The Grand National, one of England's finest and grandest of horse races

The Grand National- one of England's finest and grandest of horse races.

It was tea time at Aintree race course and the Randox Health Grand National had been over for a couple of minutes. One of England's finest and grandest of sporting spectacles had passed into the annals of sporting folklore and in a quiet corner of Liverpool a gentleman named Derek Fox gratefully accepted the joyous pats on the back and revelled in the triumphant aftermath of his horse's Grand National victory. It was a quintessentially, indisputably, gloriously and uniquely English moment and none captured the sheer Englishness and air of tally- ho showmanship that follows every horse into a Grand National winning paddock.

The winner of this year's Grand National was a horse called One For Arthur and much to my personal frustration and private annoyance this was not my choice and I have to tell you that I simply cried into my mug of tea with a sense of hurt and lingering disappointment. But now that the dust has settled I can finally console myself with the knowledge that my horses Drop Out Joe and Pleasant Company preferred not to finish as is their prerogative and were last seen galloping along the wide and sandy beaches of Blackpool or maybe they didn't fancy their chances. I have to tell you that this is not the end of the world but the least they could have done was to give me prior warning of their intentions.

Every year those with just a passing interest in horse racing walk into their local bookmakers, take one look at the screens and then cast their eyes at a bank of TV screens, the flashing images of horses trotting around paddocks or sprinting towards the finishing line in  time honoured fashion. I have to say that this morning's visit was perhaps one of the first and therefore proved much more than a novelty.

 Around me there were TV screens constantly revealing the latest Aintree prices, an incessant barrage of horse racing wisdom and on one screen the ongoing developments of an Australian rules football match which lacked any relevance to horse racing. Still I did rather sheepishly wander into Ladbrokes with my potentially lucrative betting slip but then realised that the Grand National was a complete lottery and my choice of horses amounted to no more than random gambling, simple guess work and pin sticking.

Still in the hours leading up to one of Britain's most celebrated of Spring races we all huddled around our radios and TVs in the most amusingly optimistic mood praying all the while that our horse would  win the National by several country miles. But I'm not sure what happened to either Drop Out Joe or Pleasant Company but there must have been a lovely meadow near Aintree and that grass was probably a much more appetising alternative. Besides those carrots and sugar were infinitely preferable to a famous horse race in front of a nationwide TV audience. No contest it would seem.

And so it was that the traditional field of horses lined up at the start of that mad, four mile horsey gallop, that wonderful equine cavalry charge where a well disciplined regiment of horses charge recklessly towards those much loved fences or what look to be hedges in some cases. Then they surge and  accelerate towards each fence with all the reckless abandon of seasoned thoroughbreds, horses with immaculate temperaments and well groomed manes.

The flag went up for the start of the National and there they went, hundreds of hooves thundering across the Aintree turf as if their lives depended on it. Then they all hurtle towards fence after fence gripped by the occasion and determined to successfully overcome the formidable Beechers Brook, quite the most notorious fence in the National and then perhaps regretting the decision to take part in the race. Maybe an afternoon in a lush English field would have been just the ticket.

The pace gathers in momentum and the horses pick up the most irrational of all speeds, driving themselves forward with what seems like obsessive determination and urgency. It almost seems as if most of the horses can't wait to get back to their stable for a good old fashioned feast of hay and sugar. Oh to be a Grand National horse in the 21st century. Mind you this is the way it has always been so nothing has changed in the illustrious history of this most ancient of horse races.

Together the horses and jockeys go head to head, nose to nose, climbing those nightmarishly daunting fences, united as horses but terrified in case they do lose and nobody ever remembers them again. As the race progresses, they look ferociously at each other, locked together in battle and adamant that this should be their day. It is one of English sport's most remarkable of sights, horses risking life and limb, leaping awkwardly over one fence after another and then landing just as horrifically before dismounting their jockeys and just staggering towards the finishing line on their own.

Now the remaining horses approach the Chair, another desperately frightening fence and still they remain bunched together in almost unreasonable proximity. For the final mile they all jump again and in a few fleeting seconds it's all over for some of nature's most noble animals. Jockeys go flying into orbit, thick clumps of grass and mud soaring into the air as horse after horse face the familiar fall from grace. There is still a disturbing air of cruelty and brutality about the Grand National that does leave you feeling cold at times. How many of these horses tonight will have to be put down after suffering a fatal fall. It seems outrageously heartless and yet the National survives.

So here's what happened to my choice of horses. Drop Out Joe, perhaps predictably, dropped out of contention finishing a creditable ninth, strolling back to its stable with a broken and defeated air. Oh if only it had gone that extra yard just for me. It was roughly a half an hour after the race that I discovered the fate of my horse. You can imagine what poor old Drop Out Joe must have been going through. How did you let me down Drop Out Joe particularly since a horse called One For Arthur beat you to the finish? You could have had shown a little more decency and finish more respectably.

 If only Joe had shown a little more stamina, staying power, guts and fortitude. If only it had eaten a proper breakfast then maybe just maybe it would have raced home to win the National convincingly. But it didn't and while not heartbroken I keep thinking what might have happened to Joe as opposed to Arthur. I hope you're satisfied Arthur.  Now go back to your sugar.

Then there was my other horse Pleasant Company who started the race with the wonderfully gifted Ruby Walsh in the saddle. Now Pleasant Company surely lives up to his name and billing and is almost appropriately friendly when the mood takes him or her. But hey come on Pleasant Company you were just being rude and unco-operative and, I have to tell you, very disagreeable, and quite frankly objectionable. In fact Pleasant Company was just downright unpleasant and it's time for bed.

Then I took a very real interest in my wife's choice of National horses and found, much to my disgust, that both had done just as poorly as mine. Regal Choice and Doctor Harper were probably discussing the merits or demerits of Brexit and Donald Trump or maybe browsing the Racing Post or even indulging in a flutter of their own.

For the record One For Arthur was the outright winner of the Grand National followed by Cause of Causes, St Are and Blak Lion. But by now I was so disenchanted with the whole afternoon of racing that I was tempted to rip up my betting slip and just forget about Aintree for another year. It seemed a wasteful tea time vaguely hoping that my horse would actually win the National. I've a vague recollection of actually winning the Grand National many years ago but it almost seems as if it didn't happen.

Perhaps the best footnote on the Grand National came shortly before the race itself. It was revealed that an old betting slip had been unearthed after 43 years of gathering dust and neglect. On the slip itself one of the greatest horses of all time had brought a nostalgic lump to our throats. It was the horse the nation had fallen in love with and adored for eternity. Red Rum would become a nice little earner for the recipient of one very happy family.

In the mind's eye I can still see the majestic Red Rum galloping to victory in the Grand National after an alarmingly tiring Crisp who just seemed to run out of steam, Red Rum powering to the finishing post with a marvellous flourish. The next year Red Rum did it again and for the rest of  its career, Red Rum would capture a million hearts. How does the Grand National do it? Maybe the answer lies in a Scottish stable where a horse called One For Arthur enthralled the masses on another historic day.