“I’D gone ahead to the beach to prepare the gallop... I towed a harrow behind an old pick-up or a Land Rover to smooth the sand. If the sand was particularly hard, we’d place old bits of driftwood on top of the harrow to provide the weight we needed to make the spikes bite. Anxiously I waited for Red Rum to appear...He came on the sand and Robin asked him to trot. But wait... what had I seen? The horse was favouring a leg – Red Rum was lame. Oh s**t, I thought. I’ve gone and spent all my only good owner’s money on a bloody lame duck; or, more precisely, a lame racehorse.

Quickly I pulled my thoughts together. I remembered those shrimpers with their crippled horses and I shouted to Robin, ‘Put him in the sea!’ Red Rum had never even seen the sea before, but he didn’t blink an eyelid as he walked knee-deep into the water. He stayed in the sea for around an hour. When he came out he was as sound as a pound... He never took another lame step until the day before he should have run in his last Grand National.”