As we're on the subject, here's a small piece, supposedly from the Arkle's groom Johnny Lumley.
I REMEMBER the overwhelming tension. It started to build from the moment I arrived at Arkle's box at 8am. From then on every minute to the race dragged like an hour. After months - it really was months - of banter between the Irish and British, this was crunch time.
Pat Taaffe had convinced me we'd win. I'd had on a month's wages, about pounds 40, at 15-8. But this wasn't a money thing. It was about pride. In the Railway Hotel the night before, a chap of about 16st insisted that even if he rode Mill House they'd beat Arkle.
It was a bitter day with flurries of snow and I was shaking, possibly due more to nerves than the cold, as I prepared Arkle for the race. I fussed over him. He had to look at his best. As I led him up in the paddock, Pat again insisted we'd win.
The course had a different configuration then, and the best place for the groom to watch was down at the final fence. Mill House made the running, tracked by Arkle. Three fences out I saw Willie Robinson go for his whip. My confidence soared. From that point our horse was always travelling the better.
As I led him in, the Irish went crazy with joy. Hats were flying in the air and people didn't bother about catching them. I was walking across a carpet of trilbies. That night I went back to the Railway Hotel - is it there still? - to celebrate. Unfortunately, most of the British who'd been staying there had made their way home. I didn't bother going to bed that night.
