The afternoon progressed without any major problem, that was until the third race at Ascot became badly delayed due to a horse getting loose on the way down to the start and galloping on its own right round the racecourse.
I could imagine the panic going on in the scanner as it was realized that the Ascot race would now coincide with the build-up for the big race of the afternoon at Newmarket. The pitch of the voices over the talk-back rose a notch with the tension.
‘If that damn nag at Ascot isn’t caught soon the two races will be run at the same time,’ said Neville into my ear.
It was his worst nightmare. One of the golden rules in horserace broadcasting was that no races were to be shown recorded, they had to go out live.
Once upon a time delaying a race broadcast by a bit wouldn’t have been too much of a problem but now, with internet gambling, especially the growing popularity of betting on horses actually during the running of the race, being live was absolutely essential.
‘Matthew,’ Neville called over the talk-back to the floor manager in the Newmarket parade ring, ‘see if Newmarket will hold for a couple of minutes if it looks like there’ll be a clash. Otherwise we’ll have to use a split screen.’
I watched as Matthew ran over to the weighing room to speak to the stewards. But delaying the race wasn’t usually that simple. The meeting was also being broadcast live on radio and any change in time, even by a couple of minutes, could badly disrupt their schedules.
‘Two minutes max,’ said Matthew. ‘On your call.’
‘Great, thanks,’ replied Neville. ‘Tell Kevin to get down to the seven-furlong start right now.’ Kevin was the programme runner, literally, and he would already be haring down to the course to relay the producer’s words to the starter, should it become necessary.
‘OK. Listen up everyone,’ said Neville into everybody’s ears, ‘we continue with the big race build-up here at Newmarket with Ascot shown, mute, picture-in-picture. We stay with Newmarket but go over to Ascot for their race live, if and when they’re ready. We’ll only hold the Newmarket race for the two minutes if it looks like there’s going to be a clash. We might even need to take Newmarket before Ascot. If we have to use a split screen we’ll take the commentary of whichever race starts first then switch when it finishes.’
And just when you thought things couldn’t get any worse, the director reminded everyone that we had to fit in a three-minute commercial break before Newmarket’s big race. It was part of our contract with the broadcaster.
The loose horse was finally caught and subsequently withdrawn from the Ascot race, which started ten minutes late but just in time for the Newmarket race to go off as scheduled immediately after it. And the commercial break was somehow shoehorned in before both of them.
Heart rates all round returned to normal levels and the talk-back profanity count reverted to more acceptable proportions. It was a running joke in broadcasting that recording the talk-back was a sackable offence.
Tortola Beach won Newmarket’s big race easily by three lengths and was led triumphantly into the winner’s enclosure by a beaming Austin Reynolds.
‘Mark, get a quick interview with Austin, now!’ Neville demanded into my ear. ‘It will be a good follow-up to your conversation with him on the Morning Line.’
Little did Neville know what else had been said in our conversation after the Morning Line had gone off-air.
The cameraman and I stepped forward boldly, me with a hand-held microphone at the ready like a gun. We gave Austin Reynolds no chance to say ‘no’.
‘Cue Mark.’
‘Congratulations Austin Reynolds, trainer of Tortola Beach. A great run.’
I pushed the microphone towards his mouth.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Very pleasing.’
‘You said on the Morning Line earlier today that you were confident he would stay the seven-furlong trip, and so it has turned out. Do you think this confirms that his last run at Doncaster, when he faded so badly near the finish, was just a one-off anomaly?’
He looked at me with a certain degree of loathing in his eyes.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it was.’
‘So will he run in the Two Thousand Guineas next year?’
‘Quoted at twelve-to-one for the Guineas by Corals,’ Neville said into my ear.
‘That’s the plan,’ said Austin.
‘I hear he’s currently being quoted at twelve-to-one for the Guineas by Corals,’ I said. ‘Do you think that’s a fair price?’
‘A bit short, I’d have said. He only started at tens today.’
Yes, I thought. And I wondered if part of the reason for ‘stopping’ the horse at Doncaster had been to get his starting price nice and long for this race.
‘Mark, OK, wrap the interview. Link to Iain for Ascot presentations.’
‘Thank you, Austin,’ I said, turning away from him and back to the camera. ‘And now, over to Iain Ferguson at Ascot for the presentations for their third race.’
‘Cue Iain,’ said the director and the camera’s red light went out in front of me.
I would have loved to have asked Austin Reynolds, right there and then, who he thought might be blackmailing him, and why, but I didn’t particularly want everyone else in the country to overhear his answers.
I decided to have a word with him later, after the transmission was over, and after my microphone had been removed.
The programme went to another commercial break while the cameraman covered the Newmarket trophy presentation, which was recorded in the scanner.
‘Mark,’ Neville said, ‘on return discuss the Two Thousand Guineas ante-post market caption, and then we’ll go to the VT of our trophy presentation. Coming back to you in five, four, three, two, one, cue Mark.’
I looked into the lens. ‘Welcome back to Newmarket where the place is still buzzing from that spectacular win by Tortola Beach. So let us look at the ante-post market for the Two Thousand Guineas next May.’ The graphic appeared on the screen and I went through the list, Tortola Beach now being quoted as joint sixth favourite. The graphic disappeared and I looked back into the camera lens. ‘And now we have the Millions Trophy presentation to the connections of Tortola Beach.’
‘Cue VT.’
The recently recorded footage of the trophy presentation was broadcast as I voiced-over it live while, at the same time, I had the director and producer wittering away in my ear. ‘Mark, Scoop6 update please — after four legs there are only twenty-six tickets still left in. Then hand over to Iain at Ascot. Back to you in picture in five, four, three, two, one, cue Mark.’
And so it went on, relentlessly, right through until twenty past four, when the production assistant finally said ‘shut-up’ and we could all relax.
‘Well done, everybody,’ said Neville. ‘Good job. See you all back here next week for Future Champions Day.’
‘Wow!’ said Emily when I went over to her. ‘I had no idea.’ The sound engineer had wired her up and she’d been listening to the chatter on the talk-back. ‘It’s amazing.’