Clever, talented, nice? Have a gold medal!

Until today, British dressage had never won an Olympic medal of any colour. This afternoon, they smashed it and picked up gold ones. They did so in London. They did so by beating Germany (who dominated the sport forever – I exaggerate only very slightly). And they beat them by a Gloucestershire mile. Could anything be better?

Obviously I’d like to thank World Class support and lottery funding. Big up the grooms and experts who keep these stunning horses fit and well. And before they turn up the music to encourage me off this acceptance speech stage, I’d really like to thank the lynchpins of this gold medal success – rider Carl Hester and former rider Dr Wilfried Bechtolsheimer, for being very clever, very talented, and very nice.

You see, the gold that the team of Carl, Charlotte Dujardin, and Wilfried’s daughter Laura Bechtolsheimer took home today has been a good 20 years in the making. Carl couldn’t afford a superstar dressage horse, he learnt to ride in Sark, on a donkey. He travelled to Gloucestershire to work for Dr B. There, he honed his natural talent, competed some extraordinary horses, and locked a then five-year-old Laura in the feed room when she got on his nerves. Today, they hugged as she cried over what they’d achieved.

There are few families with the wealth to possess one, let alone several, of these incredible grand prix horses, but where Carl landed firmly on his feet was that Dr B was prepared to let him ride them, too. Most stable jockeys can expect to spend the majority of their time getting bucked off the newly backed youngsters and contesting the odd novice class.

Carl had to sell his 2004 Olympic ride Escapado in order to afford a yard and set up on his own. There was a risk he’d never have a horse so good. Still, he never forgot the break Dr B gave him, and passed the favour on. First, he wanted partner Spencer Wilton to be the one he trained to gold medal glory, but just as they parted ways, Charlotte rocked up to work in return for training and took on some of Carl’s top horses.

The best was Valegro. Not only has Carl moulded the pair into the best in the world, he has protected Charlotte from the sale of that horse. Whoever owns the best dressage horse in the world is offered millions for it. Millions. That’s hard to turn down, particularly since a horse could rip a tendon tomorrow and be worth nothing. That’s jolly, jolly nice of him – and joint owner Roly Luard.

Three people asked me today: “If Carl owns Valegro, why isn’t he riding him?” Well one, he has Uthopia to ride, two, he didn’t just want to win a gold medal in London on a horse he’d trained, he wanted to train another horse and rider to do the same alongside him, and three because he’s Nice like that. And being nice is smart, because by making that decision, he didn’t have to rely on others to make up a gold-medal worthy team, he had two thirds of it in his stable. He’s not just a pretty face that Carl.

So to the former colleague who once told me: “You’ll never get anywhere in life being nice”, Carl just proved that’s bollocks. He was good enough to give a girl a break, because someone had done the same for him, and those two men’s actions secured unimaginable success for British Dressage today. Niceness is underrated. I’m very happy it exists in my sport. Thank you.

Brit jumpers win penalty shootout

What impeccable timing British showjumper Peter Charles has, mustering up his first clear round of London 2012 in the jump off, clinching team gold. The equine side of Blue Fin Towers went wilder than they did when Bruce Springsteen rocked up at Royal Windsor last May.

 I couldn't believe it. I was bouncing off the walls, and felt terribly inspired and proud, and all the things you're supposed to be when Brits win medals, but I really couldn't believe it.

 A few months back, Brit showjumper Robert Smith (son of "V" signs for victory Harvey), said our team didn't have a hope in Hades of winning gold in London (I'm paraphrasing). He came in for a lot of flack, which seemed ludicrous to me at the time given the amount of people who, off the record, agreed with him.

Me included. I put money on Britain's dressage squad winning team and individual medals, any fool with access to the FEI results record could have predicted the same, but it was a brave soul who did likewise on our showjumpers. On paper, they didn't have it. But you know what they say, "Bad on paper, good in an Olympic jump off".

 And much as I like to bash the dressage-marketing drum, showjumping is a more accessible sport in terms of being easy to comprehend – leave the poles up and you win. Pole down = four faults. Leave them up going faster later on = you're in there.

 Having just walked past a (what's the collective noun for men you wouldn't expect to like showjumping?) watching a rerun of the medal win on a big screen by London Bridge station, I'm hoping jumping now bounces back to the glory days of Harvey Smith in terms of coverage and popularity in Britain. This is a sport broadcasters are happy for Britain to be good at.

In addition – because I always want more, it was my first word – I'd now like the sport's terminology to enter everyday parlance. So, next time you see someone trip, please holler, in your best pinched-nose tanoy voice "four faults", please. Thank you.

Feel the love, Charlotte

It was bloody brilliant. Bloody, bloody brilliant. How, at 25, at her first Olympics, under the pressure of a gaining German team, did Charlotte Dujardin manage to keep her cool and break the world record to ensure Britain stayed ahead of their rivals following the first stage of the team competition? I've never seen that done. It's entirely unfeasible. I just can't get my head round it. She's supernatural, that girl.


I was questioning the sanity of whoever signed her up to go last. Surely give that pressure to mentor Carl? But no, good call. Maybe she's better for that kind of utterly ludicrous pressure. 



Joy unconfined.



The only sadness today was the look of a kicked puppy worn by Sweden's Patrik Kittel. He was papped over-flexing Scandic Watermill yesterday in training. For all of a second. I'm going to go out on a limb and piss-off the anti-rollkur brigade here, but seriously, that man is not cruel. He'd invite you all to watch him train and would be calm and friendly for hours however much vitriol you spat at him.  Sometimes, he has to gain control, and, without force, brings the horse back to him before carrying on soft and light as anything. Don't judge him on one picture. Go and watch him train, then make a sound judgement. And while you're at it, watch those kicking and yanking in anger, and tell me which you'd rather ride your horse.



That's me done. I'm going to go and celebrate. Please someone buy that Charlotte several bottles of champagne. And Carl, too, for giving her the perfect Blueberry to ride and the skills to do it.

Dressage rocks - spread the word

My feet twitched throughout Carl Hester and Uti’s tempi-changes this morning, my fingers shook as Laura Bechtolsheimer entered the arena on Alf, and my stomach muscles are only now recovering from the excitement of two fantastic tests that put Britain in gold medal position going into the second day of competition. It turns out all I needed to get me feeling something slightly more intense about these Olympics was for the dressage to start.

No, dressage excitement isn’t an oxymoron. Sure, I’ve heard the sport likened to paint drying and grass growing in the past 24hrs – by a chap on the bus and a man in the curry house. Both had randomly got tickets for the eventing dressage over the weekend. Admittedly, if I were selling the sport, that isn’t where I’d start. You’ve at least got to throw in some tempi-changes (skipping) and piaffe (dancing on the spot) to stand any chance of grabbing the attention of someone who prefers their sports to revolve around balls – or at least wheels.

           

Dressage is most commonly labelled “horse ballet” by the uninitiated. That’s fine. The equines point their toes and pirouette, while those who love them are as passionate in that devotion as any Royal Opera House season ticket holder. Men’s magazine journalist Pete Cashmore today coined the term “posh pony disco” instead. And I’d take that, too. Valegro et al have, after all, been privately educated, and reside on charming estates in Gloucestershire. I’ve not heard their accents, mind – though I couldn’t tell an upper class Dutchman or Dane from Adam anyway.

See, people can call dressage whatever they want as far as I’m concerned. If they’re calling it Something I’m happy, because that means they’re talking about it. For eight years I’ve been attempting to garner more interest in the sport, behaving like some sort of kür missionary. Tactics range from posting You Tube links of Blue Hors Matine at Aachen 2006, or Totilas in Kentucky in 2010, to sending endearing images of Uthopia taking a nap, and drawing attention to the sheer cuteness of Blueberry’s dished nose. I’ve even stooped so low as to point out how good looking the riders are, both male and female, and therefore had to go home and beat myself with a copy of How To Be A Woman in penance.

In the past three years the message has been more readily received. Totilas single-hoofedly made riders in other disciplines at least stop referring to dressage as “the boring bit you have to do before cross-country day”. It helps enormously of course that the British team are in with a bloody good shot of gold in London. Success has 1,000 friends on Facebook, let alone all those fathers. Opinions are shifting – a former colleague who used to swear and spit when I passed her dressage pages for proofing was über-excited to be attending the dressage in Greenwich.

But I want more – there’s little satisfaction in preaching to the semi-converted. I want anyone in Britain who has cheered our rowers, cyclists and judo(ists?) over the past two days to be as ecstatic when our dressage team smashes it. I want them to have a clue what the sport is they’re (hopefully) applauding – for them to have seen it. So, two o’clock tomorrow, BBC red button, there’s a charismatic Spaniard on a crowd-pleasing grey stallion, followed by the best and handsomest dressage horse in the World – Valegro – ridden by the ridiculously talented and not at all snooty Charlotte Dujardin. She’s going to win us at least one gold medal in the next week. Glory. Get a piece of it. Tune in. And if you’ve already enjoyed it, tell your friends.