Slagging off jockeys is the easiest exercise in racing. It's fun too - which is just as well, since there isn't a race fan alive who hasn't, at some stage of their lives, felt they've done their dough as a result of some overwhelming piece of stupidity by a little man in fancy dress.
So, when it happens, sometimes there's nothing else left but to curse their miniature, black souls to hell. Everyone's different though. Many manage to swallow their bile and maybe find a large wall to silently batter their brains against after being subjected to what is euphemistically called "pilot error".
However, only occasionally does a jockey have to put up with actual abuse. There have been displays of gross ineptitude on racecourses in Ireland, which in more excitable territories would have had the locals reaching for petrol bombs. But here there's almost a protocol: there might be a shout or two from the punters, but, in return, the jockey will exhibit the kind of skin that is so thick, it normally only exists around the nether regions of veteran Mongol goat-herders.
Their composure can be attributed to the fact that any jockey with a functioning brain cell, and admittedly there are those who doubt such creatures exist, knows that they're the ones living the dream. That absolute certainty is unavoidable when you come to Epsom for the Derby, still the greatest day of the racing year.
Recently, it has become fashionable to proclaim how unfashionable a mile-and-a-half around a glorified fairground ride is for some of the best horses in the world. But, somehow, that still doesn't stop everyone wanting to win it. This is Derby number 228 and, more than anything, it's the history of this race that has defined the industry. From the breeding side, to racing the greatest champions, to providing a centrepiece of excellence around which all else hangs, the Derby defines every year.
Plenty of people automatically associate a year with its Derby winner. 1968 may have been the summer of riots, but, much more important, was Sir Ivor and Piggott bolting up. The Berlin Wall might have come down in 1989, but mention the year to many of the 100,000 people attending this year's Derby and it's Nashwan and Willie Carson they'll throw back at you, not Gorbachev.
It's always the horse and jockey that conjure the lasting image. All the stress might sit on the trainer's shoulders and the owner may be the one coughing up all the money, but no youngster ever rode a bike down a hill pretending they trained or owned this mythical champion underneath them. The thrill is in being on board.
Through reasons of talent, aptitude - and let's not fool ourselves - size, not everyone gets the chance to live the dream of whistling around Tattenham Corner on Nijinsky. But at the back of our heads remains the flame that ignited the passion for the game in the first place.
So, when the 18 runners and riders parade in front of the stands, and Messrs Dettori, Kinane and Co look up at the packed stands, they're looking at a lot of extremely jealous people. Even the Queen must wonder how she would go about riding the hot favourite Authorized - if she wasn't older than God and cursed with a family that should have been culled from the stud book long ago.
Today, practically every jockey in the western hemisphere appears to be riding for Aidan O'Brien. Eight of the runners are from Ballydoyle, a record total from one source, and as clear a sign as anyone needs that so many darts are being thrown at the board only in the fervent hope that one might stick.
It's a rule as old as the Derby: if a trainer thinks he has a hatful up to classic standard, then he doesn't have anything. By common consent, it is Peter Chapple-Hyam who has the outstanding mile-and-a-half three-year-old this year in Authorized, who must not only carry Frankie Dettori, but also the colossal media bandwagon that accompanies the little Italian.
Dettori is an acquired taste. For every 10 who love his ebullience and that ridiculous accent, there is sure to be someone else who will dismiss him as a loud fake. A couple of short interviews are no basis for any sort of conclusive verdict, but the fake tag does seem to be way off beam.
Prolonged exposure to all that Who's-the-Daddy? stuff would have most of us eventually reaching for a revolver, but that's just Frankie. He is what he is and we should be grateful. Since he is the face of the game to the wider public in these islands. Never ever forget that John McCririck is next in line.
Today, Frankie is the only story in town and, after 14 losers in the race, he wants to win more than any other - it's hardly a surprise that the race is being billed as the Frankie show. There is an almost-perceptible wave of goodwill pulling him towards the finishing line.
From a betting point of view, however, it's probably best to do ice-cold right now rather than gooey feel-good. So, boiling it down, this Derby can only have two results. Either Authorized will hose up or there'll be a shock result. A battling neck success by the favourite doesn't even feature on the radar. That's just a hunch, but a reasonable one.
There's little doubt that he is impossible to crab on form and preparation, but the same was said of the last three odds-on favourites and they all got stuffed. Nevertheless, the idea of hanging out for evens somewhere and going for broke with the whole kit-and-caboodle is tempting. In fact, it is far too tempting, and it's born out of an impulse that, at this stage in the project really should be better behaved.
Eventually, sanity gets a muzzle on its dark cousin, but, sad to say, not deciding on an Authorized blowout is probably due more to prejudice than any good sense. Confidence is always described as being the key weapon in a jockey's armoury, but it always seems that Dettori is more reliant on it than most.
At his bubbly best, there's no one better, and because he has such style in the saddle, he can do things that make people shake their heads and smile at the sheer skill of it all. But when the bubbles disappear, it can be a flatter story than the final Star Wars. It's a decade since the biggest cock-up of Frankie's career, but the thought still won't go away that, with all this pressure, all that Mediterranean emotion might erupt into a brainstorm of tropical intensity.
The impression left when Swain lost his chance of winning the Breeders' Cup Classic remains vivid - and with Frankie more than anyone. He has already said that if there's ever a This Is Your Life on him, Swain will probably come clumping on just to remind everyone of that horror show. Basically, he lost it.
After doing the hard job of smuggling the European turf champion into a position to beat the best Yanks on dirt, he started slapping Swain's arse as if it was some particularly dusty carpet - except he got to work with his left hand. Not unnaturally, Swain reacted to this assault by drifting right to such an extent that he ended up almost mowing down the photographers in position under the stands. Frankie's initial pop-eyed response was to blame said snappers for distracting Swain. He fooled no one.
Dettori's record since has firmly put to bed any suggestion that he is one of those sportsmen who never fails to rise to the small occasion, but the nagging doubt remains. He's coming here on a Derby losing streak and a worryingly long losing stretch in the past fortnight. Godolphin, his main employers, are also colder than Christmas when it comes to winning form. There's no point ignoring the little voice that keeps saying another psychological eruption wouldn't be the weirdest thing to ever happen.
Plus, it's not as if shock candidates have to be tortuously dug out of the formbook. Who'd have thought a couple of months ago at Leopardstown that Mahler would end up making the Derby? But here he is, and alongside is Yellowstone. Archipenko is second favourite and yet the horse that should have beaten him in the Trial is gliding between 70/1 and 80/1 on Betfair.
It's a no-brainer, each way bet, although there is also no getting away from the fact that place betting on the exchanges can often be lousy value. Mahler is a different beast. He, too, was trading at huge odds on Betfair last night, but the idea of losing out on even better prices today prevented me from playing.
Greed got its just desserts and, lo and behold, "Pricewise" in the Racing Post tips him up at 50/1 and Mahler's odds start dropping fast. The resulting fury I feel at having missed out on the real big stuff is diluted by a ridiculous sense of proprietorial pride. That's my boy, Gustav, you underappreciated genius, you. The result is that his odds plummet to 20/1 and 33/1 is the best offer on the exchange.
The upside comes from being at least on the same sort of wavelength as the column that labels itself the world's best tipping service. We are communal beasts after all - only the psychotic get off on being different all the time.
The race itself isn't so much a race as a coronation. Yellowstone starts at the back and stays there while Mahler suffers another attack of the slows. At the top of the hill, he gets a brief glimpse of reflected fame as he races alongside Authorized. But it is very brief.
Another €200 is gone. But it doesn't matter. It should matter, and it does in an annoying, scab-on-the-elbow kind of way, but not enough to deflect from one of the most impressive Derby winners you'll ever see. Authorized cruises around the hurdy-gurdy excuse for a racetrack like he's on rails.
The newspaper game can place enough time pressure to make anyone reach for the most convenient cliché, but if poetry in motion ever meant anything, it was surely for something like this.
For those of us who think a galloping thoroughbred is a thing of beauty, it's a rare treat to watch this magnificent bay colt pass the post with his tongue lolling out in contempt of the opposition behind him. Authorized really does look that good. If anyone needs a bet to get a kick out of him today, then they should rent a spot in their local casino and simply pump the slots.
Not surprisingly, the story is Frankie. But, even while writing it up, there are those in the long media room at the top of the Queen's Stand who pepper the quietly frantic atmosphere with suggestions that a rare horse is being overlooked because of the public's demand for Dettori.
Maybe there's something in it, but to dismiss the ride because he was on the best horse is to be horribly negative about a wonderfully ballsy effort.
The early pace up that hill was enough to have the field stretched after a couple of furlongs and the easy option on a hot favourite would have been to sit close off it and appear to give the horse every chance. For a jockey low on winners and high on the pressure of an entire industry willing him to succeed, the temptation to try and stay out of trouble must have been huge.
Instead, Frankie backed his instincts, took his time and collected. All it needs to be perfect is for someone else to be collecting a large cheque. €5,000 to €4,000 has a nice ring to it. Who knew Authorized would end up odds against? The Frankie Factor might have been ditched this morning in a hurry. No matter what any flint-eyed pro might say, it would have felt better to win big on the Derby winner rather than some 5/4 job in a maiden at Bellewstown. Anyone who doesn't think so may as well be betting on those ridiculous virtual reality races the betting shops put on for the brain dead.
Authorized's backers, and one guy is reported to have had a cool half a million on, will always look back on the old clips they play on the telly every year and feel more than a little tremor of nostalgia when Derby 2007 is replayed. They've bought their own little bit of history, whether it's for a fiver or with five zeroes added on.
However, everything is relative. A couple of days later, Naas on a Bank Holiday Monday may not have the lustre of Epsom, but it does have a filly called Potion running in the mile-and-a-quarter fillies handicap. Potion is no star. The most noteworthy thing about her is that she is owned by JP McManus' daughter, Sue Ann.
But she did manage to finish runner-up in a Tralee maiden as a two-year-old and her only start this year was in that hot Leopardstown maiden that Karen and her family watched from the traffic jam. There's still even a hazy impression of her black colours going past us, admittedly a long way behind the winner - but seeing as the winner was All My Loving, Friday's Epsom Oaks third, it was hardly a disgrace to get outclassed.
A handicap for fillies rated between 50 and 80 is a very different kettle of fish. Potion has to be a player now. In the parade ring, she looks ready to run for her life, all bounce, but not so much that she's ready to boil away her chance. A chestnut creature called Baby Blue Eyes is the big danger in the betting, but, in the looks stakes, Potion is a clear winner. Unfortunately, there's no pay out on beauty.
While contemplating the unfairness of such a state of affairs, the importance of actually being present on the racecourse is emphasised in a big way. As heads-ups go, it's pretty much unbeatable. If the value of a tip can be gauged by the volume at which it is delivered, then this one is whispered gold. Potion, apparently, is ready to run for her life, this is her classic - a now-or-never job. My very own Deep Throat is one of those characters who like to speak with racecards covering their mouths. To hear him I have to press my head closer than I should necessarily have to with another man. But it's a small price to pay.
"DT" knows the night before what each trainer in south Tipperary is going to have for his breakfast. "They won't see this thing's arse for grass," he sighs, lips barely moving. "You can have what you like on, but keep it to yourself."
Even while digesting this joyful news, there is the nagging question of why "DT" is telling me. For years, he has been one of those faces that you see at the races and might occasionally nod at in acknowledgement. If we've exchanged more than 20 words, it would be a surprise. The receptionist at the Paddy Power office knows me better. Has he slipped and knocked his head? Is he drunk? "As I say, keep it to yourself," he repeats, and walks off, the card still protecting his mouth from running away.
In such a situation - with doubts piling in about why I should be so fortunate - a shrewd man will step back, consider the Cui Bono bit, and come to a rational and sensible conclusion: emulating such behaviour while busily legging it to the ring is difficult. Forget Betfair, this is going to be a real job. Potion opens at 7/2 and quickly tightens to 100/30.
With over five minutes to the off-time, it's tempting to play now and find someplace dark and private to quietly panic. But with €500, the max, moistening in my sweaty paw, something says wait. It's the same sort of greed that saw Mahler's big odds disappear, but, this time, it pays off. Some serious wedge starts appearing for Baby Blue Eyes. Arms begin busily tic-tacking and bookies' runners start pushing past, shouting into walkie-talkies like Secret Service agents with a president down. Potion's price starts to lengthen to 4/1, then 9/2 and then, as the horses start to load, she hits 5/1. Normally, such a drift would be a big worry, but not this time. Then this brave soul goes 11/2.
"Twenty-seven fifty to a monkey," my benefactor shouts to his clerk. "Quickly now."
"DT" and his pals are evidently made of hardier stuff because they leave it even later, but they get enough down for Potion's starting price to be 4/1. Fran Berry makes full use of stall two and bounces Potion out quickly to take up second position and sit in what's called the "cat-bird" seat just off the leader's tail. Early in the straight, he pounces and quickly gets the others at it.
A furlong out, there's a brief stab of concern when the outsider, Chakeera, threatens to run on, but Potion has three quarters of a length in hand at the line.
As she goes by the post, the Tote Hall is at the eye of only a minor shrieking storm. Euphoric levitation as a mode of transport has a lot to recommend it, especially when it takes you a good foot off terra firma. There's nothing quite like the rush a big win gives. As Virgil says, quick money is the best of all. But there's more to it this time. Everything came together. Potion was a standout in the parade ring, and her form gave her a big shout. But then came that information to wrap up the proposition.
Who knows why "DT" bleated? Maybe Virgil has been talking to people. But who cares? She's won.
The €3,000 feels like nothing but that's because of the €500 notes. Without wishing to sound all "love me, love me, I'm an innocent", the purple money really does have a luxuriant richness to it that's enough to make you feel quite rakish.
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