'Don't take it away from me, not now' - how I won the Grand National, by Patrick Mullins

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The Liverpool taxi driver is knee-deep in his story about his Anfield season tickets, encompassing the death of his father and the birth of his daughter, and I’m looking out the window. Medilab – Laser hair and tattoo removal specialists; Kewin Properties; JR Discounts; H&T Pawnbrokers; Fuel Vape; City Cafe.

A street breaks the row of shops. Kosy Beds; Barbershop; an empty building for sale; Nails 2 U; The Chicken Barbeque; Card Factory; Mark Reynolds solicitors. We stop at a red traffic light. There’s an old church that now houses a Boots Pharmacy. Prescriptions over prayers.

We turn right at the Black Bull ('Over 25s. No tracksuits or trainers after 7pm') and drive on down beside Kirkdale Cemetery. There’s a woman pushing a pram through it. I see a fire station that may or may not be operating and a closed-down bookmakers. Another set of traffic lights before we turn left on to Seeds Lane.

'Welcome to Aintree', the sign says.

Gaelic Warrior has gone to sleep. Ahoy Senor is still in front of me and I cannot get away from him. I give two bops on the handbrake, turn out of the back straight and feel a little rumble in the engine. That’ll do.

Fly the cross fence. The pace quickens. Bop, bop. Rumble. That’ll do.

We swing into the home straight and motor down to the third-last. Ahoy Senor goes out. I go in. The third-last brushes under us. Bop, bop. Rumble, rumble.

I’m chasing three British champion jockeys down to the second-last in the Bowl. We’re lengthening and quickening. The stride is long. Very long. I ask and Gaelic pushes off with huge power. We land running. No more bopping, we’re in full swing now. The furnace roars into life and we eat into Grey Dawning’s lead. Revs in the red.

There’s no stride at the last. Sit. Hope. He shortens, lifts, lands and runs. The grey disappears from my inside. We surge through the line and I roar through the wind. He’s back. 

Gaelic Warrior wins the BowlCredit: Edward Whitaker

Annamix runs on gallantly all the way to the line. We’d nearly landed on the first and that had ended our chances but he’s got me round safely once again. Pure white now after eight years with us, having arrived steel grey. A cult hero in Closutton. That’s him retired, I think to myself.

He goes to follow a horse pulling up to his left and I correct him, but then he ducks back to his right and throws me on to my back on the grass. He looks down at me, and I look up at him. It seems apt. I laugh and give him a pat. His job is done. I loosen the girths and lead him back.

I’m following Handstands as we head out into the back straight for the second time. Quai De Bourbon is jumping and travelling well. We’ve a chance here.

I can see Ben Jones’s feet and hands moving, he isn’t really going. Paul Townend is pulling a roller on Dancing City. We’ve gone hard.

Jordans knuckles at the back of the next and JJ Slevin disappears from my inside. I dive into his space, getting on to Dancing City’s tail. He’ll bring me into the race.

The open ditch is next. Dancing City launches himself into the middle of it. We land. Roll out of my way! Quai De Bourbon goes to shift right to avoid the chestnut but Handstands hits us a shoulder and we are sent straight over Dancing City. My horse is whipped from under me. Bang. Thud. Keep rolling, keep rolling. Nothing lands on me.

I get to my knees. The horses are up, Paul is moving. We had a chance, we had a big bloody chance. I fire my helmet on to the ground. F***!

We’re in the tent below the parade ring. I’ve showered and changed and come out to meet some friends.

There are bare ankles, gelled hair, good tattoos, bad tattoos, white legs, brown legs, black legs and orange legs. High heels and low tops. Shirts buttoned to the top with no ties. Sunglasses on inside. There’s fun.

The Topham Chase is on the two big screens and there’s screams and cheers as Gentleman De Mee battles his way to victory. Then the DJ in between the big screens starts again and the music is pumping once more. 

Gentleman De Mee: winner of the TophamCredit: GROSSICK RACING

“It doesn’t get any better than this,” I say to Katie Walton as we turn out of the parade ring with Nick Rockett for the Grand National. We head out under the stands. It’s loud. It’s hot. It’s claustrophobic.

Bravemansgame plants himself. We’re stuck. The horse won’t go out. He swings left, he swings right. The bottleneck grows behind us and Nick Rockett is starting to get anxious at the wait. I tell Katie to let go and I squeeze on by. Running into trouble before the start even.

I canter down and look at the first, head back and get my girth checked. Turn and look for the field. Most people are already there. I want to be somewhere in the middle but it looks packed tight. I wait until the line starts the turn and needle in beside Brian Hayes on Grangeclare West. He gives me a nod.

The starter is calling us in. We’re walking. We’re jig-jogging. One or two break into a canter but get back. The line bulges. It goes taut. We’re on the tape. 

“Away you go!”

Patrick Mullins and Nick Rockett clear the Chair Credit: AFP via Getty Images

Nick Rockett is like a cork out of a bottle. I’ve got daylight all around me. The outside of the line is slightly ahead and coming in. I don’t want to go down to the first with no company or no lead so I sit slightly against the reins and the daylight gets filled by horses without being eclipsed.

We rush toward the first. At this speed you have to go forward. We meet it long and take it well. Breathe. Get back. I don’t really want to be this far forward.

The second zips by. The big ditch gets bigger and wider the closer we get to it. Nick is clever, brushes through it. Now we’re talking.

Beauport has slotted in ahead of me. Perfect. I’m happy to follow him. Fence. Space. Fence.

Becher’s next. I’ve space, galaxies of it. Angle slightly in. I sit and we get in tight. Skew in mid-air. Split second of worry. Hooves on the ground and away. Breathe.

Nick Rockett and Patrick Mullins on their way to Aintree gloryCredit: John Grossick (racingpost.com/photos)

Foinavon. Ready for something silly here. Heels down, weight back. He takes it on. Edge out for the Canal Turn. Who’s in front of me, who’s inside me, anyone outside me? Who is going to take my line of sight?

We get over and around it in one piece. The next row of fences pass like a rower’s strokes. Even, measured, unhurried. We cross the Melling Road and Hayes appears on my outside.

“You happy?” he shouts across. 

“So far, so good. You?” 

“Couldn’t be better.”

We’re in with a chance. And we know it.

Nick Rockett takes a fractional advantage as the runners head towards the finishCredit: John Grossick (racingpost.com/photos)

The field tacks over to the rail as we join the racecourse proper and I hear Johnny Burke shout on my side: “Paddy, wait, my girth is gone.” I give him a few strides to sort himself out and get back and then I get over. Not my problem.

Two more fences and we’re on that open run to the Chair. Brian edges forward a bit into the space in front of us, so I have to switch in further to keep a clear view. We meet the Chair well and cross its canyon economically.

Hewick is in front of me at the water and he jumps a little across us, causing Nick to land a bit awkwardly. The field bunches again as we turn to head out on the second lap but then fans out as we spray over the sand crossing. 

I stay toward the middle, drawn to the space. Beauport is still my lead. Hewick to my left. This is grand, just grand.

Nick Rockett and I Am Maximus fight out the finishCredit: John Grossick (racingpost.com/photos)

I spot one for the big ditch and send Nick forward. One, two, three, up! He comes and stretches. Land and take him back. Keep filling up.

Hewick and Horantzau D’Airy both jump into my space at the next and we take a stumble landing. Becher’s second time. We’re over. My bubble of space evaporates as the field bunches in again for Foinavon.

We’re a little careful and lose a bit of ground. We’ve lost a few positions. Have I lost too much?

Rachael Blackmore appears on my inside down to the Canal Turn. Reassuring. We meet it on that tricky half-stride. Nick launches himself at it. And I mean launches. It’s ridiculously long. I hold my breath and squeeze tight. 

Heartbeat. 

We touch down turning, a little wide from the effort of the jump. Nothing collides with us or impedes our turn.

Rachael Blackmore congratulates Patrick MullinsCredit: Edward Whitaker

I need to make some ground. I click at Nick all the way down to Valentine’s and I feel him respond. Jump Valentine’s. Keep it even, keep it balanced. We're inching forward, not losing ground. A stride appears at the next and then again at the last ditch. Water in a desert. And again at the third-last. We’re not in the leading bunch but we’re within touching distance. I don’t dare move, in case I’m sitting on a house of cards.

Over the Melling Road and on to the racecourse proper. I take a few deep breaths. I think to myself I might need them.

Everyone tightens up toward the inside again. We’ve merged into the leading group and I go inside Hewick. I see a horse coming around his outside and squeeze Nick forward and out so we don’t get boxed in and lose our momentum.

Patrick Mullins is hugged by his mother JackieCredit: John Grossick (racingpost.com/photos)

Daylight starts to appear again as horses spread out down to the second-last. I pick my spot. Another stride appears. We wing the fence, collide with Bravemansgame in mid-air, still getting in my way, and suddenly we’re in front. Bollocks.

I don’t want to be here, not yet. I take a fresh hold of the reins and keep our powder dry. Let them come to us. Green and gold appear on my outside. The last stretches all across my vision. Give me a stride, give me a stride. It appears, safe rather than dicey. Squeeze with my legs, hold with my hands. Nick barely breaks stride over it. The horse on my outer has disappeared again.

'Sit up' flashes across my mind but I dismiss it. My mother always told me, there’s a time to go. A time when checking the momentum breaks it. I bop away, asking without demanding. There’s nothing but a green field ahead of us. No rail or fence to guide us. I fixate on the Elbow. I feel Nick start to idle. The dream starts to shimmer.

Patrick and Willie Mullins embrace after Nick Rockett's Grand National victoryCredit: Edward Whitaker

The horse on my outer appears again. Green and gold, McManus silks. Nick picks up with him. The shimmer solidifies. We’ve still got a chance.

I try to keep straight and tight to the Elbow, not to let something up my inside. I hear “. . . Meetingofthewaters . . .” from the commentator but I think it’s I Am Maximus beside me. He’s level with us again but he hasn’t passed us. He hasn’t passed us. The shimmer is still there.

Finally, we’re at the Elbow. I pull my stick. Head down, I push, I squeeze, I growl, I will. One. Two. Three. I look up for the line. It’s not close. My breaths are getting shorter and faster; “. . . on the wide outside . . .” breaks through my hearing. I hate the run-in like a drowning man hates the sea. Four. Five. Six. I look up again. Closer. Closer.

I’m looking for a shadow, something to arrive, and it doesn’t. Seven. No more bullets to fire. Don’t take it away from me. Not now. Push. Squeeze. Pant. Will. We cross the line in front and . . . and . . . And I smile. I might never stop.

This column is exclusive to Racing Post+ subscribers. Subscribers can read more articles by Patrick Mullins here:

Ten winners - yet still we walked away from Cheltenham disappointed 

Mullins' Travels - Patrick's adventures in England and the question on everyone's lips: 'Why are you here?'

Go on, go and write off Gaelic Warrior - I dare you! 

‘I was done, I didn’t care if I rode again’ - Keith Donoghue tells Patrick Mullins how he came back from the brink 

'He must have some engine' - winners, magic memories and a remarkable recovery in Patrick Mullins' Christmas diary 

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