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Jimmy Lips’ they called him. I first met him in The Bull on Newmarket’s High Street in 1994. He’d ridden his first winner days earlier. He had a permanent smile on his face on the few occasions I met him.
A personable young lad was Jimmy. He didn’t know me, but he wanted to get the drinks in. Usually a good sign of character for one who is clearly sober. It was a Sunday afternoon; the Snowball Club was in its infancy. Jimmy didn’t play football, unlike the rest of us. His passion was music. He played an instrument, a wind instrument, hence the ‘Lips’. I was introduced to him by a pal of mine, a pal, who like most young men in this most cosmopolitan of towns – the most cosmopolitan of towns I’ve ever known – found it impossible to stride down the High Street without a nod of acknowledgment to all.
He claimed 7lbs did Jimmy Lips, riding horses was not his ambition, being in a band was; he didn’t expect to make all the running in that Wolverh ampton egg and spoon race. His ambitions didn’t include reaching the pinnacle of the jockey ranks, or having his name up in lights above a restaurant door. He was a normal lad. But not for long.
He took his own life just a few weeks later. A Newmarket statistic.
Just what is it about Newmarket that attracts young lads and lasses from all over the world to pack a bag and head for this wonderful little place? The lure of the place is hypnotically enticing for those with aspirations in the world of horse racing, whether it’s to be a jockey, a groom or for some just to be involved to build a career in the media.
I moved there in 1994, staying in a B&B in nearby Barrow. A B&B where the late Raleigh Gilbert, one of my commentating heroes, was also a guest. A quiet man, who spent hours in the study, memorising his colours and making notes. The owner of the house was a retired Army Major, Barney Griffiths, a former chief at the British Racing School, and a part-time judge at Huntingdon racecourse.
He was a stickler for discipline was Barney, even though I was a paying guest. Eating in the rooms was a no-no; his wife Anne used to slip me a plate of toast late at night in the winter, as the nearest shop in this rural village, not far from Seb Sanders, was closed. If he ever found out he’d go nuts, even though I saw Raleigh sneak sandwiches in from time to time. But then again this was Channel 4 Racing’s Raleigh Gilbert. I was a nobody.
I bought a house in Cheveley a year later off legendary jockey Doug Smith’s son Michael, who ran a photographic shop on Old Station Road. A modest terraced house sandwiched between two houses, both owned by the nearby Cheveley Park Stud. Mobile phones were not about then – at least I never had one, and certainly not one with a camera – which was a shame as Lee next door, who worked on the stud, took me around and gave me a leg up on the Grand National winner Party Politics, a bareback sit, boy it was a long way down. Another memory.
One of my earliest memories was the day I’d finished work on the Bury Road – I worked for a great friend on racing publications – and my car was busy being serviced. So I thought I’d walk the three miles out to the village. The journey took me past Stoute’s, Wragg’s and indeed Prescott’s, when the heavens unexpectedly opened heralding a biblical storm. A mile into the walk, I thrust out my thumb to some passing cars. A silver Mercedes stopped, offering me a lift, the driver looking vaguely familiar. He asked in his broken English where I was going; he didn’t really know the area, having just moved there from the Middle East, but happily took me the remaining two miles or so.
I invited him in for a drink to thank him, and he accepted. Water. He had recently had a dramatic career change from a policeman to racehorse trainer, and for a few short weeks I helped show him the area. Indeed one memory is very vivid. I arranged to show him the nearby American Air Base at Lakenheath a couple of days later. He picked me up and we had gone only half a mile, taking a short cut through the little village of Kentford, when he slammed on the brakes and got out of the car.I thought he had hit a young deer, a frequent sighting in this area, but he was fascinated by a hedgehog walking across the road. He had never seen one before and grilled me about it. I could have sworn he thought about taking a picture. Now David Attenborough I am not, but I did my best to explain what it was, and on we went, up past Mildenhall and up to see the war planes at the airbase.
On my regular trips back to Liverpool I would relate the story to groups of friends, the sceptics amongst them found this story hard to digest, and thought I had acquired a passport to la-la-land, but true it is to this day. I wonder whether Saeed Bin Suroor remembers it; I suspect so.
High Rise was always highly regarded at Bedford House. He won a little race at Pontefract under the excellent Jason Weaver, and from this point his master trainer was thinking ‘Derby horse’. A few lads rode him at home, young Justin, Ian and of course the jocks would have a sit on him now and again. Justin was an especially likeable lad and a sometime member of The Snowball Club.
The Snowball Club came about by chance. After Sunday Morning football matches and after a long week at work it was time to unwind, a lunchtime drink in ‘The Yard’, where the landlady dished out little roast potatoes to us on those cold days of winter. Then me and my best pal would stride down the High Street for a chat, usually about those ‘special’ gallops, and horses having a ‘quiet one’.
Sundays in Newmarket were a day when the stable staff were generally off, no work for the horses, unless they were running Monday and needed a stretch, so some of the lads would make an appearance at lunchtime. Some were new to the town and enjoyed the company. We would stroll around from pub to pub having a chat and a pint of lime and soda: far too early for anything else. My pal knew everybody in Newmarket and everything about Newmarket, so by the time it reached 2 or 3 o’clock there would be a few of us, some of whom would normally nip back to mine and watch the football before coming back down in one of those distinctive black and yellow taxis to meet up again, some nicely fuelled and in high spirits. The Snowball Club was born. The name? The more we rolled down the high street the more lads joined us.
On one of these afternoons, one of the lads decided to cut up all the Sunday papers into the size of £20 notes and sandwich them between two real ones in an effort to ’impress’ a few stable lasses by pulling out the wedge at the bar and getting a round in. It worked a treat for this young chap – let’s call him Mark – until the time he got the wedge caught on the corner of his jeans when pulling it out to impress with a ‘round‘, and as quick as you can say the words ‘my shout’ the floor of the Waggon & Horses was full of News of The World, Sunday People and Sunday Mirror newsprint. Mark’s Snowball Club membership was frozen for a few weeks as he mysteriously was usually ‘out of town’ when we called him on Sundays…can’t think why!
Justin, although not a staunch member of the club was still great fun, and loved Le Chat Noir, the mini night club, always known as Stanleys. He taught High Rise a lot.
Justin took his own life not long after. A Newmarket statistic.
I wasn’t lucky enough to know another lad Geoff, who worked at Cecil’s and did a bit of boxing, or indeed Scotsman Eric, who looked after Champion Hurdle winner Hors La Loi and was by all accounts a very popular lad. They both took their own life. I did know a couple of trainers who also had an early visit from the angels. One a lovely man, a good friend of my MD, and whose children went to the same school. His heartbroken family left behind following the desperate news of him taking his own life in nearby woods. Another trainer, David Cosgrove also left us. Four more.
Newmarket, a town full of some of the most wonderful, salt-of-the-earth, giving people. Yet a town of intense mystery. A town where, in certain circumstances, people who know each other well and do business cannot be seen to be ’friendly’ in public –the reasons apparent to those who understand the intricacies of Horse Racing and gambling.
In the winter, like now, it becomes a lonely place. Not a ghost town as such: one will still see the strings, albeit smaller ones, heading off to Warren Hill for a canter; the weekends remain the same, the Christmas shoppers, the revellers who set off at the top of the High Street on a libational journey past the hostelries on their right-hand side, ending up at ‘Millionaires’ (formerly The Orange House), via The Bull or The White Hart, and ending up around the Yard.
What is it about Newmarket that saddens these young lads and lasses?
Quite clearly, deep-rooted issues may be at the core; we all like to think we are medical professionals when passing opinion on such sad matters. Why do they go to places like Newmarket, Lambourn or Malton in the first place? The huge percentage call is that they have aspirations, but is it not also likely that they experience sadness at home: pressures, issues or even more serious childhood occurrences? It is a topic which highlights the importance of the Racing Welfare organisation. It is statistically (that word again) an even-money chance that a suicide in Newmarket will involve somebody who works in racing.
I bought a taxi business just after the millennium, drove one and rented another out. Some of things I saw were beyond belief. It is at this point that I started to learn about the real ‘dark side’ of the town. I picked them all up, famous jockeys, trainers, and was privy to a lot of sensitive information. I had regular customers whose trips to the off licence were, in some cases, daily:
I saw the other side of the town.It is a town that is a magnet for young jockeys, grooms and riders. They come from Ireland, Poland, Japan, every corner of the globe. This charismatic town, jam-packed with characters, like Jock, who was reportedly ‘weighed in’ to thrust a cake in the face of a certain TV celeb, or Mick the Fish, who when I met him thought he acquired his nickname because he fished about for winners and was very well-connected, but no – it was because he drank like a fish and it never seemed to affect him. Remarkably though, he knew his horses, especially the one’s that were going to ‘move’ before they did.
A lot of my friends, and indeed my family, have urged me to write about my experiences in Newmarket, and I have held off. But with the onset of winter, I feel it is important for ordinary folk like myself to try and do a little to help raise awareness on this delicate matter. I do not want to paint a grey picture of Newmarket: it is, and always be, will be a special town with special people. On the contrary, as with life, there is sweet and sour, hot and cold, happy and sad.
But to brush sensitive subjects under the rug seems wrong. Stable staff are the lifeblood of the sport, up at 4.30 am (if you work for Clive Brittain) in all weathers, on half ton of horseflesh with only skilful hands and a skullcap as protection.
Yes, fond memories are embedded, laughter, joy and excitement are all deep-seated recollections for the years ahead of us, but beneath it all is a sadness. A real sadness. Racing Welfare are a 24/7 operation catering for 518 licensed jockeys, 11,000 stable and stud staff and 600 lower-ranking trainers. Each and every one of these men and women are the backbone of
the sport we love, who face the same physical and mental stresses as higher-profile colleagues.Racing Welfare are contactable every second of every day on 0800 6300443 on a helpline, and when I rang them, they got back to me in less time it takes to runs a Cheltenham Gold Cup.
Thanks for reading
Since writing this in December there has been another one, sadly only briefly reported. Maybe because the ‘man’ was foreign but had worked for a stable up until recently.
Hanleyontheball 