A SPORTING LIFE OF FUN AND JOY; In this third and final memoir, Clement Freud's racing companion Andy Wright recalls their adventures as racehorse owners and why a lot of their trainers failed to stay the distance.

Byline: Andy Wright

SHORTLY after his election in 1973, we discussed our individual ownership of horses. We agreed a partnership would provide as much enjoyment at half the cost but, more importantly, someone to share the dreams, joy and disappointment of owning racehorses. A few days later a phone call: "Grunty Fen." "Two miles west of Ely." "No, name for a horse." One week later we became two of Paul Kelleway's first owners with Grunty Fen. He did well for us and was sold at a good profit. That started more than 30 years of ownership together, and at times with Charlie Wilson and others.

Names were always Clay's domain, hence Weareagrandmother, Digup St Edmunds, Eau Good, Spoonbender - owned with Uri Geller - Jam Today, A French Horse and Orpen Wide by Orpen out of Melba, "a very wide lady".

He loved his son-in-law's suggestion of Nagnagnag. "We will run it in France and see how the French commentators pronounce that." Unfortunately I did not take a share in this successful mare with Clay and Charlie, but enjoyed the private planes to Evry and Deauville and the Eurostar to Saint-Cloud. We once came back from Deauville laden with Normandy cheeses and calvados, which we consumed with vigour as our small plane bounced about the sky between thunderstorms.

Orpen Wide was the most prolific winner we had. Bought by Michael Chapman from the Doncaster breeze-up sales.

Won a couple of races before being gelded after which he won three on the trot. When asked on TV "What next?" he replied: "Geld him again." Orpen Wide then hit a flat spot and Clay wanted to move on. My wife bought his share and we went hurdling, chasing and often returned to the Flat.

He's now won pounds 138,000 and 19 races. "I'm glad he didn't go out of the family," said Clay.

His philosophy was to cut our losses and run when the beasts did not live up to expectation, which over time proved to be right, Orpen Wide excepted.

When one of the said beasts trailed in last for the second time, the trainer said: "Needed the race. I am convinced he will come good. I like him very much." Clay replied: "I am delighted you feel that way.

The horse is now yours." We moved trainers many times, very often because of optimistic promises and too many quotes from the unpublished book of Trainers' Excuses. Clay would take trainers at their word and expect the truth even if unpalatable.

The demise of many trainers was simply them telling him what they thought he wanted to hear or adding imaginative extras to the bill. Very unwise policy with the uncertain mix of Freud and racehorses. ONE of our most successful days was when his Winter Fair won at 13-1 the same day Bolkonski landed the Guineas at 33-1 - we backed them both.

Rag Time Band - Toby Balding had said he had every chance - came in at 33-1, but due to a Commons debate, Clay missed the race and his bet. I felt almost slightly guilty about my decent punt.

He loved his multiple bets and one Royal Ascot won pounds 70,000 from a pounds 20 Lucky 15.

On our last casino visit together, 24 - his number - came up three times. The rest of the evening was a haze.

We both suffered from the after-effects of food and drink and constantly lurched between diets and enjoyment and then in later years, annoyingly, from age. He hated immobility and the inability to travel as this was often the seed for his articles..

About five years ago, when he was advised that two new knees were needed and would be fitted six months apart and he would be mobile again in a year, he said: "A year for an octogenarian is a significant percentage of the rest of my life." Both knees were replaced three weeks apart in January "in time for Cheltenham".

In his school report just before his 11th birthday, it said: "His vocabulary is quite remarkable." His mastery of the English language never ceased to amaze me, his ability to say in a sentence what would take most a paragraph, his speeches rarely rehearsed and delivered flawlessly from notes with only six words on them.

He was never frightened to widen his experiences in the name of journalism. He parachuted into a jungle on a survival course, did a toboggan run describing it as the supreme laxative, and was hanged as an extra in a film.

He learned to fly and entered a light-aircraft race across Canada, flying over the Rockies one night because "there wasn't a decent hotel room available in Calgary".

His mischievous humour and precision with words came into play when asked to write a piece about his grandfather.

He delivered an article about his maternal grandfather.

Racing and writing were his greatest delights and particularly writing about racing. A unique way of observing all that went on around, coupled with that dry humour, he could make the dullest of days shine.

Often when reading his column I would be halfway through before realising I had been there - he approached events from unexpected angles and turned the ordinary into fascinating.

It was fitting he died in harness writing his Racing Post column. HIS landmark birthday parties, of which there are many when one makes 84, were always immaculately planned and executed. The guest lists and arrangements were often not circulated in advance, leaving us all guessing. On his 60th there were 60 guests in the House of Commons, the 70th saw a private train from Paddington to Worcester races.

We had one on the London Eye because, when auctioneer at a charity event, he took a bid from the sky and ended up paying himself.

The 85th party due nine days after his death was for 15 of us, all males, youngest 55.

The invitation stated there would be no dancing or flowers and advised "it would be wise to check the obituary column before leaving".

When it was suggested that I reminisce about Clay, I wondered where the words would come from. Every reminiscence I write opens my memory to a dozen more about a remarkable friendship.

These memories can never be taken from me; only by senility, then it won't matter too much.

It is a strange feeling losing a friend like Clay. A large piece of life has become strangely empty but at the same time full, full of fond memories of an irreplaceable friend. I shall miss his insatiable appetite for meeting new people and visiting new places - Ffos Las was next on the list - and I shall miss the jokes that flowed between us, so perhaps I should, in good Freud style, finish with one.

An attractive blonde arrived at the casino. She seemed a little intoxicated and bet pounds 20,000 on a single roll of the dice. She said: "I hope you don't mind, but I feel much luckier when I'm nude." With that, she stripped off, rolled the dice and yelled, "Come on, baby, Mama needs new clothes!" As the dice came to a stop, she jumped up and down and squealed: "Yes! Yes! I won, I won!" She hugged each of the dealers and then picked up her winnings and her clothes and quickly departed.

The dealers stared at each other dumbfounded.

Finally, one of them asked: "What did she roll?" The other answered: "I don't know - I thought you were watching."

CAPTION(S):

Left: Grunty Fen (far side) gives the Wright-Freud team their first victory at Epsom during the 1970s and (above) the pair in action at a charity event in 1975