'Leaner, Not Meaner’: The Euphemism Olympics at the Jockey Club

Let’s begin with the fact that Jim Mullen, the newly installed CEO of the Jockey Club, told Nick Luck Daily that the Club is “not in a difficult position and we’re not not secure.” A sentence that is, by all logical standards, both reassuring and deeply suspicious. It’s the sort of thing a man says when standing in front of a burning building holding an empty fire extinguisher. This, then, is the premise of the Jockey Club’s latest strategic vision: announce a bold new future of lavish investment, talk endlessly about efficiencies, and deny you’re selling anything—while quietly arranging a third-party funding deal and shrugging off the fate of Kempton Park like it’s an old boot left in the car park at Sandown.

Mullen’s Masterclass in Corporate Euphemism

The interview was rich in what we’ll kindly call “semantic creativity.” Mullen described his cost-cutting programme not as “rationalisation”—a word so terrifying it causes spontaneous HR resignations—but as a drive to make the organisation “fit.” This, naturally, is the kind of fitness programme that begins by firing your personal trainer and ends with your legs duct-taped to a rowing machine. He insists it’s not mean, just lean. “Definitely leaner. Absolutely not meaner,” he clarified—before admitting redundancies are likely and high-profile exits may be unavoidable. So, to recap: it’s not mean, it just involves letting people go. It's not rationalisation, it’s just “pooling resources” and “delivering efficiencies.” Somewhere in this sentence, George Orwell just sighed into his gin. And if you thought this was a one-off, remember: the Jockey Club already executed “two significant rounds of rationalisation” in the last decade. Mullen’s version is merely the trilogy’s final act—"Racing: The Redundancy Strikes Back."

Kempton Park: The Sale That’s Technically Not a Sale

The pièce de résistance, however, is Mullen’s now-immortal phrase: “Kempton is out of my hands.” Now, on its face, this seems like a simple admission. But zoom in and you see the real artistry. Kempton is not being sold, you see, because it can’t be sold. Not yet. The site has been under an option agreement since 2018 with developer Redrow, who may—should planning permission ever be granted—develop the land into a charming hellscape of two-bed starter homes and artisanal gelato pop-ups.

Mullen claims that, while the Jockey Club “isn’t selling any racecourses,” this potential disposal “isn’t up to me.” Which is like promising you won’t shoot the dog, while reminding you that the neighbour already bought the bullets. And yet, tucked inside this contradiction is the real strategy: avoid accountability by invoking inherited decisions. Redrow's option, granted long before Mullen’s reign, hangs over the estate like a Sword of Damocles—one that can be waved away when convenient, and invoked as unavoidable when cornered.

Funding the Fantasy: The Bubble of Money That Fell From the Sky

In one of the more revealing exchanges, Mullen described his team’s racecourse investment wish list and then nodded vaguely toward a mysterious, soon-to-be-announced funding source. Not a sale, of course. That would be vulgar. But something. A “bubble of money,” he called it. This term, let’s be clear, is a euphemistic masterpiece. It’s not capital. Not debt. Not equity. Just... a financial apparition, floating gently into HQ like Mary Poppins with a suitcase full of bearer bonds.

Pressed again and again on where the money would come from, Mullen insisted that he was “at the final knockings” of securing funds, and that everything could be done by “leveraging our great assets... without selling anything.” This is the rhetorical equivalent of saying you’ll fund your house renovation by taking out a mortgage on the family heirloom but promise not to sell it—unless someone offers a better rate.

Customers Get Digital Nirvana, Staff Get Efficiency Drives

To be clear, Mullen’s vision for the racegoing customer is admirable: digital ticketing, targeted marketing nudges, frictionless experiences, roof repairs—finally!

But the internal story is very different. The Jockey Club is shrinking its workforce, closing the London office (because car parks are free in Surrey), and promoting what can only be described as a managerial Hunger Games: “You’ll only get investment,” he says, “if your racecourse can deliver the best possible return.”

What he doesn't say—but heavily implies—is that anything below that benchmark may be left to rot with the silos and the broken tills. And if you work in hospitality or operations? Best of luck. Mullen says flatly, “We’re not spending money to outsource,” before clarifying that, yes, the Jockey Club will “continue to partner with experts” for food, drink, and non-core services. Which, for internal staff, is like being told you're not being replaced—just professionally ghosted by an events company.

Conclusion: Fit for the Future, But Only If It Pays 20% ROI

What Jim Mullen has created is not just a strategy, but a genre. A high-concept, limited-overs play called “The Great British Racecourse Renovation,” where every sentence is loaded, every denial is conditional, and every investment is underwritten by hypothetical growth. His task is monumental: keep racing alive, upgrade the experience, and do so without alienating the workforce or selling off beloved venues. So far, the plan appears to be:

• Tell the public you’re investing from strength.

• Quietly streamline the workforce.

• Keep Kempton in the vault marked “not my problem.”

• Hope Redrow forgets they own the option.

• Use strategic ambiguity like it’s going out of fashion.

Will it work? Possibly. But only if the “bubble of money” arrives on time, Cheltenham transforms into Tottenham Hotspur, and Kempton isn’t eaten by bulldozers dressed as housing policy.

Either way, one thing’s certain: the Jockey Club’s future will be lean, digitally efficient, and almost definitely decided by someone other than the man running it.