"We hang on for a while, then twelve-twenty, just before the first race, that's our cue. We go in and present our passes and head for the changing rooms and grab a spot. Hutton has a bag with his silks and riding hat and his whip and some street clothes. There's a bit of muttering from the other lads. But Hutton doesn't care, he just changes into his colors, cool as you like. And then a couple of lads come up and give it a bit of remember me, I was a boy in Tyrrellscourt when you were riding. Hutton smiles at them, and nods away big-time, and maybe they're a bit disappointed he's not chatting to them but they're not really surprised, and they seem to go away happy. Any jockeys I ever met, either they wouldn't fucking shut up or you couldn't get a word out of them, so maybe he's coming across as normal. I can see all eyes are on him though-the fucking head on him man, even without knowing about his tongue: he has that complexion street drinkers have, like he's been boiled. Not to mention he's the comeback kid to beat the band, a fucking legend in the making.
"We go around to the weigh room, which is on the lower deck of the grandstand just across from the parade ring. Same story here, everyone having a squint. Hutton's not bothered, the opposite actually, like he's missed it, the attention, and I have to say, it is pretty class now, all the riders in their silks, the colors, the shine of the boots, the roar of the crowd for the first race, I'm getting into it man. While he's queuing for the scales, I grab a race card, maybe I'll get a chance to slap a bet on. No time like the present. And the first thing, looking at the card for the third race, what jumps out is Bottle of Red's owner: Mr. G. Halligan. Looks like it's going to be quite a circus out there in the parade ring this afternoon.
"The weight's ten-stone-nine, and Hutton makes it with three pounds to spare, fair play, and he is in good shape, and we're off to hang in the changing room again. The boys are in from the first race, winners and losers, and Hutton gets a bit more attention and handles it the same, and then the second race is called, and we're out to saddle up. While we're on our way around the parade ring to the saddling stalls, Steno falls into line with us and tells me to get lost. I linger though, long enough to see him draw Hutton aside and slip something to him, something Hutton slips inside his silk top, something that glitters in the faint sunlight that's still trying to break through.
"The parade ring's where it's happening now. I can see Vincent Tyrrell in his dog collar and his long black overcoat and his black fedora, looking like a priest in a Jimmy Cagney movie, and there's George Halligan in his Barbour jacket and his tweed cap, looking like a cunt, basically, giving F. X. Tyrrell an earful, and there's Brian Rowan in the middle of them with one of those women George collects from Russia or Brazil who all look like they're waiting for the operation. She's a foot taller than Rowan, snow-blond hair, wearing a white fur coat, a lynx it must be, Rowan's talking into her fake tits and she's looking out across the crowd pretending she hasn't noticed every eye is glued to her.
"Mind you, there's a lot of money here today, a lot of new tits and teeth and holiday flesh and fur being waved; it's been a while since I was racing and the biggest change is, fair enough, there's the usual crowd, the old boys in their trilbies and wool coats, the country farmers, the Barbour jacket crowd, all the middle classes in their Christmas best, then there's the betting-shop boys giving themselves a day out from the bookies, scruffy lads in jumpers and jeans like, like me, to be honest, but then there's also a lot of young people, young fellas with estate-agent hair and cheap suits and young ones in skimpy dresses and high heels, like it's a nightclub they thought they were going to, working-class kids out for a big day. And some politician getting his photo taken with your one off You're a Star on the telly. And Bono and Ali here too, someone said, up in one of the boxes, I suppose. Even a few Butlers are here, picking pockets and rolling drunks. Everyone's here, relieved the big freeze never came. Everyone's here!
"And here comes Patrick Hutton on Bottle of Red being led by her groom into the ring, and such a roar goes up you'd swear it was one of the Carberrys or A. P. McCoy, one of the crowd's favorites anyway, and you can see George Halligan is still bulling but F. X. Tyrrell has moved away from him, and George has tugged on his shoulder to turn him back, and suddenly Steno is at his side, looking as if he has every right to be there in his long coat and his big hat, looking like an Australian. George is still looking gnarly and aggravated, and then Steno prods him in the side, and George looks at him straight on, and Steno nods, and George nods back. Deal for now.
"Patrick Hutton is leaning down to listen to whatever F.X. has to say to him, taking instructions, fair play to F.X., he looks like he's making the best of it. Hutton is beaming, and there's a chant going up:
Pa-trick HUTTON, back from the DEAD!
Pa-trick HUTTON, back from the DEAD!
Pa-trick HUTTON, back from the DEAD!
"The chant builds and builds, and he's taking the horse around the ring now, and as it hits a big crescendo Hutton touches the peak of his riding hat, and the crowd erupt in cheers.
"Now I'm watching Vincent Tyrrell, who's staring at Hutton, never at the horse, always at Hutton, like he's trying to hex him or something, and Hutton looks across every now and again, and looks away as quickly. And then I get a dig in the ribs and a hand on my collar and I'm pulled out of the crowd by Leo Halligan.
"'What the fuck is going on?' he says, and I look around, and see that Steno is still in there, and I tell Leo Halligan as much as I know of what the fuck is going on. He nods at me, and then he vanishes into the crowd. The next thing, Steno is at my side.
"'We'll go down onto the turf to watch the race,' he says.
"Fair enough. Down we go, through the tunnel beneath the private boxes, and Madigan's bar is heaving with half-dressed young ones, it's like one of those Club 18-30 holidays. Out we come and it's good to feel grass beneath your feet, even if it is sopping wet. The grandstand is behind us, with the Dublin mountains towering above, but we head down past the line of bookies' pitches, and Steno salutes Jack Proby of Proby and Son, who doesn't look very pleased to see Steno.
"It's not the best place to watch a race if you want to get the whole picture, but it's the business if you want the atmosphere, and the atmosphere is only brilliant. Bottle of Red was favorite anyway, and the Hutton thing has added a whole other level, the chant's going around in waves:
Pa-trick HUTTON, back from the DEAD!
Pa-trick HUTTON, back from the DEAD!
Pa-trick HUTTON, back from the DEAD!
"Rocking back and forth from the grandstand down to the barrier and back, impossible not to get caught up in the motion of it, absolutely classic.
"There's a field of thirteen, and Hutton keeps the horse back all the way around the first time, buried in a pack. Contrariwise and Vico Fancy lead from the off, and you just know they're not going to have the legs to make it, and when they're on the road side for the second time, they fall away, and Hendre takes up the lead and holds it until they hit the last jump and turn into the final furlong and here comes Bottle of Red, Hutton has to use the elbows a bit, he's boxed himself in, but he breaks out and he breaks clear and now he's coming, past Columbine, past Kelly's Hero, past Dodger, and as they turn he's neck and neck with Hendre, Hendre and Bottle of Red, and then Hutton lets her go and it looks like he was holding her back all along, and Hendre has nothing left and Bottle of Red, Bottle of Red, Bottle of Red by a mile, and the chant would raise the hairs on your neck:
Pa-trick HUTTON, back from the DEAD!
Pa-trick HUTTON, back from the DEAD!