IN the late 1980s, an executive on the Daily Mail, where I was then a staff writer, threw down a challenge to me: “Why don’t you get hold of that fellow, Barney Curley?”

This seemingly straightforward request, but one received with a certain trepidation, was to profile the man responsible for a huge punt in Ireland in 1975 – the so-called ‘Yellow Sam’ coup at Bellewstown which netted him over £300,000 (worth over £2.5 million today) – and the (as it turned out, illegal) raffle of his Georgian mansion Middleton Park House, in Co Westmeath, that had made news pages worldwide.

One problem: with very few exceptions, the man from Fermanagh who had recently decamped to Newmarket – because “I couldn’t get a bet on in Ireland” – did not encourage media interest. At the time, he had horse named I’m Incommunicado. And that just about encapsulated his attitude towards most of the media back then.

Finally, he did agree to be interviewed, but real trust was hard-won, over many years. Indeed, eventually, we established such a rich rapport that he agreed to write an autobiography, with my collaboration, titled Giving a Little Back. That was followed by a biography seven years ago: Sure Thing: The Greatest Coup in Horseracing History, the latter focusing both on the Yellow Sam coup, and its spectacular sequel 35 years later, this time with a £3.9 million dividend.

Trainee priest

Few individuals are worthy of two books, but he was; this former trainee Jesuit priest who underwent a conversion from student of the Bible to professor of the form book and, in between, successfully managed Irish showbands, despite being far from a connoisseur of popular music of that period.

Always an audacious, enterprising character, he refused to bow to conventional wisdom or advice and initially became a professional gambler purely because he saw it as a business opportunity at which he could earn a living sufficient to reassure his wife Maureen that “we wouldn’t end up in a caravan by the side of the road.”

It would be fair to say Barney’s decision would be more than vindicated, though he issued this warning to all those who believe they could emulate him:

“Winning at this game in the long term is virtually impossible. I’ve always believed that the Man Above has sent me down with a very good brain. To be a success you have to be out of the ordinary, and I knew I was. I had an ego which told me I could crack the system – and I was right, but only by keeping myself under strict control.”

Yet, Barney never regarded himself as just a professional gambler, and didn’t want to be perceived as such. From as long ago the early 1990s, he would insist to me: “I don’t want my gravestone to say ‘he took however million it was from the bookmakers’.” It can be safely assumed it won’t.

African project

This week, on learning of Barney’s death, I recalled the many times we spent together, notably when I travelled with him to Zambia, to witness the work of DAFA (Direct Aid For Africa) which he established in 1996.

He founded it a year after his teenage son Charlie died in a car crash – a defining period in which he reflected on his life and decided it should take a new direction and purpose. The aim was to help the desperately poor and sick in Zambia. His original target was £1 million, and that has been achieved several times over.

Yet, that project was never been simply about raising money in order to feel good about himself. “It’s what gives me peace of mind,” he told me. “And that’s worth far more than a big touch ever can.”

Even after he quit training and, with the exception of a further ‘scheme’, said to have taken the bookies for £2 million, he invariably still tended to see life through the prism of betting odds – as one slightly disconcerting episode in Zambia exemplified.

While we were staying at a priest’s home in Zambia I was bitten by a security dog. With rabies not unknown in that country, a doctor was consulted.

Barney laughingly reassured me that all would be fine, readily offering 1,000/1 against my survival. I said that not only was that decidedly poor value (“Always look for the value” was one of his maxims), but when precisely would he pay out? When I started foaming at the mouth? “Oh, your widow will thank me,” he said thoughtfully, before generously raising the odds to 10,000/1.

First encounter

How that mischievous banter contrasted with our first meeting. When I first encountered him, his hard eyes locked on mine, unblinking. As he regarded me, it was like having an MRI scan of the soul, and initially it was an unnerving process, particularly as, unlike in the consultant’s room, you were never quite certain of the diagnosis.

First appearances can be deceptive. In time, I found him to be thoughtful, a listener, a man who could be entertaining; even profound observations were often tempered by a dry, self-deprecating humour. This was not a man whose demeanour was blighted by pretension. Unlike the majority of us, he cared little for self-image - because he answered to no one but himself, his family and his God, to whom he prayed daily.

In his years training in Newmarket, there was much mutual respect between Barney and many of his counterparts. At one stage, he gathered them all together and came close to organising a trainers’ strike over poor levels of prize money. Trenchant in his views on that subject and others, he was recognised as a force for good.

Frankie Dettori

I spoke only recently to champion trainer John Gosden, who still recalls the day in 1993 when Barney brought the then 22-year-old Frankie Dettori to his door and asked him to give the Italian a chance riding for him, after ‘an unsettled period’ in the jockey’s career.

As Barney assessed it, “Frankie had achieved too much, too soon. At that moment, he wasn’t a popular, confident, wealthy jockey, but a drifter.” Gosden took him on, and 28 years on, they still enjoy a hugely productive relationship.

In truth, the only people who Barney viewed with disdain was anyone he believed was guilty of naked self-interest. Broach certain names and he simply denounced them with the words mé féin – Irish for ‘myself’. He even named one of his horses Mé Féin after a characteristic that he views as one of life’s great sins.

Dettori wasn’t alone among jockeys in being counselled by Barney. He was a mentor, whose office at his Newmarket house was, at times, more like a confessional booth.

Many riders, men like Jamie Spencer, Tom Queally, and Johnny Murtagh (now a trainer) who developed a close association with him, will all be deeply mourning his passing – just as I do a man who started out a quarry to be interviewed about his gambling exploits, but who I ended up counting as a friend.

Web: dafa.ie