'He cost more than I expected, the way horses do' The fifth in a week-long series of excerpts from a new collection of writing by the Racing Post's late contributor Sir Clement Freud.

Byline: Sir Clement Freud

FOR SOME months now, since the death of His Holiness Pope John Paul II, I have been that rarity among racing people - the owner of a name without a horse.

I had watched the lying in state in St Peter's Square and heard the praying thousands murmuring, caught the murmurs: They were saying "Santo Subito, Santo Subito, Santo Subito", which is Vatican-speak for "make him a saint now".

There is, and this might just be apocryphal, a story of the Wise Men following the bright star on their way to Bethlehem. One stubbed his toe on a protruding rock and exclaimed, "Jesus Christ!", at which another said: "That's a good name for the child." I thought Santo Subito was a terrific name for a horse, but here's the rub: It is, rightly, a difficult, expensive and time-consuming job to change the name of a horse, so I registered Santo Subito with Weatherbys as a name and determined to find an unnamed brute worthy of that attractive appellation - a yearling or a store.

We move smoothly to Doncaster bloodstock sales in May. Lot 141 is a bay gelding born on March 23, 2001, by Presenting out of a mare whose dam had three winners including Mighty Mogul; whose second dam bred six winners, among them Miller

Hill, who won the Supreme Novices' Hurdle at Cheltenham.

"The gelding is unbroken but well handled," it stated on the auctioneers' song sheet. And the gelding looked like an athlete: A nice big, barrel of a scopey body mounted on four properly formed legs. He was good-looking, had an intelligent head, and as the groom led him around he bounced, as high-jumpers bounce when they approach the bar.

Well, yes, he cost a bit more than I expected, the way horses do, and it was in guineas and there was VAT and a dope test to be paid for as well as the journey back to the establishment of the excellent, underrated trainer Robert Stronge.

I briefly considered syndicating him, but the Royal Ascot Racing Club, since Motivator, has done for syndicates what the Boston Strangler did for door-to-door salesmen, so I invited two of my friends to join me in shared ownership..

While continuing to be well handled, Santo Subito has now been mounted and has shown all the qualities you could ask of a horse: Individuality, obedience with a touch of quirkiness, a swagger and a coat that shines like a prize conker. We shall give him ten weeks and then agonise over introducing him to a life of trying to outrun other thoroughbreds via a bumper or a novice hurdle - over a proper distance. The Grand National in the year we host the Olympics would be our ultimate aim.

Santo Subito. Good name - would not look out of place written in gold letters on a mahogany board listing big-race winners.

I have always felt naming horses to be important. When I was an MP I called a horse I found in Paul Kelleway's yard Grunty Fen - an area in my constituency. He won for me at Taunton at 33-1 and I tried to call another two-year-old Pidley Fen - an adjacent hamlet - but Weatherbys objected. They did agree to my naming a horse Prickwillow, a village to the south of Ely.

My late friend Chris Brasher, Olympic gold medallist, founder of the London Marathon and wayward godfather to my eldest son, took up racing in middle age and was wondrously successful. His horses won frequently, including a hugely valuable race at Redcar; it was he who told me that his trainer had a 'store' who showed promise and of whom he thought a lot. He was not very expensive and I bought him and called him Digup St Edmunds to cheer up the people of Bury St Edmunds, a dullish town on the far side of the county in which I live.

Chris's trainer said he didn't like the name, that good horses deserve good names - so after one poorish run for the disgruntled Mr Egerton I gave the horse to Venetia Williams, and she trained him to win races and give us much pleasure.

My first expensive two-year-old purchase was in 1965. I called the colt Overseas Buyer. Chancellor James Callaghan had just introduced legislation terminating tax concessions on business entertainment with the exception of taking out overseas buyers; it had been my intention to claim racecourse attendance as 'investigating overseas buyers' market', losing bets as 'supporting overseas buyer' and trips to foreign racetracks as 'pursuing overseas buyers'.

Alas, the horse was utterly, totally useless, moving steadily downhill from the comparative luxury of Toby Balding's yard at Fyfield to end up behind a shed in a field belonging to trainer Tim Finch in Norfolk. He finally packed it in with his curriculum vitae reading 000P00PP0.

I bought and named Weareagrandmother, when Mrs Thatcher made that modest remark at the birth of her son Mark's first child, and Nagnagnag, who was beaten a short head in a Group 2 at Saint-Cloud. As he had led most of the way I could not understand why the commentator made no mention of the horse; in the winner's enclosure it was explained to me that in French Nagnagnag was unpronounceable.

There is a school of thought that believes you should try to sneak obscene names past the vigilant authorities at the Jockey Club. I have never seen the point. An owner should be able to look his horse in the eye, man to man, and address him by a decent name - and neither Up Uranus nor Below Jobs qualifies.

This article first appeared in the Racing Post on July 27, 2005 Tomorrow: A few things I want to do before I die

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Sir Clement Freud: 'I have always felt naming horses to be important'