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This week I came across a story about Paul Foot, the left-wing journalist, returning from an interview with Enoch Powell, the right-wing politician. Foot was in despair: “I liked him.” It’s a sensation familiar to all journalists. We meet famous people on occasions, all in the way of business. Some, dismayingly, we dislike. Some, still more dismayingly, we like.
I can think of one or two more or less popular figures who aroused a visceral loathing, even though I was planning a broadly sympathetic piece. This can be tricky professionally, but I’ll spare you the names. But I have also found myself liking — having genuine good feelings about — the most unexpected people.
I must not presume on a wartime commission here and call such people friends or even acquaintances. I just like them more than I expected, would cross a room to speak to them, not because they’re famous but because they’re likeable. Example: Sir Ian Botham, who is always cheerful and sunny and makes a point of greeting people by name. You don’t have to do that, after all. Another example: Shane Warne, who has terrific manners and real consideration for people. And he, too, is always free with friendly words.
And then there’s Sheikh Mohammed. In the late Nineties I was writing a weekly column about horses and spending a lot of time around stables, from the best racing yards to the Pony Club; bloody good fun it was too. And I visited Moulton Paddocks more than once to watch the gallops with Sheikh Mo — not that I’d dare to address him in that familiar manner — and then I went to Dubai to visit his training facilities at Al Quoz and to watch the World Endurance Riding Championship. So I have seen the Godolphin operation in action.
The first words I spoke to the Sheikh were in fact addressed to the air on Newmarket Heath when I made the error of saying exactly what I was thinking. It was half-past five of a May morning, the skylarks were in full voice and the Sheikh’s Derby runner was about to show us what she (it was a she, Cape Verdi) was made of. “You can keep the bloody races,” I said, perhaps a little tactlessly, “this is what it’s all about.” Sheikh Mohammed gave me the blowtorch stare. “You are right.” Later we talked. Sheikh Mohammed loves horses and wildlife and I can give anybody a game in those two departments.
What came through was the quite colossal joy he took in the Godolphin enterprise. It was the Arab spirit, the traditional Arab joy in the horse, made flesh in the middle of the mad horsey metropolis of Newmarket. The operation is named after The Godolphin Arabian, one of the three founding stallions of the thoroughbred dynasty. Legend: at first the horse was employed as a mere teaser, whose task was to warm the mare up for the real stallion. But The Godolphin Arabian prevailed over one choice mare and the rest is history.
The Godolphin set-up is an expression of this spirit in action. All wore the same uniform, sheikhs and grooms and all: blue jeans, white T-shirt, royal blue Godolphin bomber jacket. Not that you’d mistake the Sheikh for a mucker-outer.
The whole thing reeked of love. It was all about love of horses and the quest for excellence in horses. You could not enter the Godolphin operation without understanding that the entire vision was based on a very tough but very real passion, not just for prestige and not just for victory, but for the horses themselves. Old Arab proverb: the finest wind is the one that blows between a horse’s ears.
Now everything has gone wrong. Horses at Godolphin’s Moulton Paddocks have tested positive for steroids, the trainer who admitted doing so has gone, the stable is in lockdown, no one knows what will happen next.
And I feel desperately sad about this, not least because of this unexpected liking for the man behind it. He created something that was brilliant, original and beautiful. Now it will always be just a little spoilt.Simon Barnes – Times
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