Meath's nearly man ready to break duck

The problem with caricature is that it's so often wrong. Noel Meade trains just outside of Castletown in Co Meath. A tiny village that requires a lot of signpost-gazing to find. The signpost on the outskirts was the problem.

Navan nine miles in one direction, Nobber four miles t'other. First thought? Exactly.

"Spot on Bosco, no bawther."

Let's face it, it's impossible not to. Caricature demands it.

For instance, as a card-carrying Corkman, your correspondent has been conditioned to regard Tipperary hurlers as boors of questionable parentage and Meath footballers as knuckle-dragging cavemen who only learn to walk upright after minor level.

Quite right, too, in general terms. But in specific cases, caricature is kak. After all, any self-respecting, cute Cork hoor hoping to make a living from racing would hardly insult two of the game's most passionate counties, would he?

Noel Meade loves football, especially the Meath team, but that's as far as the cartoon goes. A tall and engagingly urbane figure, Meade is one of the most articulate personalities in racing. Confident and at ease in his surroundings, he can usually be seen grinning through a cloud of cheroot smoke. It brings a nice touch of style to proceedings. Navan man natch.

This season Meade is the leading trainer in Ireland. Over £400,000 has been earned by the almost 60 winners sent out from Castletown. It's another superb term for a trainer who has consistently been in the top five for years. But then there's Cheltenham.

By now it's almost written in stone that Meade has not had a Cheltenham winner in the 23 years he has been trying. In 1981 Batista was short-headed in the Triumph Hurdle. In 1992, the frustration at seeing the hot-pot favourite Tiananmen Square beaten in the Festival Bumper caused Meade's fist to shatter the windscreen of the car taking him to Birmingham airport.

The list of placed horses is lengthening all the time with names such as Heist and Advocat. The uninitiated might say so what, what does it matter, and in the greater scheme of things it doesn't really.

But it matters to Meade because winning races is what he has devoted his whole being to since starting to train in 1972. It matters because passing the red lollipop in first place justifies that devotion and it matters at Cheltenham because that is the ultimate justification for a jumps trainer.

Think of that and then remember Meade's agonising wait for the result of the Arkle Trophy last year. Hill Society's nose was in front a stride before the line and a stride after. But Champleve's nose was on the line. It took 20 minutes to confirm it, though.

Meade waited in the winner's enclosure with television cameras transmitting every twitch of hope. The result over the PA meant quick evacuation of that coveted enclosure.

"I went straight out the gate, sat on the bonnet of a car and had a smoke. I started talking to one of the car park attendants and we discussed the problems of trying to park so many cars at Cheltenham," he says ruefully.

"I think Richard Dunwoody saved my life that day. He was coming back in and he said `Jesus Noel I don't know'. Tom Taaffe was next to me saying you've won, you've won. Even Martin Pipe said it. I think I would have been sozzled completely though if Richard had said we'd won and then the result had come out.

"To be honest I thought the cameras were unfair, putting them on people when they are as vulnerable as that. These pictures are going out to the whole world. It's an invasion of privacy with emotions running so high. A camera up your nose can pick anything up. It can pick you up scratching your balls!"

Typical Meade. The admission of being upset by the defeat and then the reassurance that "while it's the top of my priorities, I'm not going to shoot myself if it doesn't happen". The problem is it has been a long time not happening, despite his view that it's only in the last five years that he has concentrated on the jumps after a relatively unproductive concentration on the rich man's flat game.

Take Batista in '81. Meade remembers: "Again everyone was saying you've won, you've won, and then I saw Joe Byrne's (jockey) face and I knew we hadn't. Then Joe got three months for the whip. He deserved every minute, too! If he did today what he did then he'd get life. I think there is no doubt he would have won had he just gathered the horse together instead of hitting him."

Take Tiananmen Square in '92. "A helluva horse. Young Tim Hyde who rode him couldn't claim and Dunwoody was on Montelado, but he didn't really handle the fast ground. After the race I had three or four large gins. In the car back to the airport, Gillian (O'Brien, Meade's partner) said if the other horse wasn't in it we'd have won by 20 lengths and I said f*** it, threw a box at the windscreen and shattered it," he laughs.

Or Heist a year later, also in the bumper. "Charlie (Swan) rode Heist a piece of work at Fairyhouse about 10 days before and he says `I'll have the saddle off before the others are pulling up!' Turning down the hill Heist got slightly out of the race and because Charlie thought he was on such a good horse he didn't try as hard as he might to get after them. He was flying at the finish but Rhythm Section beat him. I'd say 99 per cent of the time Heist would beat Rhythm Section - but not that day," Meade says.

Take Embellished in the Triumph Hurdle, or Steel Bar in the same who never raced again after falling at the second obstacle, or Advocat who third in last year's County, or Nomadic who was another placed horse in the Triumph. Take them all and swap them for one that can actually get its head in front.

In the circumstances Meade's temperament remains remarkably even about the whole issue, especially regarding parasitic hacks urging him to relieve bad memories or jockeys who are traditionally the easiest outlet for releasing seething frustration.

"My theory is that if you put up a jockey, it's your choice because you believe him capable of doing the job. If he makes a mistake then it's your own fault. I have no problem with mistakes, but I do with stupidity. I found it very hard to forgive Paul (Carberry) for Cardinal Hill at Fairyhouse. I had it out with him. We would have fallen out if I hadn't," he says.

Cardinal Hill. The thrilling young novice who has the potential to break the duck in the opening race of the festival and not only that, break it in style. He really could be that good. Meade is sending a team that is strong in terms of quality and quantity to Cheltenham '99, but if hope has a colour then the hope surrounding Cardinal Hill is white hot.

Meade's problem with his jockey at Fairyhouse in November was that Cardinal Hill likes to be delivered with a late run in his races. Acceleration is his weapon, not being released out in the country, admittedly after a bad mistake had altered the gameplan somewhat. Yet after all that, he was only just beaten by Alexander Banquet.

"Even if he had won by a head I would have been furious with Paul. I can't believe he couldn't hold him. The horse is the most laid-back customer. I couldn't believe it when he took off. This horse doesn't give a continental about anything. A motorbike could be driven around his box and he wouldn't care. I believe if Paul had taken his time the horse would not have been off the bridle in that race," he says.

The mercurially-talented Carberry gets his chance to atone on Tuesday, something to be grateful for considering the concern Cardinal Hill has caused recently. Off colour for a week, he has now bounced back to rude good health and Meade is unconcerned about the lack of a warm-up race. Indeed, Meade is doing his best to keep things in perspective next week.

"I do think about not having had a Cheltenham winner, but if you start building yourself up you'd drive yourself nuts. If it doesn't happen, it doesn't happen. It won't be the end of the world," he says.

The laid-back approach almost works, but not quite. What if one of them actually goes and wins? The answer comes with a smile but is no less heartfelt for it.

"I'd love him forever!"

He would, too, no bother.