Who to Bet On at the Cheltenham Gold Cup

All photos by Chris Bethell 

Remember lovable misogynist and human skin deposit John McCririck? Recall the way you'd go to your nan's on a Saturday, scoff crisp sandwiches and giggle outrageously as he stood in a field, yelling directly into camera like an out-of-breath car park attendant? Then in the mid-2000s, when he went on Celebrity Big Brother and told feminist commentator Germaine Greer that he calls his wife "Booby"? The deer stalker! The mutton chops!

What's John McCririck even up to now? A quick google will lead you to an answer: his YouTube channel. The same hat, glasses, tweed – but the mood is a little different. 128 subscribers; videos averaging around 80 views; not one posted for a year. Sorry to break it to you, but the great contrarian has fallen.

Where did it all go wrong for the biggest name in horse racing? Well, in 2013, Channel 4 sacked him, citing his "pantomime persona" and "self-described bigoted and male chauvinist views" as reasons. On top of that he was dreadful at his job. I mean, I spent every Saturday of my youth watching the man, and have no idea what a "blinker" or a "bridle" means, and I'm desperate to learn! I love the idea of racing: the constant competitions; bibles of statistics; complexion of bookies up-and-down every high street.

So with the Cheltenham Gold Cup – one of the biggest racing events on the calendar – taking place this week, and our redundant interpreter's loss leaving a void, I thought I'd step in. Unlike McCririck – jargony, aloof, chauvinist – I am going to be the people's presenter: visiting high street bookies and getting tips from local would-be experts.

I want to meet the people who spend every day putting their money where their mouths are: the locals. As I walk into an east London Ladbrokes, distrusting eyes poke above the IKEA tables and fruit machine parapets, tracking me as I cross the room. I feel a bit uncomfortable.

Propping in front of the screens on a high stool, I get talking to Steve. His voice has a metallic tone, beeping unpredictably like an internet modem. We start talking Gold Cup. Who is his tip?

"Most of the favourites have been injured, so it may be a case of watching and not getting involved," he says. Unlike many of the other men in the room who sit analysing stacks of numbers and newspapers, he waits until the last minute to place a bet. Why? "I get the most from watching the horses on the day. I'm not a favourite backer, you see. I always try to find something else that I can see. If you look there now – see the white stuff around the horse's shoulders? That horse is sweating. That's not the right horse to go for."

I wish I had Steve's intuition, but how did he learn all these tell-tale signs? "From myself; it's a personal interest. Rather than getting myself in trouble with drugs or anything, I learned about horses."

Eventually, he crushes a scrap of paper, shaking his head – he's lost. It's only £2, but he's reached his £30 limit for the day. Getting up and leaving, I ask once again for a horse name: "Look, mate, I've told you: I won't know until the day. Just watch the horses. Go with your gut." He disappears into the sun.

It's really hard to get a straight answer when you're asking people for horse tips. I lose count of the amount of times I try, am looked up and down, and subsequently shot down with a husky laugh and a "don't fucking bet". Despite the flawless get-up, they can clearly smell narc all over me. I need to ingratiate myself more, so I quiz people on their biggest wins and losses.

"Two grand," one coughs into his hand, "That's the most I've done, and I've been betting for around about 60 years."

"Fuck," I reply. "What was that on?" The man says one or two words, gesturing toward an accumulator, but – as his friend starts to turn his head toward us – he hands over the floor.

"I once earned eight grand," his friend smiles. "Yes, eight. Same as him – on an accumulator – and it came in." Now fully rotated, he squints out of the window. "It was such a crazy day. I only made the bet because my mate was late, and I popped in. And the thing came off!"

"What did you do with it?"

"I went and had a pint, but the thing is my mate was still late. So I didn't even buy him one!" he laughs. "But the truth is, we're all losers in the end. So my advice would be to you: just bet £20 once on a horse. Forget the horse's names – they're all good – and look at the list of top ten in betting. That will give you an idea."

I thank the man and leave.

At this point I feel philosophically ready to bet on a horse, and I know what 60 years of betting produces, but I need to know more about the horses' history for this race. Overhearing an older Scottish gentleman and a guy probably 50 years younger than him yelling odds and screaming horse names at one another, I feel I can get it here.

"What the fuck is it you want to know?" the old guy barks, and within seconds they've lunged into the emotional narratives of the race. "Well, you've got Cue Card and Native River; they're the two favourites… but they're also stablemates!" Their mouths ajar, gesticulating. "And it's going to be tense for Cue Card, as he ran it last year, was winning and then, as he came through, fell down." They exchange looks. "I hope he wins it; poor horse is due it."

It's a conversation worthy of two coked-up irony boys discussing wrestling on a night bus. I ask for their winner: "Cue Card." They nod. "He's the people's horse."

Finally I have my name: Cue Card. It sounds great – the people's horse – but what about the experts' choice? What if there's an ace up their sleeves? An easy win? I get chatting to a lady at Coral, and she has exactly that.

Having spent her morning being coached by a number of experts – including, she claims, a phone call with the don daddy himself, John McCririck – she has a shedload of notes scribbled on A4 printouts. These are worth their weight in gold. If anybody could agree on an objectively better choice for a bet, it would surely be the experts? I must have the files. She agrees to hand them over, providing that I hand over my personal information.

Now I could see it. McCririck: Sizing John. Racing commentator John Hunt: Djakadam. Some other guy: Minella Rocco. Are you joking? They're all fucking different. Thanks for even more confusion, experts.

With not long left to make my bet, I need an edge. And when the experts fail you, you look above them: divine intervention. I'd rung Mysteries – a clairvoyant in Covent Garden – asking them to pick a winner, and they said they're "serious people who don't take part in mumbo jumbo like this". I'd even WhatsApp'd a guy I know who'd found a four-leaf clover on our school trip in year 5, but he doesn't gamble. Now at a loss, I begin flicking through the Racing Post, looking for a sign. The sun shines brightly on the thin paper, and I see the beneath. Then it dawns on me: I need to start looking behind the words. So I bombard a Racing Post journalist who follows me on Twitter with requests for a tip.

Followed by:

My edge.

Staring at all the massively conflicting, convoluted advice I've been peppered with throughout the day, I feel as confused as ever. I'm beginning to see why McCririck's coverage of horse racing was so completely insane over the years – he had absolutely no clue what was going on. The world of horse racing is so confusing; you'd be better off trying to explain The Theory of Relativity or the Schleswig-Holstein question. So why not just yell obscenities like a drunk man at a village fete who has had to wait 10 minutes for his pork bap?

But I still need to make a bet. I could go for Cue Card – the people's horse, sure. But the proles never win. I could also go for his mate Native River, obviously. Or I could listen to my heart? What about the toughness of the horses? What if they're having an off-day? What about if they're wearing ear plugs? I don't know whose intuition to trust; I never do. There's only one person who always delivers.

"Hey, mum. I need you to pick a Gold Cup winner for me."

"Horse racing? But I don't know anything about horse racing."

"Nobody does, don't worry: Irish Cavalier, Tea for Two…" (I start reading through the list until I'm finished.)

"Sizing John."

"Why?"

"Because it reminds me of your brother, John. And he always used to be good at sports day."

"Thanks, mum."

So there it is: £20 on "Sizing John", an outsider, for as good a reason as any. And to think: after all that I ended up with McCririck's pick anyway.

Sizing John.

The Gold Cup race takes place on Friday the 17th of March at 3:20PM.

@oobahs