Cheltenham

 Cheltenham.

Meanwhile, in one of the prettiest corners of Gloucestershire, there was heartbreak, yet another tragic fatality in the world of horse racing. We all know this is unavoidable, that the sport that so ultimately hinges so much on the financial investment of your hard earned money, can be so cruelly exposed to daunting fences and once again dominate the back pages of this morning's newspapers. But let's face it, you love a flutter on the horses, that frequent trip to the bookmakers and a bet on those seasoned thoroughbreds.

For centuries, horse racing has given us raw excitement, thrilling finishes in those final furlongs and then then the spectacle of the winning horse trotting around the paddock, jockey in colourful silks, horse breathing out  huge vapours of exhilaration and then the incessant patting on the back from delighted trainers and families of the owners who know they will rarely experience another day like this. 

Yesterday, though at Cheltenham, HMS Seahorse had to be put down so sadly that you wondered whether anybody within the horse racing world could ever live with their conscience. Why do we do this to our beautiful animals, subjected as they are to the brutal punishment of the relentless whip, the kind of barbaric treatment that if the roles were reversed, would leave us disgusted and shocked? And yet it happened again at Cheltenham and we bowed our heads in despair, failing to understand why or how.

And yet come every springtime, we gather at Cheltenham and the Irish community wax lyrical about the joys of the yearly meeting of those powerful looking horses with athletic bodies and supercharged enthusiasm. Shortly, the Grand National will be in our radar, fully equipped with the same hopes and expectations and our Irish friends will once again be hoping to see resounding victories at Aintree.

These should be halcyon days for the sport of horse racing and yet they come at a cost. Today the Cheltenham Gold Cup will become one of the most important and prestigious races on the equine calendar. Some of us are still slightly bewildered at the sheer fascination with a sport that always looks so frighteningly dangerous and yet it's a tradition, an old fashioned ritual that has to be observed. 

This afternoon, the experienced punters wearing their smart waistcoats and equally as fashionable hats will be standing next to the rails at Cheltenham, screaming and yelling their very vocal encouragement. They'll wave their betting slips, cheering on their horses to the finishing line with such animation and passion that you wonder if their lives are completely dependent on the outcome of one horse race. It does mean everything and could be the difference between another extension at the back of their houses or a holiday in the Seychelles. 

The truth is that the Cheltenham Cup represents the very pinnacle of sport at its most excitable, competitive, emotional and deeply poignant. For those who just can't keep away from William Hill and Paddy Power and have to win thousands of pounds every day, it is a drug, a disturbing addiction and obsession that just eats away into their bank balance and, at times, leaves them penniless.  But do the horses taking part at Cheltenham care? Of course they don't and that's why both the Cheltenham festival and the Grand National continues to leave us spellbound. 

But they would never have it any other way because they just adore those fleeting moments when their horse, their wager, sprints towards to the winning post and the jockey promptly flings his or her fists into the air as if the National Lottery has once again been achieved. They let go of the stirrups, stand up proudly and smile broadly at their hugely profitable afternoon. It is sport at, quite possibly, or so the critics might say, at its most mercenary, profound and meaningful. 

Then the winning steeds strut around like the proverbial peacock, puffing and panting and just relieved it's all over. And amid all the back slapping, vociferous congratulations and the promise of carrots and straw for the horses, the jockeys and trainers will slip away quietly into the background. They will all huddle together in some cosy, timber beamed pub in Gloucestershire and down a thousand pints of Guinness.  They will be feeling rightly pleased themselves because the fruits of their labours will seem like the ultimate reward and they really do deserve their day in the spring sunshine. 

The Cheltenham festival, while never attracting quite the snobbery and so called upper class elitism of either Glorious Goodwood or Royal Ascot, still holds an age old fascination that never loses its shine, sheen and lustre. Cheltenham is the curtain raiser to spring, heralding the arrival of those lovely tulips and daffodils and the precursor to Aintree, the Grand National and yet another sporting extravaganza. We do know why Cheltenham is so highly valued by its wealthy businessmen and those people who just want to rake in vast sums of money. And so we thoroughly check form and fancy in the Racing Post and we know who to look out for and those we should avoid. All the best to Cheltenham.