
Anyway, come 7th June, my birthday, what should happen? I received two copies of John le Carre's book and one of Philip Kerr's, meaning that I had two copies of each of them. And they were perfect presents because I love the work of both authors,
and they are both terrific books. So part of the remedy was taking the (still untouched) copy of 'A Man Without Breath' which I had bought from Tindalls' back to the shop - and asking not for a refund, but to use the money thus refunded, plus some more, to buy some other books. Hence my treating myself to second-hand copies of two of Roger Mortimer's books, 'Great Racehorses of the World' and 'The Jockey Club'.
Strangely, I have owned a copy of Roger Mortimer's and Peter Willett's second 'Great Racehorses' volume for maybe 35 years, since I was at school. I remember reading it and really enjoying it. But I'd never owned or read a copy of the first volume. But now I've put that right, have read a few of the essays and am enjoying it greatly. And I've just finished the other Roger Mortimer book, a history of the Jockey Club, published in 1958. It's good to mention these books today as today saw the running of the Peter Willett Conditions Stakes at Goodwood - and it's good to write about this now as I've probably been upsetting people who are alive in this blog recently, so if I can stick for once to people who are dead, it's probably not a bad idea.
Anyway, Roger Mortimer's history of the Jockey Club is superb, and I'll inflict a few of its finest passages on you. You might have read the Roger Mortimer book 'Dear Lupin' recently, which isn't a Roger Mortimer book in the sense that it wasn't written by Roger Mortimer as a book, being instead a collection of letters which he wrote to his prodigal son, who seemingly has scented a fast and easy buck by putting the letters together as a book. The prose is, of course, sublime - but I couldn't read it as I had an uneasy suspicion that Roger Mortimer would be spinning in his grave at the thought that his private correspondence was being gawked over by the general public.
And not only that - nowadays it has become common for members of the press to believe that they are of greater interest than the people/events whom/which they are supposed to be reporting; but I feel that Roger Mortimer would be horrified by this modern trend. He'd regard the turning of the domestic politics of the Mortimer family, and the largely fruitless attempts of a father to turn his feckless son into a normal member of the human race, into the subject of a book as an abomination, coming as he did from a generation superior to that which regards 'reality TV' as an acceptable form of culture and entertainment. Anyway, his son has allowed the modern audience to believe that the non-events in 'Dear Lupin' are a satisfactory reminder of the genius of Roger Mortimer, one of the greatest writers ever to favour the turf with his attention. In so doing, he has rendered his father a massive disservice: Roger Mortimer was far, far better an author than that book implies. And these few selected passages from 'The Jockey Club' can remind us of his genius.
Much of the book concerns interesting members of the Jockey Club over the centuries. How about the thirteenth Earl of Eglington, who "is still remembered for ... his drinking match with Sir David Baird"?


"After a few more bottles, however, Eglington's conversation grew rather less voluble and he began to show signs of distress. At last, white as death, he rose slowly from his chair, declared he could drink no more, and staggered from the room. Baird, on the contrary, was still completely unaffected. He played three games of billiards with Squire Osbaldeston, winning two of them, before he went to bed, and the next morning he was out on the Heath before breakfast smoking a short, foul pipe. Lord Eglington rose somewhat later and felt unable to wear a hat all day."
Or how about Colonel Anson?

Or King George V, who must have been cut from the same cloth as his grand-daughter, our Queen?
"It is perhaps worth mentioning that at the time of his coronation, the lads at Newmarket subscribed sixpence each to give the King a pair of race-glasses as a present. He was genuinely touched by this kindness, and of all the gifts he received, this, out of thousands, was the only one he insisted on giving thanks for in person. He met a deputation of three lads, and there were tears in his eyes when he expressed the very real pleasure that the present had given him."
Those words together would form less than one page of a book of 176 pages, a book which is a true delight, a terrific source of both information and entertainment. It was a pleasure to read - and we've got plenty of pleasures at present, as this chapter's photographs, taken since I posted the previous chapter of this blog, make clear. We're into September so the summer might now be Indian, but it's still really, really special.
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