk and
liability. All members of racing families are expected to take risks without
revealing discomfort, and successful risk-taking is the means of advancement
in all racing occupations. Taking risks is seen as indicative of self-assurance,
such that one’s place in the racing hierarchy is secure, achieved effortlessly, and
not in the least bit threatened by one’s behaviour. Those who do not take risks
are regarded with suspicion.
Humour in racing is dominated by anecdotes that relate those mishaps which
originate in taking risks, an excess of alcohol which culminates in potentially
compromising exposure, for example. Humour is usually derived from indiscre-
tions of a sexual or financial nature. I would suggest that this humour serves to
increase the distance between racing society and the outside world by revelling
in the irresponsibility facilitated by involvement in such an isolated, unaccount-
able industry. Tales of drunk driving, in particular, were met with admiration
for the protagonist: ‘Bloody hell, three times over – that’s pretty good going!’
These tales involved defiance of the law and of the police, the authority of whom
was explicitly dismissed as ‘irrelevant to us’, ‘for the masses’ and ‘meant for
joy riders’.
The death of a member of racing’s upper class, as in the case of the death
of a successful racehorse, represents a loss of blood – a gap in the genealogy
of a particular ‘family’. The sudden deaths of popular horses are greeted by
behaviour that can only be described as mourning. The death of Red Rum,
for example, was followed by a television tribute to an ‘equine hero’. The
death of One Man live on television was accompanied by the tears of his
seemingly hard-bitten jockey, prompting a flood of letters and sympathy to the
BBC.
40 The Sport of Kings
they say . . . (cue hairs rising on the back of your neck) . . . Fred’s still around. ‘The lads
say they see him from time to time,’ says the trainer. ‘The older we get, the more whisky
Keeping it in the family 41
we drink, the more ghosts we see. The lads tend to see him on a Friday night.’ When the
lads called him up on an Ouija board, Fred told them to back Unblest the following day
(he won at 6–4), where his grave was and where he committed suicide. Sounds like we
could all do with a benevolent ghost. (1997: 32)
Fred Archer was the most famous jockey of the second half of the nineteenth
century, and he makes a perfect ghost because he had a hard life and met a
tragic end. Archer shot himself whilst suffering from a delirious fit brought on
by wasting to reduce his weight. His suicide was made more poignant as it fell
upon the anniversary of the death of his wife during childbirth. The son to whom
she gave birth also died. I would suggest that Archer cannot rest because he did
not leave an heir. He is still implicated in Newmarket in numerous ways, due
to the presence of his ghost, a street named Fred Archer Way, and the sinister
cabinet in the Racing Museum dedicated to his memory, which contains his
diary, his tiny boots, and the gun with which he shot himself. Even as a ghost
Fred is a good racing sort, however, as his winning tip confirms.
Blue Peter. Sir Jack Jarvis, who trained Blue Peter and many other classic winners
trained here from the twenties to the sixties. (Newmarket Open Day Programme 1996)
By mentioning the Leaders and Jack Jarvis, both of these descriptions signal an
association (to those ‘in the know’) with a major racing dynasty. Similarly, when
recording family members who trained, informants always specified the yard
they occupied. Some yards remained in families throughout generations, and
the sale of these yards is always regretted, whilst their possession is remembered
with great nostalgia.
The relationship between the established Newmarket families and the latest
influx of trainers is captured in the difference between the old established yards
and the yards built during the 1980s. The stories associated with the newer
stables do not concern past glory, or association with famous equine and human
figures, but rather the sadness of the recession which caught out many of the
new trainers. One yard remains unfinished, with weeds growing through the
concrete, and an uncertain future. Even more sad is the story of the horse left
in a deserted yard by his trainer as payment of a debt to his landlord. Speaking
of the more recently established yards, a trainer told me:
They haven’t got the horses in the boxes to talk to the horses and the trainer in the house
to talk to the trainer. No history speaks to them, and they’re in a vacuum, trying to make
history out of nothing.
Making connections
Whilst recording relatives with members of a family of informants I noticed that
they were omitting people from our record. When I asked about this I was told
that they had been missing out those people without any known involvement
Keeping it in the family 43
with racing. Informants were happiest when the ratio of ‘racing’ to ‘non-racing’
people was as high as possible, and even suggested that I should devise an
equation capable of calculating this concentration.
Eventually, they settled for running a diagonal pencil line through
‘non-racing’ people, so that my diagrams would be very confusing to an an-
thropologist, depicting people seemingly reproducing from ‘beyond the grave’.
This is racing’s answer to Schneider’s question of, ‘What, then, determines
whether a relation will exist or not?’ (1968: 72). Amongst members of ‘real’
Newmarket families, the most significant factor influencing whether a relative
will be recognised as such appears to be their racing credentials.
Memories of connections amongst these families are entirely selective.
‘Social interest’ is highly focused, so that those with racing credentials (however
distantly ‘related’) will not be forgotten, whilst those without such credentials
(however closely ‘related’) will be recalled reluctantly and in passing, or not
at all. Furthermore, those with sufficiently strong racing credentials may have
biological links envisaged for them. Where these biological links seem lacking
at first glance at an individual’s immediate family, they will be attributed to his
or her unrecorded ‘past’.
Informants describing the contemporary relations between Newmarket fami-
lies thereby delineated themselves from newcomers. The desire to include some
and exclude others became almost farcical, as the transcript of our conversation
reveals:
Informant: The Candys go back, and the Easterbys in Yorkshire are all connected. There
are huge families in Epsom too. The Tollers . . . Tom is in transport, and James’ nephew
Mark is from a racing family too. There’s a possible connection between the Yorkshire
Watts and the Watts via Yvonne. Harry Wragg’s father married into a racing family.
Harry Carr the jockey married Joan who was connected to the Wraggs, or was it the
Barlows? Of course, Frankie Barlow’s sister Carol married Kipper Lynch so that joined
up the families through sisters marrying jockeys. James Eustace’s wife’s brother trains
in Hong Kong.
R: Are the Baldings all related too?
Informant: Yes, that’s right, Toby [trainer] and Ian [trainer] are cousins, and Peter trained
for the Queen after the Rickaby and Marsh time, and then Colonel Robin Hastings is
chairman of the BBA, now isn’t he the one who can be traced back to Robin Hood? I
think there is some connection there.
depended almost entirely upon the individual concerned, and whether they
wished to admit him or her to their ranks. Thus although a recent recruit to
training had a father who had been a major owner, they did not permit this
connection. In other contexts, in order to provide a link between two major
families, for example, this connection was permitted. The purpose of claiming
such connections is not simply to identify a particular individual as part of racing
society, but also to stress the image of racing society as highly interconnected.
As Edwards and Strathern note, in their study of kinship in a British town,
‘biology is never the full story’ (1999: 160); however, this leaves open the
question of exactly what, in Newmarket, constitutes ‘biology’, and ‘society’.
In the case of Newmarket, biology is imagined through ‘racing blood’, whilst
‘society’ is success in the sacred arena of the racecourse. An ‘interdigitation’
(Edwards and Strathern 1999: 158) thus occurs between the ideology of pedi-
gree and the reality of the successes of those who do not qualify biologically for
such achievements. Where links neglect to provide success in racing they are
killed off, thus biology is banished by the diagonal line through non-racing rel-
atives. Where success occurs without biological connection such a connection
is imagined or assumed.
I am not suggesting that this is a particularly exceptional feature of kinship
particular to Newmarket families, since kinship is often highly selective in
this way. What is specific to this context is the ideology that family cannot be
separated from occupation and thus class, all are implied by birth. The fluidity
of racing ideologies, such as ‘the big win’, and that ‘all men are equal on
the turf and under it’, that anyone can back a horse and therefore become rich,
the camaraderie of the racecourse and the idea that everyone in racing has more
in common with each other than with anyone outside racing emphasises what is
shared at the expense of what separates, blurring the reality of class distinctions.
Thus, whilst modern Britain may be perceived by some as having separated
class from birth, the dominant ideology of pedigree in Newmarket is a double
bind. What appears fixed (kin) is actually relatively fluid, though what seems
to be mobile (class) is fixed. The ‘natural facts’ are recognised only selectively,
and are subordinate to the fixed social reality that without success one cannot
be a member of a racing family. ‘Success’ is a composite notion involving
appearance, residence, connections and winning, a way of ‘being in the world’
which offers (self-fulfilling) proof of the theory of pedigree.
Reactions to outsiders
A contrast was drawn between ‘newcomers’ and ‘real’ Newmarket families in
the same way as was made by ‘real Elmdoners’ (Strathern 1981) and ‘Muker
people’ (Phillips 1986).9 Newmarket ‘before the war’ was characterised as a
place in which everyone really was related to each other, where bicycles featured
Keeping it in the family 45
heavily, and a policy of helping one’s neighbour held sway. Newcomers were
distinguished from ‘real’ Newmarket people by two things: their money and
their lack of breeding. As a female informant told me, ‘They were already
millionaires, what on earth would they possibly want with training racehorses?
That man has twenty-six phones in his house!’ The newcomers were described
by those with Newmarket roots as ‘businessmen rather than horsemen’, and I
was told that the nature of training horses had in fact changed from the days when
a trainer would have a maximum of forty horses. Newcomer trainers with strings
of two hundred horses were thought to be training as a ‘business’ rather than
‘for the love of it’. ‘New money’ was thus cast as destabilising the ‘old order’
to the extent that the nature of training itself was actually seen to be changing,
‘Training used to be hands on, you know, feeling legs, knowing the horses. But
now it’s more about PR and money. Getting the business in’ (Trainer).
However, whilst the relationship between Newmarket families and outsiders
is often antagonistic, the boundary between the two is permeable, and kinship
performative. Thus by proving oneself to be ‘the right sort’ one may be as-
similated into Newmarket society by revelations concerning one’s own family.
Although the primary mechanism available for infiltrating Newmarket society
is birthright, biology is entirely subordinate to social performance. Thus, whilst
birth into a racing family appears the obvious means by which a connection may
be claimed, it is not a necessary or sufficient condition of entry, since ‘natural
facts’ can be conjured up for insiders, whilst those who remain outsiders by
performance will remain so by birth. In other words, both marriage and birth
only serve to connect where proof of a connection exists in the individual’s
performance.
This section raises questions regarding my own relationship to informants
during fieldwork, and my place in their perception of ‘insiders’ and ‘outsiders’.
My entry into this society depended on my ability to display my affinity with
horses. Being comfortable with horses is perceived as an absolute quality that
does not admit to degrees. Thus, when I complained that my riding ability was
limited, I was told that some people would never be able to do this thing. My
ability was a matter of degree, and would improve with experience, but I was
already on the right side of an absolute divide between those who could ride and
those who could not. This ability was often explained in terms of my breeding,
despite my insistence that I could not recall any racing ancestors. My Irish
surname made this specificity unnecessary, because according to most of my
informants, all the Irish have ‘racing in their blood’.10
Discussions of outsiders amongst myself and informants assumed, from quite
early on, my complicity with members of racing families. When a bomb scare
forced the postponement of the Grand National and the evacuation of the course,
the response in Newmarket was extreme. Some informants told me that they
had considered emigrating because they believed that, ‘you can’t do anything
46 The Sport of Kings
in this bloody country’. The belief that animal rights activists had disrupted the
race infuriated them. Animal rights activists are perceived to be ignorant of the
countryside, town dwellers with abstract ideas rather than empirical knowledge,
prompting comments such as, ‘What do they know about the countryside? I
suppose they’ve read something in a book.’ The contempt in which intellectual
or ‘bookish’ learning is held stems from its contradiction with lived knowledge
as embodied and inherited. As I was told on a number of occasions, ‘racing
people don’t think, they do’.11
The ban on British beef which followed the BSE scare was also seen as an
infringement of an individual’s right to choose by a government too weak to
stand up to European pressure. Farmers were seen as natural allies. Refuge was
sought in the policies of the Referendum Party in the General Election, which
received double the national average of votes in Newmarket. James Goldsmith’s
video was widely circulated in Newmarket, and its message cherished. Bumper
stickers supporting British beef could be found in abundance in the trainers’
car park of racecourses all over Britain in the nineties, whilst my vegetarianism
was a constant source of irritation to many of my informants, ‘Oh God, she’s a
bloody vegetarian. Better pass the rabbit food.’12
Although the beef ban, the Grand National and the General Election brought
ideas of peripherality, and even persecution, into focus, these ideas are a con-
tinual undercurrent. The most frequently cited justification for racing’s antag-
onistic relationship to the government at the time of fieldwork was the level of
General Betting Duty, which was seen as prohibitively high. Racing was often
described as a goose laying golden eggs for the government. Although betting
duty was cited as the prime example of the inability of outsiders to comprehend
the problems facing the industry, I would suggest that it is indicative of a more
general attitude towards outsiders. The self-image of the upper class of rac-
ing society as an exclusive, inter-related, highly specialised minority promotes
‘peripherality as a self-image’ (Cohen 1982: 7).
Conclusion
In this chapter I discussed the ‘upper class’ of racing, that is, the individuals pre-
occupied with the training, owning, breeding, buying and selling of racehorses,
who sometimes identify themselves and each other as ‘Newmarket families’.
I have attempted to establish that tracing connections in Newmarket families
depend upon a combination of both ‘social’ and ‘biological’ factors. Further-
more, both social and biological facts can determine each other. Biology is in
no sense the prime mover in this form of relatedness, despite its explicit reifica-
tion in the ideology of pedigree. Thus Newmarket trainers embody Newmarket
by being successful, whilst parts of Newmarket embody particular Newmarket
trainers by absorbing their good fortune into their bricks and mortar.
Keeping it in the family 47
notes
1 As Strathern notes, ‘When Elmdoners say, then, that so-and-so is a real village person,
or a newcomer, that real Elmdon families have been there for generations, we should
ask not so much whether it is true, but why it matters’ (1981: 17).
2 I mention this because it is in contrast to the experience of ‘talking family’ de-
scribed by Bouquet, ‘Talking family is charged with latent violence quite as much
as affectivity . . . It is a discourse that deserves comparison with sorcery which as
Farret-Sada shows, is about power rather than knowledge or information’ (1993: 46).
In my case, it was me who was bewitched, as my informant ran genealogical rings
around me.
3 Godolphin is Sheikh Mohammed’s highly successful breeding and training operation.
4 In 2000 Dettori survived a light plane crash on Newmarket racecourse along with
fellow jockey Ray Cochrane. Their pilot was tragically killed.
5 The two weddings I attended in Newmarket couldn’t have been more different. One
was a traditional church wedding, the other a registry office followed by a meal in a
curry house.
48 The Sport of Kings
6 Of the 2791 jockeys licensed to ride in the USA, Canada and parts of Mexico in
1992, 447 were women. In Sweden, two women have been champion jockeys, an
unthinkable achievement in Britain. Berneklint was champion with 71 wins from
357 rides in 1991, whilst Nordgren was champion in 1982 with 61 wins from 232
rides (Lovesey 1994: 31–2).
7 The rape of a woman by a horse was often described euphemistically by men who
advocated the protection of women from colts and stallions. It represents another
example of the tendency to elide human and animal categories.
8 Believe it or not, these remarks come from an essay entitled ‘Sizing up a filly’,
and epitomise the tendency of men who discuss women in this way to dismiss its
importance by describing it as a ‘habit’. By so doing, they make any resulting offence
taken by a woman inappropriate, the result of a misunderstanding. Such offence is
invoked as evidence of the greater ‘sensitivity’ of women relative to men, and so the
cycle is complete.
9 In Muker, for example, ‘the idea that “everyone’s related to everyone” is a collective
representation of the local community which Muker people represent to people from
the outside world. Kinship is depicted as being at once a mechanism of inclusion in,
and exclusion from, the core set of locals’ (Phillips 1986: 143).
10 My role was further complicated by the demands of some of the tasks I undertook
with horses, which required immediate responses. Reflection whilst performing these
tasks could actually be dangerous. It was essential to get through some days merely
following instructions, really being a stud hand or lad.
11 It was about the time of the bomb scare that I was ‘caught’ reading a book in a quiet
and sunny corner of the yard, and it was funny to see the obvious physical relaxation
of my trainer when I explained to him that it was simply a jockey’s autobiography.
I turned the cover photograph towards him to reveal a photograph of a horse and he
let out an audible sigh of relief.
12 However, I have been struck by recent changes in attitude. At the 2001 Guineas
meeting at Newmarket, for example, I ordered the vegetarian option for lunch and
was surprised when my male companion did the same. I questioned him about his
choice, as I had always thought of him as a beef-eating, red-blooded Englishman (on
his insistence). In reply, he asked me the rhetorical question, ‘Well who eats meat
any more?’
4 At the races
Introduction
In this chapter I focus upon the racecourse, because it is here that the supply side
of racing, including members of the class described in the preceding chapter,
encounter racing’s consumers. I have spent dozens of days at racecourses during
the past four years, and travelled all over Britain, from Mussleburgh to Brighton.
I have been racing in a number of different roles, including those of lad, trainer’s
assistant and owner. As a spectator I have been racing with gamblers, touts,
groups of friends and virtual strangers. On all these occasions I spoke with
as many people as possible, recording as much information as I could in note-
books, and on an assortment of betting stubs, racecards and cigarette packets.
It is not surprising that some of the most famous, successful and well-
connected trainers dislike going racing. It is at the racecourse that the client
base that sustains the industry is to be found: the spectators and, in particular,
the punters. The central paradox of horseracing is that it is a sport intimately as-
sociated with, and some would say driven by, the betting activities of the lower
classes whilst many of its professionals (excluding most jockeys) are mem-
bers of the upper class.1 The obfuscation of this uneasy symbiosis is achieved
through the conventions that occur on the course.
Both the supply and demand sides of racing collude, at times, in the naturali-
sation of class distinctions on the racecourse. The supply side of racing focuses
upon the owner in order to obscure the fact that it is providing a service for
consumers of betting. The spectators and punters are patronised by clichés of
equality perpetuated by those who depend upon their custom. My fieldwork
suggested that some racing spectators collude in their own subordination on
the racecourse because their attraction to horseracing lies in its prestigious
associations. This association precludes their involvement in its central rituals,
but permits their presence on the periphery. Exploring segregation on the race-
course, for example, and particularly its origin in class distinctions and the
contemporary form these take, makes relations on the racecourse explicit. This
sort of inquiry was therefore a source of discomfort to almost all of my infor-
mants, regardless of their structural position in the racing world.
49
50 The Sport of Kings
No matter how far I leant out over the rails at Epsom, I couldn’t separate Benny
the Dip and Silver Patriarch as they flashed past the post in the 1997 Derby.
I swung round, leant on the winning post and looked at the crowds behind
me. The favourite saying of the racing fraternity that ‘all men are equal on the
turf and under it’ drifted into my mind, and I tacked on the relevant qualifying
phrase, ‘however, some are more equal than others’. Inequality is a defining
feature of racecourses, but at Epsom on Derby Day it was particularly rife,
expressed spatially, and through dress. Top hat and tails: Queen’s Stand, suit
and tie: Club Enclosure, t-shirt and jeans: Tattenham Enclosure, bare chests and
bikinis: Centre of the Course. 72,000 people made up the Derby crowd, and they
At the races 51
were spread out in front of me, in zones, categorised according to how much they
were prepared to pay to see the biggest race of the European flat racing calendar.
The 1997 Derby provided me with a fantastic opportunity to observe segre-
gation on the racecourse at its most extreme, as the dress code reproduced on
the racecard shows:
Although there are more and less expensive seats available in most arenas, it is
difficult to think of another sport in which the spectators are required to conform
to such strict dress codes. Segregation is one of the most striking features
of the racecourse, and can be seen as an effort to overcome the paradoxical
structure of the racing industry, driven by betting, mainly in off-course shops,
patronised on the racecourse by the aristocracy and the upper class. As long as
the horse-owning public does not need to encounter the betting public at the
races they can maintain that racing is a sport funded by their contributions for
their enjoyment, rather than an industry sustained by and for two-pound punters
in smoky betting shops in cities all over the country. Conversely, punters can
‘back’ their judgement, and in doing so oppose members of the upper class,
thereby achieving brief ascendancy over them.
Segregation at the racecourse is no longer primarily based upon membership
of the course or the Jockey Club as it was in the nineteenth century. However,
rather than do away with the category of ‘member’, racecourses have provided
a contemporary perspective thereon. Whilst membership used to involve being
52 The Sport of Kings
forwarded and seconded, and paying a large fee for the privilege, ‘member-
ship’ now resides in the payment of a fee to the racecourse. The category of
‘day member’ provides the racecourse with a convention whereby they may
extend the privileges of membership to those prepared to pay extra on the day.
The predictable effect of this is that day members now dominate the category of
members, and life, annual or Jockey Club members are provided with smaller
but even more exclusive facilities and benefits. Tickets are in all cases called
‘badges’ suggesting something less transient than the equivalent ‘ticket’ bought
for the cinema. Members’ badges fall into the categories of Life (metal), Annual
(metal) and Day (cardboard). These badges offer access to the majority of the
racecourse enclosures and facilities, and are correspondingly more expensive
than the non-members’ badges, which have a variety of inoffensive names such
as Lonsdale or Tattersalls, and offer limited access to enclosures and facilities
on the racecourse. Thus, whilst membership was once a meaningful concept
whereby individuals were vetted before being granted their badge, ‘member-
ship’ now means only ‘prepared to pay more’.
Dress standard requirements at the Derby are complemented by the appro-
priate cuisine within each enclosure. Thus whilst the Queen’s Stand boasts a
Pimm’s bar serving champagne, Pimm’s, fresh orange juice and soft drinks,
plus a Ben and Jerry’s ice cream cart, the Grandstand and Vodafone Village
prefer traditional hog roast and sausage baguettes, cider on draught, jazz bands
and Cockney dancers. The correspondence between dress, badge price and as-
sumed preferences and tastes reveals the racecourse administration’s perception
of its customers and their group characteristics. The wealthy are to dress up,
appreciate the racing and enjoy ‘sandwiches, cakes, tea, coffee, cold drinks and
other light snacks’, whilst ‘the masses’ can go to the fair (outside the race-
course), eat roasted meat in bread and toast their recent peasant ancestry with
scrumpy. The racing administrators reproduce the story of the working class
told by, for example, Hoggart in the 1950s:
‘Something tasty’ is the key phrase in feeding: something solid, preferably meaty and
with a well-defined flavour. The tastiness is increased by a liberal use of sauces and
pickles, notably tomato sauce and piccalilli. (1957: 37)
in the working classes fish tends to be regarded as an unsuitable food for men, not only
because it is a light food, insufficiently ‘filling’. . . but also because, like fruit (except
bananas) it is one of the ‘fiddly’ things which a man’s hands cannot cope with and which
make him childlike. (Bourdieu 1984: 190)
Fish is attractive to the elite of racing society for the very reasons that Bourdieu
argues it was unattractive to the French working class.4 Fish is low in fat,
comes in small portions, and is fiddly to eat, therefore less is eaten, pleasing
ultra-weight-conscious racing society. Furthermore, fish, and particularly shell-
fish, requires specialised knowledge of conventions as to which parts are eaten
and how they are prepared, and therefore serves to distinguish insiders from
outsiders.
Seafood on the racecourse is expensive, and the price of champagne is a
continual gripe amongst those with something to celebrate. Celebrations of
betting wins generally take the form appropriate to their subject’s enclosure.
Those with a big win in the non-members and day members are likely to be men
in male company, and are celebrated with rounds of drinks. Men accompanied
by their families in these enclosures tend to bet in small quantities and might
spend winnings on ice cream or chips. Betting wins amongst the members or
owners and trainers will not necessarily provoke any sort of celebration, as they
may be large and unpublicised, as in the case of professional punters. Smaller
wins may be celebrated with champagne, certainly with some form of alcohol,
and quite often with another bet. The importance of alcohol at the racecourse
can hardly be over-emphasised.5
Not all racegoers adhere slavishly to the pursuits attributed to their particular
enclosure, however. Even before entering the Derby, creative and suggestive
forms of consumption were in evidence. The car park culture of American-
style ‘tailgating’, a picnic technique, was interpreted in various, sometimes
extreme, ways by racegoers and others who were simply there in order to eat and
drink in the extensive grassed areas. The two extremes of tailgating behaviour
were by far the most common, with few examples in between. ‘Tailgaters’
either had Range Rovers, wicker chairs and trestle tables weighed down with
smoked salmon, haunches of venison and champagne, or Ford Cortinas with
plastic garden furniture and tables made out of crates of beer. Whilst those in
Range Rovers seemed almost perverse in their pursuit of home comfort, and had
brought along silver cutlery and crystal glasses, the point for those in Cortinas
seemed to be simplicity and relaxation.
Whilst those going into the enclosures were emphasising manners and con-
vention by employing them entirely out of context, those who were not even
going to enter the racecourse relaxed conventions, and set up barbecues as if they
were in their own gardens. This latter group was reminiscent of the historian’s
image of the pre-enclosure atmosphere of the racecourse. The presence of a
huge fair with rides, gaming booths, food stands, and all Gypsy Rose Lee’s
54 The Sport of Kings
living relatives in caravans, further encouraged this comparison. The walk from
the car park to the racecourse entrance was enlivened by women in head scarves
selling lucky heather and carnations, and touts offering us spare tickets. These
attractions ceased a respectable distance from the entrance to the racecourse,
where men and women in smart uniforms punched holes in our badges and
waved us through the metal detectors and bag search, into the midst of the
official Derby entertainments.
Enclosure: inside:outside
Behaviour inside the gates of a racecourse differs in significant ways from that
outside. The racecourse boundary marks the separation of the racing world
from the outside world. It thus becomes clear why racing professionals such as
trainers, to whom the racecourse is a display cabinet, dress as trainers whilst
inside, even though they may wear wellingtons and waterproofs tied up with
bailing twine whilst shovelling muck at home. Outside the racecourse, trainers
are less well known than many other sporting people; however, once on the race-
course they are often stars amongst knowing fans. Conversely, whilst trainers,
journalists, professional gamblers and officials come to the racecourse to work,
the majority of racegoers are intent on enjoying themselves, having left their
workplace identity behind at the gate. Racing is a sport and also an industry;
hence at the racecourse there are those earning a living and those trying to forget
about just that by engaging in a frivolity.
Whilst behaviour inside the racecourse is different to that outside the race-
course, it is the same between racecourses, perhaps reflecting a more general
trend identified by the geographer Bale:
sports have emerged as highly rationalised representations of modernity which, as much
as, (and arguably more than) any other form of culture, possess the potential to eliminate
regional differences as a result of their rule-bound, ordered, enclosed and predictably
segmented forms of landscape. (1994: 1)
The most obvious feature of the racing landscape is the perimeter wall, and
the broadest distinction created by the racecourse is between those inside and
those outside. This division is now taken for granted, in that everyone expects to
pay in order to go racing, barring special promotions or a distant view from
an overlooking hill. Entrance fees are, however, a relatively recent innovation,
facilitated by the enclosure of racecourses, beginning with the park courses, at
the end of the nineteenth century, as the sports historian Brailsford describes:
The ability to collect gate money was the final piece of the financial jigsaw. Once it was
in place, by the end of the century, racing had become, in the words of its most perceptive
historian, ‘as much part of the economic as the social scene: it was an industry as well
as a sport’. (1991: 59–60)
At the races 55
Before enclosure, race meetings were essentially local events, associated with
annual holidays, and accompanied by all sorts of other distractions such as cock-
fights, prizefighting, sideshows and itinerant entertainers. Significantly, racing
took place between all sorts of horses, not only thoroughbreds, as hacks, hunters
and even ponies were drafted in to satisfy the demand for racing. The supply of
horses was limited to those who could walk to the meeting, and so heats served
to increase the number of races available as betting media.
The commercialisation of racecourses was facilitated by the advent of enclo-
sure and the expansion of the railways as a means of transporting both horses
and spectators. However, the railway alone would not be enough to provoke the
mushrooming of racing’s fortunes in the latter half of the nineteenth century,
when prize money rose from £143,000 in 1839 to £495,000 in 1905 (Brailsford
1991: 60). Although racecourses made money from the tents and attractions that
accompanied the racing itself, collection of tariffs and contributions before en-
closure had been uncertain and dominated by physical confrontation. Enclosure
provided huge opportunities both to ensure income from every spectator, and
also to control the accompanying activities by bringing them within the walls
of the racecourse. Sandown Park held the first enclosed meeting in April 1875.
Those meetings that remained ‘open’ managed to do so on the grounds that:
‘members and would-be members of high society felt a social obligation to
put in an appearance at these meetings’ (Vamplew 1988: 58). However, even
conservative Newmarket had no alternative than to:
march with the times, to build stands, to make enclosures, to substitute the white rails of
modern civilisation for the old-fashioned ropes and stakes of our forefathers. (The Earl
of Suffolk quoted in Vamplew 1988: 58)
However, the mere fact of enclosure and expanded rail transport does not explain
the increasing prize money, number of new meetings, horses in training and
volume of bloodstock investment throughout the second half of the nineteenth
century. People also had to possess both the money and the desire to go racing.
According to Vamplew, racing was benefiting from a more general development
on the back of the 70% rise in average real wages between 1850 and 1900:
The 1870s and 1880s are important decades in the history of commercialised popular
recreation: they witnessed an expansion of the specialist music halls . . . the rapid devel-
opment of seaside holidays for the working class, the take-off of gate money soccer and
of course the enclosed race meeting. (1976: 41)
In changing the nature of race meetings from free local carnival to paying and
structured events drawing on a huge potential audience linked up by a railway
network, enclosure changed the profile of racegoers. Ponies and hacks had by
this time been replaced by English thoroughbreds, identified as such by their
presence in the General Stud Book, established in 1791. Race meetings ceased to
56 The Sport of Kings
pulling hard on the rein. One of the horses I ‘led up’ was well known for his
antics in the paddock, which included bucking and squealing as he jig-jogged
round.7 Each lad has a number attached to his or her arm and the horses wear
number cloths for clear identification. As I walked round the paddock cheeky
punters always asked me whether my horse had a chance, and, of course, I
always said ‘yes’ with a conspiratorial wink.
The trainer
The trainer arrives with the saddle that he has collected from the weighing room.
The saddle has been ‘weighed out’ with the jockey, so that the horse will be
carrying the weight he has been allocated by the handicapper for that race. The
trainer calls his charge into one of the saddling boxes on the outer perimeter of
the paddock. The horse is backed in, its sheet and roller removed and replaced
with its saddle and weight cloth. If it is cold, its sheet may be replaced along
with its number cloth and roller. The trainer may squeeze a wet sponge into
either side of the horse’s mouth in order to moisten his throat. The lad leads the
horse away and the trainer is joined by the owner in the middle of the paddock
whilst the horse resumes its parade around the inner perimeter.
The paddock has been seen as a ritual arena which has survived in its original
form whilst losing much of its significance. It was conventional in the few
sociological considerations of horseracing to maintain that status decreased
with increasing contact with the horse. Thus the owner was at the top of the
hierarchy and hardly touched the horse, the trainer saddled it, the jockey rode
it and the lad cleared up after it and inhabited the lowest rung of the ladder.
Anthropologist Kate Fox has recently challenged this view:
The formal, official, public elements of racecourse etiquette continue to reassert these
distinctions, but any reasonably astute observer of social behaviour will soon spot the
shifting power-relations behind this facade. (1997: 16)
These two opposing interpretations of the paddock ritual are equally unhelpful,
the first in that contact with the horse is a red herring, status in the paddock
is determined by status outside the paddock. Kate Fox re-reads behaviour in
the paddock as a ‘vestigial’ ritual in which the jockey is actually the centre
of attention: ‘the brightly painted warrior, who is holding court and receiving
blessings for a few moments before sallying forth into battle’ (1997: 16).8 I
think that a closer look at relationships between owner, trainer and jockey tells
a different story.
Events in the paddock are repeated every time there is a race, at all of the differ-
ent English racecourses, in a practically identical, hence codified form. Action
in the paddock serves to reinforce the relations that exist between those taking
part and those excluded. Outsiders to this ritual are excluded by the paddock
58 The Sport of Kings
In the discourse that emerges from the official racing sources, both of these sets
of differences are denied.
The owner
The environment in which the main characters in the paddock find themselves is
one of danger, excitement, risk and financial possibility, specific to that particu-
lar race. The occasion of the race brings all of the features of racehorse owner-
ship into sharper focus, and the owner is most identifiable as such in the paddock.
The owner has no formal responsibilities in the paddock. Since the inception of
public trainers at the end of the nineteenth century few owners have continued to
take responsibility for issuing riding orders to the jockey, a task which has been
transferred to the trainer. The question remains as to how the owner communi-
cates his ‘ownerness’, and here Le Wita’s analysis of the Parisian bourgeoisie
is particularly helpful:
Let us dwell for a moment on the example of dress. Through it we can trace the formation
and development of a true culture. The history of costume reveals how the bourgeoisie
has repeatedly replaced the aristocracy’s ostentatious distinguishing marks with marks
that are more restrained, more discreet, though no less formidable in terms of symbolic
effectiveness. (1994: 57)
Dress forms a necessary, but not sufficient element in the role of ‘owner’. Winter
suits are country rather than business, of natural colour and cloth, summer suits
are lighter, often linen, the most significant features of both are their cut and
accompanying accessories. Describing the cut of a suit in a way that hopes to
transcend my own cultural mores is perhaps optimistic, and to say that a suit is
well fitted begs all sorts of questions. Relying upon anecdotal experiences as a
last resort I would say that these suits were of a sort that is recognised by others
within racing society as the same as their own, which I know them to think
At the races 59
of as well fitted and well cut. An element of this style that may be identified
outside its own milieu is that these suits are classic rather than fashionable.
Their price does not determine their value, and many inappropriate designer-
label suits may be far more expensive. Their greater value to a racing person
lies in their approximation to an ideal type of racehorse owner’s suit. A new suit
is not as desirable as a suit that seems older, comfortable yet bearing up well
to the rigours of frequent visits to the races, possibly due to its high quality.
Suits that look comfortable reproduce the most desired demeanour of the owner
within.
Apart from dress, ‘A person must know how to move in a closed world’
(Le Wita 1994: 75). Because the owner has nothing to do in the paddock, he
does nothing thoroughly. At most, he concentrates and may look at his horse
with narrowed eyes. The most accomplished owners do not even look at their
horse, because they are confident that everything is as it should be. They are
serious, and exude an air of authority, as if they are performing a difficult and
essential task with brilliant ease. In fact, whether they are there or not is a feature
of the paddock ritual that affects only them. Owners choose a place to stand
in the paddock and remain there until the bell rings and the jockeys enter the
paddock and walk to join them.
The increasing number of syndicates, partnerships and women owners are
gradually changing the constitution of the crowd in the paddock. However, they
do not seem to be affecting its symbolic significance. The most ‘horsy’ women
behave exactly as a man would, and are treated in the same way as a man would
be. The class associations of a female member of the aristocracy ‘compensate’
for her gender, and this has always been the case for the number of women
owners from this class. One member of this group to whom I spoke described
her presence in the paddock as having an entirely practical purpose:
I go in solely to speak with my trainer, to speak with my jockey, and to look at the horse.
It is necessary to have a space in which one may discuss things which are private and
concern only those with runners in that race, and that is all the paddock is. It doesn’t
make me feel anything at all . . . Its purpose is entirely practical.
It’s quite a thrill, to stand and be looked at by people outside the ring. You feel a part
of things that were closed off to you before you bought your horse. It’s fun to think of
all the other people who have horses with your trainer and to think that you have got a
horse with him.
The new syndicate members to whom I spoke were visiting the paddock for
the first time. One of these informants told me that she had felt an intense
60 The Sport of Kings
sense of discomfort to be ‘on the inside, looking out, with everyone looking
in on me’. To some extent, all of these experiences engage with the template
of the archetypal male owner. Women who are well connected may be more
adept at being male owners than some less well connected men. New women
owners adopted male behaviour, and enjoyed the status this attracted, without
challenging the basis of that status. The response of syndicate members arises
from their awareness of the outsiders to the ritual, which the male owners take
for granted, thereby naturalising the distinctions it symbolises.
The trainer shares many traits with the owner; however, as I was told re-
peatedly, being a trainer is a way of life rather than an occupation. Whilst
the racehorse owner is just that by virtue of his other roles (aristocrat, bank
manager, lottery winner etc.), the trainer’s other roles seem secondary to, and
often dependent upon, training, for example, smoker, drinker, socialiser, gam-
bler, husband to woman from racing family, philanderer etc. After saddling the
horse the trainer walks into the paddock with the owner. The two of them may
both be carrying binoculars and their racecards, walking slowly and looking
down at the ground talking under their breath, as if discussing a life-threatening
secret. This discussion consists of a few unhurried words, probably concerning
the ground or a rival, and will continue after they have come to a halt in the
paddock. They will look up when the bell has rung and the jockey is approach-
ing. The atmosphere is, again, serious. The trainer is engaging in impression
management. He is paid to train a horse so that it will win races, and in the
paddock the potential exists for him to be successful in this task. Therefore
he is able to act as if this is exactly what will happen, and as if this is really
what trainers do, with the unintended consequence that those who know better
accuse them of pomposity, ‘There are plenty of people who train horses who
think that they are saving the world rather than preparing beasts to run round
a field’ (Edmondson, quoted in Sharpe 1996b: 4). As Sir Mark Prescott, one
of the least pretentious of their number, admits, ‘The most common reason
for horses getting beaten is trainer error but, thank God, it is seldom reported’
(quoted in Sharpe 1996b: 4).
The jockeys
When the jockeys enter the paddock they look around for the connections of
their ride. They will be wearing the silks that are registered to that owner. As
they approach the connections they touch the peak of their hat. The jockey is
introduced to the owner by the trainer. The trainer and owner stand shoulder to
shoulder and face the jockey, who rests one foot and then the other, and holds
his hands behind his back. The jockey may smile, his conversation with the
trainer will not be as secretive as that between owner and trainer. The jockey
addresses both owner and trainer as ‘sir’, ‘boss’ or ‘guv’nor’.
At the races 61
The final bell rings and the connections look for their horse. The horse keeps
walking around the perimeter path as the trainer or assistant peels his rugs or
roller off. The trainer then gives the jockey a ‘leg up’ by catching the jockey’s
bent left leg and lifting him slowly and seemingly effortlessly into the ‘plate’ as
the horse keeps walking along, controlled by the lad. The trainer may say a few
final words to the jockey before turning to walk to the stands with the owner in
order to watch the race. The lad detaches his rein and holds onto the horse by his
bridle, ready to release him onto the course. A race official enters the paddock
and directs the runners out of the paddock, towards the track. Most jockeys are
reluctant to be first out in case a horse ‘plants’ himself, that is refuses to move,
requiring a lead. However, as the jockeys pretend to be unready to go, and say
to the official, ‘May I take a turn, sir?’ the official gets annoyed and says that
they may not. Races must run on time in order to ensure that they do not clash
in the betting shops and courses that run late incur disapproval from the Jockey
Club, the BHB and punters.
Jockeys tie a knot in their reins in the paddock, whilst control of the horse still
rests with the lad. They gather the reins up during the walk to the track, and the
horses begin to jog. The lad may run the last few paces to keep the horse’s mo-
mentum going, again to avoid planting, and says ‘good luck’ as he lets go of the
horse, relinquishing control to the jockey as the horse steps onto the track itself.
It is true that the status of the jockey has changed considerably since the end of
the nineteenth century when servant boys were thrown up on horses. However,
to say merely that their status has improved is to miss the point. Two examples
serve to illustrate the ambivalent position of the jockey in contemporary racing
society. The first of these examples is the ‘steward’s enquiry’. The stewards are
the voluntary representatives of the Jockey Club at the racecourse, who serve
to ensure that the rules of racing are observed. A steward’s enquiry takes place
when the stewards believe that a breach of the rules may have occurred in a
race. The jockeys involved are called to the steward’s room, where there are
generally at least four televisions capable of showing a race from all of the
different camera angles available. The stewards are guided in their decision to
call an enquiry by the professional steward’s secretary, who is also responsible
for advising them on the rules of racing and the procedure to be followed when
they are broken.
The jockeys stand in front of the panel of three seated stewards and are ad-
dressed by the chairman, whom they address as ‘sir’. When I asked an apprentice
jockey about the atmosphere in the room he told me that it reminded him of
a headmaster’s office, the jockey himself had felt ‘like a naughty kid’, and he
continued, ‘It’s part of the job, you have to learn how to behave, how to bite
your tongue if you know what I mean.’
In other professions the possibility of amateur observers disciplining pro-
fessionals and imposing fines or suspensions seems unthinkable. It is rarely
62 The Sport of Kings
They’re a bunch of misfits and should be forced to prove they have the necessary bottle
for the game . . . It’s a joke. The jockeys can do what they want now. It’s the tail wagging
the dog . . . This is a terrible day for racing . . . The jockeys have taken the mickey . . .
They are spoiled and pampered. (Trainer)
Any jockey who says he is not going to ride in a particular race because it would be
dangerous should not be a jockey – all races are dangerous. (Trainer)
I’m disappointed that the ringleaders have not been punished. My owners were very
angry, and I’m sure they will be disappointed by this verdict. (Trainer)
I am very surprised and bemused that the ringleaders have got away with no punishment.
Where does it end? (Dudley Moffatt, father of a young apprentice who wanted to ride,
quoted in Briggs and Lawrence 1997: 2)
before it can be reinstated. In fact, the Jockey Club inquiry was extremely
lenient, and only ‘punished’ Frankie Dettori. Dettori’s punishment was per-
ceived to have been incurred for his role as ‘ringleader’. As the most successful
and therefore most powerful jockey in the weighing room that day, he was
seen as most culpable. Darren Moffat, the young apprentice who had wanted
to continue riding, was hailed as a hero. Moffat had become a representative
of the old order according to which jockeys obeyed the orders of their horse’s
connections, whilst Frankie represented a new, and potentially insidious, order,
of jockey power.
The Haydock riders’ strike is a remarkable example of the ability of a single
day’s racing to reproduce the naturalised order of the upper-class officials and
producers of horseracing. The low-key Jockey Club inquiry reflected this ability.
It was not necessary to reinforce order, because this was achieved the next
day, when racing went ahead on three courses, according to the routine that
had changed little over the past hundred years. A heavy-handed approach by
the Jockey Club might have prompted a debate, whilst a slight rebuke merely
indicated ‘business as usual’. The strike was presented as of individual signi-
ficance only, and the order that had re-established itself the next day was left
unquestioned. In contrast to Kate Fox, I maintain that the jockeys express more
than respect for tradition when they touch the peak of their hat as they enter the
paddock. The status of jockeys as a group lags behind that of trainers due to
entrenched historical factors, and their contemporary mutations.
Jockeys continue to serve apprenticeships.9 In the nineteenth century, an
apprenticeship referred to a period of time spent working for a trainer who had
been placed in loco parentis by means of a contract signed by the parents of small
boys, often found by scouts in Scotland and Ireland. Some of the taxi drivers in
Newmarket can still remember picking up boys from the station who had labels
fixed to their clothing giving the name of the trainer to whom they were to be
delivered. Even the old school in Newmarket who express a fondness for ‘the
good old days’ described these unfortunate boys as ‘wretched’, ‘malnourished’
and ‘just scraps of things, some not more than twelve year old’. Many of these
boys lived in stable hostels in dire poverty, working long hours under the threat
of violence, miles from home. They were often treated with contempt by their
employers. Trainer Atty Pearse is quoted as saying that boys are ‘the very
devil, the bugbear of a trainer, needing to be watched all the time’ (quoted in
Fitzgeorge-Parker 1968: 52). At the present time, apprentices continue to sign
a contract with their trainer, who may give the young jockey rides in order to
take advantage of his weight allowance and to give him experience so that he
might improve. It seems that young boys are no longer ‘pressganged’ as was
common in the past, but have often had some experience of riding racehorses,
hunters or ponies. Many still arrive from Ireland, and most do not make it as
jockeys and so become lads and work riders.
64 The Sport of Kings
Conclusion
Everyone who goes racing colludes in order to create a liminal world. As
one racegoer said to me when I explained my project: ‘Don’t spoil the dream
will you?’ Social relations infused with inequality are only one aspect of the
racecourse, which is also an arena in which people are free to assume identities
which they may be unable to adopt outside. The impression management of
trainers, for example, is supremely attractive to those who have sufficient spare
assets to buy racehorses. Those trainers who are considered to be ‘characters’
sustain the racing industry by attracting owners who wish to be part of a society
that seems glamorous, secretive, exciting and successful, features a trainer must
embody if he is to inspire confidence in his clients, just as the bookie, the star
of the next chapter, must do in order to attract a wager.
The strong racecourse ethos of equality, and the mobility of the crowd, com-
bined with the rapid turnover of money through the hands of bookies and pun-
ters, detract from the uncomfortable truth that the racecourse is really a map
expressing hierarchical relationships between insiders and outsiders. These re-
lationships are informed by the aristocratic history of horseracing, which was
codified as a ‘gentleman’s sport’ and has always valued exclusivity, as reflected
in the form taken by the racecourse following enclosure. The temporary suspen-
sion of this hierarchy in the betting ring will be discussed in the next chapter. I
shall suggest that a careful examination of behaviour in the ring reveals that the
split between aristocrat and parvenu is reproduced in the role of professional
and mug punter respectively.
notes
1 This is a stark characterisation of what is, of course, a far more complicated situation,
but it is an opposition that is described by many people who work in racing or who
attend race meetings.
2 During 1998 and 1999 charges were brought against a number of people in relation
to the doping of racehorses. In all cases, the charges were dropped or there was found
At the races 65
to be no case to answer. However, the trainers of two horses who produced positive
dope tests were fined under Jockey Club rules that require the trainer to take personal
responsibility in such cases even if they were clearly not responsible (Griffiths and
Yates 2000: 6, Masters and Green 2001: 4).
3 Horses entered into a race in order to run badly and thus be assigned a lighter weight
or better odds for their next race are described as ‘not off’. They may not be fully
fit, they may be running on ground that doesn’t suit, or over a distance that is either
too far or too short. A lacklustre performance must not be poor enough to attract the
attentions of the stewards however, as they may decide that the horse is guilty of being
a ‘non-trier’, who will be suspended unless the trainer can explain its performance.
Complicating this picture is the tendency of horses to run badly for absolutely no
detectable reason, most often described as ‘having an off day’.
4 Just as Hoggart’s description of the eating habits of the English working class has
dated, Bourdieu’s description of a French working-class aversion to fish now seems
unconvincingly static. However, the qualities attributed to the fish remain relevant –
seafood makes for fussy, delicate eating.
5 The consumption of alcohol by racegoers is one of the major activities traditionally
undertaken on course. Apart from the racing and betting, it is drinking that unites
virtually all sections of racegoer. One must also add that drug use has always been
apparent amongst a minority of racegoers, and appears to have become increasingly
visible recently (see Green 2001).
6 Signs advise that, ‘Only connections of horses in the present race may enter the
paddock’. It is interesting that although no one monitors the entrance to the paddock,
and in theory anyone could simply walk in, it is obvious that people do not. This is
one of the ways in which the racing crowd is self-regulating.
7 If horses sweat excessively in the paddock it is usually seen as a sign that they have
‘boiled over’ and will not run well, although some horses run their best races exactly
when they sweat up: another of the puzzles to be worked out before the money goes
down.
8 Kate Fox’s work on racing was funded by the British Horseracing Board.
9 The apprentice occupies a structural position within the racing industry that has
changed enormously over the past century, and a study of the jockey’s apprenticeship
would warrant its own book. Here I just have space to describe a few of the features
of the apprenticeship in order to address the point made by Fox.
5 Having a flutter
Introduction
Whether it’s once a year on the Grand National, or every day in the local betting
shop, ‘having a flutter’ is one of the most familiar aspects of racing to many
British people. One of the most striking things about my fieldwork in betting
shops and on racecourses was the intensity of winning reactions. I would chase
triumphant air-punchers all over the racecourse to ask, ‘How did that feel?’,
until I was no longer surprised to hear the response ‘Yeahhhhhhh! Better than
sex!’ Betting is clearly a source of great excitement and pleasure for some, but
can also be the downfall of others.
Rather than attempting to uncover the inherent properties of gambling1 I
shall discuss betting on horseracing (punting) as a practice which can fulfil
a variety of purposes for the different constellations of people to whom it is
significant. The particular contexts that I shall attempt to reconstruct are those
of the betting shop and the betting ring. This chapter draws particularly upon
fieldwork spent in the betting rings of a number of British racecourses, and in
betting shops. I became a regular at two betting shops in Newmarket, where I
enjoyed the nickname of ‘Flaps’, based (so I was told) on my arm movements
during a race. I have never been a particularly successful punter, although I did
virtually double my university grant on one memorable occasion at Huntingdon
racecourse, and would have to admit that I am not immune to the excitement
of the betting ring. I haven’t had a bet since the summer of 2001 when I stood
in the company of a man who lost $50,000 on a single race.2
Recent anthropological discussions of gambling typically emphasise its pos-
itive contribution to the smooth running of the society in question. Thus gam-
bling can be a ‘levelling mechanism’ (Zimmer 1987, Mitchell 1988, Woodburn
1982), it can facilitate crossover between otherwise distinct spheres of ex-
change (Riches 1975), it can enable people to ‘fall into patterns of sociability
with each other’ (Maclean 1984: 52), or it can provide a new means of as-
serting marriageability where traditional methods have been eroded (Zimmer
1987). Conversely, theological, psychological and sociological discussions of
gambling, generally based upon data from Europe and America, emphasise
66
Having a flutter 67
The major outlay identified by the Board in 1998 was £28,910,096, which
represented 45.4% of total prize money. Other contributors were the racecourse
executives (16.4%), sponsors (20.8%) and owners (16.6%) (Wright 1999: 9).
The punter thus occupied a central position in relation to the funding of racing,
via a levy on all legal fixed-price betting, or through betting with the Tote, a
poolbetting system, the profits of which go to racing.5
The racing calendar is thus, to a large extent, devised with the needs of the
punter in mind. Punters prefer betting on handicaps and on races with as many
runners as possible, whilst trainers, owners and the racing enthusiast may not
68 The Sport of Kings
have the same priorities. The Jockey Club has also introduced rules designed
to safeguard the punters’ interests. These include non-triers’ rules that require
trainers to explain any dramatic improvements in their horses or face a ban, with
the aim that horses run to the best of their ability in every race. Jockeys must
also ride to achieve the best possible placing and stiff penalties are imposed on
jockeys who ‘drop their hands’ and lose a place in a finish.
‘Punter power’ sits uncomfortably with those who continue to imagine racing
through the power relations which informed its early history. This struggle
between punters and owners/trainers has frequently been expressed in terms of
the sport:industry debate which is aired periodically in the racing newspapers
and was a contentious issue during my fieldwork. Whilst some owners argue that
they should not be expected to continue to invest in a loss-making enterprise:
[Some] may regard racing as a ‘hobby’, but racing is the country’s sixth largest employer
and that means the economic return for the racing product has to support an army of
dependants.
others invoke sporting examples and emphasise that, for example, owning a
yacht could never be subsidised but is something one does for the pleasure it
provides, rather than for a financial return:
Seriously, anyone who goes into racehorse ownership expecting or needing to make
financial sense of it is either nuts or badly advised. Of course prize money levels need
urgent attention, but surely most owners are in the game for sport and fun and any money
that comes back is a bonus.
In essence, the debate is whether wealthy individuals are still prepared to indulge
in an expensive sport solely for pleasure, or whether the role of owner must be
that of entrepreneur looking for a ‘healthy return’ on an investment.
The solution most regularly invoked to address the low levels of prize money
in racing is that of an off-course Tote monopoly:
Australia, a society unhindered by obsolete mores and prejudices inbuilt over many
centuries, has what countless experts have pointed out offers the solution to the mod-
ernisation of our sport. They have a system of bookmakers on track and only Tote off
that guarantees the financial income, and the professionals at every level, to run an
efficient sport which can compete with other forms of entertainment to its best possible
advantage. (Underwood 1998: 4)
up to quite recently, the object of racing was a sport and the betterment of the thor-
oughbred. And many of the rules of racing today were framed to safeguard this animal
through its racing career. Today the sport has turned into an industry, is looked upon
almost entirely commercially and few of those who follow it think anything at all about
the welfare of the horse. (quoted in Hill 1988: 186)
Significantly, the report predicted that without the protection of the English
thoroughbred by the British government ‘racing is liable to be debased to the
level of roulette, and does not deserve to survive’ (quoted in Hill 1988: 186).6
A further instalment of this transition from sport to industry took place in the
1970s, following the oil crisis of 1972, when a massive amount of Middle
Eastern investment flooded into British racing. The effect of this influx was
a professionalisation of the industry and a growing nostalgia for the amateur
‘sporting’ past.
Traditionalist racing society prides itself on ‘sport for sport’s sake’, explicitly
comparing this higher pleasure with the base pursuit of profit through betting:
Betting isn’t about sport, because only the result is important, not the means. Watch a
chaser go round Aintree, all guts, bravery, courage. I want the horse to win because it
deserves it. Punters only want the result and they want it to win so that they can collect.
They miss what’s beautiful and important about racing and only see what they can grab.
They exploit racing. (Owner)
The antagonistic relationship between the betting fraternity and members of the
racing establishment has led to the construction of opposing identities in terms
of those features each side feels constitute their most significant differences:
Punters aren’t part of this game – they are only interested in what racing can do for them
without any effort. Real racing folk invest in racing by investing in the breed, and I don’t
just mean money. I mean blood, sweat and tears. (Breeder)
I think when you buy or breed a racehorse you have to leave your brain as a deposit.
Racing wouldn’t exist without betting. It’s what it’s for. They service our needs. (Punter)
This is an argument that reappears periodically in the pages of the racing press,
and which cannot be resolved. However, the sources of the antagonism can be
better understood by a consideration of the development of the two traditions
of racing and betting.
Thus Newmarket and Epsom had ceased during the eighteenth century to be the exclusive
preserves of the aristocracy and gentry, and had become also the hunting ground of
optimists, crooks and upstarts who were in search of riches. (Blyth 1969: 39)
This time of upheaval, however, rather than breaking down the existing class-
based divisions in racing, merely served to reinforce them as racing society dug
in its heels in response to the onslaught.
Although bookmakers had sharks, adventurers and crooks as their predeces-
sors, their trade is actually a very specific form of gambling, quite different
from wagering. ‘Making a book’ on a race involves offering a ‘price’ (odds) on
all of the horses in the race to anyone who wishes to challenge your judgement.
These odds express the bookmaker’s opinion as to which horse is most likely
to win, second likeliest to win, and so on through the ‘field’. These odds are
Having a flutter 71
displayed on course or in the betting shop, where ‘punters’ (those who bet)
may ‘take a price’ (bet) on their ‘fancy’ (choice) if they feel that the horse has
as great a chance of winning or better than that expressed by the book. Once
punters begin to bet at these prices, the book becomes an instrument measuring
the strength of support for each runner in the race.
The basic principles of bookmaking have endured since the eighteenth cen-
tury. The relationship between bookmaking and British law, however, has been
anything but constant. The form taken by horseracing effectively excluded
anyone but racehorse owners from betting systematically until the eighteenth
century. Before this time, legislation concentrated upon gaming in the form of
cards or dice (Munting 1996: 10).7 The title of Wray Vamplew’s classic analysis
of horseracing and the law, ‘One for the rich and one for the poor’ (1976),
refers to the separation between those who had the facilities and resources to
bet on credit and those who did not. The Bill of 1853, which banned bookmakers
from operating in betting houses, exhibiting lists or advertising a willingness to
take bets, turned on a distinction between those bookmakers who were prepared
to bet with all-comers, the bookies, and those betting between individuals in
men’s betting clubs, particularly Tattersall’s.
The 1853 Gaming Law ‘made little difference to betting itself’ (Munting
1996: 91), which flourished in the informal economy, in the era of the street
bookie. A resurgence of the moral condemnation of gambling coincided with
the Great Depression during which gambling was identified as the cause of
alcoholism, poverty and moral regression. The National Anti-Gambling League
(NAGL), and in particular campaigners such as B. Seebohm Rowntree, took up
the banner from the Society for the Suppression of Vice (1802), the middle-class
association that set out to ‘stop Sabbath-breaking licentious publications and
to campaign against private theatricals, fairs, brothels, dram houses, gaming
houses and illegal lotteries’ (Munting 1996: 21).
Gambling came to be described as an illness or an addiction. This vocabulary,
the modern version of which is found in the figure of the ‘compulsive gambler’
and the language of Gamblers Anonymous, casts the gambler as subject to
exterior forces, rather than as an agent of purposive action. His ‘illness’ can
be cured by a gradual return to responsible decision-making through a series
of activities that constitute his ‘cure’. The figure of the ‘compulsive gambler’
reified by the NAGL in the early twentieth century, and still in existence in
contemporary psychoanalytic material, is presented as a defective rather than
a deviant individual, and by characterising gambling as a disease it is denied
the status of a counter-ideology to the puritan work ethic, and reduced to an
a-rational affliction.
In 1906 the Street Betting Act was passed, banning bookies and their runners,
who operated on street corners and on factory floors. According to the Peppiatt
Committee Report, this act was widely flouted, and police were either bribed
72 The Sport of Kings
or did not enforce the ban on betting. The committee reported in 1960, at
which time credit and on-course betting were legal, whilst off-course betting
was illegal, but flourishing. The class-based, paternalistic betting law reflected
a tendency initiated in the earliest interactions between racehorse owner and
blackleg, described by Jockey Club historian Robert Black in 1893, ‘So long
as it was between nobles it was a comparatively harmless pastime; but he felt
that it was “sordid” for an aristocrat to bet with a commoner’ (quoted by Chinn
1991: 38).
The Betting and Gaming Act of 1960 finally legalised ready-money betting
shops. By 1963, 14,388 betting shops had been opened (Munting 1996: 98).
The law regarding gambling remained paternalistic, however, with betting shops
banned from having toilets, comfortable seats, refreshments or television until
1984. Their sepulchral air did not, however, prove unpopular with those who
wished to bet. The lack of comfort in betting shops reinforced the association
of gambling with the working class, and recent legislation permitting their
improvement has been cited as responsible for the increase in betting amongst
professionals.
Perhaps my gender and age excluded me from observing this sort of betting,
but in my experience, and according to those I asked, a visit to the betting shop
was ‘part of my routine’, spent in virtual silence, with little interaction between
customers, minute stakes and little involvement. The more I spoke to fellow
betting-shop habitués the more convinced I was that this was not ‘Where the
Action is’ (Goffman 1969).
Having a flutter 73
activities that are consequential, problematic, and undertaken for what is felt to be their
own sake . . . The individual releases himself to the passing moment, wagering his future
stake on what transpires precariously in the seconds to come. At such moments a special
affective state is likely to be aroused, emerging transformed into excitement. (1969:
136–7)
For the majority of bets placed by the majority of people, this did not seem to
be the case. For many punters, placing a bet seemed routinised, and devoid of
intellectual involvement. Broad groups of people can be identified in relation to
their betting behaviour in the shop. In the mornings, men and women come into
the shop in order to lay a specific bet which they have decided upon at home.
No time is spent gazing at the paper on the walls, and morning ‘layers’ tend to
want to be in and out as quickly as possible. Men were often middle-aged or
younger, and wore tracksuits, overalls or jeans, rather than suits. Men generally
told me that they were either on their way to work or on a tea break. Their bets
tended to be staked on a single horse.
Female customers were often middle-aged or older, wearing dresses and
overcoats and carrying shopping bags. Most told me that they were in the
middle of shopping, and that the betting shop was one of the shops they called
in on most mornings. Quite often women placed the combination bets that had
been suggested in the morning papers; for example, a permutation based on
predicting the winners of all six races at a particular course. When I asked why
they preferred to bet in this way I was told:
Well, it’s just a bit of fun isn’t it. You get better odds on combination bets, you see, so
even though I only bet 10p a line, I could still get a really good return. I suppose its habit
really, because I do worry that if I don’t do it then I might miss out.
The other side of betting at long odds is obviously that the chances of the bet
being successful are remote. The bets laid by women in the morning did not
reflect any knowledge of racing or consideration of form, ‘I wouldn’t know
one end of the thing from the other!’, they were always described as ‘just a
habit’, and seemed to have much more in common with premium bonds than
hysterically cheering home a long-shot winner at a packed racecourse on a hot
day in June. It seemed to me that the female morning punters had sapped betting
of its intellectual component, its personal responsibility and its excitement.
Placing their bet appeared to be approached as just another household chore, a
form of investment rather than a risk-taking exercise. Accordingly, those few
women who could recall ever having won any money told me that winnings
were absorbed by the household budget, with no special purchases being made.
In Newmarket, tips are a part of everyday life. Many of the women who came
74 The Sport of Kings
into the shop had a particular relative upon whom the rest of the family depended
for a ‘good word’. In keeping with this routinised arrangement, bets are placed
without ceremony and winnings absorbed without fuss.
Live greyhound- and horseracing begins in the afternoon, along with the
numbers draws which are succeeding in drawing custom away from the racing.
Once racing begins, the older men who appear to spend the entire afternoon
in the shop appear. The majority of afternoon regulars in each of the shops I
visited regularly were old men, who had retired. Quite often they told me that
they were widowers. These men were reticent about their betting. They looked
at the papers on the walls, and may have had a daily paper of their own in
addition. They frequently followed the advice of newspaper tipsters, but rather
unsystematically. Deciding to place a bet was a casual undertaking, the name
read from the screen or the paper, scrawled on a piece of paper and given with
the couple of pounds stake to the cashier with little comment. Most remarks
made to the cashier tended to be of the doom-laden variety, ‘Here you go Peg,
that’s my last fiver. You may as well have that too.’ I had hoped for passionate
discussions of the merits of the handicapping system, distance and ground,
trainer’s form and jockey’s abilities, but in fact I had to be satisfied with: ‘I’m
not sure why, I just fancy it.’ These men tended to bet on every race, a singularly
unsuccessful strategy, since some races are far easier to predict than others.8
The strategy cemented my impression that for regulars, betting on horseracing
had more to do with betting than with horseracing.
In between afternoon horseraces are greyhound races, which were instituted
in their present form by the bookmakers, who owned the tracks and partly owned
the broadcasting service (Satellite Information Service) which transmitted the
commentary. Bookmakers Afternoon Greyhound Services (BAGS) began in
1967, in order to provide a betting medium between races, and to compen-
sate when bad weather affected horseracing. Greyhound racing is universally
sneered at by those who value horseracing for its own sake:
I can’t imagine anything worse. Watching skinny dogs go round and round a featureless
circuit chasing a mechanical hare, wearing coloured jackets like glorified flies on a wall.
Greyhound racing has nothing whatsoever in common with horseracing; it’s a lottery
for deadheads who want to recycle their dole money. (Trainer)
For a few punters in the betting shop the pleasure of betting does seem to
reside in the intellectual stimulation of making a selection in a race based on
knowledge of the intricacies of racing. The financial involvement is perhaps
less significant to this punter than the satisfaction of being proved correct in
his calculations, and perhaps to explain his train of thought to a few fellow
bettors. However, discussions amongst such punters also commonly invoke the
corruption they believe is rife in racing. I repeatedly came across the idea that
the leading bookmakers employ a ‘ray gun’ that they use on the favourite over
the last fence in order to prevent a big pay out.
When the favourite jumps the last in front, you’ll have a bloke in the crowd looking at
him with binoculars, and he’ll activate the ray gun and bang, sort of shake up all of his
nervous system and he falls. I’ve seen it with my own eyes! And one day they’ll come
unstuck because they’ll hit the jockey and then there’ll be hell to pay. But everyone
knows that it’s done, it’s common knowledge. (Punter)
The enormously powerful bookmakers are ‘beaten’, and their devious schemes
overcome by the canny punter. In Newmarket, ‘They’ can also be identified
more precisely, because, in behaving as though one knows more than the ranks
of racing professionals who dominate the town, one may gain temporary as-
cendancy over them. In Newmarket, in particular, this motivation was common
to the lads of various types (sacked, retired, ‘between yards’) who spent their
afternoons in the bookies, letting me know that they knew more about the
chances of the horses in each race than any trainer in the town, ‘They’re all
idiots!’
However, studies that cite intellectual motivations at the expense of more
mundane explanations for betting behaviour also tend to focus on the experi-
ences of winning punters, whose status is thereby improved.9 Characterising
betting as an empowering experience neglects the explanations of those punters
who bet ‘so that I’m out of the house’, ‘Because I always have’ and, more
precisely, those punters who lose. For these punters, I would suggest that the
attraction of the betting shop lies not in its provision of opportunities for
‘action’, but in its isolation from reality, ‘I come here for a bit of peace and
quiet, and if I want a bet I might look at the paper or whatever.’ In contrast to
Goffman’s division of the world:
On one side are the safe and silent places, the home, the well-regulated roles in business,
industry and the professions; on the other are all those activities that generate expression,
requiring the individual to lay himself on the line and place himself in jeopardy during
a passing moment. (1969: 204–5)
76 The Sport of Kings
it seemed that many punters in betting shops find their lives outside the shop
sufficiently stressful to lead to their identification of the shop itself as a sort of a
sanctuary. The betting shop is often a passively social environment, rather than
a hotbed of risk-taking and personal enhancement. This is an environment in
which risk has been tamed, made to answer the bidding of men who want to
be involved in something outside themselves but who also want to know when
the wager will be resolved. In the betting shop risk is sufficiently contained
by the television screens, company carpets and cashiers’ uniforms: its subjects
are two-dimensional. The sights, sounds, smells of the racecourse, so capable
of making the blood rush, are entirely lacking from the experience. The same
cannot be said of the betting ring.
racecourse).10 The board also shows their home town, or town of origin, and
may state the minimum stake accepted, or that the bookmaker accepts win-only
bets. Below the board, suspended by one of its handles, is the standard issue
bookmakers’ money satchel, which may also bear the owner’s name and family
details. The bag hangs temptingly open, stuffed with rolled-up wads of notes.11
Until recently, the bookmaker stood on a coloured crate that may also have been
personalised. The equipment is referred to collectively as the bookie’s ‘joint’
and, over the last year, has become standardised in the form of a plastic stand.
Many bookmakers have two clerks, one to accept the bets, who stands to the left
of the board, and one behind who calculates the liabilities and records each bet.
The bookie himself hands out numbered tickets and adjusts the odds according
to his own calculations or those of the clerk behind the board.
The betting market on course determines the ‘starting price’ (the price at
which bets are settled), throughout the betting shops around the country. Whilst
the weight of support for each horse on course is supposed to be reflected by
its ‘starting price’, the major betting firms have a vested interest in attempting
to make the price reflect off-course business also. This is where the tic-tac men
come in. One of the functions of the tic-tac men, identified by their white gloves
and windmilling arms, is to communicate wagers to the bookmakers in order
to offset the weight of ‘office money’ communicated to them via the ‘blower’.
This information travels from the clearing house of the bookmaker, who calcu-
lates that at the current starting price the shop liability would be unacceptably
large, to the ‘blower tic-tac man’, via the ‘blower agent’. Professional punters
often complain that ‘office money’ distorts the on-course market, although the
bookmaker multiples deny that the practice is as extensive as the independent
bookmakers and on-course professionals claim. However, the movement of
money by the big bookmaking firms is communicated by tic-tacs in a secret
code in contrast to the public signals used to transmit market information
between bookmakers.
In constant communication with the tic-tacs are the rails bookmakers who
deal in larger stakes than the ring bookmakers, and stand on the rail, between the
Silver Ring and Tattersalls. Rails bookmakers have only recently been allowed
to display their prices on boards, and they stand at ground level, ‘shouting
the odds’, to be approached by those wishing to bet in large stakes. The rails
bookmakers are often representatives of the major bookmaking firms, and their
personal image is far more corporate and less individual than that of the ring
bookie. Rails bookmakers wear long raincoats, smart suits and hats: no flat
caps or battered trilbies as seen in the ring. Their demeanour is cool and
self-contained, to match their turnout. The typical rails bookie is charming,
well-spoken, intelligent and beautifully dressed. His bearing seems intended
to suggest an honourable and trustworthy individual, or as an elderly racegoer
put it: ‘I’d trust him with the inheritance.’ The point of honour amongst the
78 The Sport of Kings
rails bookies is that they will accommodate a bet no matter how large, and wish
you all the best with it, as the following story concerning a mystery punter
illustrates:
When Jigtime won at Ayr last month, the man had £12,000 to win £10,000 with Hills and
[rails bookmaker] Ridley, smiling in the face of adversity, said yesterday, ‘He also had
£10,000 to win £3,330 with me when she won here previously. I don’t know anything
about him, but good luck to him!’ (Racing Post 21 May 1998: 4)12
Mugs
Amongst those racegoers who come primarily to bet on the racing it was difficult
not to make the same distinction as is made in many betting manuals, between
‘mugs’ and ‘professionals’. My experience of race meetings is that there are
always groups of around eight to twelve men who spend a good deal of the day
in the bar drinking and smoking. They place bets on all of the races, of amounts
greater than £5, and they celebrate wins within the group with alcohol, and enjoy
indulging in sexual banter. Singing, betting and drinking are only temporarily
interrupted by altercations with other groups of men at the bar. Typically, a
few words are exchanged whilst jockeying for position. Perhaps an individual
is singled out as taking up a lot of room, or having especially sharp elbows.
Whilst the groups ‘square up’ for a moment or two, it is left to the diplomat
80 The Sport of Kings
of each group to rush over and avert trouble, saying, ‘Come on lads, no harm
done, let’s get a drink.’13
The subversion practised by these groups of men takes the form of contradict-
ing the judgement of those racing professionals whom they identify as ‘upper
class’. The majority of the members of these groups would be described by my
professional punter friends as ‘mugs’. Describing non-professionals as ‘mug’
punters is driven by the professional gambler’s self-image as the intellectual of
the racecourse, as in this description by professional Alan Potts:
Every time I leave the racecourse at the end of a day’s work, with a profit tucked into my
zipped pocket, I offer a silent thank you to the mugs who make it possible – my fellow
punters. Overall I regard the rest of the crowd with contempt, and use the term ‘mug
punter’ as a collective noun in much the same dismissive way as I might say ‘Arsenal
supporters’. (1995: 16)
Whilst many mugs will choose to bet on favourites and second favourites,
professional gamblers will often choose to oppose weak favourites with longer
priced horses, since the strike rate needed to show a profit from longer priced
horses is correspondingly lower than that needed to make a profit at evens or
short odds, ‘to me finding 10-1 winners at a rate of one in eight sounds much
easier than finding even-money winners at a rate of two in three’ (Potts 1995: 46).
‘Mugs’ were identified by professionals through their betting behaviour:
Mugs give in to the temptation to bet, even when they haven’t thought the race through . . .
Mugs bet for the thrill . . . They don’t admit when they were wrong, they make excuses
for themselves . . . Mugs go crazy when they win and they’re suicidal when they lose.
(Professional punter)
New England city in the early 1960s. Zola describes how betting on horserac-
ing in ‘Hoff’s’ tavern gives the men an opportunity to assert a positive identity
which is denied to them outside the confines of the bar and its shared conven-
tions, so that, ‘gambling is more than a mode of communication. It creates a
bond between men – a bond which defines insiders and outsiders’ (1967: 22).
However, on the racecourse, stratification extends to the betting community
no less than the professional racing community, and what unites some groups of
punters also serves to distinguish them from others. Mugs on course, and gam-
blers in Hoff’s, unite against the bookmaker in ways that the professional would
find unseemly. Professionals see bookmakers as colleagues, and acknowledge
that they make their money, not from the bookmaker, but from the mug punters
who bet without skill or reflection. Bookmakers and professionals share more
than either has in common with the mug, but despite the apparent difference
being based upon betting for pleasure or business, the mug does not see his
betting as purely recreational. The mugs treat betting as a ‘serious business’,
and act accordingly. Mugs sit in the bar smoking and drinking with an intensity
which suggests that they are nervously awaiting results in which they have a
large stake, as they presumably imagine a professional would. They do not drink
for pleasure, but to express to the rest of the bar the extent of their financial
involvement in the race.
My experience of betting with professionals is that they come racing alone,
they may have a pint with their lunch whilst they go over the bets they have
prepared the previous evening, they watch the race from the stands or out in
the country with binoculars, and they must see the horse in the paddock and
down to the start before placing their bet. There is very little time for puffing,
drinking and looking anxiously at television monitors, and this would certainly
not be done in such a public place as the bar. The young men who dominate
the public areas of the racecourse, often drinking and smoking, are not the high
rollers, and the image they project is anathema to the professional, who, I would
suggest, they seek to emulate.
The mug’s opposition to the bookmaker is complemented on the racecourse
by a condemnation of jockeys and trainers, even to the extent that a race may be
seen as ‘fixed’. The mug’s paradoxical belief that racing is fixed reflects his lack
of consistency that is the fault that most offends the professional punter, ‘They
say that racing is fixed. Well if you think that and still bet then you really are a
mug’ (Professional punter). Of course, corruption is just one part of the mug’s
ideology, which can accommodate glaring inconsistencies when employed in
such an unsystematic fashion. Winning is thus explained in terms of knowledge
and inside information, whilst losing is explained in terms of corruption, bad
luck, or the misjudgement of the jockey or trainer. These explanations are often
accompanied by an exasperated mug declaring that: ‘I knew it would get beat,
I said to you I fancied the winner didn’t I?’, because in the course of discussing
82 The Sport of Kings
the race almost all of the runners will be mentioned and so at least one mug
will have the opportunity to claim ‘the one that got away’.
The professional
The professional gambler who gave me the best tips was a single, middle-aged,
bespectacled, Renault driving, ex-computer troubleshooter. He is well known
and highly respected, having written several popular betting manuals and con-
tributed to a successful telephone tipping line. The time we have spent together
has reinforced my impression that the professional gambler has assimilated
many of the qualities admired by historians of this century in the ‘sportsmen’
of the eighteenth-century racing aristocracy, specifically in his construction
of an identity in opposition to the mug punter and in the desired response to
winning and losing:
A ‘good sport’ will take a ‘sporting chance’ with his money and will demonstrate his
sportsmanship by showing neither regret at losing nor elation at winning his wagers.
A ‘poor sport’ usually refuses to gamble at all. Or if he does so, his response to the
outcome is unseemly. (Gorer 1955: 83)
Crockford soon discovered that his own temperament was well suited to gambling
because he was bold without ever being rash, and systematic without being overcautious.
(Blyth 1969: 51)
My informant takes great pride in the fact that it is impossible to tell whether
he has won or lost by his reaction to the finish of a race. The more he emphasised
the absence of a reaction, telling me that he had to put on a show of excitement
for a television crew who had followed him for a day, the more I wondered
what could possibly be behind this condemnation of expressive reactions to the
result of a race. This ‘underplaying’ belongs to the same family of conventions
as the ‘poker face’, and the self-effacing acceptance of awards with understated
humility. However, although a poker face may have an instrumental value in the
course of a poker game, celebrating a win obviously cannot affect that result.
The restraint showed by the professional serves to differentiate him from
the amateurs surrounding him on the course. He distinguishes himself from
social racegoers and mug punters by exhibiting control. He strips gambling of
all its thrills and excitement in order to control the process itself. By reacting
consistently to results whether winning or losing, the professional diffuses the
power of the bet to control the punter. As he told me: ‘I am not betting for the
thrill, I am betting to make money. Mugs enjoy the thrill of the bet more than
they do winning. I only know about winning.’ This professional thought that
the punters from whom he made a living willingly submitted to the excitement
of the gamble itself, and his activities were opposed to this sensuous pleasure.
In this way, betting is work, and an instrumental pleasure, not an end in itself.
Having a flutter 83
By reproducing this discourse the professional aligns himself with the supply
side of racing – the upper-class society with whom the mug is in constant
competition.
Conclusion
The racecourse is ‘Where the Action is’ (Goffman 1969), whilst the same cannot
be said of the betting shop. Betting on horseracing does not have the inherent
ability to provide a medium for the enhancement of personal identities. How-
ever, the racecourse itself is a place capable of imbuing betting with significance
as a result of its place in the imagination of racegoers, its stimulation of all of
the senses, and the historical and contemporary relationship between racing
and bookmaking. The characters of the racecourse, such as the tic-tac man,
the bookie and the professional, not to mention the jockeys, the trainers, the
horses, the turf, the silks, the open air, the toffs and the crooks, make betting on
course a suitably complex and dramatic endeavour through which people may
choose to express their knowledge and risk-taking capacity. Mugs express this
ability by behaving as they imagine a professional punter would. Professionals
rarely display their risk-taking, preferring to sap gambling of its uncertainty
with a show of confidence and indifference that strips betting of its ability to
move.
Betting in the ring with the bookies is far more involved than betting with
the Tote. One of the arguments for retaining on-course bookmakers rather than
allowing a Tote monopoly is that the bookmakers add character to the course,
and that a racecourse without bookies would lack the excitement that encour-
ages people to go racing in the first place. The encounter between punters and
bookmakers on course is one of the sources of profound pleasure. The transac-
tion is a personal matter of honour between the two, reinforced by the knowledge
that gambling debts remain unrecoverable by the law. This responsibility is not
conveyed by the Tote to the same degree, due to the structure of the different
forms of betting, and the representatives of each betting medium. The Tote em-
ploys middle-aged women whose involvement in the transaction is to take your
money and hand you your ticket and hopefully your winnings. You are putting
money into a pool which will be won by a number of faceless, anonymous
‘others’ if you lose. If you win, you take the money staked, again by people
unknown to you. The personal involvement of the men and women operating
the Tote is limited to their desire to be perceived as fulfilling their role according
to their terms of employment. Their sympathetic, smiling faces and familiar red
jackets dilute the experience of betting as ‘going to war’.
Placing a bet with a bookmaker is a highly personalised, highly competi-
tive interaction. It is therefore unsurprising that a major axis of competition
within the racing world lies between punter and bookmaker, despite the real
84 The Sport of Kings
competition on the racecourse being between punters. I have suggested that the
bookie is in fact a scapegoat on two levels. The bookmaker deflects the uncom-
fortable truth that one mug’s winnings are another mug’s losses. This unites the
mugs on course in a way that is consistent with an enjoyable and companionable
day spent at the races. The bookie also stands in for the upper-class producers of
racing when a punter predicts the outcome of a race, a prediction that depends
upon highly prestigious knowledge in order to be successful. The punter thus
achieves a temporary ascendancy over the producers of racing who are thought
to be the exclusive keepers of this knowledge.
The professional gambler is generally a lone figure at the racecourse, the
absence of company being testimony to his acknowledged competitive relation-
ship with other punters, and hence to the different set of motivations he holds
for going racing. Professional gamblers would not associate their behaviour
with that of the casual punter; on the contrary, they see the casual punter as
beneath them. Their symbiotic relationship is sustained via the bookmaker, and
although professional gamblers are very clear about this, mugs vilify only the
bookies whilst hailing the professional as ‘one of us’ (only successful). Profes-
sional gamblers are generally scathing about the mugs on whom they depend
for their living, in the same way as racing professionals often condemn racing’s
consumers.
Betting off course in a betting shop is not part of a day out, and the atmo-
sphere in which betting takes place could not be more different. For both men
and women punters in the shops betting has become routinised, as a household
chore for women and as an afternoon diversion for men. I have disputed the ex-
planations of gambling that cite intellectual stimulation as a central motivation
because they do not account for the overwhelmingly unsuccessful strategies
adopted by punters. A bond does exist between betting-shop punters, in their
opposition to losing, but this opposition does not appear to extend to the book-
maker as it once did. One explanation for this lies in the domination of the
‘Big Three’ bookmakers in providing betting outlets. Punters are confronted
with an employee of a publicly quoted multinational, rather than a weasel of a
bookie against whom they may ‘pit their wits’. This argument was suggested to
me by the contrast in atmospheres between small independent bookmakers,
where the bookmaker himself takes your bet, and the chain bookmakers, where
the cashier may know your name, but has no personal involvement with your
bet. As in the contrast between the Tote and the bookie on course, chain betting
shops can eliminate the tension between bookmakers and punters, as making a
bet entails making a diffuse risk with an employee with whom the proverbial
buck does not stop,
I must admit I’d rather bet with a proper bookie, because to be honest I’ve got so much
in common with Dave [the manager], that I don’t feel the same excitement as when I
bet on course. (Betting-shop punter)
Having a flutter 85
The betting shop has only a very short history, having come into existence in
its present legal form in the 1960s. Whilst racehorses arrived on the racecourse
before betting, they were preceded into the betting shop by gambling itself.
This is evident in the betting behaviour of the two locations. Betting on course
was described in relation to the overall experience of ‘going racing’:
It’s part of it, isn’t it? You have a drink, lay a bet, watch the race, cheer them home, then
start again. It’s great! (Middle-aged male racegoer)
It’s a bit of fun! You pretend to know what you’re doing, and if you win all the better!
(Female racegoer)
The betting ring is potent, capable of creating a liminal zone in which iden-
tities are fluid, dependent upon the result of a race. By making a bet the punter
aligns himself with the connections of his chosen horse. His stake in the future
of the race is embodied in his betting slip. He watches the race, not as a dentist,
shift-worker, security guard or whatever else he may be, but according to the
template of racehorse ownership that is etched onto the racecourse landscape
and described in the previous chapter. Here there is a momentary individual
freedom, which is pleasurable if inconsequential outside the course. Punters
relish this freedom whilst many are aware of its superficiality, which does not
seem to detract from its temporary intensity. Racegoers participate in a mas-
querade, taking pleasure in the idea of being part of ‘high society’ without
believing that anything has really changed. Betting is thus the veneer pasted
over the fixed class structure of horseracing, the appearance of mobility that
makes the structural inequality more palatable.
notes
1 In her examination of gambling in Western culture, sociologist Reith seeks to
‘provide an analysis of the nature and experience of gambling in Western society;
as something which is historically and culturally variable, and yet which nevertheless
retains an essential character which transcends the specificity of individual games’
(1999: 10). Reith gives a phenomenological explanation of gambling which focuses
particularly upon the dream-like state of disassociation apparently experienced by
each player: ‘both gambling games and adventures can assume the properties of
86 The Sport of Kings
dreams, a peculiarity which is caused by the occurrence of the adventure outwith the
usual stream of life’ (1999: 130). Reith’s characterisation of gambling as centring
upon experiences of excitement, vertigo, transcendence and repetition is compelling.
However, she is aware that betting on horseracing offers an element of control inam-
icable to the games of pure chance that she is attempting to describe. Aspects of her
analysis, including a belief in luck, charms, omens and reversed causality (punters are
rarely happy betting on the outcome of recorded races) are relevant to my analysis,
but the significance of betting lies, not in properties that may constitute quintessential
‘gaming’ behaviour, but in its sociohistorical importance.
2 In this chapter I shall concentrate upon legal bookmaking, although this man was bet-
ting with an unlicensed Kentucky bookmaker, and bets can be made with a surprising
number of ‘unofficial’ sources in Newmarket.
3 Although sports betting is gaining in popularity, racing remains the mainstay of the
British betting office, constituting an estimated 70% of business (HBLB 2001). Foot-
ball and boxing are not funded by a levy system and so it is in the interests of book-
makers to encourage their customers to use these media at the expense of horseracing.
The resilience of punting in the face of this competition requires an explanation.
4 Except in two-year-old races, where breeding is the only guide to horses who have had
few if any runs. However, even in two-year-old races ‘the market’, that is the betting
market, is believed to be a better indication of a horse’s chances than its breeding.
Where a two-year-old is fancied at home those ‘in the know’ will certainly try to
‘get on’. Punters often follow these ‘market movers’ (horses who are supported in
the betting market leading to their odds shortening), particularly if they come from a
stable that has already had a number of two-year-old winners that season, or that is
known for ‘landing a touch’ on its two-year-olds.
5 All this is set to change with the abolition of betting tax in the Labour Budget of March
2001. The Levy Board is to be scrapped in 2003, to be replaced by a funding deal for
racing based on media rights, the nature of which is unclear at the time of writing.
These changes have been made in response to developments in off-shore technology
and the migration of betting offices from mainland Britain to, for example, Cyprus,
in search of tax breaks. The role of the punter in the new global betting market will
undoubtedly differ from that I have described in this chapter. It could fairly be said
that this fieldwork took place at the end of an era. However, it is interesting to note that
specifically ‘British’ aspects of the betting industry continue to act as an attraction
to many overseas investors. Betting in the United Kingdom is highly respected and
seen to be honest, unlike many newer gambling centres. According to Ed Pownall,
public relations manager for online gambling company Bluesquare, ‘It’s easier to
springboard overseas for us with a strong UK base. Take the Japanese, they love the
idea of the Jockey Club’ (Davis 2001: 12). The nature of transactions that make up
the global £1 trillion betting turnover are outside the scope of the present study.
6 This is an extreme statement of the purist’s vision of racing devoid of its sporting
component, as there is no ‘sport’ in roulette. However, as pragmatic historian of
racing politics Christopher Hill concedes: ‘Fortunately, most owners and breeders
have mixed motives, and as long as that continues, racing will still be enjoyable’
(1988: 196).
7 The correspondence between the restriction of gaming and the interests of the ruling
class has been documented by the historian Brenner (1990). Brenner argues that behind
Having a flutter 87
the condemnation of gambling lurked a resistance to the idea that ‘chance, rather than
divine will or talent, can have a significant effect on the allocation and the reallocation
of property’ (1990: vii). Certainly, the idea of providence is more appealing to those
who prosper, and least to those who struggle, whilst chance is an explanation well
suited to failure.
8 Furthermore, betting on every race dramatically reduces the time available to look
at the form of each horse.
9 I should add that punters in the bookies do not automatically accord higher status
to a winner. In fact, in my experience, winning does not automatically lead to an
improvement in status at all. A punter of low status in the betting shop pecking order
who enjoys a win will not automatically be catapulted to the top of that order. Rather,
a number of explanations that focus upon factors outside his control will be brought
in to explain his good fortune. His success is attributed to luck rather than good
judgement, and he remains at the bottom of the heap.
10 During the 1990s bookmakers were able to bid for pitches at auction, and so rather
than being inherited, they are now ‘bought’ by the highest bidder. This has led to
an influx of ‘new boys’ into the betting ring, many of whom come and go as their
fortunes rise and wane. This system has also brought allegations of money laundering
to the fore, as anyone with enough cash can buy a pitch, and with it the ability to put
money through the books and in doing so effectively obliterate its source.
11 The unabashed presence of money at the racecourse is a refreshing corrective in the
age of the credit card. Betting on course is still a cash business, and the quantity
of notes in evidence is arresting. As Reith says, ‘Despite the fact that gamblers do
not play to win it, the presence of money in play is nevertheless important: it is
vital to the game to be meaningful, as it is the medium through which participants
register their involvement in a game’ (1999: 146). Rolled up wads of cash dominate
transactions all over the racecourse. Volume is important, and wallets are just too
restrictive. No containment must be allowed to limit the growth of the money that,
on the racecourse, possesses a fecundity of its own.
12 In a story typical of the racecourse, this ‘lucky’ punter was later jailed for stealing
his original stake from his employer.
13 More sinister are the recent allegations of drug taking on the Rowley Mile Racecourse
at Newmarket, where a hypodermic needle was found in the men’s toilets and letters
to the Racing Post complain that drugs were on sale from a cubicle (Green 2001).
14 In a very obvious way, these men are indulging in the kind of ‘conspicuously
unthrifty consumption’ (1997: 69) observed by Stewart amongst the Rom broth-
erhood in Hungary. Amongst the Rom the meaning of gambling is to be found in
opposition both to wage labour and to the household. And this is also the case amongst
the mugs. By betting without reserve, the unity of their group is emphasised at the
expense of more complicated, perhaps more onerous family ties. And of course, the
whole Protestant work ethic that many of these men spend the majority of their lives
upholding is thrown out the window with the first ripped up betting slip.
15 However, if this woman chose to attempt to enter the weighing room, the unsaddling
enclosure, the paddock or the owners’ and trainers’ bar, she might find that this
apparent suspension of off-course distinctions is fragile to say the least.
6 Going once, going twice . . .
Introduction
The bloodstock market is founded on a central uncertainty. Nobody knows
what a good racehorse is, or rather what exactly it is which enables one race-
horse to run faster than another. Equally, nobody knows how to set about
producing a superior racehorse, or how to select one from a mass of relatively
similar yearlings. Every participant formulates his own ideas or theories in the
knowledge that they will never guarantee success, nor will any two different
theories necessarily be mutually exclusive. This uncertainty is hidden by the
myths and rituals of the bloodstock world.
(De Moubray 1987: xiv)
Before the rhythms of the auction lull the reader into a false sense of security, I
should add to Jocelyn de Moubray’s ‘central uncertainty’ the fact that racehorses
on the whole make very poor investments. Only 40% of racehorses ever win
a race. About 17% win two (Potts pers. comm.). In 1999 owners received, on
average, 21% of their outlay from prize money (discounting purchase costs).
Britain is thirty-ninth (sixth from bottom) in the international league table of
world racing nations (Wright 2000: 6).1 It is against this backdrop of negative
equity that public auctions such as the 2000 annual three-day Houghton Sale at
Tattersalls in Newmarket are able to net almost 33 million guineas, for 141 lots
at an average price of 233,886 guineas per yearling.2 Obviously, this behaviour
requires an explanation.
In 1983 Sheikh Mohammed spent $10.2 million on a yearling that turned
out to be too slow to run in a race. The winner of the 2000 Derby, Fusaichi
Pegasus, changed hands at the end of his racing career for a reputed $60 million.
Staggering figures such as these represent demand at the very top end of the
bloodstock market, where some of the richest individuals in the world compete
in order to possess the best bred yearlings of each generation, to ensure their
place as players in the competitive worlds of racing and breeding. The most ex-
pensive bloodstock is destined for the breeding shed, where the real money is to
be made. The value of a stallion depends upon the covering fee he can command.
Storm Cat, the most expensive stallion in the world in 2001, costs $400,000
(£277,000) per covering, about double that of his closest rival. If he produces 70
88
Going once, going twice . . . 89
live foals in a season (a conservative estimate) he will earn his owner $28 million
(£19.4 million). Potential profits from breeding dwarf those of prize money.3
Buyers of expensive yearlings justify their outlay on the grounds of breeding
and appearance; however, my informants agreed that it ‘becomes impossible
to explain yearlings valued at over one or two million’. These yearlings are
bought as potential stallions, in the hope that they might win a prestigious race
and then go on to sire winners. In true racing style I was told that the chances of
a particular horse achieving this were 7-1! In truth, yearlings are worth whatever
an individual is willing to pay in order to prevent his competitor from stumbling
upon a wonderhorse. These fascinating circumstances are the background to
the drama that takes place in the sales ring.
The sales ring is the interface of the two main principles at work in racing
society: risk and pedigree. It is in the sales ring that pedigree is expressed finan-
cially, and the risk of buying a young animal yet to achieve physical maturity is
interpreted as an ‘investment’ according to its representation by a page in the
sales catalogue detailing its breeding. The first section of this chapter briefly
describes the passage of a yearling through the auction ring. This moment is
the culmination of all of the efforts described in the next section of the chapter,
which describes fieldwork spent preparing a yearling consignment for the 1997
sales. This description should communicate the importance of the appearance
of knowledge. The scarcity of real knowledge in this arena is reinforced by my
description of the yearling inspection, the means by which yearlings are physi-
cally assessed by bloodstock agents. I then describe the bloodstock agent who
negotiates this arena with impression management, confidence and personality.
In the final sections I describe other processes at work in the auction ring and
explore the relationship between pedigree and ability.
The audience, who filled every available space in the packed amphitheatre, fell
silent as the ‘talking’ yearling of the 1995 Houghton Sale entered the ring.
Dark bay, white markings, an out-and-out Sadler’s Wells, and a colt. Tattersalls
was packed, everyone straining to catch a glimpse of the players who they
expected to be involved in the bidding which would follow the Irish auctioneer’s
introduction of the colt:
90 The Sport of Kings
The timbre, intonation and grave pauses of the auctioneer’s invocation pro-
duce an atmosphere of awe – a complete silence, pregnant with the overwhelm-
ing question: ‘Who would dare to possess such a creature?’ And suddenly, the
silence is broken, the auctioneer has taken a bid, and another, and the duel
commences. A whisper is raised in the crowd: ‘Where is he?’ Few have spot-
ted either competitor. The price rises, toward the half million mark, where it
sticks. The auctioneer entreats the underbidder to try another, ‘I’d hate to see
you lose him now, you’ve been with me all the way, try another, maybe one
more will do it!’ Movement in the crowd suggests that the vanquished oppo-
nent has beaten a retreat. Bidding raises the price from half a million to six
hundred thousand, where the hammer falls. ‘Going once, going twice . . . sold.’
‘Thank you very much Mr Demi O’Byrne.’ The audience erupts into gossip
and speculation.
As I was looking for a yearling to follow at this time, I rejoiced inwardly at
the thought of a six hundred thousand guinea sale-topping Sadler’s Wells colt,
who was already surpassing my expectations. Bought by the fascinating alliance
of John Magnier, of Irish breeding venture Coolmore and millionaire Michael
Tabor, quintessential East Ender made good through daring gambles, the
yearling was put into training with champion trainer Michael Stoute, and, best
of all, named Entrepreneur, after Tabor, a folk hero on the racecourse.
The sales
It was 4:50 in the morning. Outside it was raining. I was standing in a stable
with a yearling who would later sell for 36,000 guineas. I felt the weight of the
bridle in my hand and fought the rising feeling of panic in my stomach. The filly
looked at me with mild interest and seemed docile enough. Once again, and not
for the last time, I imagined that I was someone else, who was competent and
experienced, walked confidently across the box, caught and bridled the filly and
stood at the door of the box waiting for the call to ‘pull out’. That was it. I was
walking yearlings.4
Going once, going twice . . . 91
shown me how to ‘stand up’ a yearling, initially as a precaution ‘in case we get
really busy’. By the end of the sale I was responsible for showing and selling a
filly in the ring, and had shown all of the other ten yearlings at various times.
I changed my role in the operation by behaving sensibly, but also by exuding
great confidence at all times. I realised that learning occurred not through expo-
sition, but through observation and imitation. Confidence was the most valued
personal quality, rather than any sort of ‘willingness to learn’ which merely
revealed a lack of knowledge where the desired state was effortless compe-
tence. Learning not to learn too obviously enabled me to disguise my status as
newcomer to a world of highly specialised knowledge.
The first interaction between potential buyers at the sales and the yearlings
occurs in the yards that surround the sale ring. Although it is tempting to regard
this as action on the periphery of the market, the first meeting between potential
buyers and yearlings is often the most significant. The yearlings are brought
to the yards several days early in order for buyers to have time to view them
and evaluate them before they go into the ring. In other words, the relationship
between the yearling and potential buyers is established before the lot enters the
ring.6 The agent will decide to bid for the individual on the basis of inspections
made during the time before it is due to be sold. The time spent by the yearling in
the ring does not change who will bid for it, but merely establishes who amongst
those who want the yearling are prepared to pay the most for it. Or so it seems.
purposeful and balanced, by not asking her to complete any sudden manoeuvres.
The viewer took a look at the filly as we approached, and the quizzical stare, the
quintessential pose of the bloodstock agent, was struck. My filly was small and
always described as pretty, being a very solid bay, with large dark eyes. Quite
often she prompted an acknowledgement such as, ‘Hello filly’. The agent might
then greet me, ‘Good morning’. I would reply appropriately and ‘stand the filly
up’, with her left side in front of the agent, and her legs placed squarely with my
body in front of her. The agent would stand approximately ten feet away and
stare intently at her. He might approach her and place his hand on her withers
in order to gauge her size, possibly run a hand down her front left leg, or place
his fist under her chin in order to check the size of her airway, he might just be
content to stare. He would then move to the front, approximately six feet away,
and I would move to her left side, out of his way. He would continue to stare
at her front legs, for between ten seconds and a minute, then might look at her
from the rear, though not always.7 When at the front the agent might make a
comment such as ‘She’s a bonny filly isn’t she?’ or ask a question such as ‘Has
she a good temper?’ or ‘Are you having a good sale?’, ‘Isn’t it cold?’, though
many did not speak to me at all.
The first part of the inspection is ended by the agent saying, ‘May I see her
walk please.’ I would reply, ‘Certainly’, and try to galvanise the filly into walk
having just bullied her into standing still. A good walk is capable of trans-
forming the impression of a yearling, and a ‘good walker’ will be forgiven a
lot of technical faults. A good walker is described as ‘athletic’, ‘free moving’,
‘powerful’, ‘racey’; a bad walker may simply be noted in the catalogue as
‘ordinary’, ‘disappointing’ or ‘stiff’. The inspection walk follows a predeter-
mined route, which pivots around the agent. The yearling is walked away from
the agent, turned to the right, then walked back towards the agent, past him,
turned right, back towards him, and halted with him in front, then ‘stood up’
again. The distances involved must be sufficient for the filly to get into her
stride, and really to ‘use herself’, but not so far that the agent cannot see her or
becomes impatient. Some of the yearlings had faults that benefited from being
walked on a particular surface. Walking on the grass was generally more for-
giving than on the gravel path. One colt was to be walked on the gravel because
it sloped slightly in the direction that helped disguise his weaknesses. The end
of the inspection is signalled by the agent saying ‘thank you very much’, he
completes the notes in his catalogue and moves to the next yearling.
The yearling inspection is a form of connoisseurship, as described by art
historian Brown, because it involves a judgement of quality placed beyond
simple exposition:
attribution and authentication are not the whole of connoisseurship, which means to eval-
uate, and not merely classify. Having satisfactorily placed a work of art, the connoisseur
may go on to assess its quality or intrinsic value. (1979: 11)
94 The Sport of Kings
The use of jargon by a social group is one of the most potent means of inclusion and
exclusion. It both expresses and encourages an esprit de corps, a form of bonding which
is usually, though not universally, male. It is no accident that this form of language is
so richly developed in total institutions, in which the inhabitants feel extremely distinct
from the rest of the world. (Burke 1995: 14)
The specialist idiom of the bloodstock industry is both spoken and embo-
died. The spoken dialect is dominated by the names of horses in the form of
pedigrees. The dialect is dominated by horses and their specific relationships, by
the names of races, by the dates of famous victories, and by the human element
who guide the horses through these achievements: trainers, jockeys and breed-
ers. Thus a bloodstock agent looking at a yearling may say something like:
Has a brother with Michael Stoute, he says he’ll run for him, I didn’t like the colt by
Kris, terrible backend, shocking wheels, and a dog on the track. Mind you, the family
is definitely on the up since the Leger.
Irish agents described this ability as relating to the overall look of the yearling,
its attitude and expression: ‘Does it look like a winner, Rebecca, do you know
what I mean?’ English agents were sceptical of this ability, preferring to refer
to a ‘good judge’, but described the yearling’s ‘presence’ as amongst its most
important attributes, and advised me: ‘Never buy without a hunch, Rebecca.’
In other words, having a good ‘eye’ was described tautologously as being able
to pick winners.
The bloodstock agent’s emphasis upon visual skill completes the parallels
with connoisseurship in art criticism:
the visual arts are, I repeat, a compromise between what we see and what we know . . .
knowing is now revelling in a victory, a ‘knock-out’ – a short one, let us hope, over
seeing. (Berenson 1953: 14–5)
Berenson’s preference for ‘seeing’ rather than relying upon historical study to
contextualise a work of art is outside my own expertise, but the emphasis upon
‘seeing’ by bloodstock agents arouses my most cynical suspicions. ‘Vision’
is a mystically imbued sense, which implies the gift of prophecy to which
bloodstock agents are, in effect, making a claim. Making the means by which a
yearling appeals to a bloodstock agent a private matter, impossible to articulate,
visible only to those with an ‘eye’, both sets this judgement outside criticism
and also grants it magical authority:
I must add that Mr Berenson’s procedure before a picture added to the effect of magic. He
would come very close to it and tap its surface and then listen attentively, as if expecting
some almost inaudible voice to reply . . . to the lay eye, the whole performance looked
rather like a conjuring trick, and aroused the suspicion of more laborious scholars.
(Clark 1974: 138)
Myths abound regarding coups made by agents in which they disguise their
ownership of a yearling and persuade their client that it must be bought at any
price. Agents have also been accused of arranging to bid against each other in
order to swell their 5% fee, most recently in a High Court action against two
bloodstock agents which has seen the payment of more than £51,000 in damages
to a purchaser.11 Agents compete for naive newcomers in order to buy them
expensive yearlings, believing that no one has, strictly speaking, been swindled
under these circumstances. Activity of this kind is not universally condemned.
The bloodstock trade has a self-perception as thriving on the risk-taking, or
even sharp practice of the ‘entrepreneurs’, the bloodstock agents, who play the
game with a poker face, but who, more importantly, do so successfully, that
is, profitably, and without being found out. They are winners, and racing loves
winners.
The stallion manager also indulges in bidding without wanting to possess
the lot in question. He ‘bids up’ his charges’ offspring because where they
would like to have knowledge of unknowable things, the bloodstock industry
has, instead, statistics. The bloodstock industry is obsessed by statistics, in
particular, figures regarding the median and average price fetched by a stallion’s
offspring. These figures are of extreme importance because they determine
the stallion’s covering fee for the next breeding season. A stallion may cover
between twenty and three hundred mares a year, which gives some indication
of the financial significance of his fee. In keeping with the ideology of complete
knowledge upheld by the bloodstock agent, statistics are often treated as having
an unproblematic relationship with reality. The result of this is that there are at
least two markets in existence in the auction ring.
Not everyone bidding at the auction wishes to buy a horse to own and race.
The most obvious exception is the agent, who has already been discussed.
However, the most extreme exception is the ‘pinhooker’, who occupies a niche
in the market between foals and yearlings. The pinhooker buys foals and sells
them as yearlings the following year. He inhabits the commercial market for
racehorses as a store of value, taking a gamble that he can sell the yearling for
more than the cost of the foal and its upkeep.
Amongst the pinhookers, those who buy foals from first-season sires take the
greatest risk. The driving force of the market in foals is that the real risk for the
pinhooker is that he will have nothing to sell the next year, he buys in order to
guarantee a ‘slice of the action’. Foals are always a greater risk than yearlings,
whether they are to be pinhooked or kept to race. There is a higher chance of a
foal injuring himself in the time which must pass before he is able to race, and
his physical appearance is only loosely related to the fully grown horse he will
become two years later. Pinhookers are consequently the biggest risk takers at
the auction. They are recognisable by their haggard expression and the cloud
100 The Sport of Kings
of cigarette smoke that hovers about them. Their gamble takes months to play
itself out and their nerve must hold until the hammer falls.
case of the bloodstock industry, the features which insulate the market from
fundamental criticisms are the statistics which exhibit their own consistency.
Thus, stallions who have the highest aggregate winnings from their offspring
have the highest median yearling price, and consequently the highest covering
fee.
The bloodstock industry describes itself in terms borrowed from neo-classical
economics, and speaks of the ‘distortions’ of the market caused by ‘bidding up’
and the relative ‘strength’ or ‘weakness’ of various ‘levels’ of ‘demand’. It does
so, I would argue, for the same reasons as aggregate economists establish their
model of the consumer:
First they establish an unquestionable moral foundation which implies that all economic
mechanisms that supply goods to people are positive since people consist of unmet needs
which goods requite. Second they imply that consumption is not influenced by factors
such as advertising or emulation, or even other consumption choices, which might distort
this process of rational self-interest. Third, they imply that no further inquiry is necessary
into the actual practices of consumption since economics need only be concerned with
aggregate demand. (Miller 1995: 13)
The Market model provides a description of the bloodstock auction that appears
to contain its own explanation, rules and validity. It thereby makes any questions
as to its true nature misplaced, the product of a misunderstanding.
Conclusion
Since I first sat in on a sale in 1996, Entrepreneur has completed all of the
typical phases a good racehorse may experience, from being born to a famous
sire and dam on a prestigious stud, to being a 600,000 guineas sale topper; from
being trained by the champion trainer to winning the 2,000 Guineas, a Classic
race. Much to my disappointment, not to mention financial embarrassment,
Entrepreneur fell short of winning the Derby despite being an ‘absolute cer-
tainty’ according to the press. He was retired soon after the race, and has now
taken up stud duties for Coolmore. Demi O’Byrne, the bloodstock agent who
bought him, is quoted on his stallion advertisement as saying: ‘Entrepreneur
struck me from the moment I saw him at the Houghton Sale, he looked all
speed – like a horse who would go like smoke.’
The significant feature of the bloodstock market, which creates many of
the elements of risk described in this chapter, is the purchase of racehorses
as yearlings, before their ability is established (before it is even established
whether they will live long enough to race). Buying yearlings rather than older
horses of known ability creates the uncertainty which can be a source of reward
where a cheap yearling turns out to be a star, or disappointment when a sales
topper is a dud.
102 The Sport of Kings
‘When I saw the colt’, says Sekiguchi, ‘he was acting himself – very inquisitive, rearing
a little, a little wild. Those horses are the very intelligent ones.’ That night his staff were
called to his room. Sekiguchi was in his pyjamas. ‘I want that horse’ he told them, ‘I
don’t care how much it costs.’ The next day Satish Sanan, John Magnier and Michael
Tabor formed an alliance to buy the Mr Prospector colt. Sekiguchi was not bowed. ‘We
were going limitless’ he says. ‘We were wearing red and ready for battle.’ At $4 million
Sekiguchi won the battle. (Ashforth 2000)
The story shows what is at stake in the auction ring. As Baudrillard states, ‘the
essential function of the auction is the institution of a community of the privi-
leged who define themselves as such by agonistic speculation upon a restricted
corpus of signs’ (1981: 117). The thoroughbred auction offers an opportunity
Going once, going twice . . . 103
that cannot be reproduced by the art auction, and that is the potential to become
associated with an animate creature and to establish a relationship with that
creature whereby one can almost be said to come to embody the other, as is
implicit in Sekiguchi’s description of Fusaichi Pegasus’ victory in the Derby:
When Fusaichi Pegasus won, it was very emotional. I felt that everyone there was
celebrating for the new victor, my horse, Fusaichi Pegasus. It felt truly exceptional. And
experiencing all the events that took place after the race, I felt that you need to become
fit and tough to become the winner. I needed to catch my breath. I wished I could have
infused Pegasus’ power into my body. (Paulick 2000)
The behaviour of the horse in the ring, and later on the racecourse and at
stud, encourages many successful owners to draw parallels between themselves
and their successful equine purchases. A racehorse owner will emphasise the
qualities in his horse he most admires in the people around him, and particularly
in himself. Thus whilst both art and bloodstock auctions enable ‘the destruction
of economic value for the sake of another type of value’ (Baudrillard 1981: 113),
the nature of the thoroughbred auction can be said to be at least partly dependent
upon the properties embodied by the object of exchange, the racehorse. The
next chapter focuses upon a very different entrepreneur of the racing world, the
racing lad.
notes
1 These dire statistics are the result of the costs involved in keeping a horse in training,
an average of £16,000 a year. Britain is ninth in the international table of average prize
money, but high training fees and maintenance costs send it rocketing downwards in
the costs:prize-money ratio league table.
2 The Houghton sale offers yearlings only. Tattersalls conduct seven other sales during
the year. As well as yearlings, horses in training, stallions, mares and foals are sold.
Overall figures for 2000 were: 5224 lots offered, 4018 sold, for an aggregate of
137,299,230, at an average price of 34,171. All figures are in guineas. (See Tattersalls
website, www.tattersalls.com for a selection of other facts and figures.)
3 Although domestic prize money is relatively poor, particularly at the middle and lower
end of ability, races such as those of the Emirate World Series command fantastic prize
money. The series consists of twelve of the most important races of the year, in ten
countries on four continents, for total prize money of $26 million. The richest race in
the world, the Dubai World Cup, with prize money of $6 million, is included in the se-
ries, along with the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Diamond Stakes at Ascot, the
Hong Kong Cup, the Japan Cup, the Breeders Cup Classic and the Arlington Million.
4 My opportunity to deal with yearlings came through playing polo, a source of con-
tacts who consistently overestimated my ability and experience. The image of polo in
racing society was of devil-may-care battle-hardened tough nuts, who jumped onto a
new pony whenever their own fell beneath them, baying for the blood of the opposing
team. This is only partially true. I was told to arrive at Tattersalls at five a.m. on the
first morning of the sale.
104 The Sport of Kings
5 Colts often benefited from a smear of Vicks on their nostrils, to disguise the tanta-
lising smells of the fillies. Colts are often extremely powerful, and in the process of
discovering their sexuality, which can make them highly unpredictable. A great deal
of human energy is expended on keeping colts separate from fillies.
6 The most professional bloodstock agents may have been to see the yearlings at their
stud farm before the sale, particularly if they think that their client may be interested
in a particular individual on the grounds of its breeding.
7 Borneman has described the assessment of Arab and Quarter Horses in America as
a form of body-part fetishism, ‘nostrils, eyes and neck for the Arab, rear ends for the
Quarter Horse’ (1988: 39). In the case of the English thoroughbred, the legs, and
the front legs in particular, are fetishised. The speed of the racehorse is derived from
the relative length of its legs and therefore of its stride. However, it is not the length
of the leg that is currently fetishised, but its straightness. As the length of the leg
has increased, there has been an increase in the ratio of length to thickness of bone,
making the racehorse a delicate creature at best. The front legs are particularly vul-
nerable, and bear the brunt of the horse’s weight when racing downhill. And so
bloodstock agents and trainers look for straight legs in which no uneven stresses or
strains may be caused by the uneven distribution of weight. In practice, very few
horses have straight legs, and lots of horses with incorrect conformation win races.
However, straight legs are commercially desirable and this explains the fondness for
corrective trimming and shoeing shown by yearling producers. Trimming the hooves
of a young horse will lead to a change in the distribution of his body weight, and may
lead to a ‘correction’ of a bent limb. In fact, most farriers will tell you that this is just
as likely to introduce a different problem in its wake and that most young horses are
best left alone, to ‘grow into’ their conformation.
8 Some people will still buy a horse that fails its wind test since yearlings often pick
up bugs when at the sales, and are often under a great deal of stress, both factors
which may cause a perfectly healthy horse to fail its test.
9 This is an image that has been applied to the auction by all sorts of people who
should know better. As Geismar says, ‘The process of auction has traditionally been
described as a simple formalisation of price within a particular public space over
a clearly delimited and public period of time: a fundamental index of the market’
(2001: 25).
10 Some of the yearlings will be described as ‘Property of a Gentleman’ in the catalogue,
perhaps the simplest disguise. However, if a horse is likely to be at all significant in
terms of breeding and therefore price it is likely that established potential bidders
will be able to find out who owns it. Of course this depends on being able to activate
the right sorts of contacts.
11 The case of Pru’s Profiles highlights a number of features of the bloodstock auction
and its potential pitfalls for the inexperienced or unconnected. Paul Webber, then a
bloodstock agent for the Curragh Bloodstock Agency, bought the then unnamed horse
at Tattersalls Fairyhouse Sales in Ireland in 1994 for £8,400. He entered the horse for
the Doncaster Sales and bought it on behalf of a client, Gary Heywood, for £29,400.
Webber was bidding against Oliver Sherwood, a trainer and longstanding friend,
from 14,000 guineas to the purchase price. Heywood maintains that at no time was
he told that the horse belonged to Webber. The horse ran six times without success
during 1995 and 1996. Henry Beeby, the Doncaster Sales Director, reproduced the
Going once, going twice . . . 105
traditional idea of the auction when he said that, ‘we maintain that the auction is the
safest place to buy a horse because it is so open and everyone can see what is going
on’ (Green 1999: 6). The judge awarded £51,480 damages plus costs and interests
against the Curragh Bloodstock Agency.
12 All stallions are ‘well-bred’ according to the fashion of the day. If a stallion’s owners
are sufficiently wealthy they will ‘bid up’ the price of his offspring, thus making
the stallion seem successful. The stallion will attract more mares and enjoy a nu-
merical advantage. The more expensive offspring will be sent to expensive trainers
and given the best food, environment and medical attention, become successful and
make their sire more successful, and so on. The stallion’s breeding is regarded as
superior, despite this being a financially led process.
7 One of the lads
Introduction
The dominant images of racing, generated by journalists, novelists and film
makers, come from the racecourse. This chapter concentrates upon the more
mundane social logic of the Newmarket training yard. It describes the central
figure in this context, the racing lad. Whilst Wacquant sought out the amateur
fighters of the training gym (1992, 1995a, b), a large portion of my fieldwork was
spent amongst lads, whose structural position relative to professional jockeys
is similar to that between amateur and professional fighters.1 Being a lad in
Newmarket does not just affect how the working day is spent, it is a role
which affects the whole person, their physique, temporality, and perception of
themselves and of others. In other words it can be seen as a particular habitus
(Bourdieu 1984), where habitus is understood as the internalisation of tastes
appropriate to a particular class, expressed through the medium of the body
seen as so much physical capital.2
Both riding and boxing are skilled bodily crafts that provide a structure for
experience in which linguistic explanations for action are excluded by the im-
mediacy of physical involvement. By riding and boxing, myself and Wacquant
engaged in ‘edgework’ (Lyng 1990: 863) that drove out the requirements of
rational choice or normative theories of action, thus demanding an explanation
in terms of a logic of practice. Both boxing and riding provide examples of
skills in which ‘successful practice normally excludes knowledge of its own
logic’ (Bourdieu 1977: 19). Describing my initiation into riding racehorses is
thus a reconstruction of the lad’s point of view that no lad would ever attempt.
It seeks to convey the insights I gained when under pressure to fulfil my role
in the yard whilst recognising that I had an agenda which made my position
different from that of my colleagues.
This chapter begins with a description of the life of lads in Newmarket, and
offers explanations for their involvement in a low-paid and dangerous industry
which do not depend on the lack of ambition with which they are commonly
characterised. The lads’ lives will be made sense of in terms of their embod-
iment of the logic of racing, through which they become ‘entrepreneurs in
106
One of the lads 107
the horses when they are away racing . . . they are perhaps just a shade under the head
lads in social standing. Very few aspire to heights above that of head lad or travelling
head lad; to the trainers they remain staunchly employees. They still have to call the boss
‘Guv’nor’, and special privileges are few . . . Then there are the stable lads themselves,
the drones in the beehive, toiling away for little recognition or reward. (1988: 32)5
Work begins between 5:30 and 6:30 a.m. For large portions of the year travel
to and from work is thus in the dark. Some lads live in hostels in the stable
grounds, and so fall out of bed and go straight to work. Tied accommodation
and the high rents charged in Newmarket provided a common explanation of
the choice to remain in racing. Few lads wished to face the double challenge
of finding a new job as well as new accommodation for themselves and their
families. As Sean told me, ‘it isn’t so bad for single lads, they just get a room
somewhere, but I’ve got two kids and it’s not that simple, so I’m stuck’.
Between three and five horses are mucked out before being ridden in three
or four ‘lots’ that ‘pull out’ at intervals. Once the horses are ‘dressed over’
(groomed), ‘let down’ (untied) and their beds ‘set fair’ (tidy), the lads go home,
at around noon. A small meal may be eaten, soup or a sandwich, crisps or
chocolate, before taking a nap. ‘Evening stables’ during which the horses are
fed again, mucked out and groomed, take place between 4:00 p.m. and 6:00 p.m.
After this, the lads are free to go to the pub, usually eating a kebab, burger or
portion of chips on the way home at closing time. Cheap food is available in
the Clock Tower Cafe and the pubs that stay open during the day, advertising
daily specials such as ‘minestroney soup and roll’ or ‘minse and vegtibles in a
Yorkshire pudding’ (sic).
Lads are also responsible for taking ‘their’ horses racing, something that
many of them look forward to. Trips abroad are particularly highly valued.
Even when a yard has only one runner at a meeting it is likely that the lads will
know someone else going to that course, or sharing the horse box. Quite often,
the journey to the racecourse is spent sleeping, a luxury that is relished, and
made especially enjoyable by the thought of some other mug mucking out the
horses you have left behind. After reaching the course the horses are settled into
their boxes and the lads go to the canteen to get a bite to eat. Racecourse canteens
are highly variable, but the best ones are comfortable and warm and serve tasty,
cheap food. Going into the canteen one can usually recognise a face or two,
and this is a time for companionship and to catch up on gossip or play cards.
Some trips involve an overnight stay in a racecourse hostel and again these
are variable sorts of places. In general, lads don’t spend much time in their beds
if they can help it and find a few friends and hit the town. After all, this is an
easy day, one horse to feed in the morning, and not a lot else to do until the
afternoon, and so the free time is enjoyed. Before the race the lad must prepare
his horse and arrive in the paddock on time.6 The lads watch the race, collect
the horse, wash it down and then let it rest for an hour before beginning the
One of the lads 109
journey home. The journey home is usually spent snoring loudly, sleeping off
the excesses of the night before.
Being a lad involves much more than simply knowing how to handle race-
horses. It is also about knowing how to behave. Much of the work done by lads
is repetitive, and, as in the majority of workplaces, gossip is one of the means
of alleviating boredom. Newmarket is a small place, and indiscretions are com-
monplace. Monday mornings often prompt a rehashing of all of the events of
the weekend in gory detail. The number of pints, women, men or successful
bets will all be exaggerated. In fact, the potential exists for bad behaviour on
any night of the week, since many lads drink every evening. Drinking and the
resulting bad timekeeping or violence was the only reason I ever came across
for the sacking of lads.7 Drinking and fighting also contributed to the constant
circulation of relationships that I came across in my group of friends, which
ensured a good supply of gossip.
As well as gossip, the yard tends to be an environment that engenders an
atmosphere of constant flirtation. As Sophie told me, ‘Every time you go to a
new yard the lads try to get into your knickers. It can be fun! But it annoys
the other girls. They soon pack it in if you don’t lead them on.’ Flirtation often
takes the form of teasing, the primary occupation of many lads. Even within
established teams, teasing continues, and lots of lads told me that it was a way
of making the work more enjoyable, as I was told, ‘It makes the day go faster
doesn’t it! I mean I’ve always been like it. I can’t help myself if someone’s got a
new bloke or they’ve put their hair different or they’ve got new boots or they’ve
come in late. Anything at all!’ Newcomers are especially likely to endure the
attentions of the other lads, as one teenager told me, ‘They hate me. They won’t
speak to me except to tell me something I did wrong or ask me where I had my
hair cut so they can send the boys round.’
The role of stable lad is now filled, in the majority of cases, by women.8 I
came across a number of male lads who were self-confessed chauvinists and
witnessed many heated discussions between groups of men and women. These
discussions usually focused upon riding ability. Chauvinist male lads told me
that whilst men and women were equally capable of shifting muck, riding,
the most prestigious part of the lad’s job, was a male preserve. As Sean told
me, ‘Blokes are stronger for their weight than girls. And that’s what you want.
If you’ve got a big strong colt you want a lad on it. A girl can spoil it just
like that.’ Many female lads told me that they sometimes tolerated this sort of
discrimination because it suited them. As Joanne told me, ‘It’s not just chauvinist
pig stuff. Even though there’s plenty of that. It’s more . . . old fashioned than
that. It’s actually sometimes quite gallant! [laughs] Most of the things they don’t
want you to do you wouldn’t want to do yourself!’
Female lads told me that they enjoyed certain advantages. They tend to get
the easier horses to ride. They are slightly protected from the most physical
110 The Sport of Kings
jobs by male lads. And they tend to get along with trainers, who are usually
men. If all the stories of affairs between lads and trainers in Newmarket were
true it would be difficult to imagine that there was ever any time or energy
left for training racehorses. Trainers do have affairs with their staff, and very
occasionally they marry them. High profile cases occasionally reach the tabloid
press, although the majority of affairs go unnoticed outside the town. However,
female lads are not all wrapped in cotton wool, waiting for a chance to grab the
attention of their powerful Guv’nor. As Sophie told me, ‘We let certain things
go, we don’t argue about every sexist comment or whatever. And if we want a
day off we might bat our eyelids at the Boss. But he knows as well as I do that
I work harder than the lads and so I’m worth that day. I just make it nicer for
him to give it me!’
Like the boxers who spoke with Wacquant, lads bemoan the low pay of their
profession, the absence of promotional opportunities, the long hours and poor
conditions, saying, ‘It’s a mugs game.’ They often repeated that they would not
like their children to go into ‘the game’, hoping that they might go into a more
profitable and prestigious career. As Dick told me,
I came into racing through my dad. He still rides. I think he’s the oldest lad out there
now. I started riding a few and tried as an apprentice, but I didn’t make it. I ended up
travelling horses but no real good ones. Got married. I don’t know why I carry on. I can’t
imagine myself in a factory though. I mean trainers are all idiots and horses are mostly
rubbish but if your mates are in racing then it’s hard to leave. I’m trying to get a job as
a groundsman because I fell off and hurt my back. I’d like my lad to be a lawyer or a
doctor, but you just don’t know. The other day I caught him riding a finish on the back
of the settee when the racing was on telly and I gave him such a belt. But if he wants to
try it I won’t be able to stop him. What can you do?
Lads do not always devalue their career. Racing shares with boxing a variety of
rewards which were identified to me by lads during conversations in which they
felt either privileged or nostalgic enough to pity those who work in factories
or service industries who ‘don’t know a trade’ and therefore ‘can’t take pride
in doing a job that only a few people understand’. In these conversations lads
emphasised their independence, individuality, expertise, the good fortune of
One of the lads 111
having had a lucrative horse or bet, and the fringe benefits which all of them
seemed to have received at some point in one form or another. As Mick told me:
There’s nothing like it. I mean it’s hard and you can’t be soft, but I’ve led up winners in
France and that’s hard to beat. And we know the horses best. Yeah. I can get on a horse
and tell you everything about it. Just by sitting on it once. How far. What class. Which
leg hurts. Anything like that. And I can tell you if it’s a winner. It’s a feel you get if you
start to live off horses. I don’t get a buzz off the crap any more, but ten crap horses are
made worthwhile by one bit of class. Whoosh! You feel the difference like that! Then
you get out your pocket book and make some money. That’s why I do it!
This control is the result of the mastery of techniques that are unique to the
racing industry. The lads’ presence on the Heath, in front of small audiences
of journalists, owners, trainers and tourists, is an expression of this mastery,
executed with the nonchalance of someone who obviously carries their ability
lightly. Riding racehorses is conducted according to its own detailed set of rules
that cannot be extrapolated from the technology alone, so must be learnt. For
example, having saddled my horse for the first time, my trainer altered the order
of the sheets under the saddle, tied my reins in a knot and brushed a couple
of stray pieces of straw from his tail. He left me in the stable looking at the
miniature saddle and tiny stirrups wondering how on earth I would ever get on
the horse. I heard Patricia, the trainer’s wife, shout from the next stable, ‘You
can climb in the manger with him.’ Though I had no idea what to expect, rather
than betray this ignorance I clambered into the manger and in a bizarre moment
of complicity, the horse shimmied sideways towards me until I could jump from
the manger onto his back. He and I were clearly collaborating in defining each
other through our accumulated physical techniques.
As with boxing, the ‘kinetic techniques’ (Wacquant 1995a: 504) of riding
racehorses offer opportunities for satisfaction through good practice. Having
a ‘good run’ up the gallop involves being able to control the horse in order to
fulfil the instructions given by the trainer, which may be to ‘jump off at half
speed, go up to join the lead horse at the turn, after two furlongs upsides let
Mick come through behind you and kick on’. I anticipated that the nature of the
riding experience itself would form part of the lads’ justification for continuing
to ride. Although lads did sometimes describe the thrill of being on a good
horse, this was often valued instrumentally, as part of a cycle of permanent
potentiality. The inherent pleasure of the experience which dominated my own
attraction to riding racehorses was, for professional lads, also an expression of
the potential rewards of the industry itself. The lads’ motivation to stay in racing
was described to me as essentially the same motivation as that of the owner or
gambler. The chance of ‘doing’ a good horse motivated lads to continue for
season after season, ‘I’m finished, there’s no money in this business unless
you’re rich or you’ve got a good horse.’
Of the three horses a lad cares for, once the ability of the oldest is established,
the lad is given an untried yearling. Lads begin to rave about the new ‘babies’
as soon as they arrive in the yard: ‘I’ve got a nice looking Prince Sabo I’m quite
excited about, she’s got a bit of speed alright.’ It is significant that the ultimate
accolade given to a two-year-old is that he or she ‘could be anything’. The
cycle in which lads are given untried yearlings at the beginning of each season
(in the midst of winter when the job is at its least appealing) offers an incentive
to continue couched in the idiom of risk that appeals most to those who are
already fluent in the practice of horseracing.
One of the lads 113
Funny things, horses. Dirty, dangerous, greedy beasts, they get into your blood like a
virus, and once you’ve got it, there’s no cure. We all moan about them; most of us try
to leave the game at some time or another, but it’s hopeless. Within days you’re fretting
for the sight and sound and smell of them. (Gallier 1988: 9)
who chose to deal with them were deranged, whilst those who agreed to ride such
creatures clearly had a death wish. In retrospect, by accepting this challenge I
tacitly assumed that there was some such mechanism as legitimate peripheral
participation, whereby, ‘if learning is about increased access to performance,
then the way to maximise learning is to perform, not to talk about it’ (Lave and
Wenger 1991: 22). It was only when I began to accumulate scars that I realised
the extent to which my own body was implicated in this process.
Working days followed a routine, and I was expected to do all the chores in
the yard from day one, although Bill managed to resist asking me to ride until
the second day. Patricia and I would begin the day at 6 a.m., by putting four
of the horses on the ‘walker’, a huge rotating cage separated into four sections,
turned electrically, like a vast horizontal hamster wheel. This warmed up the
horse’s muscles, and took the edge off their morning exuberance, whilst Bill
prepared the feed. Patricia and I would then muck out the boxes belonging to
the horses on the walker, before changing the next four onto the walker and
doing their boxes. Mick, who rode the fillies, arrived at 7:30, whilst Bill and
Patricia would ‘pull out’ with the ‘first lot’ shortly afterwards, leaving me to
finish the boxes. Following my recruitment to riding I would take my first ride
out with Mick, and give him a lead around the sand ring. Bill, Patricia and I
would then have breakfast of coffee and toast whilst Mick took out another filly.
Bill, Patricia and I would then take out the final three horses around the sand.
When each horse returned to the yard it was washed down with hot soapy water,
particularly on its face, feet, legs and ‘undercarriage’. Each horse was then led
into the paddock for a ‘bite’ or ‘pick’ of grass, whilst drying. The horses were
then brought back into their boxes, given a thorough brush, their feet picked
out and oiled, their manes and tails ‘dandied’, and their sheets or day rugs put
on, which is referred to as ‘dressing’. The horses who are not in work were also
put either on the walker or out into the paddock for twenty minutes to ‘stretch
their legs’, and were also brushed or ‘dressed over’.
This work was done by 12:00. After each morning I felt as if I had been
run over by a tractor. Although mucking out was made slightly more difficult
by having to keep up with superhuman Patricia, it was really the riding that
exhausted me, and was quite unlike any other riding I had ever done. Although
I have ridden since I was young, I hadn’t ever ridden a thoroughbred in training.
When he asked whether I could ride out Bill simply said that if I was capable of
riding a polo pony that had once been a racehorse then I was perfectly capable
of riding a non-ex-racehorse. Patricia tutted at Bill and took me to one side to
say that I should only ride if I wanted to. Bill is very convincing. I rode the
least valuable horse in the yard first, referred to by Bill as ‘The Bastard’, which
didn’t require much ethnographic sensitivity to interpret. Bill, Mick and I rode
off out of the yard and for the first time I shortened my stirrups ( jerks) and rode
(as I thought) like Lester Piggott. I quickly let them down again when I realised
One of the lads 115
that if I kept them short I would be exhausted by the time we got to the gallop
we were going to use.
Bill had decided that we would do a twelve furlong (mile and a half ) straight
gallop on the turf inside the racecourse, called ‘Back of the flat’. In retrospect,
this was one of several examples of Bill’s tendency towards baptism by fire.
Horses are keener on grass than all-weather tracks, and on straight tracks than
circuits. Typically, Bill had set me the stiffest task to begin with on the grounds
that, ‘if you could handle that then I knew that you could handle anything’. On
the way to the gallop I had felt an unparalleled sense of elation to be riding
across the Heath smiling and nodding to all the other lads. Quite a few things
began to make sense. I felt a part of Newmarket in a new and exciting way,
and yet I felt totally invisible, as if I had finally blended in with part of the way
of life I was seeking to understand. Unfortunately, these feelings were soon
overtaken by more pressing concerns of self-preservation.
Mick had told me to ‘give him a yank in the gob as you jump off’, to ‘let him
know who’s boss’, as if he was in any doubt. This horse has a reputation for
setting his jaw and running away, although his saving grace is that he knows
where to stop at the end of the gallops. I put my life in his hands and set off,
giving his mouth a quick saw, as if that made the slightest difference. He took
off and I had a sensation of flying. Bill had said that I would see a big mound at
the end of the run and would thus know when to stop. All I could see was a vast
expanse of grass with tiny markers either side of the strip we were supposed to
gallop up apparently marking the way to infinity. We were going faster than I
have ever been on a horse before (about 35 mph), the wind was catching my
breath and making my eyes water so that I could hardly see, possibly a blessing.
My legs were exhausted with supporting my own weight and setting against my
horse’s jaw. My arms were pulling desperately. My thoughts at the time were
surprisingly clear, and almost removed. I established that this was by far the
most frightening thing that I had ever done, also that it was the most physically
demanding thing that I had ever done, also that I didn’t ever want to do it again
and must not be allowed to on any account. I pondered when the end would
come, imagining that every molehill we flashed past was the huge mound that
Bill had described. The mound was actually the side of a reservoir, and we
ground to a stop once we reached it, as predicted.
By the time Mick and Bill caught up I had managed to sit up and to restrict
my breathing to a mere gasp rather than the roar it had been initially. Bill ca-
sually enquired as to how I had found it, and out of my mouth came words
like ‘terrific’ and ‘incredible’. Bill looked so delighted that I overlooked my
strange response, only realising on the walk back that for all of its horror my
first trip up the gallops had been not just terrifying, but also one of the most
brilliant experiences of my life. The primary satisfaction came from surviving,
but this was mixed with the excitement generated by the experience itself, by
116 The Sport of Kings
the sensation of speed, the proximity of disaster, the loss of control. Before we
had reached the yard these feelings had coalesced into a desperate ambition to
be able to be good at something so testing.9
The natural
The idea that learning is achieved through performance is central to the phi-
losophy of the training yard. Apprentices learn by LPP because in the yard
horsemanship ‘is bred, not taught’. According to Gallier:
Some of the newcomers can’t even hope to make it as stable lads; they just don’t take to
the horses . . . These sorts of kids can’t make a horse walk through a doorway, or stand
still whilst being washed down. Horses will never behave well during exercise, either,
for these people . . . These poor kids are never popular; the lads abuse them for their lack
of skill, and trainers shout at them in exasperation. But horsemanship is a quality that is
inborn, it cannot be taught. (1988: 83)
When I asked lads how their skills were learnt a common response was, ‘You
don’t learn it, it should come naturally.’ This sort of response is epitomised in
the conversation below:
RC: How did you learn to ride?
Mick: I just sort of did it.
RC: Did anyone help you?
Mick: No, no one can, because you just do it or you don’t.
RC: So who can do it and who can’t?
Mick: It has to be in your blood.
Many lads told me of their racing ancestors in the same way as members of
‘real’ Newmarket families might. However, the attitude of lads to their own
‘pedigrees’ is ambivalent.
Whilst ‘blood’ was spoken of as the hereditary medium of talent, lads also
offered an alternative explanation whereby talent could be assimilated by the
individual from the environment. Lads maintained that racing was ‘in the blood’
without the commitment to this blood being inherited from ancestors. I was told
that racing could ‘get into your blood’, that ‘it sort of seeps into you’, and that ‘it
gets under your skin’. The person in this case is perceived as permeable whilst
the upper-class individual may seem closed, their destiny suggested by birth.
Amongst lads, the fixity of the upper-class imperative whereby talent must be
explained by an appeal to pedigree is replaced, at times, by explanations which
imply a far more flexibly constituted person, perhaps suggestive of a more flex-
ible class system, one of the ‘hidden scripts’ of the lad, as articulated by Dick:
I know a lad who was useless at first. I mean I thought that he would never hack it. I was
just waiting to see him go home. And we weren’t very nice to him because we didn’t
expect him to last. But he stuck it out. And he really started to get better. It was spending
all his time in the yard. And he wanted it so bad. It sort of got a hold of him and made
him into a lad. But he was never going to be like a natural.
One of the lads 117
If riding comes naturally then it can’t be taught. In keeping with this, the
amount of explicit guidance I was given throughout my time on the yard was
pitiful, so how did I learn? Learning the ropes in a training yard includes expe-
riences that seem to be common to many examples of apprenticeship. Firstly,
as amongst Yucatec midwives, learning takes place without any obvious cor-
responding practice of teaching (Lave and Wenger 1991: 84). Secondly, the
structural constraints of the division of labour determine the tasks undertaken
by the apprentices, which are usually dirty or repetitive, as amongst appren-
tice meat-cutters in America (Lave and Wenger 1991: 76). Thirdly, as amongst
Vai tailors, peripheral tasks are undertaken before the central techniques are
attempted (Lave and Wenger 1991: 72). In the case of a racing apprenticeship,
however, the defining features of the experience are determined by three factors;
firstly, that a racehorse is a ‘single-user tool’, secondly that the unsuccessful
practice of racehorse riding can result in serious injuries and even death, and
thirdly that successful practice relies upon the embodiment of techniques which
respond to stimuli without the intervening rationalising processes demanded by
knowledge which is stored and transmitted as so much verbal information.
Just as the experiences of apprentice quartermasters in the American Navy
were influenced by the design of instruments which did not facilitate joint
operation (Lave and Wenger 1991: 73), riding a racehorse is a one-person-only
task. It is therefore inevitable that the first gallop is made alone. Fellow lads all
confirmed that the first experience of riding racehorses was untutored:
He just threw me into the plate and off I went. You just get on with it don’t you? They
don’t make pillion saddles you know. I didn’t expect it to be as tough, I was shocked
I suppose. But you get over it.
I asked both Bill and Mick for advice before I flew up the gallops for the
first time. They didn’t offer any help, humming and hawing and saying that
‘you just have to learn for yourself, you’ll see. It’s impossible to explain, you
just have to do it.’ Bill’s words as I shot off up the gallop were, ‘Don’t worry
about anything, just enjoy yourself and get the feel of it.’ As a jockey said to a
television presenter recently when asked to explain what it feels like to ride a
horse: ‘It’s very difficult to explain to a normal person.’
Once I had made my first run, advice was more forthcoming, partly because
I began to ask the right questions, and partly because the advice could be
presented as criticism of my own technique which did not depend upon any
articulation of their own embodied practice. Lads were not happy to give
abstract descriptions of riding racehorses, nor to generalise about the experi-
ence. They were more comfortable discussing particular horses, with the shared
experience of racehorse riding as the unexplored, taken for granted context.
These conversations would always take the form of, ‘You know when the filly
takes hold of the bit and twists her jaw like that? . . . Well . . .’ The tips and
advice I received were sought out. That the knowledge is difficult to articulate
118 The Sport of Kings
is not, however, the only explanation as to why this articulation is only very
rarely even attempted.
My intention is not to suggest that the technique of riding a racehorse cannot
be articulated, because to a large extent it can. The absence of teaching as such
can be explained by two factors; first, discussing riding a racehorse is easier
when both parties have even the most minimal shared experience, secondly, the
status of the newcomer does not promote the easy sharing of knowledge. As
the latest recruit to the yard, the newcomer is a threat to those above him to
the extent that if he should prove talented he may ‘make it’ at the expense of
an ‘old-timer’. Thus, I was told that the newcomer must be ‘thrown in at the
deep end’ to ‘pay his dues like the rest of us’. The other experience common
to many of the new recruits to whom I spoke was that, in keeping with their
entry into a new and closed world, they were stripped of any status which
would have contradicted their new structural position as ‘lowest of the low’.
They were given nicknames, which were generally not flattering, and teased
about their awkwardness. I was teased about my elephantine physique and my
big feet, other lads told me of being teased about spots and bad haircuts. The
body is focused upon because successful racing practice involves control of
the human and equine body. Where a body is ‘out of control’ it is a source of
mockery.
There is thus a sense in which newcomers learn despite the efforts of those
whom one might expect to teach them. They learn by accumulating experiences
which are stored physically, but rarely articulated, and by the time they have
acquired them, there is no incentive for them to pass them on to the newcomer to
whom they have now become an ‘old-timer’. Although it is difficult to describe
how it feels to ride a racehorse, it is not impossible. The lack of teaching is
partly due to the structural position of the newcomer; however, it is justified by
an appeal to the idea of ‘the natural’.
Courses last nine weeks, after which the apprentice lad is guaranteed work
with a yard. Some of the recruits have not sat on a horse before they arrive at
the school. The course begins with three weeks spent in an indoor arena. Those
who have ridden before ride thoroughbreds whilst there are a few ponies for
those without any previous experience. After riding twice a day for three weeks,
the apprentices graduate to the sand ring, which they canter around. After doing
this twice a day for three weeks they go on to the straight grass gallop for the
last three weeks.
The apprentices at the school have to ‘do’ their own horses, so they must
muck out and groom two horses whilst doing their share of chores such as
sweeping and raking. Almost all of the lessons are ‘practicals’, taught in the
stable or on the gallops. The elementary stages are taught more easily in the
indoor arena, which provides a far safer environment for the riders than New-
market Heath. Safer still is the Equisisor, a robotic horse that simulates the
movements of a galloping horse. Once safe in these controlled environments
where instructors can control the horse whilst the apprentice concentrates on
developing a basic technique which is secure and balanced, the apprentices ven-
ture out. In order to overcome the problem of the horse being a single-user tool,
the apprentices wear radio headsets, through which their instructors provide a
constant stream of instruction. My visit to the school happily coincided with
the first outing for a group of twelve, and watching their progress on a day that
was extremely wet and windy was terrifying. One of the instructors noted my
stunned expression and acknowledged that: ‘It’s something you never quite get
used to.’
On the first trip outside the indoor arena for three weeks, the horses were
understandably fresh. The young people riding them were excited and scared
to be outside for the first time. The idea of the exercise was for one pair at
a time to trot and then canter once around the inside of the enclosed sand
ring. Whilst one or two pairs achieved this, the others got gradually faster and
faster, until they were cornering like motorbikes, with their rider’s feet almost
scraping the floor. The pitiful cries of ‘Whoa, steady boy, whoa’ were whipped
away by the wind as the horses shamelessly took advantage of their frozen,
terrified passengers. Some people fell off, some horses simply failed to stop
and did eleven circuits before their riders dropped to the floor with exhaustion,
some were stopped by instructors waving their arms in their path, some took
the instructors on, galloping past them. My favourite personal tragedy was the
horse who got down and rolled in the mud whilst waiting for his turn to canter,
covering his rider in mud in the process, he then took off around the circuit and
whipped round when an instructor tried to get in his way, depositing his rider
in the mud for a second time.
Although the scene was carnage, no one was hurt, and all the riders seemed
quite happy. The experience raises questions as to whether cantering for the first
120 The Sport of Kings
time is made easier by instruction or not. I would have felt better had someone
been speaking calmly to me during my own lightning progress up the gallop, but
would I have been any more effective? I spent the entire day with the instructors,
and took full advantage of their expertise, asking them for help with my own
riding. They had lots of helpful suggestions, some articulated and some both
articulated and demonstrated. They had theories of horse psychology, such as
what made a horse pull, they advocated soft hands and a gentle voice, they held
strong views on stirrup length and produced highly developed arguments on
centres of balance. They had an entire vocabulary which had been lacking in
my own ‘apprenticeship’, and they defended the practice of teaching what is
usually only learnt.
The next time I rode out I used all of the techniques the instructors at the
school had taught me. This was the best ride of my life. I was in control for
a change, and I could explain why, according to my newly acquired theory.
The problem is that on every occasion after that I tried to use my techniques
and they failed, whilst my old ‘don’t know why I do it, but it feels as though
it looks a bit like Mick does when he rides’ also worked on some occasions
and not others. I think that the problem lies in the presence of the other body
in this experience, the racehorse. Not only do racehorses have characters, they
also have moods. Their behaviour is unpredictable, and this accentuates the
difficulties of teaching how to ride them by means other than experience.10
Even when I rode the same horse out every day, on the same route, the
experience was never routinised. However, whilst each riding experience was
unprecedented, the more riding I did the greater my confidence, because the
more likely it was that I had a group of similar experiences to refer to before
I decided how to react. Where there was no time to reflect, my body would
automatically perform the action that had proved most successful in the past.
In the absence of any prior experience my body would guess at whatever action
seemed likely to aid self-preservation, guesswork made this the least successful
category of actions. Lads concur that experience is a saviour, ‘You’ll get used
to it’, ‘The more you do it the better you’ll get.’11
Conclusion
Lads in Newmarket thrive on their membership of a small, close-knit community
in which people are united by the business of racing. They believe that what
they do is important, and between themselves they give credit to each other
as experts. They cement relationships at work by teasing, and with a sense of
humour that often highlights misfortune. Some of my informants described this
as a cruel environment, but others were right to say that teasing was a means
of paying attention to people in a way that was in keeping with the industry
itself. Working as a lad is tough, and dangerous. It is competitive and badly
One of the lads 121
What am I going to earn in a factory or a shop? I’d know at the beginning of the week
and that would be forever. In racing you never know, you might get lucky!
notes
1 I use the expression ‘lad’ and ‘lads’ to refer to the men and women who care for and
ride racehorses in Newmarket. Female lads told me that they didn’t like being referred
to as ‘lasses’ or ‘girls’, alternative titles that are commonly used but which many of
them found patronising.
122 The Sport of Kings
2 On becoming a lad I lost weight, developed calluses on my hands, and got accustomed
to wearing the same ragged clothes for weeks on end. Some people might add that I
was often quite smelly after the morning’s work. I accept the contention of Csordas,
that, ‘The kind of body to which we have become accustomed in scholarly and popular
thought alike is typically assumed to be a fixed, material entity, subject to the empirical
rules of biological science, existing prior to the mutability and flux of cultural change
and diversity and characterised by unchangeable inner necessities. The new body
that has begun to be identified can no longer be considered as a brute fact of nature’
(1994: 1).
3 Lads engage in practices that might be described by anthropologists as ‘resistance’
(Scott 1990, Comaroff 1985). They complain, drag their feet, cut corners and ride
badly. However, although to some lads these practices may constitute a form of protest,
I would like to suggest that, amongst others, ‘resistance’ is practised because the domi-
nant ideology demands it. Lads publicly decry their tied accommodation, lifestyle,
skills and contribution, and conceal any more positive explanations to remain in
racing. They register their resistance to their undervalued lifestyle in front of the
upper class, whilst constructing an alternative ideology amongst themselves. This
is not to suggest that the enjoyment of riding horses entirely compensates for their
structural disadvantages. Rather, neither explanation is complete, and the decision to
remain in racing remains a matter of individual circumstances.
4 My first foray into Newmarket nightlife proved a less than productive experience as
the town had been under siege by the Evening Standard for several weeks, culminating
in the publication of an article about heroin addiction entitled ‘Small town poisoned
by inner-city plague’ (Adamson 1996: 12). The article highlighted the sixty registered
heroin addicts, and estimated one hundred further unregistered users in Newmarket’s
population of twelve thousand adults. Alcohol and tobacco dominate recreational
drug use in Newmarket. Alcohol has a role in all of the significant relationships in
Newmarket; lads drink with each other, trainers drink with owners, successful punters
drink their winnings with losers and racegoers slurp gin and tonics and champagne.
Asked why Tony McCoy was presently the best jump jockey in the country, for
example, Chester Barnes, a trainer’s assistant, replied that: ‘He doesn’t drink and he’s
very dedicated’, the order of that explanation being significant.
5 This is an extract from the only lad’s autobiography of which I am aware. When I
asked other lads to read it and to let me know what they thought of it they all felt that it
gave an unrealistically rosy image of their life. Gallier’s affection for horses overrides
all her complaints, and the book is really a comical tribute to Newmarket. The last line
‘However indignantly they deny the presence of such an unmanly emotion in their
steely breasts, the truth must be that stable lads do it for love’ (Gallier 1988: 176) was
met with utter derision by one lad. ‘Bollocks!’ he sneered.
6 At one race meeting a fellow lad had started drinking before his race and carried on
drinking when he should have stopped. He ran around the stables, chasing girls and
shouting ‘Come here you Beauty!!’ like an extra from a Benny Hill Holiday Special.
When it was time for his race someone got his horse ready and handed it to him, but he
was utterly incapable of leading it around the paddock and kept falling over into the
flowerbeds. His trainer was livid, and his box driver left him at Brighton racecourse.
I never did find out how he made it back to Newmarket. In our yard, we still shout
‘You Beauty!!’ at each other in memory of this performance.
7 There is an extreme shortage of labour in Newmarket and the job market is highly
flexible. Lads can, and do, walk in and out of jobs. Most lads are still extremely badly
One of the lads 123
paid, with the worst off taking home pay packets of £140 per week. The better yards
enjoy extra income from betting and their share of prize money, the worst yards make
do as best they can.
8 The ratio of male to female lads between 1991 and 1995 ranged from 1712:1395 to
1473:1202 (Racing Industry Statistical Bureau Statistics 1996: 210).
9 This ambition survived two deaths on the gallops in the time that I rode, and only
faded slightly as my return to ordinary life approached. I began to be more careful on
the grounds that it would be ‘typical’ to hurt myself just when I had almost ‘got away
with it’. Being ‘more careful’ spells disaster in a regime in which confidence, and the
communication of that confidence to the horse, is paramount. My belief in a spiteful
fate, and in luck perceived as a limited good (which must not be ‘pushed’) was a
reflection of my total immersion in the social logic of racing. My loss of confidence
arose from the awareness that I would soon remove myself from this context, thus
acknowledging the existence of an alternative.
10 Some horses are easier rides than others. In general, even where a horse has a
particular bad habit, such as pulling, it is better to ride such a known quantity than a
horse who is unpredictable. Perhaps the most dreaded bad habit is whipping round.
Yearlings in particular, who are narrow and difficult to grip on to, can deposit riders
with great ease. They spot something potentially dangerous in the middle distance
(often imagined) and start suddenly, before whipping around and dropping their
heads at the same time. Racehorses are extremely agile. They can jump vertically
upwards, and land facing in the opposite direction. They can rear and buck standing
still and on the move. Some continue these tricks whilst galloping. They may fly
leap – jump into the air with their front legs before following up with a terrific buck
behind, swerve from side to side (called ‘plunging’), or simply run, out of control
and with their heads in the air, in the wrong direction.
11 Riding racehorses is really a confidence trick. The most effective way of doing it is
to convince the horse that you are totally uninterested in any prank it might care to
pull because you are invincible, and it will either gain confidence if it is nervous, or
give up trying to terrify you if it is mean.
8 Doing it for Daddy
Introduction
In this chapter I shall concentrate upon the relationship between racehorses and
humans that obtains in contemporary Newmarket. This relationship takes the
form of an intersubjectivity whereby gains or losses in status of the racehorse
accrue to those with whom it is associated. This relationship is relevant to all
aspects of racing, as it facilitates the cross-over of ideas of pedigree from horses
to humans. Although I shall draw specifically upon fieldwork conducted on a
stud during the spring of 1997, the analysis in this chapter is informed by all of
my fieldwork.1 The first section describes the personalisation of racehorses as
it occurs on the thoroughbred stud. In this environment, racehorses are granted
traits more commonly attributed to humans. This personalisation is significant
because it is carried over into their relationships with humans, such that the
discourse of personalities in Newmarket includes both humans and animals.
Contextualising this chapter is Clutton-Brock’s contention that: ‘a domestic
animal is a cultural artefact of human society’ (1994: 28), and its enquiry is
centred around asking what the racehorse reveals about the human society by
which it is defined. Lévi-Strauss separated racehorses from human society,
saying that they:
do not form part of human society either as subjects or objects . . . they are products of
human industry and they are born and live as isolated individuals juxtaposed in stud farms
devised for their own sake . . . They constitute the desocialised condition of existence of
a private society. (1966: 122)
In fact, my fieldwork suggested that racehorses are both subjects and objects in
particular contexts, they are not solely the product of human industry, though
the breeding industry might like to imagine this to be the case, and they are
certainly not entirely de-socialised. In the context of the stud, for example, the
horses are ‘family’, and managing their interaction is about managing the quirks
of family members who can be both loyal and recalcitrant.
Lévi-Strauss argued that racehorse names were a reflection of their anti-social
status, whilst this chapter will suggest that the naming of racehorses reflects
their dual status as subjects and objects to different configurations within their
124
Doing it for Daddy 125
Human–animal relations
Without wishing to sound sexist, the only point I would like to add to the debate
concerns gender. Colts tend to be bigger and stronger than fillies and even with
a 5lb allowance, Cape Verdi might not appreciate being on the receiving end
of the competitive aggression of a big field of colts. Perhaps she has the speed
and temperament to rise above it and win. Perhaps not – and she might suffer
badly from the experience.
(Kennedy 1998: 8)
This letter from the Racing Post epitomises the tendency to apply human cat-
egories, properties and emotions to horses. It refers to the decision made by
Sheikh Mohammed to run the filly, Cape Verdi, in the Derby, a race usually
contested by colts, the Oaks being the equivalent Blue Ribbon event for fillies.
The final foreboding sentence of the letter prompts the reader to imagine just
what fate might befall Cape Verdi at the hands of the colts. The writer explicitly
blurs the distinction between humans and horses in saying that he does not
wish to sound ‘sexist’, which does not make sense unless one imagines that it
is possible to talk about gender issues in relation to horses, expressing opinions
which may in turn be construed as ‘sexist’ rather than merely ‘about horses’.
The letter illustrates that in attributing human properties to horses we reveal
our perceptions of the nature of those properties and, by implication, of what it
means to be human.
Horses acquire human traits, and in the same moment humans are discussed
in terms of properties and ideas of relatedness that are only fully worked out
amongst privileged animal species, for example:
Fergal Lynch, the nineteen-year-old apprentice from Londonderry. . . has all the right
credentials to, as they say, ‘make it’. A member of a keen racing family, his two brothers
race-rode and one of them, Cathal, now has a growing string under his care in Atlantic
City. (‘Audax’ 1996: 31)
My father was a trainer, and his father before him. My grandfather was a real stayer,
a real dour man, all heart and enough about him to bring up a family. My dad was a
different sort of brave, but he still had it in him, and so have I. I can spot a good horse a
mile off and you won’t beat me in a close finish. (Trainer)
The relationship that obtains between humans and horses in Newmarket de-
termines that those properties admired in well-bred humans are attributed to
well-bred horses and vice versa.
Horses constitute a ‘privileged species’ (Thomas 1983: 100) in the English
imagination, and have most commonly been associated with nobility, disdain
Doing it for Daddy 127
for authority, loyalty and freedom.3 The physical treatment of horses has not
always reflected this privileged status, and Thomas tells us that neglect and
cruelty were still rife in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries:
One morning in 1581 Sir Thomas Wroth counted 2,100 horses travelling between
Shoreditch and Enfield; but another observer added that within the next seven years
2,000 of them would be dead in some ditch through overwork. (1983: 101)
Attitudes appear to have changed during the eighteenth century, when Thomas
notes the
increased sensitivity of eighteenth century passers-by to the cruel treatment of horses in
the street or the mounting volume of protest against the traditional practices of docking
the animal’s tail or cropping its ears or tying up its head to make it look more imposing.
(1983: 190)
The intellectual conditions which resulted in the formation of, for example, the
Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals in 1824, are thought by
Thomas to have resulted primarily from increased industrialisation and the con-
sequent separation of animals from the means of production. I would suggest,
however, that the continual murmur of disapproval prompted by the mistreat-
ment of horses arose from their permanently ambiguous relation to production.
Horses were undoubtedly beasts of burden of critical importance; however, they
have also always been creatures capable of offering opportunities for excite-
ment which are essentially lacking in, say, a cow. The horse offers a means of
travelling through space at speeds only approached by the car, and the associa-
tion with freedom exploited by car advertisers applies equally well to the horse,
an idea shared by numerous horse cultures, including, for example, the Rom
studied by Stewart in Hungary:
As Zeleno put it to me: ‘You can’t ride cows. Horses go like this (and he made a graceful
gesture with his hand); they make one’s good mood (voja); they know how to move.
You can’t bridle up a cow. Nor can you sing about cows. It’s only in Hungarian songs
that you find them singing about cows!’ (1997: 143)4
The total apprehension of men and animals as sentient beings, in which identification
consists, both governs and precedes the consciousness of oppositions between, firstly,
logical properties conceived as integral parts of the human field, and then, within the
field itself, between ‘human’ and ‘non-human’. (1966: 101–2)
Tambiah urges that when considering the attitudes a society exhibits towards
animals, it is imperative to ask ‘why the animals chosen are so appropriate in that
context to objectify human sentiments and ideas’ (1969: 457). The homology
between animal categories and social organisation identified by Lévi-Strauss
(1966), Leach (1972) and Douglas (1957) suggests that those animals that
occupy the interstices of these systems are those which are ‘good to think’
Doing it for Daddy 129
(Lévi-Strauss 1963: 89). Leach identifies the horse as just such a ‘marginal
case’, identifying the English taboo on eating horse-meat as reflecting the
horse’s status as ‘sacred and supernatural creatures surrounded by feelings
that are ambiguously those of awe and horror’ (1972: 32). This interpreta-
tion neglects both vertical and synchronic considerations. The horse possesses
an aristocratic history, which unfolds symbiotically with its class association.
In Newmarket, where ‘everything is horse’, the role of the racehorse in both
idealising and envisaging alternatives to the pertaining social logic of racing
society is predictably central, its class associations intact, as might have been
anticipated from Löfgren’s insistence that:
‘thinking with animals’ in the cultural complexities of Western societies needs to be
related to the historical processes of class formation and conflict, cultural hegemony and
resistance, as well as to discussions of the material experiences behind the production,
reproduction, and change of such cognitive systems over time. (1985: 213)
Studwork
I spent the spring of 1997 working as a stud hand in a village outside Newmarket.
The rhythms of this village are entirely dictated by the stud work in which a
large number of the residents are involved, and many of the houses are tied to
particular studs. Traffic is mainly horseboxes or bicycles, and a visit to the shop
at lunchtime means joining a steady stream of booted and anoraked stud hands
buying papers and cheese rolls.
Working on a stud has in itself been described to me as contributing to the
maintenance of the ‘great family’, that is the breed of the English racehorse. It
soon became clear that, as in every family, some of the mares on the stud were
loved elderly aunts whilst others were black sheep. The function of mares on
the stud is solely that of reproduction. They are no longer ridden and once ‘let
down’ from peak fitness after their racing careers, their bodies change from that
of the sleek racehorse to the swinging bellied mare.
A day on the stud began at 7:30, when all the five outdoor staff met in the top
yard. Idle chat on the way to the ‘foaling yard’ generally included a discussion
of what I had eaten for supper the previous evening, since my vegetarian diet
was a constant source of fascination. The morning rounds began in the foaling
yard with the ‘heavies’ – the name given to the mares who were about to foal.
130 The Sport of Kings
We looked at their ‘bag’ to see whether they had begun to ‘wax’ on their teats,
which would suggest that foaling was imminent. Mares very rarely foal during
the day and we would invariably put all these mares out into their paddock for
the day.
After we had put the ‘heavies’ in their paddock, we all squeezed into a tiny
van with a variety of dogs and drove the short distance down to the main yard.
John the stud hand fetched the ‘teaser’ from his box. If I once knew the ‘teaser’s’
name, it must have been mentioned so rarely that I have now forgotten it. My
sympathy for the ‘teaser’ lasted until he bit my elbow whereupon he became as
invisible to me as he was to the rest of the staff. He was as much a machine as
I have known a horse to become, and was treated no differently to a lawnmower,
the other piece of equipment with which I became most familiar during this
time.
I was corrected for referring to the ‘teaser’ as a stallion. Although he is
‘entire’, he was not referred to as a stallion as he does not ‘cover’ mares on
a regular basis, or rather covering is not his primary function. His primary
function is to establish whether the mares are ‘in season’, i.e. whether they are
receptive to mating, which indicates that they are ready to be sent away to be
covered. The teaser was put in a box with a ‘trying board’ between him and
the mare who was led into the next box. The mares were fetched individually,
and the stud manager, Hugh, and stud groom, Brian, watched their reaction as
stud hands Rachel, Norman and myself led them through. The mares kicked the
boards if they were either not in season or in foal. If they were in season their
reaction would vary from merely tolerating the ‘teaser’ to throwing themselves
against the board, squatting and peeing and ‘winking’ at him with their vagina.
Most of the reactions required some interpretation by Brian and Hugh, who
were familiar with the mares and with the signs they showed at particular times
of their cycle. Mares who misbehaved at the board were firmly reprimanded
with a tug on their rope, or on the bit of a Chifney, a handling bit that gives
more control to the handler.
Once the mares had been ‘teased’ the horses in the main yard were put
out into their paddocks. When leading a mare and foal the foal is held on the
right and must be pushed through doorways and gates in front of the mare so
that she does not trample it. Foals are held with two fingers under their chin
on the headcollars (‘hats’) that they have worn since their first or second day.
Because foals are unpredictable and strong it is advisable to have a person
walking behind pushing the foal along in case it chooses to ‘go into reverse’.
Norman and Rachel generally teamed up in this way, whilst I helped and was
helped by everyone. When Norman followed Rachel with a foal John and Brian
wondered aloud whether he was following the foal or Rachel. Brian handled
the foals gently, but firmly, he spoke to them all the time, and laughed at them
when they were naughty. Norman was more forceful, and sometimes shouted
Doing it for Daddy 131
at them or disciplined them. Brian’s explanation for this was that Norman had
‘lost his bottle’.
All of the staff used terms such as ‘Mummy’ when returning a foal to a mare,
and Brian called all of the foals ‘Foaly’ or by their nicknames. Nicknames
were applied to most of the horses, and were mainly a reference to their real
name in the case of mares, for foals a reference to their sire (e.g. ‘Little Lion’
by Lion Cavern, or ‘Barry’ by Barathea), or a reference to their personality
or appearance (e.g. ‘Kipper’, who was smelly, or ‘Chopper’ who always tried
to bite, or ‘Donkey’ who looked like a donkey when he was a foal). In other
words, the individuality of the horses was highlighted through their nickname,
and considerable time was spent discussing the right choice of name according
to the ‘personality’ of each horse.
Once the main yard had been put out we took the van to the lower yearling
yards to put out the colts and fillies, in what was the most terrifying part of the
day. The only predictable yearling behaviour was that they were all ‘gobby’,
that is they continually tried to bite your arms, legs and face. Otherwise they
were totally unpredictable and incredibly strong. We would leave the stables
in co-ordinated waves, because if a yearling felt that it was being left behind it
would pull away to give chase to its companions. Sometimes they would just
‘have their backs up’, particularly when it was windy which I really dreaded.
Once we got inside the field we all turned and faced the yearling with our backs
against the hedge for protection, and the person who had shut the gate behind
us shouted ‘Okay!’ We would let go at the same time, in the hope that none
of us would be trampled or dragged off. The yearlings who came into the field
first would often get impatient whilst waiting and rear up on their back legs
over our heads, trying to get their leg over the line to get away. Brian laughed,
Norman shouted and yanked on the line and I put my hands over my head and
let go, although the knowledge that these animals were to be sold for hundreds
of thousands of pounds in six months’ time gave me an exceptionally strong
grip at times.
Once the yearlings had been turned out I breathed a sigh of relief and we
returned to the main yard where Hugh and Brian discussed any arrangements
for mares to go away for ‘servicing’ during the day or for mares or mares and
foals arriving to board. Brian and I then went up to the foaling yard whilst John
went down to the yearling yard, Rachel and Norman remained in the main yard.
Brian and I mucked out the boxes every other day and ‘picked up’ the droppings
on the intervening days. Finally, we swept the yard and put their feed in their
mangers. Brian was convinced that the horses should be treated ‘as you would
like to be treated yourself’ and in his opinion if I wouldn’t eat or drink from
a trough myself then it needed cleaning. When the boxes were ready we shut
top and bottom doors. At 10 a.m. we had ‘breakfast’. Everyone else went to
their respective houses whilst I sat in the ‘rest room’, to read back copies of
132 The Sport of Kings
sales catalogues, which documented the sales of the yearlings born on the stud
in previous years.
From 10:30 until 12:45 I helped in the main yard and, if there was time, began
mowing, strimming or sweeping. The main yard contained thirty boxes, all of
which were mucked out and ‘set’ i.e. refilled with straw. I usually got the job of
cleaning mangers and water drinkers, whilst Norman and Rachel mucked out
onto the muck trailer and Tony followed, ‘setting fair’, that is, laying a bed of
straw. I was also allowed to sweep the road and to rake the grass in the main yard
to remove stray pieces of straw by hand. The stud is rigorously maintained. All
of the lawns have their own particular pattern of straight lines and geometrical
shapes mown into them, and straw is not allowed to build up or fly about around
the buildings or on the grass. An obsession with orderliness, attention to detail
and precision informed almost all of the activities of the stud hands. I would
suggest that this obsession arises from the same impulse which motivates the
mapping and manipulation of thoroughbred pedigrees, the impulse to control
the environment, and to predict the outcome of ‘natural’ processes such as
reproduction. The stud farm is an environment in which nature is defined by
‘nature-like’ features such as lawns and flowerbeds, which caricature rather
than reproduce any notion of nature as independent of human control. In this
environment, horses live inside, grass is grown in straight lines and the muck
associated with horses is hidden.
Lunch was taken at 12:45 until 2:00, during which everyone again disap-
peared into their own houses. After lunch there was occasionally a mare to take
to be covered, but otherwise the afternoon was spent mowing, strimming or
sweeping in order to maintain the immaculate state of the stud grounds. I be-
came well known for my ability to mow in a straight line which was ill-advised,
since there was a never ending supply of grass. John and Tony both helped
me with my mowing, giving me tips regarding overlap and the importance of
frequent emptying of the clippings trap. Tony also made me promise not to put
my hand in the mower to unblock it, but rather always to use a stick. Norman
saw me using a stick and said that I was being silly, and to demonstrate stuck his
hand inside the mower and said ‘See, it won’t hurt you.’ I thought that I might
die of boredom. Norman and Tony’s strong opinions about matters such as
lawnmowers got them through the day.
back to me. She seemed alert and excited. We climbed back into the lorry, came
home, and I led her out of the lorry to her paddock. As I walked across the yard,
she coughed, and a jet of fluid came flying out of her vagina into the path of
Hugh who had been following us. He shouted at the mare, ‘Keep your legs shut
you stupid bitch, that cost seven and a half grand!’
On another trip I told the box driver that the stallion had been very quiet and
he laughed and said that anyone would be on ‘four jumps a day’. The implica-
tion was that the stallion in question had low fertility and was having ‘empty’
mares returned to him to be re-covered. Low fertility in stallions is dreaded
by their managers, but particularly by the ‘stallion men’ who are the grooms
who have sole charge of a stallion. Their very nomenclature suggests the
fusing of human and animal, such that a stallion man conjures up images of
a centaur, rather than a small grumpy man in a brown coat. These men wear
long coats with their stallion’s name on their back. They are often the only
person who has any contact with that stallion, and develop strong bonds with
their charges. These men are the most extreme example of the individuality and
personalisation of horses in Newmarket since they come to be identified with,
or even to personify, their horse.
Heated discussions of fertility rates in the pub are an integral part of the
season, and criticism of a stallion in front of his man may lead to the exchange
of blows, as one man said to me: ‘You can criticise my wife, but leave the horse
out of it.’ Implicit in the criticism of the horse is criticism of ‘his’ man, thus
casting aspersions on the horse’s sexual prowess also brands his man impotent.
In a society in which potency is supremely valued by men, a lack of virility is
amongst the worst insults available. The stallion may also provide a substitute
for the man’s virility, where this is lacking. The stallion man who encourages
his charge during coverings with cries of ‘Do it for Daddy!’ is perhaps the most
respected stallion man in Newmarket, his outburst is explained on the grounds
that, ‘Well, of course, Bob has no kids of his own.’ Identification with their
stallions is competitive amongst these men, whose pastimes include measuring
their horse’s testicles, symbol of potency, in order to brag about their size in the
pub. Basking in the glory of the stallion, the apex of the thoroughbred pedigree,
these men become ‘studs’ by association.
After mowing patterns for most of the afternoon, preparations would begin
for the vet’s afternoon visit. The teasing box housed a set of horse stocks,
which held mares still during their internal examination. I generally got the job
of holding the tail out of the way. On my first day the vet ‘stitched’ two mares
whilst I held the tail. Mares who have had several foals tend to have a dropped
uterus that can suck in air and cause infection. In order to stop air getting in the
vet injects a local anaesthetic, makes a slit either side of the vagina and stitches
it together. This was a test for me, and made me cringe. Norman laughed at
my expression and said that he hoped I liked my steak rare. As in the training
Doing it for Daddy 135
yard, I was continually teased in this way, being the lowest of the low on the
stud, but also occasionally indulged and protected as when Norman shared his
home-made pea wine with me as we scrubbed water troughs in the rain.
The vet used ultrasound in order to detect pregnancies and on my last day at
the stud he found a set of twins, and used the head of the scanner to burst one of
the fertilised eggs, explaining that twins would usually be aborted rather than
going full term. I teased the vet about his choice, and suggested that he might
have just popped a champion. He failed to find much humour in this thought,
and creased his brow in annoyance. He explained that he had chosen the most
‘symmetrical, well shaped, healthy looking egg’, thus guaranteeing that he had
left the ‘fittest’ to survive. I quickly smothered my laughter with a cough when
I realised that he was being entirely serious.
Where a mare is slow to cycle, she is given hormones in order to bring
her into season, whilst infections which may prevent fertilisation are flushed
out with saline drenches. The vet thought that under ‘natural’ conditions the
thoroughbred would be an alternate year breeder, and told me that the selective
breeding programme based upon the desire for speed had resulted in a variety of
genital deformities, and weaknesses in foals. The vet came every day and saw
between three and ten mares. The work was routine, except for a case of joint ill
and an x-ray of a yearling’s leg, during which he was doped. Once the vet had
finished we brought in the rest of the mares and foals. The day finished at 4:30,
when I would exercise polo ponies in return for the privilege of having spent
another day sweeping, mowing and holding tails. The rest of the staff refused to
have anything to do with the ponies and laughed at me for my involvement with
the ‘second class citizens’ (their expression). Polo ponies are a ‘type’ rather
than a breed, and are granted no respect at all by the racing community.
horses on the stud. The use of categories usually restricted to humans, such
as ‘maiden’, ‘mummy’, ‘baby’, ‘hat’, etc., reflects the propensity of those who
work on studs to imagine their lives through horses and horses’ lives through
their own. One episode at the stud exemplified this propensity.
During my stay at the stud a foal was rejected by her dam, and so became
an ‘orphan’. Hugh had hired two ‘foster mares’, and had had no success with
either of them. The trade in foster mares can be grim. At best, a thoroughbred
mare who has lost her own foal can be given an orphan. However, supply rarely
meets demand, and a number of ponies may find themselves shunted around
the country to perform the function of wet nurse to thoroughbred foals. We
had one of these ponies on the stud, and people perpetually referred to her as
‘him’. When I asked about this Brian responded that he referred to ‘it’ as ‘he’ or
‘it’ because it lacked any maternal instincts and added in an incredulous tone:
‘It tried to kill the foal!’ The pony was of an entirely different physical type to
the rest of the mares, being a heavy carthorse sort, which may have contributed
to her nebulous status.
Whilst this mare was treated as of indeterminate gender, the spontaneous
adoption of the foal by another mare enabled her to achieve ‘superfemininity’.
This mare had her own foal, and was stabled in the box next to the orphan and
we noticed that she called to her when she was taken out to be fed, and when
she returned. We gingerly introduced the three and the mare accepted the foal,
ostensibly treating her in the same way as she treated her own foal. The three
were an object of amusement for the stud, and were collectively referred to
as ‘the odd couple’. The foal was called ‘Herbetina’, a feminised version of
Herbert, an affectionate term for naughty foals who had redeeming features.
Everyone was very fond of the mare, she was regarded as a model mare, because
her maternal instincts were strong and indiscriminate. The foal was liked as it
was cheeky enough to drink from her, as well as being fed by us.
The stud is the locus of the physical reproduction of horses who have places
in pedigrees known to the bloodstock industry. Activities on the stud thus reflect
the ideas of procreation and gender built into the pedigree method of relating
racehorses. On the stud, horses are also personalised and individualised, granted
human traits and drawn into relationships which operate according to the tem-
plate of human interactions, thus encouraging metonymic thinking in which
horses can be made to ‘stand for’ humans and vice versa.
Conclusion
This chapter concentrated upon those contexts in which horses are personalised
or individualised in seemingly human terms. I shall now introduce a context
in which the power of the analogy between human and horse depends on a
separation of the two such that the English thoroughbred racehorse is cast as
Doing it for Daddy 137
‘man’s noblest creation’. The sameness of humans and horses asserted by many
of their day-to-day interactions in Newmarket is complemented by a hierarchical
relationship between them in which man is the god-like master of all he surveys.
In this role, breeders of thoroughbred racehorses have appropriated the power
of ‘God’ or ‘Nature’ and selectively bred to their own design. Racehorses in
this context are the objects of their all-powerful human creators. Where the
protracted genealogy of ‘man’ has been lost, the thoroughbred’s is intact, its
aristocratic properties recorded and thus maintained, perhaps even concentrated
as suggested by Beer:
blood succession becomes a means of stemming the tide of time – replication is em-
phasised and change is accommodated – the dead king is replaced by a live king whose
blood succession ensures that no radical alteration has taken place. Each produces ‘after
his kind’. In kingship the aspect of restoration is intensified, and succession becomes
not a means of change but a way of standing still. (1983: 32)
notes
1 The relationship between lads and their horses is also relevant. In particular, distinc-
tions between colts and fillies are maintained by male lads and explained by human
analogy. Some lads encourage colts to ‘act like men’, by treating them roughly and
encouraging aggressive behaviour. I was told off for petting a colt because it would
‘make him soft’. Fillies, on the other hand, should be ‘gentled’ because they respond
better to a soft word, ‘just like you Gorgeous!’ I haven’t ever seen a female lad
‘toughening up’ a colt; however, their explanations of coltish behaviour are similarly
anthropomorphic, ‘Typical bloke!’ Some trainers and owners also profess to the kind
of relationship with their horses that I am trying to evoke, and spend hours describing
their personalities in minute detail. Sheikh Mohammed, for example, after losing his
champion horse Dubai Millennium to grass sickness in 2001, told the BBC that it was
like ‘Losing a member of the family’.
2 One punter friend described the difference between his perception of horses and my
own as follows, ‘You see a soft nose and a friend to be taken care of. I see a handicap
mark and a pedigree.’ Punters often objectify horses. However, certain horses like
Desert Orchid and Red Rum become ‘personalities’ in the betting shop as well as in
their own yards.
3 Since its domestication in the Ukraine 9000 years ago, the horse has fulfilled many
roles, but it began its association with man as a tool of war, belonging first to the
Hittites, the Mitanni, the Kassites and the Aryans. As Budiansky states, ‘It was as a
terrifying and unprecedented weapon of war . . . that the horse made its entrance at the
gates of the civilised world’ (1997: 63). Furthermore, ‘The connection of horses to
wealth and aristocracy is as ancient as the connection of horses to warfare’ (1997: 71).
Chariot horses were a huge expense for the elite warrior class who kept them, and
so Budiansky argues that, ‘The unavoidable expense of horses made them something
only the richest members of society could afford; given the nearly universal belief
that wealth equalled nobility, and given what Piggott calls, the “ever latent anthropo-
morphism of antiquity”, the association with nobility made the horse itself a Noble
Animal’ (1997: 73).
4 In his epic, Role of the Horse in Man’s Culture, Harold Barclay permits himself a
single generalisation drawn from his assembled data, ‘People who have employed the
horse have invariably held it in high regard, primarily because out of the relationship
between man and horse has come an admiration by men of certain qualities of the
horse, and what may be termed a “centaur effect”. That is, the control of the horse,
particularly in riding, enhances the feeling of power, freedom, and mobility. There is
Doing it for Daddy 139
the exhilaration derived from working with and from being part of a powerful, supple
living force. Thus the horse is recognised as a very unique kind of animal deserving
of special treatment and concern’ (1980: xi).
5 The one exception to this rule is that of the ‘vehicle’, the name given to a horse that
is the eighth cross from a non-thoroughbred. A thoroughbred crossed with a vehicle
will qualify as a thoroughbred, despite the fact that the vehicle may not. I could only
find one example of such a stallion, called Clantime, who was a popular sprinter in the
1980s and died in 1997. Obviously there is little incentive to cross your thoroughbred
mare with a non-thoroughbred stallion and the produce would generally mark the
end of a family line as stallion managers do not like their charges to cover non-
thoroughbreds (considered a drop in class!). In volume 43 of the GSB two mares
are shown as vehicles with only seven proven crosses, one has the eight consecutive
crosses necessary for promotion to ‘thoroughbred’ (out of thirty thousand mares).
9 Blood will tell
Introduction
At the beginning of the last century the genealogical method was thought to
be a neutral tool of exposition, enabling the mapping of kinship data from
‘primitive’ societies by anthropologists. As Rivers wrote in 1910, ‘The ge-
nealogical method makes it possible to investigate abstract problems on a purely
concrete basis’ (1968: 107). The idea that the methodological tools imported
by the anthropologist might influence the image of ‘primitive’ society thereby
produced was yet to be formulated, and there is a sense in which constructing
genealogies remains legitimate anthropological business.
However, some anthropologists have come to realise that the genealogical
method contains specifically English cultural resources that make its relation-
ship to the ‘raw’ data it purports to represent anything but unproblematic. Teach-
ing this method to Portuguese students, for example, led Bouquet to conclude
that, ‘pedigree thinking was so important to English middle-class intellectu-
als that it was absorbed in the processes of making knowledge about other
peoples’ (1993: 219). Bouquet has uncovered the ‘pedigree thinking’ behind
the genealogical method, using the Tales of Beatrix Potter as an example of a
cultural product that was contemporary with Rivers’ work, and showing that
the two contained the same ideological resources. Bouquet believes that the
connotations of English animal breeding and pedigree were assimilated by the
genealogical method and that, ‘These connotations include the control of pro-
creation through keeping written records that enable the careful channelling of
“blood” as a key to nobility’ (1993: 189).
Racing society in Newmarket provides a contemporary example of this his-
torical phenomenon, and shows how ideas of relatedness look when they are
based upon ‘pedigree thinking’. The relevant ideas are most fully worked out in
theories of thoroughbred breeding, and in the literary forms these practices give
rise to. In this chapter I shall describe the standard thoroughbred pedigree as it
appears in British sales catalogues. Implicit notions of procreation, heredity and
gender, all of which betray a particular conception of ‘nature’ and its relation
to humanity, will be exposed.
140
Blood will tell 141
The thoroughbred racehorse has proved a particularly rich resource for mod-
elling the preoccupations of the societies to which it has been significant; as
Russell notes, ‘The parallels between on the one hand, the human obsession
with title, hereditary position and social caste, and, on the other, animal pedi-
grees, are too obvious to need emphasis’ (1986: 19). The tendency to project
traits valued by human society onto the horse can even be detected in contempo-
rary anthropology. Atwood Lawrence emphasises the ‘sensitivity’ of the horse,
and its capacity for ‘fine tuned communication’ (1985: 197), in what can be
seen as a response to the conventional distinction between animals and humans
based upon the possession of language. The reaction is a tacit acceptance of this
animal–human distinction because it seeks to establish a factor that unites both
sides, rather than identifying its cultural and historical specificity and thereby
diffusing its claims. Like eighteenth-century horse owners and modern thor-
oughbred breeders, Atwood Lawrence is indulging in thinking made possible
by the freedom of the horse from the roles which curtail the ability of other
animals to stand for humans.
Racehorses are not agricultural workers, servants or food sources, and are
thus a striking example of Appadurai’s ‘luxury goods’, constituting ‘incarnated
signs’, the function of which is entirely political (1986: 38). The motivation to
control their husbandry was ideological rather than practical, and as Ritvo has
argued, ‘Discourse about animals in eighteenth and nineteenth century England
also expressed many human concerns linked only tenuously to the natural world’
(1987: 3). The same might be said of contemporary Newmarket.1
1991: 19). Towers does not seem to have had any explicit intention to pre-
serve a ‘pure’ breed, and the word ‘thoroughbred’ did not appear in the original
Stud Book.
Racehorse pedigrees recorded before the Stud Book reflected a different
idea of heredity from that which was to dominate once the thoroughbred had
become a distinct breed, with sufficient pools of stallions and mares to enable
the breed to be closed to outside ‘blood’. In the sixteenth century, racehorses
were failed hunters. By the mid-eighteenth century the thoroughbred dominated
the racecourse, as it does today. During this time, racing had changed funda-
mentally, from races of up to eight miles contested by mature horses carrying
up to twelve stone, to the sprinting style of young horses at light weights with
which we are now familiar. Breeding practices had also changed, from a belief
that the best racehorses were cross breeds of Oriental stallions with native mares
to the closed breed of the modern English thoroughbred.
Prior to the eighteenth century it was believed that the qualities of Oriental
stallions were environmentally determined, such that absence from their coun-
try of origin would lead to their diminution. Furthermore, their ability to pass
on these qualities was believed to be limited to a single generation. Thus selec-
tively bred specialist racehorses were originally cross breeds, whose ‘pedigrees’
recorded only their type, to ensure that they were crossed appropriately. When
the importation of stallions became prohibitively expensive in the seventeenth
century, a group of breeders attempted to preserve the pure-bred Oriental type
for themselves, and in doing so established the thoroughbred (Russell 1986: 99).
Selection was not on the basis of racing ability, and the Oriental type was un-
suited by the endurance races of the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries.
The thoroughbred’s dominance depended upon a change in the style of racing
which was to occur during the eighteenth century.
By recording thoroughbred pedigrees, breeders had created a new form of
wealth; as Ritvo states, ‘these catalogues concretised a rather abstract compo-
nent of the value of the animals listed within them’ (1995: 421), the ability of
some horses to reproduce their most valued traits in their offspring. Pedigrees
thus became a means by which value was elicited from animals by their hu-
man keepers. There is some evidence that the apparently revolutionary ideas of
Robert Bakewell, the most important of the eighteenth-century British stock-
breeders and agricultural improvers, were influenced by developments within
thoroughbred breeding (Ritvo 1995, Russell 1986). Bakewell transferred the
idea that the most important qualities of an animal were hereditary from prestige
animals such as racehorses and greyhounds to farm animals, and in doing so cre-
ated such thoroughbred analogues as the Dishley sheep. Racehorses, however,
with their noble associations and exhilarating potential for sport and mobility,
remain the pedigreed animal par excellence.
Blood will tell 143
Nature vs nurture
The racehorse’s ability is mediated by the trainer with whom it is placed. The
status of the trainer thus reflects the extent to which environment and training
regime are thought to influence ability. I found that in Newmarket, the con-
sensus was that a trainer cannot instil talent in a horse, but he may inhibit its
expression. The horse possesses a finite amount of talent, the trainer can only
aid or hinder the extent to which the horse fulfils this potential. Even the most
brilliant trainer is not seen as creating talent, rather he may be paid the ultimate
accolade: ‘He hasn’t fucked up too many’, an opinion this bloodstock analyst
echoes:
Trainers and jockeys cannot ‘teach’ a thoroughbred to have guts, perseverance or the
will to win. All they can do is strive to bring out the best competitive qualities inherited
by an animal from its parents by using their professional skill on the training track,
in scientific nutrition and use of modern veterinary knowledge and in general stable
routine. (du Bourg 1980: 200)
anticipated from her pedigree’ (1996: 27). Despite this, Willett goes on to sug-
gest that the colt may well stay a mile on the basis that his great grand dam,
great grand sire, and great great grand dam were ‘stayers’ (horses more suited
to racing over longer distances).
Pedigree is further protected by the absence of a single measure of perform-
ance thus making racehorses’ abilities a matter of opinion. The ‘racecourse test’
creates potential for disagreements between experts that is (at least) twofold.
They may disagree about the ability of the horse in question, or they may
disagree about any one of its ancestors. The most common factors brought in
to discussions of the relative merits of racehorses are: interrupted preparation
for a race, poor opposition, jockey or trainer error, race conditions (weather,
going, interference), injury and bad luck. Thus, for example, poor opposition
may lead to a horse being overrated or injury may prevent a horse from fulfilling
his or her potential. So the quality of a racehorse’s pedigree may be disputed
on the grounds that its own or its ancestors’ abilities were misrepresented.
As a result, where a horse’s pedigree does not coincide with its racecourse
performance any number of mitigating factors can be invoked to explain this
mismatch.2
Where experts really struggle to explain the presence of a sprinter in a family
of stayers, for example, the individual is cast as ‘the exception that proves the
rule’. ‘Individuals’ such as ‘Soba’, the incredibly fast filly who came from an
undistinguished family and bred undistinguished offspring, was described as a
‘freak’ by my informants. My argument is, then, that pedigree as an explanation
of ability is actually an explanatory mechanism, applied retrospectively and to
subjective assessments of such nebulous qualities as ‘class’, ‘heart’ and ‘guts’.
[These works] had a profound effect upon the consciousness of the upper classes, and if
the influence of the Crown is not immediately discernible, it surely is no coincidence that
three of the four earliest authors on horsemanship emerged out of the circle of gentlemen
pensioners. (1988: 43)
{
{
{ {
{
{
{
Extract from catalogue entry for Lot 185, 1997 Houghton Sales.
Reproduced by permission of Tattersalls Ltd.
Foals may also be, for example, ‘Three-parts brothers in blood’, as Molesnes
and the bay colt below.
146 The Sport of Kings
{
{
{ {
{
{
{
Extract from catalogue entry for Lot 136, 1997 Houghton Sales.
Reproduced by permission of Tattersalls Ltd.
Many other calculations can be made according to which all sorts of fractional
relationships in blood can be claimed. The limit to these tends to be in the
third generation, after which the catalogue records such innocuous claims as
‘bred on similar lines to . . . ’, in order to claim a famous relative. The sub-
stance of heredity can thus be separated from the individuals who serve as its
vehicles.
Breeders have also begun to engage with ideas of heredity based explic-
itly upon genetic endowment. Many of the early twentieth-century breeding
manuals appear to suggest that the role of the breeder is to breed selectively
until a ‘fast’ gene is isolated and made homozygous to the English thorough-
bred. Whilst I was in Newmarket, for example, the work of the Professor of
Equine Reproduction at Cambridge was the subject of a great deal of discussion.
I was continually told that he had identified the ‘speed’ gene, which facilitated
a more efficient breakdown of lactic acid in the muscles of the racehorse.
Ideas of genetic inheritance in racehorses in contemporary Newmarket de-
pend upon the notion of preformation, which maintains that genes are insulated
from environmental influences. They also reflect the influence of the one-gene–
one-trait model of Mendelian genetics rediscovered at the beginning of the
twentieth century. As one racehorse breeder admits, ‘Mendelism and Mendel
haunt horsemen, like Banquo’s ghost to Macbeth, to the point of utter sense-
lessness’ (Varola 1974: 2). The idea that an ability to run fast is a trait that could
be determined by a single gene remains strong in Newmarket. For example,
I was told by a breeder that ‘this foal’s dad had ability and so we’re hoping he
will too, but it’s a fifty:fifty chance isn’t it?’
Recent work within biology has undermined the separation between genes
and the environment that pedigree thinking depends upon, creating an epige-
netic approach which acknowledges the two-way traffic between genes and the
sociocultural milieu inhabited by the organism in question:
environmental regimes influence the physiology of the organism, and these organismic
influences leave physiological traces that may also be passed on, as hormonal/nutritional
Blood will tell 147
status, maternal effects, and sometimes, as alterations in the genes themselves. (Ho pers.
comm.)
More simply, the influence of environmental factors may have been mistaken
for evidence of heredity. As Bowling has shown, ‘When family members share
an environment the effects of non-genetic factors may mimic the appearance
of an inherited trait’ (1996: 141). In Newmarket, evidence of the influence of
nature is ‘seen’ with far greater alacrity than that of ‘nurture’.
{
{
{ {
{
{
{
Thoroughbred pedigrees are ‘read’ from left to right. They also possess a
shorthand whereby they may be summarised by either their ‘top’ or ‘bottom’
line. The top line charts the sire and sires of sires, the bottom line the dam and
dams of dams. The top line is said to represent the ‘strength’ of the pedigree,
the bottom line the ‘weakness’. Of course, it is possible to have a weak top line
or a strong bottom line, but these are relative to the overall top:bottom bias.
The most common shorthand for summarising a pedigree is that of mentioning
the sire and the dam’s sire. Thus, for example, Zafonic, who is by Gone West,
out of Zaizafon, who is by The Minstrel, will be described as: ‘Zafonic (Gone
West, The Minstrel)’. Everyday discussions of yearlings similarly refer to, for
example, ‘a Sadler’s Wells colt out of a Danzig mare’.
The proportion of the catalogue assigned to the dam line and the idea that
the dam line is the ‘weakness’ in a pedigree relate to ideas regarding racehorse
fertility and procreation. The relevant image of procreation is that the stallion
will bring a substantial but finite amount of talent to the mating. If most of this
talent must be ‘used up’ in trying to bring the mare up to the standard of the
stallion, then very little will be left to pass on to the foal itself. The mare is thus
‘empty’ before being covered. The mare always represents a deficit, relative to
the stallion, who is complete.
This image can be extended to apply to the entire catalogue that becomes
a map representing the annual distribution of blood embodied by the yearling
crop. ‘Blood’ is thus presented as a limited substance, distributed according to
an equation that balances the amount of talent brought by the stallion against
that used up by the mare in their production of a foal. In this way, there are no
real additions to the English Thoroughbred, just novel combinations of blood,
relative to each successive generation.
The image of the thoroughbred racehorse perpetuated by its breeders supports
the contention of Yanagisako and Delaney that origin stories are ‘a prime locus
for a society’s notion of itself’ (1995: 2). Thomas’ characterisation of the three
founding stallions of the English thoroughbred as ‘a kind of equine Adam, Noah
or William the Conqueror’ (1983: 59), fails to mention the most significant
feature of the story: the omission of its female protagonists. The patriarchal
stallion myth, expressed in the dogma of prepotency and sire dominance, is
supported by the most visible ancestors of the racehorse being male, and can
be deduced from the structure of the catalogue page.
Since only the male ancestors of this species are visible, the original blood is
gendered, and thus diluted when combined with female blood in order to create
a foal:
the existence of three initial progenitors, and their continuation by not more than one
progenitor each and three progenitors in all, far from being a matter of course which
every student of the Thoroughbred has always taken for granted as one of the curiosities
150 The Sport of Kings
The representation of male and female racehorses in the catalogue can thus
be explained. The inherent weakness of the dam line is protested against by
the presence of illustrious relations in the catalogue, and the small number of
stallions at stud serve as highly concentrated sources of the limited quantity of
‘noble blood’.
Assessment of the thoroughbred at each of the most significant stages of its
career – at the sales, on the track and at stud – reflects the disproportionate
influence with which the stallion is credited. Breeders and pundits discussing
a two-year-old will predict its ability in relation to its sire: ‘Like all Sadler’s
Wells, he’ll appreciate getting his toe in’ (horses by Sadler’s Wells are thought
to run faster on softer ground), ‘He’s by Ela Mana Mou, so he should get the
trip’ (Ela Mana Mou is thought to be ‘an influence for stamina’), ‘He’s just got
geed up in the paddock, like a lot of Diesis do’ (Diesis is thought to pass on a
nervous disposition). At first glance, racing society could almost be mistaken
for a society in which maternity was denied or went unnoticed.
The skewed structure of thoroughbred selection reveals a form of mono-
geneticism similar to that identified by Delaney in relation to Turkey, where
‘The male is said to plant the seed and the woman is said to be like a field’
(1986: 496). In Newmarket, as elsewhere, ‘paternity is not the semantic equiv-
alent of maternity’ (Delaney 1986: 495), because the sire’s contribution is
qualitatively superior to that of the mare. Perhaps the most explicit statement
of this version of the sire’s contribution is to be found in the work of Italian
thoroughbred breeder Frederick Tesio. Tesio, the ‘Wizard of Dormello’, was
an authority referred to by several informants in Newmarket. His theories were
many, and had consistent themes, for example, ‘the mare is like a sack which
gives back what has been put into it’ (Tesio 1958: 10):
The female is by nature weaker. The purpose of her existence is the state of pregnancy.
As soon as she becomes pregnant the nervous – almost neurotic – symptoms of virginity
disappear . . . The hereditary influence of the male is superior both in quantity and in
quality to the hereditary influence of the female. (Tesio 1958: 10)4
I was often told that good racemares rarely made good broodmares. On the
stud, for example, Tony the stud hand told me the story of a famous racemare
who was ‘no good’ at stud: ‘She was a right bitch, she wasn’t having any of it.
She thought that she was a stallion. I s’pose that’s why she was so good. She was
used to beating colts and she didn’t want to be a mother.’ The good racemare is an
anomaly because she excels in a male-dominated sphere. Tony attributed her dif-
ficulty at stud to her own gender confusion. As the previous chapter established,
femininity on the stud correlates with ideas of fertility, mothering and nurturing.
Phenotypic fetishism
Hocks are the main joint on a horse’s back legs, sort of knees in reverse. Looking
at hocks illustrates that the yearling’s catalogue entry determines more than its
price, it also determines the faults it can be forgiven, and those that it cannot,
summed up in the phrase that, ‘there are hocks and there are hocks’. When
examining a yearling by the stallion ‘Kris’, for example, I noted its weak hocks
in my catalogue. My detection of this fault should give some indication of its
severity. I also looked at the Sadler’s Wells full brother to Entrepreneur, and
couldn’t fault him. When I discussed the day’s work with a team of agents,
I mentioned the Kris colt and they became enthusiastic. The phrase ‘Krisish
hocks’ was bandied about. I asked about the significance of this and was told
that Kris also had bad hocks, and if the yearling had his hocks it was likely
that he had Kris’ good features too, such as his courage and overall soundness.
When I mentioned the Sadler’s Wells colt I was met with the unanimous cry of
‘weak hocks!’, end of discussion.
It is desirable that a yearling should resemble its sire because this is taken
as evidence that the yearling has also inherited its sire’s racing ability. As in
the example used, this ideology extends to the faults of the stallions, which are
excused and even valued in their progeny. The reproduction of traits, however
apparently trivial, is seized upon as evidence of the sire’s influence, for example,
the manager of Cheveley Park Stud was very excited about the full brother
to Entrepreneur on the grounds that he had more white on his face, and so
resembled Sadler’s Wells, his sire, even more closely than his full brother, the
winner of the 1997 Guineas.
This fetish for phenotypic resemblance does not extend beyond the offspring
of a particular sire. Thus, a racehorse would never be identified as a ‘dead ringer
for Batshoof’ for example, unless it is by that sire. It is not the appearance of
the yearling that is being praised, as illustrated by the ideology applying to
faults and irrelevancies. The resemblance is desirable because it is treated as
evidence of the sharing of something far more significant: ability, but equally
importantly it is evidence of heredity itself. The mating has been a success
because the stallion has successfully overcome the mare’s weaknesses with
152 The Sport of Kings
enough quality to spare; this excess quality has been inherited by the foal, as
made explicit by this breeder:
the qualities of both stallion and mare should be complementary to one another and the
aim should be to choose a stallion who will counteract any shortcomings in his mate.
(Napier 1975: 17)
The effect of these cycles is that a few stallions dominate their era, because
they enjoy support at the expense of their competitors, the more successful
they are the more they are supported and so on. The dominance of particular
stallions is interpreted by the bloodstock industry as evidence of ‘prepotency’,
the belief that certain stallions are able to ‘stamp’ their offspring who then bear
a strong resemblance to their sire. It is a continually restated horseracing ‘fact’
that a very small number of stallions dominate their era before an heir is made
apparent a couple of generations later. The few horses who do seem to have
had a greater than expected influence over their adjacent generations are termed
‘prepotent’ by pedigree enthusiasts. The notion of prepotency can be found in
British breeding manuals until the 1930s:
The belief is still widespread that the good judge of livestock can recognise the prepotent
animal from its phenotype. The assumed indicators are masculinity in the male and
femininity in the female. (Winters 1939: 143)
This observation is flanked by two plates, of a particularly fat stallion, and a mare
with her mane and tail in plaits and ribbons. Breeders told me that in order for a
stallion to be successful at stud he ‘must look masculine’. Of course, masculinity
was not reducible to a list of necessary and sufficient conditions, and often
depended upon entirely subjective notions such as ‘presence’, or ‘arrogance’,
impossible to verify or falsify. As well as giving rise to the expression of images
of masculinity and femininity, the ideology of the ‘potentate’, referring to the
monarch’s potential ‘kingliness’ or nobility, can be detected in the notion of
prepotency:
The heightened power to shape progeny was called ‘prepotency’. It was, of course,
essentially comparative. That is, it offered a way to discriminate among breeds as well as
between pedigreed and nonpedigreed animals. It could therefore, be used as a measure
or conformation of breed quality, especially since it could be tested in practice. The
workings of prepotency seemed often simply to confirm the value of unsullied descent –
to exemplify the rule by which ‘the most in-bred parent generally influences the offspring
to the greatest extent’. (Ritvo 1997: 115)
This was the only possible explanation for my ‘passion’ for horses. Similarly,
when Bill the trainer asked me the nature of my father’s involvement with
horses, I knew that my honest response would not be accepted. I told him that
my father detested horses, being of the opinion that one end bites, the other
kicks and in between is uncomfortable. Sure enough, this met with further in-
quiries: surely he had some involvement, however minor? After I had denied
this several times, Bill compromised and asked me a hypothetical question:
‘What sort of horses would your father be involved with if he had an interest
in horses?’ He sat back looking smug and I was forced to imagine the un-
likely image of my father in jodhpurs. I plumped for showjumping rather than
racing out of malice, and Bill seemed satisfied. I was not at all surprised by
Bill’s periodical comments regarding ‘my father – the showjumper’, although
I was slightly thrown when he asked me whether my father was interested
in a ‘super jumping mare’, before I remembered the background to such an
inquiry.
The pedigree theory that informs ideas of relatedness amongst horses applies
equally to those about humans:
The notion of reckoning descent through either the male line or the female line, as a
criterion for group membership, is an outgrowth of the basic notion of selective breeding.
This is quite explicit with animals but camouflaged as ‘descent reckoning’ when applied
by anthropologists to human groups. (Bouquet 1993: 192)
recently responded to a government report that suggested that the stud should
widen its remit by saying:
AI is currently banned by the rules of the International Stud Book, which state
that:
A horse is not qualified to be entered for start in any race unless it and its sire and dam
are each the produce of a natural service or covering, and unless a natural gestation
took place in, and the delivery was from, the body of the mare in which the horse was
conceived. (Ruff’s Guide to the Turf 1996: 124)
The majority of people to whom I spoke were against AI, on the grounds either
that it was ‘unnatural’ or that it would prompt the diminution of the thoroughbred
gene pool; although a few thought that acceptance of AI was long overdue.
The most sustained opposition to AI that I experienced came from a thor-
oughbred breeder who had recently retired from riding in amateur races at the
age of seventy-three. She had extremely clear views, believing that a connection
between the mare and stallion was a physiological necessity for a healthy foal:
The semen used for pigs in Holland has become diseased and the farms in this country
are using bulls again for a ‘top up’. My mares in season will try to get to the teaser
because they know where he is, even though we put the foal in the box first! How is a
mare’s instinct to be covered going to be satisfied? By the vet and some semen in a false
vagina? The best winners I have ever bred have been by sires whose legs really pump
away like pistons during copulation – I’m sure that some transfer of energy is capable
of improving the chances of getting a good energetic foal. What will fulfil that criteria
in AI? I’m very worried about it.
She also told me the story of the conception of a great racehorse that was the
result of two horses ‘falling in love’:
It was when the horses were walked everywhere before the horsebox, and the stallion
was being led along the road, and passed a mare on her way to something else, I mean,
she wasn’t even going to this horse. And they looked at each other and that was it. They
overcame their handlers and made love on the Cambridge Road.
Similarly, a stud groom on a tour of the Equine Fertility Unit, which is currently
championing the cause of AI, responded angrily to the suggestion:
156 The Sport of Kings
The mare needs to feel the weight of the stallion on her back, and for the energy of the
covering to go into her. Using a test tube won’t produce the same effects and you can’t
fool these old mares. They know what’s natural.
These ideas echo the work of Tesio and his followers. In fact, the foal bred
on the Cambridge Road belonged to Tesio and was called Signorinetta. Tesio’s
explanation for her undoubted talent extends the same reproductive themes:
in the case of Signorinetta, it is not unlikely that the issue was affected by the circum-
stances of the unplanned encounter between her parents. The arrows of an equine cupid
roused the sexual urge to a maximum of tension which endowed the resulting individual
with exceptional energy . . . this result is never achieved with artificial insemination be-
cause the parents are cheated of their pleasurable spasm with its violent nervous release.
(1958: 93)
It seems that McCreery does not realise how shocking AI is to those who believe
that horses fall in love, or how ineffective it seems to those who believe that
the ‘heat’ and ‘weight’ of intercourse is necessary for conception to occur.
Opposition to AI is intense because of the centrality of the idea of procreation
to all other aspects of imagining connections between horses, as it is amongst
people, ‘everything that surrounds the act(s) of procreation bears on how people
represent the meaning of being related to one another’ (Strathern 1993: 16).
A related objection to AI lies in the belief that it would prompt the depletion
of the gene pool:
Hamish Anderson, Weatherby’s stud book director . . . said: ‘One of the concerns is what
AI might do to the gene pool. Going back twenty-five generations takes us right back
to square one, the days of the Byerley Turk, by which time there are about 66 million
ancestors to a single mating.’ With proper, and costly, research under its belt, Weatherby’s
should be able to predict what would happen, if, as is feared, no more than ten per cent
of the stallion population survives the unnatural selection imposed by AI. (Smurthwaite
1997a: 17)
selection’ relative to that which would be facilitated by AI. I would suggest that
this response to AI is partly based on a fear of blood being out of control.
The theory of pedigree rests upon the ability of breeders to maintain the
‘purity’ of the breed by witnessing coverings and blood typing foals. The de-
pletion of the gene pool constitutes a loss of blood, offending those who see
themselves as custodians of noble blood, responsible for determining its dis-
tribution. This loss is often imagined through stories in which blood crosses
international boundaries and is thereby lost to a malign foreign influence:
In 1978, many breeders were thought to be in dread of AI because of the overriding fear
that it would be wildly abused. According to the Duke [of Devonshire], ‘fanciful stories’
arose about vials of frozen semen being shipped around the world at will, making for
priceless bargaining chips allowing an elite band of stallions to cover hundreds of mares
at the expense of others. The impact on the gene pool would be unimaginable. If only
the stories were true. (Smurthwaite 1997b: 7)
The blood of the stallions no longer in demand would be lost, and could not be
regained. These are stories about loss, and also loss of control, in which blood
would no longer be mapped or limited, and so, being unrecorded, would lose
its capacity to explain ability. AI also prompts a confrontation with the limits
of desirable inbreeding, prompting the use of imagery associated with incest,
thus sperm becomes ‘diseased’, ‘hybrid vigour’ is lost, and monsters result,
as the stud groom told me: ‘You start messing about with nature and you get
Frankenstein don’t you?’
The loss of blood is also the theme of the ‘stallion drain’, another major
concern of the bloodstock industry. The terms in which it is described again
reflect the threat that export constitutes to the national identity of English blood
by resonating with xenophobia, as in this extract from an article in the Guardian:
It is hard to see in these Japanese incursions much more than mere acquisitiveness, a
desire to possess comparable with the desire to buy great works of art, many of which
now languish unseen in the Tokyo bank vaults. At the Houghton Sales in Newmarket last
week, I have rarely seen people look more bored than the phalanx of Japanese who sat
around the auction ring dressed in perfect English county clothes but carrying cameras
rather than binoculars. Like the art works, the horses that go to Japan are disappearing
into a black hole . . . we see no more than the occasional foal by Generous who returns
to run in Britain, bringing with him a wealth of memories and a terrible sense of loss.
(Thompson 1996: 6)
Put even more starkly, I was told: ‘What on earth would the Japanese do with
an English thoroughbred? They may dress as Englishmen but they don’t have
horses in their blood.’ It seems that, as in the eighteenth century when the blood
of a thoroughbred reflected positively on that of his aristocratic owner, it is
necessary to be of the right blood oneself in order to be favoured by, rather than
condemned or mocked for, this association.
158 The Sport of Kings
Conclusion
In this chapter I have discussed some of the ‘facts of life’ in thoroughbred
breeding, believing them to be central to how people imagine both humans and
horses are related. What is ‘natural’ in Newmarket has been identified as the
inheritance of ability through parental blood. The asymmetry of the male and
female contributions to their offspring is evident in the literary form taken by
the pedigree, in the price of yearlings and in their assessment by phenotypic
resemblance to their sire.
AI is ‘unnatural’ because it frees ‘blood’ from procreation and in doing so
threatens old certainties. Furthermore, it raises the possibility that blood may
be lost, which is frightening because this is ‘noble’ blood that has been honed
to perfection by more than two centuries of human endeavour. By ‘natural’
means, of course. The export of stallions similarly suggests a loss of blood,
because who knows what will happen once it leaves these shores? The export is
resisted because the blood of the English thoroughbred belongs to the English.
The pedigrees of the founding stallions of the breed express this point clearly,
by running forwards to the English thoroughbred, rather than backwards to the
Barb, Turk or Arabian.
Some of the certainties threatened by AI were brought into even sharper relief
by the suggestion that Cigar, the American wonderhorse, was to be cloned. The
story began with his infertility, which was reported in jocular tone, referring
to him as a ‘Jaffa’ (seedless). In some ways, people seemed almost happy that
the horse had failed, since he had gone to stand for the Coolmore organisation,
which is perceived as having a monopoly over all the best thoroughbred blood:
Cigar, but no smoke signals . . . Human fertility experts have volunteered to help out . . .
and phials of Cigar’s semen are being examined all over the world. In addition, many
of Cigar’s fans, who have presumably suffered the same problems, have written with
suggestions, including acupuncture and massage. If nothing works, there is talk Cigar
could move down the road to the Kentucky Horse Park to join another favourite American
horse, John Henry – a gelding! (Smurthwaite 1997c: 5)
Sterility seemed quite amusing in what was, after all, an American horse owned
by Coolmore. However, the enhanced reproductive possibilities of cloning were
not greeted with the same sort of response:
The Jockey Club poured scorn on the idea. World-wide rules prevented such breeding a
spokesman said. ‘Quite a few barriers would have to come down before cloning became
a reality. It’s highly unlikely.’ . . . Hamish Anderson . . . said, ‘In the meat and livestock
business uniformity might be an advantage, but in racing variation is vital.’ (Varley
1997: 18)
When I pointed out to a breeder that even in a race of clones there would be
a first, second and so on, his response was to boom ‘EXACTLY!!’ Cloned
Blood will tell 159
racehorses would create races exactly the same as those involving racehorses
born ‘naturally’. In a sense, all thoroughbred blood would be lost, since it would
be static, no longer travelling through generations according to a route mapped
out by breeders, an image implicit in the nightmarish Guardian headline: ‘Sterile
wonder-horse may run on for ever as former owner pursues race of clones’
(Varley 1997: 18).
This chapter has sought to support the claim by Strathern that, ‘ideas about
kinship offered a theory, if you like, about the relationship of human society to
the natural world’ (1992c: 5). In the case of racing society, what is natural is
that one should ‘breed the best to the best to get the best’, that horses are ‘in the
blood’, that ability is transmitted as a ‘spark’ during copulation and that blood
can be lost through improper management or the interference of impostors
or technology. These ideas support an image of human society constituted by
groups of people associated with each other through ties of substance and
hereditarily inclined to excel in a particular role. It is thus impossible to think
about racehorses without also thinking about class.
notes
talked ‘mainly through his hat’ (1975: 53), ‘The telling criticism of the dosage system
is that it is scientifically unsound’ (1975: 58), and J. B. Robertson ‘was not ruthless
enough in confronting his prejudice with his scientific knowledge’ (1975: 61). In
other words, even Willett finds little to impress in a selection of so-called ‘breeding
theories’.
4 Ideas concerning the relative contributions of dam and sire have varied historically,
and Tesio’s views represent the most extreme form of asymmetry I have encountered.
More conservative bloodstock theorists such as Willett assert the equality of contri-
bution, ‘Since a foal receives half of its make-up of genes from its sire and the other
half from its dam, it is obvious that the two parents are potentially of equal impor-
tance, and a prepotent mare may transmit important characters to her offspring just
as surely as a prepotent stallion’ (1975: 101). However, the extra attention paid to the
female line by equality theorists derives not from an idea that the mare’s contribu-
tion is equally qualitatively valuable, but the opposite, ‘In bloodstock breeding . . . the
superior specimen (the stallion) is mated to the mean or subnormal (brood mares)’
(Leicester 1957: 125). Moreover, this weakness is ‘the key to the generally accepted
principle, amongst breeders, that the tail female line is of the utmost importance’
(Leicester 1957: 144).
5 Borneman mentions a similar idea in his work on horse-breed classification in
America, ‘An old aphorism says: The mare contributes the disposition, the stallion
the conformation’ (1988: 37).
6 I mention this unsubstantiated story because it strikes me as ironic that there is a
possibility that some of the original Arabian stock that produced the modern thor-
oughbred may themselves have been produced by the illicit technique of AI. The first
documented successful use of AI was by an Italian physiologist, Spallanzani, in 1780
(Bearden and Fuquay 2000: 152).
10 Conclusions
Introduction
In these conclusions I ask, ‘What sort of place is Newmarket?’ and ‘What sort
of people claim allegiance to its windswept Heath and horse-dominated way
of life?’ To some degree this book responds to my desire to ‘make strange’ the
sometimes taken for granted and homogenised notion of ‘British culture’:
Much has been written recently of the dangers to anthropologists of essentialising visions
of non-western societies. Less has been written recently of the dangers to people in the
West of their essential visions of themselves. (Carrier 1990: 706)
Though some aspects of racing society may seem utterly ‘foreign’ to outsiders,
there is also much which finds resonance amongst a wider British audience.
The ideas encompassed by the saying of: ‘like father, like son’, for example,
the inheritance of sporting talents and the explanation of traits as ‘in the blood’,
are common to many contexts outside racing. The difference seems to me that
within the racing industry these ideas are worked out more fully, albeit in the
guise of another species.
In 1988 Borneman related race, ethnicity, species and breed to horse-breed
classification in America and concluded that:
The mythical systems produced through classificatory devices, while experienced as
innocent speech, are in fact constructed first, by a plagiarism of the social world, and
second, by a harmonisation of that world with its dominant discourse. This kind of
myth is neither simply a charter for reality nor is it an invention of pure thought. It
is both a language for analogically representing another reality – an hierarchical sys-
tem of human differentiation – and a means by which that reality can be validated.
(1988: 48)1
This book has described the ideological sleight of hand whereby inequality
can be naturalised by appeal to a system credited with its own independent
existence – the breed of thoroughbred racehorse. The myths of the breed are
many, and made concrete in a number of different embodied and literary forms
that have been discussed in the preceding pages: the General Stud Book, the
sales catalogue, the jockey’s disciplined body, the trainer’s family tree, the
161
162 The Sport of Kings
owner’s silks, the horse’s names. All refer to the ‘hierarchical system of human
differentiation’ played out perfectly by the thoroughbred.
The rest of these conclusions pull together the two most powerful structur-
ing principles at work in Newmarket amongst racing professionals: risk and
pedigree. It is the potency of these two principles when combined which ac-
counts for the resilience of this way of life. In the first section of this chapter I
concentrate on the people of Newmarket, and their ideas of ‘class’. I shall then
describe the presence of risk in almost all of the significant roles within the rac-
ing industry, from breeder to lad, from jockey to punter. The final section seeks
to acknowledge my debt to a group of anthropologists who may not automati-
cally consider themselves to be part of the intellectual landscape of horseracing.
It contextualises my attempt to describe racing society in Newmarket within
important debates in contemporary anthropology.2
Inequality
As one might expect of a place in which the class structure is so strikingly out of
step with the majority of the rest of the surrounding communities, Newmarket is
a place that quickly lulls one into its daily rhythms and routines. The proximity
of Cambridge (twenty minutes away) always struck me as amazing, and even
formed a local explanation of the character of Newmarket itself:
it’s being so close to Cambridge that has preserved Newmarket. No one notices New-
market and we go on as before, whilst Cambridge is always changing, from too much
attention. We don’t generally get busybodies like you. (Stud hand)
The conventions of Newmarket seem contrived to make one take the status quo
for granted. For example, having been racing as owner, trainer’s assistant and
lass, each experience seemed definitive at the time. As the guest of an owner
I was invited to lunch and we spent the entire afternoon at the races, drinking,
eating, betting, watching the races and relaxing. Whilst assisting the trainer we
arrived in time for ‘our’ race, saddled the horse, instructed the jockey, watched
the race and came home, all in a state of nervousness and anxiety.
Going racing as a lass is different again. Arriving at the track three hours
before the race, I had often ridden three horses and mucked out their stables
before leaving. Almost every lad and lass with whom I travelled could sleep in
virtually any position and for any period of time. I learnt quickly and could sleep
leaning against even the most pungent of old lads, ignoring cigar smoke and
other fumes. An hour and three quarters before the race the horse is prepared,
and an hour later the horse leaves the racecourse stables and enters the paddock.
The horse returns to the stables after the race and is washed down, given a drink
and allowed to recover before travelling home again. Despite having come
Conclusions 163
racing as a friend of both owner and trainer and enjoyed days at the races and
elsewhere with both, when I came racing as the lass, I did not interact with
them in the same way. I spent the majority of the time asleep in the horse lorry,
only participating in the race meeting to the extent that my ‘lead up’ demanded.
When I did come into contact with owner and trainer in the saddling box before
the race I was treated entirely differently, and asked, ‘How is he?’ (of the horse),
rather than ‘How are you?’
The ability of racing society to naturalise such differences in status and respect
was considerable, although there were informants who sought to puncture this
ideology:
I operate in the more common sphere where more or less people judge you on your
own merits. I’m an educated woman and mostly I’m treated accordingly. But because
I won’t adhere to the fixed class infrastructure I’m not accepted because I won’t tug my
forelock. (Stud groom’s wife)
The work of the stud hand is often monotonous and physically demanding, and
is mainly directed towards maintaining the appearance of the stud. A typical
day as a stud hand was thus spent mowing, strimming, sweeping, raking and
scrubbing. Although sit-on mowers and petrol-powered strimmers have un-
doubtedly improved the lot of the stud hand, much of the work is still arduous
and boring. The stud landscape obviously reflects more than the desire of the
breeding industry to impose its will upon nature, it is also dependent upon a
particular class structure:
Stud hands are born into it and don’t know how to do anything else. A lot of people get
trapped, they couldn’t stick a factory job and so they stay with the horses, although I’ve
had people go into transport and things. Half the problem with stud work is that it takes
advantage of people because you live on the stud. You are ‘lucky enough’ to have tied
accommodation! And especially if you’ve got a family, which all of us have, you don’t
want to lose it. (Stud groom)
Whilst on the stud I listened to many complaints from the stud hands, partic-
ularly regarding the shortage of labour and poor working conditions. When
I asked why they stayed on, many stud hands gave the same reason; their accom-
modation. In particular, it became obvious that tied accommodation had been
turned into the family home by most of the hands’ wives and children. These
houses were decorated with ornaments, photographs, extensions, new carpets,
furniture and curtains. Gardens were packed with kennels, rabbit hutches, pad-
dling pools and bicycles. The idea of leaving represented a considerable wrench
to the hands and their families. It was noticeable, by contrast, that younger hands
without families moved between studs quite freely. The restrictions of tied ac-
commodation obviously hampered the movement of some hands. However,
hands also exhibited a sense of pride regarding their work, epitomised by their
164 The Sport of Kings
description of polo ponies as ‘second class citizens’ and their pity for me and
my academic life:
Well, you see, I’ve got a hand in the royal family, the thoroughbred, and there’s nothing
like him is there. You wouldn’t catch me having anything to do with those old ponies,
I don’t know why you bother! And as for all those books, what can they tell you about
life? You’ve all you need to learn about right here in the barn, standing looking at you!
Nothing in the world comes close to him. (Stud hand)
Stud hands valued work with thoroughbreds above work with other horses, and
work with horses above all other forms of manual labour that they perceived
as alternatives to their work on the stud. The idea that stud hands are ‘born
into it’ fits ideas of heredity in Newmarket, and also detracts from the fact that
although the stud groom is a manager, and may therefore consider himself to
be more mobile, he also lives in a tied house. However, in addition to these
structural restrictions, stud hands are also motivated by their admiration for the
thoroughbred, and their valuing of the breed above all other creatures.
I have rejected the idea that lads were stuck in their jobs as a result of
their ‘breeding’ or their lack of skills. A large number of lads also occupied tied
accommodation, and shared with the stud hands a reluctance to move on despite
poor pay or conditions. Lads are devalued by those inhabitants of Newmarket
who are outsiders to racing, as well as by many of their superiors within racing.
The considerable embodied skills of many of the lads are not valued. However,
it was not just the physical labour of the lads that condemned them to low status
in Newmarket, but also their place in the racing hierarchy and the outsider’s
perception of this hierarchy. Outsiders saw racing as ‘feudal’, and blamed the
lads themselves for the perpetuation of this system on the grounds of their
inability to mobilise industrial action.
Though some younger lads seemed in awe of their trainers, and to have
internalised the lessons of the British Racing School (‘do not speak unless
spoken to by the boss, and keep replies to “yes sir” or “no sir” ’), amongst some
older, more experienced lads, respect went no deeper than a job requirement:
To be honest Rebecca, you just heard me thissing and thatting to him, ‘yes sir’ and that,
and it doesn’t bother me. It’s the way it is, but I know the way it is. I know my job, and
I could tell him more about that filly on one trip up the sand than he could ever tell me.
I encountered many lads who did not conform to the popular image according
to which they are lazy, unambitious and trapped. In particular, lads who rode
work described the experience as one of considerable personal and financial
empowerment:
I walk into breakfast and pick up the [Racing] Post, and likely as not, I know more about
the day’s runners than the boss. I know Bob’s ridden this or that, Sam’s had a sit on one
filly or another. Something might be pinging, something else might be over the top. It’s
the work riders who know what’s going on in Newmarket.
Conclusions 165
Even among the less accomplished, the possibility of looking after a ‘good
horse’ kept lads in the business.
There are many positive explanations for remaining a lad, it is not just a
default position occupied by the unskilled, as their image within Newmarket
suggests. The strength of this image is such that lads often underplay the rewards
of the job, as if to indicate that they are not foolish enough to attempt to justify
involvement in such a dead-end occupation. Where this is the case, lads will
tell you of their skills and achievements within racing along with their plan
to ‘get out’. Typically, the attitude the lads expressed towards their work was
determined by the questions I asked. When I showed admiration by asking
about a technical detail of their work they responded with pride. When I asked
them about early mornings and low wages they distanced themselves from
the job by demeaning its tasks and communicating their desire to leave the
industry. The lads reproduce the negative image the rest of Newmarket thrusts
upon them; however, they also maintain alternatives that are easily prompted
by more positive enquiry.
It becomes clear that although ‘breeding’ is used by all classes of racing
society in order to explain talent or ability in both humans and horses, alternative
explanations are also apparent. These explanations take two forms; they may
be structural, as in the case of tied housing, or the age of apprenticeship that
prevents higher education. They may also take the form of positive motivations
to remain in racing as offered by lads and stud hands themselves; these included
a pride taken in dealing with valuable livestock, the possibility of dealing with
a ‘good horse’, and the intrinsic pleasure of becoming skilled in a demanding
embodied practice.
Among ‘real’ Newmarket families, the ‘connection’ has come to signify both
object and relationship. Being connected in and to Newmarket is essential for
success. And if success should somehow come before connections have been
made? Well, then they will be discovered in retrospect. As in many small-scale
elite societies members of racing families fetishise connections. The more pres-
tigious the connection in question the further the trail will extend in order to
claim it. I interviewed a woman with an entire room dedicated to her (very)
distant cousin’s husband Lester Piggott, for example. In my own case, Irish an-
cestors came to light in the imagination of my informants. Family trees provide
the ‘proof’ of these claims. The trees I plotted during fieldwork were emble-
matic of these interests. Huge chunks of highly detailed tree recorded racing
families, that dwindled to nothing on the fringes, which could be dismissed as a
kind of wasteland, referred to as, ‘out of racing’. Those individuals who chose
not to uphold the family tradition were effectively eliminated by their racing
relatives by virtue of the diagonal pencil line placed through their locus on the
tree. It was not the family that they were interested in plotting, but heredity itself.
A similar sort of discounting applied to outsiders, those who could not find
a place in any of the intricate webs of connections by which members of this
166 The Sport of Kings
Risk3
Every significant feature of the racing and bloodstock industry can be extrap-
olated from the basic uncertainty that governs which horse will finish first,
second and third (and last!). Despite the sport’s long history of record keeping
and changes in technology, there is no such thing as a racing ‘certainty’.4
Unlikely winners romp home regularly, and similarly, short-priced favourites
get turned over all the time. Each race is a unique combination of an infinite
number of variables, most of which are not measurable in any sense. It is not
enough to say that the abiding attraction of horseracing lies in this uncertainty. It
is more that this uncertainty is what racing is. As journalist Foden says, ‘Racing
teaches you about risk’ (1996: 14).
Every horserace is a microcosmic reproduction of all of the risks taken by the
various contributors to the sport. Each runner has been bred by someone who
believes that a particular mating will produce a valuable or talented yearling.
Mare owners pay a nomination fee and this fee and the forsaken chance to mate
the mare to a different stallion is the stake in their particular gamble. The gamble
is played out in the auction ring or, for breeders who race their own stock, on
the racecourse. If the horse has been sold to a new owner then this owner’s
stake has been paid at the auction. They might cash in either on the racecourse
(prize money) or in the breeding shed (nomination fees or offspring). Punters
have the shortest time scale from stake to winnings (or losses). The finish line
marks the end of their involvement. In all of these gambles, the contributors must
also be content merely to have taken part, to have played the game. Because
otherwise, they would spend their money differently.
Racing is so saturated with risks that it has even developed a number of
dialects in which its professionals may discuss their business. Odds and slang
are used to express the likely chances of each horse in a race at the racecourse
and in the betting shop: ‘Berlington Bertie 100-30’ or ‘Double Carpet 33-1’.
Bloodstock auctioneers cajole their bidders with the idea that by ceasing to bid
they risk losing out, ‘All done, quite sure? Hammer’s up, comes down quicker!
Just look at him walk, he could be anything. Happy to lose him?’
Whilst auctioneers and bookmakers trade openly in risks, other members of
racing society cultivate the impression that they are in control. In the case of the
Conclusions 167
professional punter, the racing pundit and the bloodstock agent the appearance
of knowledge replaces uncertainty. The professional punter attempts to assert
his control over uncertainty by treating punting as ‘work’, by acting alone at
the racecourse and therefore denying his communion with the crowd, and by
remaining stony faced whatever the outcome of the race.
Racing pundits describe races in such a way that every possible outcome is
contained within their pre-race ramblings. They are the masters of hedging. For
example:
This horse is coming off a nice win at Beverley and should have the measure of a lot
of these others, but he might just find the ground a bit firm for his liking. This filly has
the makings of a good horse and whatever she does today I think she’ll go on to better
things. She might just not get things her own way today. This colt would have to improve
to take a hand in the finish, but he’s got form on this track.
Each explanation for the victory of any horse in the race is combined with a
ready explanation for its failure.
The stance of the bloodstock agent is an embodied statement of his expertise.
And looking at him one is led to believe that there is nothing uncertain in buying
racehorses, it is just that what this man is doing is extremely difficult. What
does the bloodstock agent tell his client about risk?
Well obviously I let them know that buying racehorses isn’t an exact science. Then I
hand them a colour print out of the winners I bought last season! But seriously you have
to tell them that any horse could turn out to be useless. But you don’t want to push that
too far . . . if you do then your more astute client might say ‘Well, what am I paying you
for then?’ And then you’re on really sticky ground. (Bloodstock agent)
Taking risks is, in Newmarket, a way of life. From the lads who get the leg
up onto some or other piece of explosive horseflesh every morning, to the high
rolling punter who stakes his status and his cash on Nobby’s Delight in the 3:40.
From the bloodstock agent who signs the chit for a million-dollar yearling with
a trembling hand, to the jockey who goes for a gap with two furlongs to go . . .
good blood can be ‘read’ backwards into the horse’s ancestry. A beautifully bred
failure will be explained by recourse to any number of factors: an accident, a
character flaw, or even an excess of fine blood, requiring an injection of ‘rough’.
None of these ‘blips’ prompts a review of the system itself. During my fieldwork
in Newmarket it was matters of equine fertility that led to the most far-reaching
discussions of first principles, and it is to this discussion that I now turn.
Racing society is currently undergoing processes of ‘literalisation’ and
‘displacement’ (Strathern 1992a: 4) brought about by increased pressure to
open the General Stud Book to progeny produced through AI and more ex-
plicitly by the possibility of cloning racehorses. These processes make evident
the supporting ideas of the ideology of pedigree. Examining resistance to new
equine reproductive techniques reveals the processes by which, in Newmarket,
‘power appears natural, inevitable, even god-given’ (Yanagisako and Delaney
1995: 1).
Racing society is a productive locus of study for these concerns because it
has a strong self-image; despite internal variations, members of racing society
were all keen to identify more closely with each other than with anyone outside
their society. A sense of ‘peripherality’ and suspicion of ‘outsiders’ is part of
this self-image. Thus generalisations across racing society do not require the
caveats forced upon those who take ‘English kinship’ as their frame of reference.
Furthermore, racing society has an origin story explicitly endorsed by all its
ranks, which I would suggest can be linked to the ‘natural facts’ of reproduction
implicit in Newmarket’s form of monogeneticism.
In racing, ‘the stallion is king’. The stallion is the central focus of the entire
bloodstock industry. In myriad ways, stallions are credited with a disproportion-
ate influence over the breed of English thoroughbred, from its inception in the
late eighteenth century to the present day. This influence is, moreover, different
in kind from that of the thoroughbred mare. The three male progenitors of the
thoroughbred breed are still thought to exert an influence over the breed.
The ‘natural facts’ of reproduction in thoroughbred breeding cast the mare
as ‘empty’, waiting to be ‘covered’ by the ‘entire’ ‘sire’. The mare is capable
of passing on those qualities perceived as typically feminine by racing society,
defects and a hot temper, whilst the stallion provides the essential spark of life.
The mare can only detract from the stallion’s unquestioned quality, the most
valued foal resembles its sire, thus reflecting its disproportionate inheritance of
his desirable attributes of speed, stamina and heart. The price of a yearling will
be most strongly influenced by its sire and its resemblance to that sire.
In Newmarket, these are not just the natural facts about racehorses. Facilitated
by the capacity for analogic thought and the ability of racehorses to become signs
and thus ‘stand for’ other things, these ‘natural facts’ influence ideas of human
relatedness also. The ‘rub’ is that even where informants’ ideas regarding human
reproduction were based upon sophisticated knowledge of genetic contribution
Conclusions 169
that contradicted monogeneticism, they still used this model to explain the life
path of an adult individual. The ‘facts of life’ according to the modern medical
profession were known but did not interest racing society to the extent that ideas
about heredity governed by male-dominated pedigree did. I would suggest that
this is because monogeneticism makes sense of a sexual and class-based division
of labour.
The insulation of ‘nature’ from ‘culture’ is no longer a given (Strathern
1992a, Latour 1993, Descola and Palsson 1996).5 Racing society is both arch
monist and arch dualist in this regard. Racehorses are treated as family members,
granted complex ‘person’alities and pedigrees and gendered traits explain both
equine and human lived trajectories. However, thoroughbred racehorses are also
‘man’s noblest creation’, the object of the ‘science’ of selective breeding, na-
ture controlled. Thoroughbred breeders depend upon dualism in order to claim
the prestige associated with the manipulation of a sphere conceived in opposi-
tion to society, and therefore ostensibly outside human control. It depends upon
monism in order to allow cultures of relatedness most fully worked out amongst
an equine population to function as a guiding axiom of human society. Crucially,
racing society depends on the ability to elide the two meanings of nature
(as both all powerful and also dominated) in racehorse breeding in order to
blur the outcome as both man-made and beyond man’s control. In addition,
eliding the two meanings provides a means of creating a boundary between
racing society and the rest of society, in that only racing society has the pedigree
necessary to control this part of nature.
In Newmarket, ‘nature’ (for the moment) retains its status as the ‘grounding’
of all meaningful articulations of the relationship between that which is fixed
and that which is variable. In addition, selective breeding, the status quo, is also
‘natural’ in relation to the alternatives of AI and cloning, in the sense of being
a threatened present regarded nostalgically. Why should this be? Despite the
motivation for selective breeding being the control of nature, I would suggest
that AI offers too much control, relieving nature of its potency and thus making
its control less attractive:
What is in crisis here is the symbolic order, the conceptualisation of the relation between
nature and culture such that one can talk about one through the other. Nature as a ground
for meaning of cultural practices can no longer be taken for granted if Nature itself is
regarded as having to be protected and promoted. (Strathern 1992a: 177)
reclaiming of Arab blood was lost on English racing society). However, racing
now depends upon Middle Eastern money to such a degree that any hint of a
reduction in this investment is met with panic. Before this investment ‘trickled
down’ so that almost everyone in the business was affected by it, Middle East-
ern buyers were regarded as ‘perverting’ the sport, by buying so many horses
that they could hardly lose. I was told that it was not ‘in the spirit of the game’
to ‘hedge your bets’ to such an extent. By buying a large proportion of each
generation of yearlings and the best broodmares, the Dubai ruling family en-
sured that they had an extremely high chance of owning at least a few talented
racehorses.
Constraining uncertainty to this degree goes against the central ethos of
horseracing and undermines all of the major roles in racing. The bloodstock
agent is employed on the grounds that he is capable of identifying those yearlings
who will make good racehorses. The stud manager is employed on the basis
that he can predict which stallion will ‘get’ a good foal from a particular mare.
Each does so on the grounds of their connections and their resultant inherent
abilities. Buying all of the available yearlings in order to guarantee winners
subverts this process by squeezing the risk out of success. Expressed within the
racing industry’s own particular idiom of morality, it was ‘just not cricket’.
Following initial hostility, resentment and resistance, the British racing in-
dustry has now softened its response, describing the endeavour as, for example,
‘Making a science out of an art’ (Down 1998: 13), but criticism is still to be
found amongst those who believe that racing should be about risk, and therefore
opportunity. As in the case of AI and cloning, too much control spoils racing,
by upsetting the balance between fixed and variable factors. Maintaining this
balance is the major preoccupation of each member of racing society, visible at
the auction, on the racecourse, on the stud farm and at the training yard.
Conclusions
My consideration of racing society in Newmarket is an attempt to respond to
Haraway’s invitation, ‘to remap the borderlands between nature and culture’
(1989: 15). The apparent boundary between humans and animals is becoming
ever fuzzier. New technologies including xenotransplantation and gene therapy
as well as zoonoses such as Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy and variant
Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease demand that we think creatively about our relation-
ships with animals. Recasting these ideas depends upon an awareness of their
present trajectories of meaning.
Meanings of ‘nature’ in Newmarket are imbued with class, and offer a mech-
anism by which people and animals may be categorised according to ideas
whereby some are innately superior to others by virtue of their breeding. This
image depends upon the symbolic associations of the horse, and in particular
172 The Sport of Kings
the English thoroughbred racehorse, the aristocrat of the horse world. The En-
glish thoroughbred is at the centre of British horseracing, and all of racing’s
consumers engage, to varying degrees, with the symbolic value of this animal.
The royal and aristocratic associations of racing and of the thoroughbred enable
owners, trainers, lads, breeders, stud grooms, stud hands, racegoers and even
punters to gain prestige. In Britain, the world to which racing pays homage is
not so long gone, as the late jockey and trainer Gordon Richards states, ‘racing
is a form of public life’ (quoted by Bowen 1994: 36), where that life still in-
cludes the navigation of hierarchies of class and of gender. This most dynamic
and yet conservative society accommodates all comers with its unique combi-
nation of the fixed and the variable. Risk offers opportunity, breeding preserves
stability. Any challenge to this society can be deflected by recourse to one or
other of these explanatory mechanisms. And so the world of racing trundles on,
principles intact. ‘All are equal on the turf and underneath it’, or so I’m told.
Oh yes, and ‘blood will tell’.
notes
1 I should add that Borneman’s characterisation of the horse in America as a ‘democratic
ideal’ (1988: 31) is based upon an analysis of light-horse breed classification and
therefore explicitly excludes the American thoroughbred that is bred on precisely the
same (blood) lines as the English thoroughbred. Both are governed by the rules of the
International Stud Book.
2 These debates often acknowledge a common origin in the work of David Schnei-
der (Yanagisako and Delaney 1995: 2). Schneider’s critique of the study of kinship
suggested that the ‘facts of life’, as described by biology, were ‘not always and every-
where the basis of kinship’ (1968, 1984). He argued that the basis of kinship theory in
sexual reproduction was a reflection of ‘European folk models’ and did not therefore
offer a sound basis for comparative analysis. Schneider’s solution to this impasse
was to abandon kinship theory, whilst later theorists have since suggested that critical
treatment of ‘the facts of nature’ may enable a new and improved form of kinship
theory to prosper (see Carsten 1999).
3 The study of risk and the perception of risk is a growing field (see, for example, Beck
1992, Douglas 1992, Lash, Szerszynski and Wynne 1996). Beck, in particular, has
described the ‘risk society’ of advanced modernity in which ‘the social production
of wealth is systematically accompanied by the social production of risks. Accord-
ingly, the problems and conflicts relating to the distribution in a society of scarcity
overlap with the problems and conflicts that arise from the production, definition and
distribution of techno-scientifically produced risks’ (1992: 19). Beck defines risk as
a ‘systematic way of dealing with hazards and insecurities induced and introduced
by modernisation itself’ (1992: 21). The risks that I am discussing in relation to
Newmarket do not succumb to this analysis. On the contrary, they are often presented
as an opportunity for the individual to exercise short-term control. Criticisms of the
new preoccupation with the unanticipated consequences of technological progress are
similarly unsuited as an explanation for behaviour in Newmarket. Furedi, for example,
condemns the ‘worship of safety’ (1997: 8), and bemoans the fact that ‘Economic life
Conclusions 173
today is clearly oriented towards the avoidance of risk’ (1997: 2). People in New-
market have a different perception of risk because it is one of the idioms by which
they progress within the context of their lives in racing.
4 Some forms of technology such as veterinary expertise are available to all trainers and
would not affect the ability to predict the outcome of the race. Other improvements
such as cameras that can track the field and sectional timing should, theoretically,
make it easier to make accurate judgements about the relative merits of individual
horses. However, as I mentioned in chapter five, horses have days when they might
just feel a bit sore, although show no outward signs of discomfort. They may also
have days when, for whatever unfathomable reason, they just don’t feel like giving
their all.
5 Studying racing society as a ‘nature’ as well as a ‘culture’, breaks down the separation
between nature and society which Latour refers to as the ‘Internal Great Divide’
(1993) making it possible to examine racehorses and racing people as hybrids. It also
facilitates the comparative study that has been made illegitimate by the ‘one nature’
model of science assimilated by anthropology. I have chosen to reject an arbitrary
distinction made between biology and culture in order to ask what, in Newmarket,
are the ‘natural facts’ of reproduction, and how does their being framed in this way
enable them to sustain racing society.
6 Sangster’s plunge coincided with a change in taxation that made Ireland a more
attractive base for stallions than ever before, enabling him to set up the world-famous
Coolmore stallion station in County Tipperary. Coolmore currently stands more than
fifty stallions on five continents, including four of the top ten stallions by earnings in
the UK.
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Index
183
184 Index