Frankie: The Autobiography of Frankie Dettori. Frankie Dettori

knew my own name, let alone how to push along a racehorse to improve its position. Emotion and excitement took over. We jumped out of the stalls, the rest was a blur and at first I wasn’t even sure where we’d finished.

      After a stern talk from my dad, I was back at Milan racecourse three days later to ride a big, chestnut filly called Maria di Scozia, trained by Alduino Botti, in a nine furlong race. Now I am not saying that the Dettoris had a monopoly on Italian racing at the time, but the family was responsible for four of the eight jockeys. Lined up against me was my uncle Sergio, my cousin Robert and my dad on Nina Hagen, a stable companion of Maria di Scozia.

      This time, primed by my father, I jumped out alongside the others and somehow managed to make the running. As we came to the bend we were still in front and I thought I was doing well as we raced round it into the straight. In my innocence I hadn’t realised that by taking such a wide route I could have let the entire field up my inside. The next thing I began to hear a screaming sound close behind me. It was my dad ordering me to move over to the rail. By then I was pushing so hard I was already close to exhaustion. The harder I tried the more uncoordinated I was. Head down, arms flailing, I almost fell off when I tried to hit my filly in a pitiful attempt to make her go faster.

      To my amazement, we still led the race with less than two furlongs left and now my father was shouting even louder. ‘Hit her, hit her again, push her, whatever you do keep her going”, he cried. He could have saved his breath. Poor Maria di Scozia was weary, totally confused by the little dervish on her back. As we weakened, Maurice Depalmas came past on the inside to take the lead on Perzechella before, with less than a hundred yards left, Nina Hagen swept by on the outside with my dad sitting as quietly on her back as a church mouse. By some miracle my filly held on for third prize, which would barely have bought a round of drinks.

      Then the fun started. Although I was knackered I felt a sense of pride that we’d finished in the first three. That was definitely progress after my feeble attempts on Wednesday. My feeling of elation didn’t last long. As I headed back to the unsaddling enclosure people began laughing and making gestures at me. The closer we got to the stands, the louder the comments grew. I started a panic attack, wondering what I had done wrong. It was one of those moments in your life when you are so embarrassed you just want to run away and hide. But first I sheepishly removed the saddle, before disappearing to the sanctuary of the weighing room.

      Soon a stewards inquiry was called. I trooped anxiously behind my dad into the stewards’ room and watched in bewilderment as the film of the race was replayed. At last I knew why everyone was so amused and, to my intense relief, I wasn’t the guilty party. That was my father who, in his desire to help me ride a winner, could clearly be seen on the film whacking the backside of my horse with his own whip all the way round the bend. What made it far worse was that, since our two horses were in the same ownership, they were coupled together for betting purposes. That meant that punters could pick up their cash if either of our horses won. If my filly had held on and won, we would probably have been lined up before a firing squad, but as my dad’s horse did eventually prevail, we escaped with a sharp lecture.

      Things didn’t improve much on the final ride of my brief trip to Italy. This time I made the mistake of believing I knew all about being a jockey. The chief sufferer was the grey horse I rode in the race, which was a minor event at Turin. I finished third again, despite hitting my mount at least fifty five times in the finishing straight. Nor am I exaggerating. I remember thinking if I whip it all the time it must win. My dad, who was very tidy and effective in a finish, used a floppy whip with big flaps on the end. In trying to copy him in Turin I was so loose and out of rhythm that I struck myself almost as often as I hit my mount.

      I did ride a winner soon after I returned to England. It came in the annual donkey Derby held at the Recreation Fields at Newmarket not far from my digs. Several well known riders took part and some of them failed to finish because donkeys are notoriously unpredictable and delight in dumping their jockeys. I managed to win my heat on one donkey, then sat tight on mine in the final and was so pleased at winning that I gave an extravagant salute as I passed the post. You would have thought I’d just won the Derby at Epsom.

      Another event that left a big impression on me was a night out with Paul Eddery and his family in Newmarket. Paul was in the top flight of jockeys and lived with his wife Sally in a superb flat with white carpets, vast white sofas and beautiful pictures. While everyone else drank pink champagne I remained on fruit juice. To me Paul’s home was straight out of Dallas. We all ended up that night with two of Paul’s brothers, Robert and David, at the Onassis restaurant in town. The Eddery family made me so welcome, treated me to dinner and left me wanting more of this way of life. I thought it was brilliant.

      Nineteen eighty-six was the year I started to lead up a few horses at the races. One of the first was a two-year-old called Vevila who was just beaten in a decent fillies maiden, ridden by Pat Eddery, at Sandown in May. The way she was working before her next race at Lingfield’s evening meeting two months later convinced me that she was a certainty. I conjured up £200 from somewhere and put the lot on her pretty nose. But as so often in racing there was a snag. Pat was due to ride her again, but first he had a more important engagement at Ascot that afternoon on the brilliant Dancing Brave. He had two more rides before flying to Lingfield for our race due off at 5.50. It was always going to be tight and unfortunately for me he failed to arrive in time. Rae Guest, our stable stalwart, took over on Vevila and was beaten a short head.

      At the time I blamed the jockey because, like most losing punters, I was always talking through my pocket. Maybe Pat would have made a difference, but anyway the result left me skint. Since we were staying overnight at Lingfield the rest of the lads in the hostel headed for the local pub at the end of racing. Without the funds to join them I settled for an early night. My black mood wasn’t improved by the shocking state of the hostel. It was filthy in those days, and as my bed didn’t have any sheets on it I had to make do with a rug. Perhaps that’s why I was up at the crack of dawn.

      Wide awake and with hours to kill before we set off for Newmarket, I returned to the racecourse, climbed over the security gate and made my way to the weighing room where I sat on the scales, pretending to be a jockey. Then I wandered past the deserted grandstands to a big marquee beside the paddock. To my surprise some tables were still set as if waiting for customers to arrive.

      The temptation was too much. Almost without thinking I removed a large, clean tablecloth, converted it into a sack and began filling it with six glasses, six large plates, six smaller plates, six soup bowls, six cups and saucers, and matching cutlery. It seemed the ideal present for Val who certainly couldn’t afford such a smart set of china. On top of my booty I placed an empty champagne bucket. Then, after checking that no-one was in sight, I carefully placed the swag on my back, and began to make my way towards the stable lads’ hostel.

      With every step I took I could hear the crunch of the china moving in the homemade rucksack. As I approached the security gate I was horrified to hear the sound of dogs barking ferociously, and when I looked over my shoulder my blood turned to ice as I saw two dobermans galloping towards me. There was barely time to escape. The moment I dropped my booty the sound of smashing crockery could be heard all over the racecourse. Just about the only thing that survived undamaged was the champagne bucket. I paused to snatch it up, then gave a passable impression of Linford Christie as I sprinted for the gate with the hounds of hell on my heels. I reached it with seconds to spare, clawed my way desperately up the fencing out of their range, clambered over the top, jumped down on the other side and disappeared back to the hostel as fast as my legs could carry me. When I reached my room I hid under the bed and was too frightened to emerge until the rest of the lads were ready to leave for Newmarket.

      I spent a lot of time falling off horses during my first year in England because I rode with my knees under my chin. The more I was told to drop my stirrups to a sensible height, the more I resisted. It was a case of being too flash. The horse that gave me the most trouble was a lively grey three-year-old colt called Dallas who was being aimed at the Cambridgeshire in October, one of the biggest betting races of the year. Talented but quirky, Dallas was one of those cunning horses who could whip round and drop you without a second’s warning. He used to dump me regularly to the delight of everyone else riding out. One moment we’d be