The life of a racehorse owner can be a turbulent ride, but even when things go off the rails it remains a very special relationship, says Simon Prout.
There are owners who enter racing through bloodstock agents, family dynasties and seven-figure sums. And then there’s me.
My journey into ownership began, as so many racing stories do, in the bookies. Growing up in Sherborne, Dorset, I would spend school holidays with my grandfather, riding on the back of his BSA motorbike into town. Mornings were often spent in the Jug and Bottle, his favourite watering hole, before we crossed the road to the bookies to watch the afternoon’s racing. While other kids were kicking a football about, I was updating betting boards under the crackle of SIS commentary.
National Hunt racing became an obsession. Boxing Days at Wincanton. Trips to the King George at Kempton. Long afternoons punting, usually unsuccessfully, but I kept going.
Ownership, though, felt like something other people did. It wasn’t for people like me. That changed one Sunday in Cornwall. We were on holiday in Polperro (a beautiful village where we now have a cottage), when I decided to place a Super Yankee on five horses. The first was a 20/1 shot at Stratford called Arthington, trained by Seamus Mullins, local to me in the Woodford Valley near Stonehenge. The remaining four were much shorter prices.
By hook or by crook, they all obliged, and by the end of the afternoon, the bet returned six figures. Pretty exciting for a humble punter like me.
The winnings went on practical things: re-thatching the cottage (at great expense, I might add), sorting a few bits, even some long-discussed weight-loss surgery! But once the dust settled, another thought crept in: perhaps I should buy a horse.
I called Seamus. He assumed I wanted a leg in something. I said, “No. I want one of my own.” As trainers do, he told me he had “just the thing”.
I also had the small task of convincing my wife that a racehorse was a sensible late Christmas present
That horse became Oborne Lady, named after my late mother. She wasn’t the most talented, but she gave us everything and gave me my first real taste of ownership. She even managed to win once, a modest handicap at Salisbury, and we had some brilliant days trying to win races with her. Eventually, we retired her when it became clear she didn’t enjoy it. She’s now doing very well in eventing, which feels right.
Then came Tommie Beau. I bought him for £18,000 during that strange period between Christmas and New Year in the Covid era. He had shown a bit of promise in a bumper, but nothing to suggest what was coming. At the time, I also had the small task of convincing my wife that a racehorse was a sensible late Christmas present. She begrudgingly agreed…
We started him over two miles, but he always looked like he wanted further. The penny dropped at Bangor-on-Dee when he stepped up to two and a half miles. We’d backed him from 66/1 into 12/1, and while he finished with a rattle we were beaten into third in a photo. No each-way money, but something had changed. Two weeks later we stepped him up to three miles, and Tommie Beau won three handicap hurdles in 10 extraordinary days at Plumpton, Fakenham and Hexham.
He travelled around 1,300 miles in the horsebox in that spell and ran over nine miles competitively. It was incredible and slightly exhausting for everyone involved.
From there, life with Tommie Beau became one of those rare racing stories you never expect to live: big days, long drives, and a sense we had something special.
There have been mishaps too. The most memorable came in a cross-country race at Cheltenham’s November meeting. At the suggestion of my great friend and jockey Micheál Nolan, we went over the banks. We were going well, apparently in front after a few fences, when everything unravelled and we ran out heading out on the second circuit. Not our finest hour, but racing has given us far more than it has taken.
Both my wife and I have been through cancer treatment – prostate cancer for me, breast cancer for her – and during those times, racing, the yard and the people around it became a constant source of support. I’ve always said the camaraderie in racing is what makes it special. At one point I even rode a horse called Frank up the gallops to raise money for children’s cancer charities. He was a giant – he had to be, to carry me at 22 stone! But we raised £19,000, which meant a great deal.
And Tommie Beau kept going too. This spring he returned to the Norfolk National, a race he’d won before, and regained his crown. Another chapter in a story that has given us so much. He recently ran a cracker at Cartmel – one of my favourite tracks, and somewhere he’s already treated us well – finishing a gallant second. Chris Cook of the Racing Post once called him “the nation’s favourite”. I’m not sure about that. But perhaps he’s the working man’s favourite… and maybe that’s enough.
That’s the thing about Tommie Beau. He’s not just a racehorse, he’s proof that one good day, one good bet and one bit of luck can change everything. And most importantly, racing still has room for stories like mine.
Simon Prout is an avid punter and prominent racehorse owner.
