Frankie: The Autobiography of Frankie Dettori

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 trotting along quietly, the next he’d be standing over me, as I lay cursing on the ground, as if to say what are you doing down there? He did it out of high spirits, rather than malice, and even when I couldn’t cling on to the reins he didn’t run away. All the bruises and embarrassment seemed worthwhile when he won the Cambridgeshire ridden by Ray Cochrane.

By then I was preparing to resume my riding career in Italy. Luca Cumani wasn’t keen on the idea because he preferred to have me working in the yard over the winter. Also he was anxious to make use of the weight allowance inexperienced apprentices like myself can claim until they have ridden a certain number of winners. He saw no point in wasting that allowance in Mickey Mouse races in Italy, but my dad was determined that I should further my racing education. So, early in November 1986 I flew to Milan once more.

I had a couple of rides straight away, then set off on 16 November to Turin for a race where I was to partner a horse called Rif, which had been bought by my father to give me some much-needed experience. Rif was no great shakes. I remember that he had big floppy ears and was one of those horses that went best in bottomless ground. It was a typically miserable winter’s race day in Turin, horribly cold and wet with heavy going—ideal for Rif. The place had the atmosphere of a graveyard with a massive, deserted grandstand and a handful of frozen punters—but for a few unforgettable minutes it felt like Royal Ascot in June as I squelched home on Rif to record my first win as a jockey.

We started well, sat handy, pulled out in the straight and won tidily without my needing to attempt too much with the whip. I have the photograph to this day in the snooker room at home. Afterwards I was exhausted and ecstatic. When I caught up with my dad I wanted to rush up, hug him and shout about my great achievement. But I’d been brought up so strictly that I was almost subdued as I described my precious first triumph to him. People always say winners breed confidence and I tend to agree. The next day I doubled my score with another success in an apprentice race at Livorno for the young trainer Andrea Picorarro, who’d spent a bit of time with Luca at Newmarket. I made the running on this one and thought I gave it a decent ride.

When I was a small boy my father once took me with him to a church in the mountains near Livorno to pray to the Madonna di Montenaro. It was something he tried to do every year to ask for a safe passage through the season, and it left a lasting impression on me. My trip to Italy as an apprentice gave me the opportunity to visit the church again and collect a medallion to protect me while I was racing. I tried to follow my dad’s example because I believe in God but, as I became busier in England, it became harder to find the time. Since Italy is a very superstitious nation it seemed natural to put my faith in positive omens, but eventually I was carrying so many bits and pieces round my neck and in my boots it was getting silly. So I took them all off and now I rely on one normal crucifix.

Soon I moved to Naples for the rest of the winter to work in a satellite yard run for Aldo Botti by his wily assistant trainer Peo Perlante. It was to prove quite an education in more senses than one. Naples is only a few miles along the coast from the brooding monster of Mount Vesuvius, which erupted in AD 79 sealing Pompeii in a ten-foot blanket of ash, lava and mud.

Naples racecourse at Henano is in the bowl of another, much smaller volcano, long extinct. The public sauna baths we used almost daily to lose unwanted pounds were pretty basic. It was little more than a cave in the mountain rock with hot tubs of water. The centre of the sauna was so hot you could only last a minute there at a time. It contained a small, round hole, covered with wood. If you were brave enough to lift the cover you found yourself staring down hundreds of feet into infinity. The whole place stank of sulphur, a bit like rotten eggs.

It was during hours spent in that sauna that I first became friendly with Bruce Raymond, a vastly experienced jockey who was on his way home from a riding stint in Hong Kong. He is a gentleman and I respect him because he had to work extremely hard to make it as a jockey. He was always immaculate, on or off a horse, never swore, and conducted himself in an old-fashioned way. I came to respect his judgement and have often turned to him for advice.

Another fine jockey in Naples that winter was Marco Paganini, the shining new star of Italian racing. I was average, at best, in those days and tried to learn from him and Bruce by watching them in their races. I stayed at the home of Tonino Cantante, one of the yard men, on a small council estate. Most of the lads working alongside me were apprentices, too, and since they were more established they tended to get the rides when racing took place once or twice a week. I wasn’t flavour of the month with Peo Perlante, who always left me last in the queue when it came to riding for the stable. He did me no favours at all. Maybe it was to do with an old feud with my father. Whatever the reason, I had to rely on other stables for spare rides.

Obviously it helped that I was light and that my claimer’s allowance would reduce a horse’s weight even further. The racing was as low-key as you could find, but I was gaining valuable experience away from the glare of publicity and over the course of four months I managed fifteen more winners. I was doing all right, though deep down I was aware that I rode like an Italian. I badly needed to add some polish.

People often ask whether I would have been as successful spending my entire apprenticeship in Italy. I’ve no doubt about that one. Staying in my own country would not have been a great idea. Because of my dad, life would have been too easy for me, and that’s the last thing you need if you want to fight your way to the top. Perhaps my dad sensed this. Yes, I’d have ridden plenty of winners because doors would have been opened for me, but how much further would I have gone?

If you are faced with a harsh challenge, self-pride takes over. By sending me away to England, Dad was dropping me in the ocean with a lot of sharks circling. When they first let me loose I was nothing because I was too young to know my limits. Just to prove that I could survive, I eventually became bigger than all the other fish. If I’d stayed in Italy I’d have lacked the motivation that being in England provided. Most of all I forced myself to be successful for my father. He was the one I wanted to please above all others, although it was unbelievably difficult in the first few months in Newmarket. Once I moved to Naples that winter I began to flourish. There were other delights, too.

After racing on Sunday a gang of us would go for a meal together, then end up watching blue movies in a seedy, backstreet cinema. Some of them would then set off for a liaison with the local call girls. At this stage of my teens I’d had a few girlfriends but was still pretty innocent and several furlongs behind the others. One night they all decided it was time for my sexual initiation. All the boys were eager to take me to their favourite prostitute who plied her trade in the back of a big car parked at the top of the hill in the red-light district.

They decided that I should take my turn first, issued their instructions, then bundled me into the back with the waiting girl. She removed her skirt and skilfully helped me wriggle out of my trousers, before producing a giant pink condom that looked more like a balloon or a Michelin tyre, slipped it on and asked me if I was ready. As if I would have known! What followed was a blur, a bit like my first ride in a race. Again I was hopelessly nervous and everything happened much too rapidly. I was definitely not in charge and I remember wondering what all the fuss was about.

Aware that it was my first time, she tried to help me as best she could but for me the earth didn’t move—though the car certainly did. The boys were all standing on the pavement, peering through the back window, cheering me on, and when they saw me moving they immediately began rocking the car violently up and down. When it was all over, or I thought it was all over, I grabbed my trousers and opened the back door, ready to escape. I was immediately seized by several pairs of arms and propelled into the middle of the road as three of my pals fought for the right to be next to continue the contract with the hooker who’d just got rid of me. I thought it was hilarious.

Another encounter was not so funny. Each night on my way into work on my moped I passed through the area where most prostitutes touted for business. Every lamp-post at night had a call girl underneath it, and one of their pimps used to deliver bundles of wood to them from a three-wheeled cycle to fuel the bonfires that kept them warm. As I sped past, my eye was caught by a gorgeous, tall blonde wrapped in a fur coat. She wore fishnet tights and stiletto heels and was just like one of those girls from Charlie’s Angels. The first few days I just looked at her then, gaining in confidence, I’d wave and beep at her every evening as I rode by. Sometimes she turned round and gave me the eye. At night I used to dream that soon she’d be mine.

My fantasies were cruelly shattered. As I approached her on my moped I began to beep as usual in friendly greeting. She turned to see who was coming, spotted me, gave me a look of pure venom and lifted her skirts. Even at 30 mph I couldn’t fail to notice that she, or rather he, was an extremely wellendowed man. I was so horrified I almost crashed in my haste to escape. I rushed home, locked myself in, and climbed into bed terrified that he would chase me and assault me. I was traumatised for days afterwards and changed my regular route to avoid any chance of further contact.

While I was enjoying myself in Naples, Luca Cumani was monitoring my progress, increasingly unhappy that I was wasting my valuable claiming allowance in what he considered to be races of no consequence in the middle of winter in Italy. In England, apprentices start off claiming 7 pounds until they have ridden fifteen winners. Luca was furious that I’d already passed that point. He made urgent contact with my father and soon I was on my way back to Newmarket once more.

Seven Priceless Lessons in California (#ulink_902bf361-a362-5b96-b8b6-f3b8259ebde6)

I quickly came back down to earth at Newmarket. All those winners in Naples didn’t seem to count for much once I was back in the old routine mucking out on freezing cold mornings and bitter spring evenings. When I returned to my digs after evening stables I’d sit on top of the fire. No-one else could get near it.

Colin and I spent our spare time at the yard practising our whip actions. Once everyone else headed off for lunch we were left to sweep the yard and tidy up the feed-house. After that was done we rushed to the warmth of the tack room, armed ourselves with the nearest available whips, dipped the flaps in a bucket of disinfectant, then stood crouching at a jockey’s height on a small bench, and whacked the side of the ancient coal fire burning behind us for ages until our arms ached. The first mark left by the wet flap on the fire was our target for the day. Then we tried to hit the same spot over and over again.We wrecked the stitching on the flaps of lots of whips, none of them ours. After six months there wasn’t a whip in the place with the flap intact.

As I was sixteen, I was ready to start my career in England but had to wait so long for my first ride I thought it would never come. Opportunities were scarce and winners were a distant mirage. The new flat-racing season was well over a month old before I was booked for a 33-1 shot, Mustakbil, late in April. This was at Kempton’s bank holiday meeting, and the man who booked me was the Derby winning trainer Peter Walwyn—who is affectionately know in racing as Basil for his resemblance to the character played so memorably by John Cleese in Fawlty Towers. My claim should have reduced Mustakbil’s weight by 5 pounds, so Walwyn’s mood was probably not helped when instead I put up 4 pounds overweight. Even so we looked like winning until my horse tired in the final furlong through lack of fitness. My conversation with the trainer afterwards might have come straight from a scene in that TV comedy.

Perhaps he expected a polite thank you. Instead I managed to leave him almost as apoplectic as Basil Fawlty after a row with his head waiter Manuel. When Walwyn asked me what had happened in the race I pointed to the horse’s tummy and replied ‘Not fit’. It wasn’t the most diplomatic answer to a man who had been champion trainer, and I was hardly qualified to speak on the subject since at that stage I could scarcely tell the difference between a racehorse and an aeroplane.

At first Walwyn didn’t seem to understand what I’d said. Then the penny dropped. ‘What! Not fit! You cheeky little bugger. Not fit!’, he spluttered. It could have been Fawlty speaking.

‘That’s right’, I agreed, too stupid to realise I was moving into dangerous territory. ‘Not fit, too fat’, I added before heading for the safety of the jockey’s room to protect me from further explosions. The next morning Walwyn rang Luca to tell him he wouldn’t be using me for a year. When he finally relented more than twelve months later and gave me a chance at Folkestone, there was a further disaster. His horse played up so badly in the stalls that I was forced to take my feet out of the irons and rest them on the bars. At that very moment the starter let the field go and Splintering, my mount, shot out of the stalls without me and reached the winning post riderless well ahead of the field. This time I could hardly blame the trainer for being speechless.

My first winner in England finally arrived at Goodwood on 9 June, three days after my father broke his left leg in two places when his horse crashed into a concrete post in Milan. The filly who made the breakthrough for me was Lizzy Hare, named after Luca’s secretary who drove me to the course. She was led up that day by Colin Rate in a lurid new black suit, with pink seams, pink shirt, tie and socks. You could hardly call him shy and retiring then or now.

Lizzy Hare was a promising filly who would go on to much better things in America, but that day she was dismissed as a 12-1 shot in a hot little handicap featuring three champion jockeys—Steve Cauthen, Pat Eddery and Willie Carson. We travelled well behind the leader Betty Jane, partnered by Willie, and then Steve took over with a strong run on Interlacing. For a brief moment there were five fillies spread across the course, but Lizzy Hare was finding plenty for me and squeezed through a gap on the far rail to take the prize by one and a half lengths from Interlacing. I was thrilled to win and ever more pleased to beat my great hero Steve Cauthen into second place. I knew Colin had backed Lizzy Hare and the way he rushed out to greet us suggested that he’d landed a nice little touch.

In the car on the way home, I wrote on a box of tissues Frankie Goes to Hollywood. At last I was on my way, but if I was expecting a rash of winners it didn’t happen. The reality was that I was an Italian learning in a foreign country, so just to be getting a few rides was good. I didn’t panic—far from it because I had this inner belief that I was going to make it. There was absolutely no doubt in my mind. My father had been brainwashing me for so long during our weekly phone conversations I had begun to believe him.

I already had so much experience on good horses on the gallops that by the time I was sixteen I knew I could ride in apprentice races with my arms tied and my eyes blindfolded. Compared to the other kids starting out that year I felt I was at least a couple of years ahead. Though I didn’t know it at the time, Luca’s head lad Arthur Taylor shared my belief that I’d make a name for myself. The stirrup irons that I wore on Lizzy Hare hold pride of place on the mantelpiece of his home. Apparently he removed them the same night because he wanted a memento of my first success!

At the time everyone was talking about Dale Gibson as the next superstar apprentice. I had my doubts when I met him. He is skinny now but then he was about 5 stone, and so much of a skeleton he looked as though he was always on a hunger strike. I thought, if he’s my chief opposition, I can give him a run for his money. All I needed was the chance. You don’t want to be waiting forever but the days seemed to go so quickly.

Increasing weight was already a worry, probably because I was eating too many cakes and ice-creams. My feeble attempts at sweating then were sporadic and lacked any discipline. Sometimes at the end of the day I’d take a dustbin liner from Val’s kitchen, cut a hole for my head, put it on, then run round the streets of Newmarket to work up a sweat.

Although I’d had only one winner so far, I was riding at least twice a week, getting the odd 50-1 shot and a few for Luca in apprentice races. I felt my time would come. Another Newmarket trainer, Clive Brittain, had given my dad a few rides years before and now he booked me for Merle in the Royal Hunt Cup at Royal Ascot. To be riding on the greatest stage so soon was a big boost. I’d never experienced anything like it: the unique atmosphere, the dressing up, the tradition and four days of top-class racing in the presence of the Queen. Suddenly I was part of the best race meeting in the world. It was a bit like being at Wembley for the FA Cup Final.

Though Ascot would later turn out to be my luckiest course there was no fairytale start. The correct colours failed to turn up, so I wore a makeshift bib, which started to come open and flap around my shoulders as Merle moved into contention soon after half-way. I was tickled pink to finish a respectable sixth in the famous handicap race.

Chris Wall, one of Luca’s former assistants, provided my second winner, Crown Ridge, at Ripon on 24 June. Chris took me in his car and maintains to this day that I worked my way hungrily through a bag of sweets and Mars bars on the long drive to Yorkshire. The horse started long odds-on favourite and won easily. The next evening I was back at Goodwood for another success on Lizzy Hare. This time we made all the running.

Two winners in two days! Things were picking up at last. Early in July, Chris came up trumps again by booking me for another winner, Camallino Rose, who beat Rae Guest on Luca’s colt Fill My Glass in a photo finish at Carlisle. Although the winning distance was only a head, I won quite cheekily, and on the way back to unsaddle I made the mistake of giving Rae a bit of stick. Chris told me later that Ivan Allan, the owner of Camallino Rose, was furious with me for being so cocky in the finish. Ivan is a huge gambler, and when his money is down he likes them to win by twenty-five lengths. Apparently watching me playing jockeys had almost given him a heart attack.

Next time I really made a mess of things on Camallino Rose at Hamilton, and it was all down to the lip I’d given Rae Guest at Carlisle. I didn’t know that some of the other jockeys had taken exception to the way I spoke to Rae. They got their revenge at Hamilton where they managed to box me in on Camallino Rose in a four-horse race. I just had to sit and suffer, trapped in on the rails, and though she flew once we escaped it was all too late. That taught me a valuable lesson because we should have won by five minutes.

I was in trouble again two days later at Ascot after winning an apprentice race for Luca on Local Hero by a length and a half from Red River Boy. The rider of the second, Stephen Quane, who was also apprenticed to Luca, immediately objected to the stewards, claiming we had crossed in front of him. It was my first experience of an inquiry in England and I was immensely relieved when we kept the race, but that was not the end of the matter.

Ron Hodges, the trainer of Red River Boy, then appealed against the Ascot stewards’ decision, so we all had to go to the Jockey Club’s headquarters at Portman Square in London. Ron’s solicitor believed their case was watertight, but Ron wasn’t so confident when he arrived at the hearing to discover Luca having a cup of tea with the JC stewards! Luckily for me Luca and our solicitor did most of the talking during the hearing and the appeal was thrown out.

My sixth victory that year came at Brighton early in August. I travelled to the meeting with Steve Cauthen in his chauffeur-driven Jaguar. Steve was very good to me when I was young. Of all the senior jockeys he was the one who took time to speak to me. He quickly became a good friend, but in those days I used to irritate him like mad on long journeys. He would be trying to doze sprawled across the back seat, clutching a can of diet Coke, and listening to tapes of Fleetwood Mac, while I sat in the front next to his driver asking him a zillion questions, always trying to pick his brains. Steve was a cool dude, who seemed to have life well organised since his move from America in 1979. He was one of my first heroes in racing, a lovely guy who knew how to treat people properly—and he was the jockey Luca suggested I watch more than any other. I didn’t need a second invitation. He’d already been champion jockey twice, was a wonderful judge of pace, and the day he took me to Brighton he needed only two victories to reach the 1,000 mark in this country.

Voracity swiftly took Steve on to 999 early in the afternoon. Then, riding Know All for Luca, I ruined the script by pipping his mount In The Habit in a tight finish. It looked like being a long walk home from Sussex for me, but luckily Steve had one more ride in the last race on Picnicing, which won easily. The racecourse executive presented him with a bottle of champagne but he was more interested in devouring a huge ice-cream as we left the track. I was swiftly forgiven and we drove back to Newmarket in style.

When I could I always tried to ride John Francome’s horses in the hope that his gorgeous wife Miriam would be in charge at the races. The first time we met was at Salisbury. As I weighed out there she was, an absolute stunner. Still is. Anything in a skirt would excite me in those days, but Miriam was the real thing, a beautiful model with a lovely nature to go with it. I was overcome standing beside her in the paddock, letting my mind run wild. I was heartbroken when John gave up training shortly afterwards to concentrate on his TV career and his golf.