the 1967 outlawing of the hated blackball. Its membership is still heavily loaded with the military: high-ranking officers combined with haughtily born captains and majors who spent time in Her Majesty’s Service but never threatened to reduce the importance of Field Marshal Lord Montgomery in the roll of British Army strategists. There is certainly no record of a former private, lance corporal or even sergeant ever being elected.
It has always been difficult to assess the precise criteria required for membership, principally because the members have historically behaved in such an arbitrary way. Collectively they have demonstrated a whim of iron. Until the early 1970s there might be said to have been ten ‘Rules’ which had served as general electoral guidelines. They were never, of course, formalized, but they were unfailingly observed:
1 The Club does not like trade, nor the people involved in it.
2 The Club does not like ‘other ranks’ from any branch of the Armed Services.
3 The Club does not like professional sportsmen, or trainers.
4 The Club does not like jockeys.
5 The Club does not like journalists.
6 The Club does not like bookmakers.
7 The Club does not like commercial horsetrading.
8 The Club does not like ostentation – film stars, play actors, entertainers of any type.
9 The Club does not like foreigners.
10 The Club does not like persons of low rank, not Honoured by Her Gracious Majesty.
These ‘Rules’ for membership, unwritten, unspoken, but rigid, have stood the test of time. The centuries-old contempt for all jockeys was encouraged historically by Admiral Rous himself, a man who was proud of the fact that he ‘never shared his dinner table with one’. From the ranks of the race-riders, only one, the late Sir Gordon Richards, was ever made a member. No active trainer has ever been elected to membership. Among journalists, the three exceptions were men whose interest in racing and breeding was equal to their chosen trade. On the other hand, anyone even remotely connected with the betting industry was unmentionable. Owners and breeders showing too keen an interest in the monetary value of horseflesh, with inclinations to deal in bloodstock on a totally commercial level, were unacceptable – might result in a conflict of interest in the future. Show business people were also banned. Period.
However, politicians, undesirable though they may be, did not fall into any banned category. The outrageous breach of etiquette on the night of 3 May 1967, with the blackballing of the Rt. Hon. Christopher Soames, changed everything.
As the great men of the Jockey Club had stared in horror at that black ball in the wrong slot, a Rolls Royce had been moving swiftly away from Newmarket Heath, through the dark English countryside up towards the wooded borders of the ancient county of Cheshire. In the passenger seat sat the smiling figure of the thoughtful northern trainer Eric Cousins.
The driver of the car wore a similar smile, having just had a ‘rather nice little each-way touch’ in the 2000 Guineas, on a horse called Missile which had finished fast at 40–1, right behind Royal Palace and Taj Dewan. His trainer was the somewhat devilish little Irishman from Tipperary, Vincent O’Brien, whom the driver had admired since his schooldays. He had never of course met him, but one day he would become his most trusted friend.
The man at the wheel would, also, one day in the not-too-distant future, sail into the Jockey Club as a full member, without any questions. He would do so in total defiance of ‘Rules’ 1), 2), and 6). He would take ‘Rule’ 7) and single-handedly strangle it. And as for the section of ‘Rule’ 8) which deals with ostentation, well, he would somewhat unwittingly reduce that to rubble. As for the old creeds of Admiral Rous about gambling fortunes on bloodstock, the man driving the Rolls Royce would one day turn the entire thoroughbred breeding world into nothing short of an international commodity market. He would habitually risk gigantic fortunes, on the running of a racehorse. He would back his judgment on a scale never hitherto even dreamed about, by anyone. He would ultimately make Harry the Horse look like Winnie the Pooh.
His name was Robert Edmund Sangster.
The once-great English seaport of Liverpool ought, in fairness, to hold a truly commanding view across the wide Mersey to the far-off mystic mountains of north Wales. Indeed it would do so, but for a mighty headland which juts like a giant fist straight out of the picturesque Roman city of Chester. The Wirral peninsula measures some fifteen miles by six, and it divides the two broad estuaries of the Mersey and the River Dee. On its north-eastern side are the heavy industrial ports of Birkenhead, Wallasey, Bebington and Ellesmere, which more or less wreck the mystic aspect of Liverpool’s view.
On the far, western coast, however, is a true romance of water and flatlands, of a great river swirling out into the Irish Sea, of west winds from Ireland, perfumed by the heather of County Wicklow. Breathtaking vistas of the sea – the same waters over which Admiral Nelson once sailed his fleet – not to re-store in Liverpool, but for a secret tryst with the most famous and elegant of the local beauties, Lady Emma Hamilton of Parkgate. J. M. W. Turner memorably painted the Welsh mountains from here.
Just to the north of Lady Hamilton’s childhood home stands the eastern seaward point of the headland. Here lies the historic golf links of Hoylake, home of the Royal Liverpool Golf Club, the scene of ten Open Championships and the course which beat Jack Nicklaus. And here, with glorious gardens lapping down almost to the fairways, are some of the most expensive residences in this most exclusive stretch of north-western England. They form a millionaire’s row, known since the age of Queen Victoria as The Golden Mile. What the Hamptons are to New York’s Long Island, so West Kirby is to the Wirral peninsula.
This is Sangster Country. It has been Sangster Country for most of this century. The grand family house, where Robert was raised, is called West Lodge. It stands behind solid, red sandstone pillars, among beautifully clipped lawns. Providentially it always possessed a fine stable block and groom’s cottage within its grounds. The family has been wealthy since Edwardian times. Robert’s grandfather Edmund Sangster founded the fortune with a large warehousing and wholesale business in nearby Manchester shortly after Lord Rosebery’s godfather ascended the throne of England in 1901. Fourteen years later his teenaged son Vernon – Robert’s father – set off with the Manchester Regiment to fight on the Western Front in the Great War. He survived that most awful of conflicts, and returned to a depressed and demoralized England with a view to taking over the family business.
But by nature, Sangsters tend not to take over things. They are more inclined to start things. They are entrepreneurs by instinct, blessed with a touch of daring, but equally blessed by a certain sure-footedness. Young Vernon Sangster and his father proceeded to launch a business, essentially a lottery. They called it Vernons Pools and their plan was to give every working man, for just a few pence, a chance to win a fortune. Every week.
It was built around the results of the Football League matches played in England all through the autumn, winter and spring of the year. Success depended on the devotion of millions of ordinary people who sent in their coupons and their small amount of money, in the hope of scooping up thousands of pounds for correctly forecasting the drawn matches. One unlikely ‘save’ from an unseen goalkeeper playing hundreds of miles away in the pouring rain and mud, could smash millions of dreams. It happened every week. But it did not cost much, and the hopes
