Bloodline

But, nevertheless, my brain would still be listening out for the word Mark just in case things didn’t go to plan and I had to step in. It was something you got used to: carrying on a conversation with a third party while listening out for your name to be spoken into your ear by the producer or director. The rest of the talk-back could float over me without really registering but I would be brought to full awareness by even the first ‘mmm’ of Mark.

The afternoon progressed without any major problem, that was until the third race at Ascot became badly delayed due to a horse getting loose on the way down to the start and galloping on its own right round the racecourse.

I could imagine the panic going on in the scanner as it was realized that the Ascot race would now coincide with the build-up for the big race of the afternoon at Newmarket. The pitch of the voices over the talk-back rose a notch with the tension.

‘If that damn nag at Ascot isn’t caught soon the two races will be run at the same time,’ said Neville into my ear.

It was his worst nightmare. One of the golden rules in horserace broadcasting was that no races were to be shown recorded, they had to go out live.

Once upon a time delaying a race broadcast by a bit wouldn’t have been too much of a problem but now, with internet gambling, especially the growing popularity of betting on horses actually during the running of the race, being live was absolutely essential.

‘Matthew,’ Neville called over the talk-back to the floor manager in the Newmarket parade ring, ‘see if Newmarket will hold for a couple of minutes if it looks like there’ll be a clash. Otherwise we’ll have to use a split screen.’

I watched as Matthew ran over to the weighing room to speak to the stewards. But delaying the race wasn’t usually that simple. The meeting was also being broadcast live on radio and any change in time, even by a couple of minutes, could badly disrupt their schedules.

‘Two minutes max,’ said Matthew. ‘On your call.’

‘Great, thanks,’ replied Neville.

‘Tell Kevin to get down to the seven-furlong start right now.’ Kevin was the programme runner, literally, and he would already be haring down to the course to relay the producer’s words to the starter, should it become necessary.

‘OK. Listen up everyone,’ said Neville into everybody’s ears, ‘we continue with the big race build-up here at Newmarket with Ascot shown, mute, picture-in-picture. We stay with Newmarket but go over to Ascot for their race live, if and when they’re ready. We’ll only hold the Newmarket race for the two minutes if it looks like there’s going to be a clash. We might even need to take Newmarket before Ascot. If we have to use a split screen we’ll take the commentary of whichever race starts first then switch when it finishes.’

And just when you thought things couldn’t get any worse, the director reminded everyone that we had to fit in a three-minute commercial break before Newmarket’s big race. It was part of our contract with the broadcaster.

The loose horse was finally caught and subsequently withdrawn from the Ascot race, which started ten minutes late but just in time for the Newmarket race to go off as scheduled immediately after it. And the commercial break was somehow shoehorned in before both of them.

Heart rates all round returned to normal levels and the talk-back profanity count reverted to more acceptable proportions. It was a running joke in broadcasting that recording the talk-back was a sackable offence.

Tortola Beach won Newmarket’s big race easily by three lengths and was led triumphantly into the winner’s enclosure by a beaming Austin Reynolds.

‘Mark, get a quick interview with Austin, now!’ Neville demanded into my ear. ‘It will be a good follow-up to your conversation with him on the Morning Line.’

Little did Neville know what else had been said in our conversation after the Morning Line had gone off-air.

The cameraman and I stepped forward boldly, me with a hand-held microphone at the ready like a gun. We gave Austin Reynolds no chance to say ‘no’.