Another article this time from yesterday's Racing Post, which I have scanned in. I have to say, I had no idea he had been ill and, once again, send him all the best for his recovery:
Continues...
I DONâT know which is more shocking: the point Dandy Nicholls is making or the fact heâs just lifted up his shirt to make it, revealing a torso the like of which youâll rarely see without a banana and a voiceover from David Attenborough.
âIâm a hairy bastard at the best of times,â he confirms, superfluously, by way of illustrating his story of a hospital visit that was very neatly the last we saw of this most inappropriately engaging of men. Far from donkeying around, however, the six-time Ayr Gold Cup-winning trainer is deadly serious as he recalls the diagnosis that dragged him into four years of stomach-churning, blood-spilling treatment, hidden from the view of the racing public, the likely alternative to which was a premature appearance on the list of eternal scratchings, under the heading âall engagements (dead)â.
Of course, this being Nicholls, the grim tale is peppered with black humour and blue language in gruff Yorkshire tones that bring to mind a comic turn in a working menâs club; but donât let that fool you. This is an ordeal that has left its psychological mark, even if it was eventually sent packing with a four-lettered farewell and a boot mark on its backside.
âI had a disease called haemochromatosis,â explains the robust-looking 56-year-old, âI didnât know I had the ****er, but one day I got up and I couldnât walk, couldnât breathe, couldnât go for a pee. I thought âIâll be all rightâ, but next day it was the same thing. I couldnât move.
âI had no idea, no Scooby Don what was wrong with me, so I went to the Alexandra Hospital in Manchester, went straight in and the nurse shaved all my chest off and stuck all these things on me.
âI said: âWhat are you doing?â She said: âWeâre checking your heart,â I said: âThereâs nothing wrong with my heart? She said: âWell there must be something wrong with it or you wouldnât he in here.â
âSo they connected me up to this machine and it started making a lot of noises end I thought that meant my heart was working fine, but the doctor said: âI hope youâve brought some overnight gear, because youâre not going home - youâve got a problem?ââ
Haemochromatosis is a condition that allows the sufferer to absorb an excess of iron from food, which is then stored around various internal organs, especially the heart said liver, with potentially fatal consequences. âIron overloadâ was the cause of both the-patientâs chronic fatigue and the doctorâs consternation.
Nicholls still isnât quite sure what the figures mean, but he knew it wasnât good news when he was told he should have a reading of 45 and be actually bad a reading of 7.000. It meant that doing nothing wasnât an option, so he went on to a regime of tablets that would choke a rhino, and which still fills large Tupperware box in a drawer in the kitchen at Tall Tree Stables.
He was subjected to month after month of venesection, having his blood drained off, pint after pint, to reduce the iron concentration; and then there was the warfarin, to thin the blood.
âI lost all my hair, but the warfarin was the worst thing,â he remembers, âIt used to kill me like nothingâs ever hurt me before. Iâd be puking all day, Iâd go en the toilet ten times in a morning. I told them I wasnât taking it anymore, but they said âitâs keeping you aliveâ.â
Even Nichollsâ worst enemy could spare an ounce of pity for his plight, but there were times when the nurses as the Alexandra may have struggled to sympathise. Unused to hospitalisation and its rational constraints, the cooped-up trainer found himself champing at the bit, eager to get back into the routine of his job, frustrated especially by the shift patterns of the porter that meant he didnât get his Racing Post until 10.30 in the morning. Something had to be done and hospital protocol wasnât going to deter our man from his mission.
âI asked the porter where you could get the Post and he-said from the garage at the end of the road,â the trainer recalls, âAnyway, Iâm all computered up, sticky things all over way body and a big box hanging off me, so l took them all off, went down the road and got myself a Racing Post and a big jug of Lucozade.
âWhen I came back I thought the place was on fire, alarms going off everywhere. I walked in and said: âWhatâs happening?â They said: âWeâve lost somebody.â âOh, yeah,â I said, and I went up to my room.
When I got there, stood in front of me was a staff nurse, and she nearly killed me, âWhere the ****have you been?â she said. âMe? Iâve been for my paper, love.â
âShe said: âYou barmy bastard, we thought you were dead, Go back in there and donât do it again?ââ
Whether thatâs really the kind of language that has infiltrated the private nursing sector, or whether thatâs just Nichollsâ translation, is anybodyâs guess, but the reluctant patient credits his carers with dragging him through two and a half weeks during which heâd rather have been almost anywhere else. Four years on, he can take stock of an ordeal that finally seems to have come to an end.
âIf I hadnât have gone into the hospital, Iâd he dead,â he sums up. âThey knew I wanted to leave but the only way they can help you is by making sure you donât. The -treatmentâs only just finished but I kept going all the time.â
Oblivious to his condition, the racing public was not surprised to see Nichollsâ seasonal stats retain a healthy glow â unlike the man himself. This year, however, a slow start at the normally resilient yard in the well-hidden outpost of Sessay caused a few observers to mutter under their breath. Several owners had departed the scene, the usual deluge of winners was reduced to a disappointing trickle â even a recent revival leaves him with figures of just 39 wins from 373 runs, as opposed to last yearâs 93 from 944 â and there was talk of a trainer in decline.
NICHOLLS could be excused for having weightier concerns than wins-to-runs ratios and trainersâ tables, but the former stable ladsâ champion boxer Is nothing if not a fighter and he wonât take talk of his imminent demise lying down.
âObviously Iâve had other things on my mind,â he says, âand whatâs happened is down to me because Iâm the boss, and weâre down on numbers because of me, but we had a slow start to the year because the horses werenât right, like me. They just werenât firing, for whatever reason, but it wasnât because of my ill health,
âSome people lost faith and itâs hard to train a ****ing racehorse when youâre in bed, but the staff have just kicked on and Iâm not dead yet. Youâll see in the next few weeks and months that weâll be back on top of the tree.
âA lot of people think Iâm going to retire or run away but thatâs totally untrue. Weâre not digging a hole and trying to die. Weâll creep back up the ladder, but I donât really want to train horses that run in £1,600 races. I donât want to watch people, including myself, lose moneyâ
âIâm a hairy bastard at the best of times,â he confirms, superfluously, by way of illustrating his story of a hospital visit that was very neatly the last we saw of this most inappropriately engaging of men. Far from donkeying around, however, the six-time Ayr Gold Cup-winning trainer is deadly serious as he recalls the diagnosis that dragged him into four years of stomach-churning, blood-spilling treatment, hidden from the view of the racing public, the likely alternative to which was a premature appearance on the list of eternal scratchings, under the heading âall engagements (dead)â.
Of course, this being Nicholls, the grim tale is peppered with black humour and blue language in gruff Yorkshire tones that bring to mind a comic turn in a working menâs club; but donât let that fool you. This is an ordeal that has left its psychological mark, even if it was eventually sent packing with a four-lettered farewell and a boot mark on its backside.
âI had a disease called haemochromatosis,â explains the robust-looking 56-year-old, âI didnât know I had the ****er, but one day I got up and I couldnât walk, couldnât breathe, couldnât go for a pee. I thought âIâll be all rightâ, but next day it was the same thing. I couldnât move.
âI had no idea, no Scooby Don what was wrong with me, so I went to the Alexandra Hospital in Manchester, went straight in and the nurse shaved all my chest off and stuck all these things on me.
âI said: âWhat are you doing?â She said: âWeâre checking your heart,â I said: âThereâs nothing wrong with my heart? She said: âWell there must be something wrong with it or you wouldnât he in here.â
âSo they connected me up to this machine and it started making a lot of noises end I thought that meant my heart was working fine, but the doctor said: âI hope youâve brought some overnight gear, because youâre not going home - youâve got a problem?ââ
Haemochromatosis is a condition that allows the sufferer to absorb an excess of iron from food, which is then stored around various internal organs, especially the heart said liver, with potentially fatal consequences. âIron overloadâ was the cause of both the-patientâs chronic fatigue and the doctorâs consternation.
Nicholls still isnât quite sure what the figures mean, but he knew it wasnât good news when he was told he should have a reading of 45 and be actually bad a reading of 7.000. It meant that doing nothing wasnât an option, so he went on to a regime of tablets that would choke a rhino, and which still fills large Tupperware box in a drawer in the kitchen at Tall Tree Stables.
He was subjected to month after month of venesection, having his blood drained off, pint after pint, to reduce the iron concentration; and then there was the warfarin, to thin the blood.
âI lost all my hair, but the warfarin was the worst thing,â he remembers, âIt used to kill me like nothingâs ever hurt me before. Iâd be puking all day, Iâd go en the toilet ten times in a morning. I told them I wasnât taking it anymore, but they said âitâs keeping you aliveâ.â
Even Nichollsâ worst enemy could spare an ounce of pity for his plight, but there were times when the nurses as the Alexandra may have struggled to sympathise. Unused to hospitalisation and its rational constraints, the cooped-up trainer found himself champing at the bit, eager to get back into the routine of his job, frustrated especially by the shift patterns of the porter that meant he didnât get his Racing Post until 10.30 in the morning. Something had to be done and hospital protocol wasnât going to deter our man from his mission.
âI asked the porter where you could get the Post and he-said from the garage at the end of the road,â the trainer recalls, âAnyway, Iâm all computered up, sticky things all over way body and a big box hanging off me, so l took them all off, went down the road and got myself a Racing Post and a big jug of Lucozade.
âWhen I came back I thought the place was on fire, alarms going off everywhere. I walked in and said: âWhatâs happening?â They said: âWeâve lost somebody.â âOh, yeah,â I said, and I went up to my room.
When I got there, stood in front of me was a staff nurse, and she nearly killed me, âWhere the ****have you been?â she said. âMe? Iâve been for my paper, love.â
âShe said: âYou barmy bastard, we thought you were dead, Go back in there and donât do it again?ââ
Whether thatâs really the kind of language that has infiltrated the private nursing sector, or whether thatâs just Nichollsâ translation, is anybodyâs guess, but the reluctant patient credits his carers with dragging him through two and a half weeks during which heâd rather have been almost anywhere else. Four years on, he can take stock of an ordeal that finally seems to have come to an end.
âIf I hadnât have gone into the hospital, Iâd he dead,â he sums up. âThey knew I wanted to leave but the only way they can help you is by making sure you donât. The -treatmentâs only just finished but I kept going all the time.â
Oblivious to his condition, the racing public was not surprised to see Nichollsâ seasonal stats retain a healthy glow â unlike the man himself. This year, however, a slow start at the normally resilient yard in the well-hidden outpost of Sessay caused a few observers to mutter under their breath. Several owners had departed the scene, the usual deluge of winners was reduced to a disappointing trickle â even a recent revival leaves him with figures of just 39 wins from 373 runs, as opposed to last yearâs 93 from 944 â and there was talk of a trainer in decline.
NICHOLLS could be excused for having weightier concerns than wins-to-runs ratios and trainersâ tables, but the former stable ladsâ champion boxer Is nothing if not a fighter and he wonât take talk of his imminent demise lying down.
âObviously Iâve had other things on my mind,â he says, âand whatâs happened is down to me because Iâm the boss, and weâre down on numbers because of me, but we had a slow start to the year because the horses werenât right, like me. They just werenât firing, for whatever reason, but it wasnât because of my ill health,
âSome people lost faith and itâs hard to train a ****ing racehorse when youâre in bed, but the staff have just kicked on and Iâm not dead yet. Youâll see in the next few weeks and months that weâll be back on top of the tree.
âA lot of people think Iâm going to retire or run away but thatâs totally untrue. Weâre not digging a hole and trying to die. Weâll creep back up the ladder, but I donât really want to train horses that run in £1,600 races. I donât want to watch people, including myself, lose moneyâ
Continues...
