Brendan O’Brien, Cheltenham
A MAN could get used to this.
Yes sir.
The vast majority of bleary-eyed travellers pouring off flights from Ireland and into Birmingham Airport this morning had to pile back onto trains, into buses, or hire their own car to complete the journey to Cheltenham.
Not your Irish Examiner correspondents, though.
Our own Pat Keane’s impeccable connections in the racing world secured us a chauffeured trip down the M5 and into the Cotswolds with none other than Davy Russell and Andrew McNamara.
Davy tucked himself in behind the wheel armed with a jumbo bottle of Lucozade – it was still before 8am after all - and a pack of Marlboro Lights. Andrew even packed our bags into the trunk.
Such pampering.
And such access.
This was all something of an eye-opener for someone who has come to take for granted the defined and time-constrained access to the fourth estate by most other sports.
Scraping a decent quote is usually the height of ambition.
Cadging a lift? Forget it.
A pleasant trip it was too. The two boys might be facing into their biggest week of the year but there wasn’t a bother on either of them as we tipped along the motorway and chatted about the week ahead. Cheltenham itself has yet to rise from the slumber that is its companion for the other 51 weeks of the year but the locals know what to expect by now, even if the numbers are expected to be down.
The barmaid at the Cheltenham Park Hotel poured her first pints of the day well before noon, but only after her Irish customer had ordered three times. “Don’t worry,” she laughed, “I’ll understand you all by the end of the week.”
The chief sign of life on the way in was in and around the supermarkets – it reminded you of those old Cold War movies where people rush to stock up on tinned food before the outbreak of nuclear war.
The course is ready too. Traffic was brisk in and out of Prestbury Park by early morning on Monday, although one would expect that security will be a tad tighter come the first day of racing.
“We’re just jockeys going in for a gallop,” Russell told the girl in the garish yellow bib on the way in. Pat’s glistening silver hair – impeccable though it is – was an obvious hole in that story but she waved us on without a blink.
Davy, at least, was heading out for a trot so Andrew hopped into the driving seat. Twenty minutes later and he was pulling up to within five feet of our hotel’s front door.
Sweet.
