A long month – and a cruel one

By Ian Carnaby

It’s not as if it was unexpected in either case, but I seem to have lost two friends, both called John, in a matter of days. John Watt, who made it to 79, had been suffering from Parkinson’s Disease for a long time and passed away early in January.

He was followed by John Bolton, who held a trainer’s licence for some 44 years and succeeded Richmond Sturdy at Shrewton, the famous yard near Salisbury Plain where Bob Sievier prepared the legendary mare Sceptre to win four Classics.

I did not expect to be reading an interview with the late Kenneth Sandford today. He was baritone with the D’Oyly Carte Opera Company and played many famous roles, including Sergeant of Police in the Pirates of Penzance and Poo-Bah in the Mikado. John Watt loved Carousel so much that I imagine he also saw Sandford playing Billy Bigelow at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane in the early 1950s. He interviewed him at length in 1972, when mixing PR work and journalism.

On the sports side, John Watt was PR for Long John Whisky when the firm sponsored the European Champion Apprentice of the Year Award, won by Richard Quinn. A fellow Scot, ‘Quinny’ always asked after him and would have attended the recent celebration of John’s life held in Bristol and hosted by his widow Clemence, but for a family christening. Brough Scott and Hugh McIlvanney were there, however, the latter pointing out in his inimitable Scottish drawl how effective a pile of telephone directories could be - a remark prompted by an old publicity photo which made Ronnie Corbett look the same height as John, who was easily a foot taller.

He also worked for the International Racing Bureau and was the brains behind the Bell’s Manager of the Month awards, as well as Young Player of the Year, etc. In my bedroom I have pictures of Alan Shearer and Matt Le Tissier in their moment of glory as well as a very young Brian Clough embracing John on the pitch at the City Ground. We knew each other for 25 years or more, ever since I presented sport on Radio 2, and kept working together - he looked after all the Guinness bigwigs at the Cheltenham Festival - until it became obvious that the Parkinson’s was quickening its pace just a little.

He was a wonderful host and just about the most generous man I ever knew. There were long nights - too long, some of them, in this Italian restaurant and that - but they loved him enough at La Barca in Waterloo to keep a picture of him on the wall long after he’d moved away from London. It’s still there now.

John Bolton’s career touches on a vanished England

John Bolton’s career touches on a vanished England, where a policeman might give you a clip round the ear, Southampton and Portsmouth supporters stood together and the very idea that women might hold a licence to train horses was enough to induce apoplexy in Portman Square.

So, until Florence Nagle wore down the authorities, John held the licence for Auriol Sinclair and a very successful pair they were, landing some well-organised coups, most notably Magic Boy in the 1958 Wokingham at Royal Ascot. Talking of a vanished England, he had only 7st 5lb to carry.

When John trained for himself - M J Bolton - I used to follow his horses very closely, especially at Brighton, Fontwell and Plumpton. There was an old character called Stimler, who contrived to lose any number of mile races at Brighton when I had him down as a certainty. No change there, then. John loved it whenever I wrote about him and we ended up doing a full-length feature for the Sports Adviser magazine. It was meat and drink to me, of course, because there was the Shrewton angle as well. Not only that, but when John moved out he handed over to my friend Dr Jeremy Naylor, to whom he’d given a few rides in amateur riders’ races.

The last time I saw John and his wife Sally, they had a table just beyond the winning post on the far side at Glorious Goodwood. I remember one of his long-standing patrons saying he was relieved to see me because some of my articles in the old Sporting Life had convinced him I was a candidate for Beachy Head. I sipped John’s champagne and told him I didn’t think it was ever quite that serious. Mind you, you never really know how things come across.

When cancer struck, Sally told me that chemotherapy would not be any use and it was a matter of time. As a special treat - it was his birthday on 12 January - she wondered whether I could put together a list of all his winners since he started out. Well, that takes about three weeks at Raceform, unless you know someone with all the books. Howard Parker, whom some of you will remember as a top form man on the Life, hasn’t got them all but he made a few phone calls, burned the midnight oil and the list is now complete. We failed by a few days but at least I can hand it over at the funeral. It’s not perfect but I suppose cancer doesn’t make too many allowances.

People keep telling me both Johns had a good innings and I know it’s true. But a middle-order man gets worried when the best batsmen are back in the pavilion.