I’VE always had a soft spot for the Grand National – ever since Red Rum paid for my trip to Hillsborough for a League Cup final replay in 1977.
But not everyone shared that enthusiasm.
The big race regularly attracted hundreds of millions of television viewers worldwide. But nobody ever actually made the effort to go.
Forget ladies in hats and frocks – and lads all booted and suited. In the late 70s and early 80s your average racegoer was more likely to be a betting shop regular trying to avoid paying tax on his tips.
Ladies Day didn’t exist. Friday was simply the day before National Day, and less than 4,000 fans picked their way around the tumbleweed on the first two days of the meeting.
Less. Than. Four. Thousand.
It was the great undiscovered gem of British sport – yet was as precariously balanced as Devon Loch.
It seemed like every year in the 1970s was going to be its last. And for those of you who like to moan about the bookies, it was Ladbrokes who stepped in to save it.
I made my first visit to the course in 1984 – one of 46,083 who bothered; and that was the total gate for all three days.
But the low point had been reached. Three years later you could still decide to wander down to the course on Grand National day – even after the first couple of races had been run – and still not have to queue.
But it was busier when you got there.
I know because that’s exactly what I did, when a tout straight from Dad’s Army opened up an overcoat containing more badges than a Kopite’s bobble hat and marched me and my girlfriend up to the County Roof.
The County Roof was rammed - so we scrambled up a rear wall for a vantage point alongside the TV cameras, the crowd below cheering our efforts - then continued to cheer as Christine's horse, Lean Ar Aghaidh, made a bold bid for glory before eventually coming third.
I was gripped. And it seemed like plenty of others were too.
The low point had been passed – and Aintree was on the rise.
That three day 46,083 attendance figure will be comfortably topped today alone.
Now the Aintree Festival is one of the social highlights of the year. You’ve as much chance of bumping into a footballer or a film star as you have the regulars from the betting shop.
Party time at Aintree as scousers enjoy a dance-off in between the Grand National racing
But the real stars are still the horses.
Their names are etched onto the national consciousness.
TV viewers who only have one bet a year know Red Rum, Aldaniti, Minnehoma – and even the horses who don’t win – like Devon Loch and Crisp.
It’s a spectacle – as in spectacular.
It’s a daunting sporting challenge.
It’s a colourful social event. And best of all, it’s on our doorstep.
I’m thrilled we finally seem to be cherishing it.
The Grand National’s not always been loved. After its first running in 1839, the Liverpool Mercury wrote: “We have heard with alarm and regret that it is in contemplation to establish steeplechasing annually or periodically in this neighbourhood. If any such design is seriously entertained we trust that some means will be adopted to defeat it.”
Scousers have fun despite the rain on Grand National Thursday at Aintree
Their appeal fell on deaf ears.
The National, happily, outlived the Liverpool Mercury. And long may it continue to thrive.
