Jump-Orfs and Clee-ah Rahnds - Show Jumping!

But my early exposure to broadcast equestrianism wasn’t restricted to racing. If anything, I probably spent more of my time immersed in the world of jump-orfs and clee-ah rinds. I’m referring to the sport of show jumping.  

In the Seventies, extensive tracts of BBC airtime were devoted to the spectacle of horse and rider hurtllng around a sandy indoor arena trying to jump over improbably high obstacles. Put that way it sounds more like a horsey version of It’s a Knockout but this was a serious business. At that time, events such as the Horse of the Year Show became a major part of the national sporting calendar. The arena may have been populated by pony club families up from the Home Counties but even a townie like me could appreciate the excitement of riding against the clock and the skill involved in tackling the course without displacing those pesky bars.

Like snooker, it was a sport perfect for television in the early days of colour. Once we joined the technological revolution ourselves in 1974, I could enjoy the tableaux of creatively designed and coloured ‘fences’ and walls, riders in scarlet coats (or dark green, if you were the Irish rider Eddie Macken, or a deep blue for the ladies), to the soundtrack of rustling bridles and the ever-so-posh commentary of Raymond Brooks-Ward (“Ohhhh, he’s gawn clee-ahhh!”).

It seems ridiculous now but some of the mostly British riders were as famous as the top footballers or golfers of the age. Apart from the aforementioned Macken, there was the urbane Welshman David Broome, gruff, tough Yorkshireman Harvey Smith, Malcolm Pyrah, Ted and Liz Edgar (Broome’s sister – showjumping could be an incestuous ‘family’) and the German brothers Paul and Alwin Schockemohle, amongst many others.

Smith was probably the best known of them all, As a Yorkshire farmer, he seemed the complete antithesis to the horsey set, a reputation enhanced – in a manner of speaking – by his V sign to the judges at Hickstead in 1971.  Back then I didn’t even know what a V sign was, let alone what it meant, but I was aware of the controversy and that it was A Bit Rude. As far as I’m aware, he never repeated the gesture in public but whenever he entered the area there was always the hope he might!

I was no fan of the supporting acts, such as trap racing or little girls on Thelwell ponies haring up and down grabbing flags. However, perhaps the most impressive competition was the puissance, the highlight of the Horse of the Year Show (HOYS). Instead of the usual multi-fence time trial format, the main objective was to clear the climactic obstacle, a giant wall. Like the pole vault bar in athletics, this would be raised after each round and I think the winner would be the combination who could jump the highest.

On occasions, the final jump-off could see the wall exceed seven feet and I would join the audience in feeling both admiration and elation on witnessing the horse clearing such a staggering height without dislodging any of the blocks. However, perhaps even more enjoyable was the ever-present danger of a major calamity. I never wished harm upon either horse or rider but I wasn’t averse to cheer a major tumble. In fact it was probably the biggest draw of show-jumping. There was nothing more entertaining than seeing a horse refuse the wall, or indeed any other fence, ejecting the immaculately-clad rider out of the saddle and into the carefully constructed barrier. The greater the carnage, the more I would laugh. Sorry, but that’s the puerile way my mind operated. It hasn’t really changed since. Slapstick humour wins every time, and if some hoity-toity toff went arse over neck into a pile of poles and artistic shrubbery, so much the better!

Looking back, I think the attraction of watching show jumping began to wane once the leading sponsors began to take their brand imagery a step – or canter – too far. At one point, most of the leading horses bore the prefix ‘Everest’. Imagine the indignity of a noble beast, bearing the perfectly honourable name of, say, Philco (David Broome’s horse) or John Whitaker’s famous grey, Milton, schooled and trained to peak skill and fitness, having not a badge, not a logo on its badge but the company’s title foisted upon it. If this was deemed so acceptable in the sport, why not apply the same practice to the riders? Harvey Everest Double Glazing Smith? Methinks that would have elicited more than just a simple two-fingered salute! Perhaps dunking a home improvement company marketing director in a water jump could be the new sport we’ve been crying out for?

As for show jumping, it inevitably went the way of most sports by galloping away from the Beeb and into the cash-rich pastures of Sky. However, they couldn’t have been easy bedfellows. Not many White Van Men are avid followers of scarlet-jacketed farmers or marquises on horseback so even the HOYS has been consigned to the broadcasting backwaters of the sport’s very own TV channel, presumably beamed only to a handful of wealthy subscribers in Surrey, Gloucestershire and the Wolds. I doubt they’d share my predilection for inelegant tumbles but such features were indubitably part of my childhood.