Frankie: The Autobiography of Frankie Dettori. Frankie Dettori

been tanking along disputing the lead when falling at Becher’s Brook on the second circuit in the race the previous April. You could hardly ask for better inside information, so at lunchtime I rushed down to Cuthie Suttle’s shop and invested my last £5 at the time on West Tip at 33-1, and topped it up a week or two later with another £5 at 28-1. All winter the messages from Richard, via his father, were upbeat. The horse was well and, barring accidents, would definitely gain compensation for his previous bad luck at Aintree.

      So every week that winter I would put on another £5 or £10 at the best price I could negotiate with Cuthie, and by the time the great day arrived I worked out that I stood to win almost £2,000. By then West Tip was favourite at 15-2. Watching spellbound from the arm of the sofa with Val and Dennis, a cup of tea in my hand, I never had an anxious moment. The horse jumped those mighty fences to the manner born, and Richard Dunwoody—who was barely out of his teens—showed incredible coolness by waiting until well after the last fence before allowing him to stride clear.

      I shouted West Tip home every step of the way. When he landed safely over the final fence I threw everything up in the air and rushed out of the house to collect my winnings. I felt like a millionaire! Normally I was left with less than £20 a week in my pocket after various deductions from my paltry wages, and suddenly I had upwards of £1900 burning a hole in my wallet. The first thing I did with the money was to buy a new washing machine for Val who’d been struggling with a worn-out model for years. It was the least I could do for someone who would share her last penny with me. I also bought her a new iron. Then, on the Monday, I splashed out on a decent Vespa scooter for myself.

      Over the next few weeks I blew a lot of the money away, but this time I still had something to show for it, and I even managed to save a little bit in the metal box I used as a secret safe hidden away in the chimney of my bedroom. I don’t think I am talking through my pocket when I say that West Tip is the one horse I would love to have ridden in the National. You could jump a house on him with your eyes shut. He was the living best at Aintree and I was in ecstasy for six months at the memory of his performance.

      I was soon in trouble with the law for riding my new scooter illegally on pavements. Once again Val came to my rescue when two burly policemen turned up on the door intent on booking me. By the time I appeared timidly from my room she had convinced them that the reason for my error was that I couldn’t speak or read a word of English.

      Cuthie Suttle’s betting shop had become my second home by then. I was punting just about every day. If necessary I’d gamble on two flies crawling up a wall. When things got really bad, and I did all my cash—which was most of the time—I helped out as the chalk boy. Cuthie paid me £5 for an afternoon’s shift, scribbling down the latest prices on the wall in the last minutes of trading, then filling in the results. There were two problems with this arrangement. First of all I couldn’t reach the top of the board to complete the early results. Secondly my spelling was hopeless. No-one seemed to mind, though I sometimes had to skip the last race or two to rush back to work at evening stables.

      Val, bless her, became so concerned at the amount of money I was gambling away that she marched down for a confrontation with Cuthie, demanding that he stop taking my bets. Cuthie tried to explain that if he barred me from his betting office I’d merely move to another one in the town where I’d probably fare even worse. Once I was in the habit of losing every week I started to work for other lads in the yard on my weekends off to get the money back. I’d also borrow £5 here, or £2 there. When I look back now I was silly. Legally I was too young to bet, but punting is a way of life for most stable lads and I was no exception.

      It was a costly habit which left Luca Cumani close to throttling me on one memorable occasion in May 1986. It happened after just about everyone in the yard had done their brains on a horse called Saker at the York races. Saker was what we call a morning glory. At home he always worked like a serious horse and had shown great promise when he finished an eye-catching sixth on his debut a fortnight earlier in a decent maiden race won by another of our horses.

      Saker started joint favourite at York but ran like an old man in tight boots as he trailed in a distant fourth. That evening at work I told anyone who’d listen—including the second head lad Stuart Jackson—that Luca couldn’t train a bicycle, let alone a racehorse. When Luca was looking round a little later you can imagine my feelings as Stuart Jackson asked him the Italian word for bicycle.

      ‘Why do you want to know?’ asked the trainer. Stuart then dropped me right in the cart by repeating my view that he couldn’t train a bicycle. The look on Luca’s face told me I was in serious trouble. There were no preliminaries for what followed. He asked Stuart to take over the horse I was holding, seized me forcibly by my collar with both hands, lifted all five stone of me into the air and rammed me against the wall a foot off the ground. I’ll never forget the words that followed. As usual when he was angry with me, they were delivered in Italian.

      ‘Maybe I can’t train a bicycle Frankie, but while you work for me I will always be the greatest trainer in the world. Do you understand?’ he roared, shaking me like a dog. By the time he dropped me onto the floor of the box I was in no condition to speak, let alone answer back, but obviously I didn’t learn my lesson because I was back at Cuthie’s betting shop the next day trying to recoup my losses.

      An interesting bunch used to meet there most afternoons. Some days the place seemed more like a private members’ club. One of the regulars, Shippy Ellis, is now agent for several jockeys, including George Duffield and Philip Robinson. I also met Peter Burrell there. He was always looking for new challenges and was helping Julie Cecil run a few syndicates at the time. Within days of meeting me, Pete offered to look after my business affairs even before I’d had a ride in public. I was flattered that he had such faith in me.

      Another member of our circle was Mattie Cowing, a smashing guy who was a walking form book. He was just like Frank in Eastenders (played by the comedian Mike Reid), with a deep voice and a great sense of humour. Mattie used to be employed full-time in a factory making boxes until a stroke prevented him working and allowed him to indulge his passion for racing. He seemed to live in the betting shop and was a mine of information.

      We hit if off from the start, but he clearly thought I was a rascal, an Italian idiot who gambled away everything and was going nowhere. A year later he turned me down when I first asked him to book my rides. Luckily I persisted and he eventually became the most loyal of allies as my agent. A few years later one of the biggest punters of modern times, Barney Curley, joined the group gathered round the screen—but by then I was no longer a member of the club because I was pretty much riding full-time.

       Six Riding Like an Italian

      As summer approached in 1986 I was getting uptight at the knowledge that I wouldn’t be able to race in England for almost another year. Every morning I was going through the motions, partnering nice horses in their work, often upsides decent jockeys. But in the afternoons I was forced to be a spectator, normally in the betting shop. Years ago apprentices were allowed to start at an incredibly early age in this country. Lester Piggott, for instance, was only twelve when he rode his first winner at Haydock in 1948. Times change, and almost forty years on you had to be at least sixteen before you could ride in public here. The rules are a bit more relaxed in Italy where apprentices can be licensed at fifteen and a half, so I began to count down the days to 15 June when I would reach that landmark. My dad swiftly organised three rides in a week for me at home towards the end of the month. I flew to Milan, met the local stewards and was immediately granted a licence.

      I prefer not to dwell on my first ride on a filly called My Charlotte at Milan, on Wednesday, 25 June. The best I can say is that at least I didn’t get in the way of the others. I’d been dreaming of this day for years and then it was over in a flash, so quickly that I cannot recall too much about it except that I was hopelessly nervous. I couldn’t believe how quickly things happened around me. My Charlotte made a poor start, we trailed the field into the straight, the race finished and we were stone last.

      It seemed to flash past at a hundred miles an hour and as far