Kettle Switched on to Training

Former Jockey Michael Kettle, by Robert Philip - From the Telegraph dated 10th December 2000...

Michael Kettle

It is shortly after what is laughingly termed sunrise on a bleak midwinter's morning in the sodden English countryside; the torrential rain has blessedly - and fleetingly - been switched off at the celestial stopcock but the howling, bone-chilling wind whips across Oxfordshire straight from Siberia. The ultimate dream may be Epsom, Royal Ascot or Glorious Goodwood on a balmy summer's afternoon but, hey, that is a fantasy to be savoured later tonight in front of an open fire with a warming glass of malt to hand. For the moment, it is up here on the inhospitable Blewbury Hills that trainer Michael Kettle must find his thrills.

The Classics are an eternity away but the Flat racing season, like brutal storms, continues unabated on the artificial tracks of less glamorous outposts such as Southwell, Lingfield and Wolverhampton this week and, whatever the weather, there are equine athletes to be trained and cared for at Kettle's Whiteshoot Stables. After leading the yard's string up the all-weather gallop, Kettle warms his raw hands on the coffee percolator in the middle of the kitchen table and attempts to explain why a lad brought up on the urban streets of Woolwich in south-east London, where his only four-legged friend was the rag and bone man's nag, has devoted his adult life to the turf. "From the day and hour I started as an apprentice jockey, I wanted to be a trainer," he says. "And I love it just as much as I thought I would, I really do. As a kid I was fascinated by horses, although I hated racing and would never, ever watch it on telly, but I grew up - if you can call the tiny height I am `growing up' - with Roy Rogers and Trigger, the Lone Ranger and Silver, Hopalong Cassidy and Topper. So it was a wee boy's hero-worship of cowboys that sparked my captivation and that feeling never left me even as I grew older. Whenever I went up to London I'd go to Horse Guards' Parade just to stroke the horses. It's seems stupid now, but I just wanted to be near them."

Kettle, though, went to work at the Savoy Hotel where he became head page, a chattering escort to the likes of Charlie Chaplin, Joan Crawford and the Beatles as they were shown to their rooms. "Everyone I met said, `you ought to be a jockey' and I'd say, `nah'. Even Joan Crawford turned to me in the lift one day and said, `you should become a jock, Michael'. But my brother had become an apprentice earning 10 bob a week whereas I was earning a fiver which I regularly doubled and sometimes trebled in tips. I loved the buzz of the Savoy; there was a real sense of excitement in the air whenever a big Hollywood star arrived. It was great fun because you got to meet all the stars one-to-one and I was never slow at talking. But because I was so small and so light - about 4st 12lb, I suppose - everyone thought I should be a jockey, even though I reckoned it was too hazardous. I was well thought of in the Savoy and knew I had a smashing career ahead of me. I also knew full well that only one out of about 1,000 apprentices ever make it to the top."

And it is at the Savoy where Kettle would have remained had he not accompanied a couple he had never seen before up in the lift one fateful day in 1965. `You should be a jockey,' says the woman. `Oh, no, my brother David's a jockey and I don't fancy the life,' says I. `Who does he work for?' asks the man. `Staff Ingham at Epsom,' replies me. `That's funny,' says the man, `I am Staff Ingham.' Before I'd got home that night, Staff had rung my father asking him to try to persuade me. But I really wasn't interested - after all, I was 15 at the time and had never even sat on a horse, let alone raced one."

Month after month, Ingham called the Kettle household to repeat the same plea and, finally, the young Michael relented. "But I refused to sign the five-year indenture which was normal in those days. I told Staff I'd give it a try but if I didn't like it I wanted to be free to leave. Back then - and it seems incredible now - if you signed that contract and left, the police would come and take you back. There was nothing even your parents could do about it." Happily, Kettle loved the life from the very start, although it was a damn sight harder than carrying Mick Jagger's overnight bag up to the penthouse suite at the Savoy.

"The very first morning I was put on the back of this giant beast who'd won the Imperial Cup twice but who was now 22 years old. The head lad says to me, `I'll tell you this, son, you're going to fall straight back off again.' `That's nice,' I think. `He'll buck you off,' explains the lad, `he always does.' Five seconds later I was lying flat on my back fighting for breath. We went through that routine about five times until I finally managed to stay in the saddle. They were hard, hard days, but it was a wonderful school of learning. I knew I'd never go back to the Savoy after that although I never really felt for a long time that I had what it took. I used to watch Geoff Lewis, who was Staff's stable jockey, and thought I'd never, ever be as good as him. I wasn't a natural, so I had to work harder than anyone, and the harder I worked, the more I loved it all."

   Kettle's first ride

At the age of 18 (and still weighing under 5st), Kettle rode his first race for Ingham, finishing third on a 33-1 filly in a 28-horse field at Sandown Park on Whitbread Gold Cup day. From that humble beginning, Kettle went on to ride over 230 winners worldwide for leading trainers such as Henry Cecil, Michael Stoute and Clive Brittain, whom he served as stable jockey. "I was a good, honest pro. I was never going to be a Lester Piggott, but every trainer I ever rode for knew I'd give it my all. I could have been champion apprentice in 1969 but I missed three months of the season after smashing my legs when I went through the rails at Newmarket."

Never a star, Kettle rode all over the world - the United States, India, South Africa, and Australia - watching and learning from the leading trainers in every continent. By 1979, however, the rides were gradually drying up and Kettle had no wish to linger where he was no longer wanted. "I hung on in there as long as I could but by the age of 39 I'd become unfashionable and once you get into that mode you're in trouble because you still have to pay the mortgage." And so he took his first tentative steps into training, first as assistant to Peter Makin then for six years in Abu Dhabi for Sheikh Rashid. "He was a lovely guy and we saddled a load of winners so I could have stayed there for ever and made my fortune, but I wanted home. I know the French and the Americans will disagree, but I feel if you want to prove yourself a top trainer, you have to do it in England. So we came back [`we' including wife, Caroline] although we didn't have a yard, we didn't have an owner and we didn't have a horse. That apart, we had a brilliant set-up."

Three years on, Whiteshoot Stables has 17 paying guests and the winners are gradually mounting. "We've had seven this season which isn't too bad, but could obviously be better. We've had over 30 places, however, so I like to think that every horse that leaves here for the course is a genuine threat. I'm honest, and I reckon that's really important in this business. There isn't a single horse in this yard that can't win, or I'd tell the owners so. I rode winners as a jockey, but training a winner is the biggest thrill of all. Jockeys only get to ride the horses, whereas a trainer does everything but sleep with them - and quite often we do just that. We're on the bottom ladder but at least we're on the ladder."

Having set the alarm at 5.45 that morning, Kettle, 50, takes his final stroll round the yard some 19 hours later, before settling down in front of the fire, glass in hand, perchance to dream. "There are three yearlings out there... Nothing more than babies. But who's to know how they'll turn out? Of course, there could be a Shergar or something among them. Actually, we've got one little fella in the first stall who doesn't even have a name yet but who looks a real cracker. He's not much bigger than a pony but he could be champion sprinter in three years' time." One thing's for sure, the unnamed colt could not wish for a more caring or loving human companion as it sets off in pursuit of its own, personal dream.