“Trophies, Tuxedos, and Total Denial: Horse Racing Throws Itself a Party While the Ship Sinks”

In a year when British horse racing lost more spectators than an art film in Slough, the Horserace Writers and Photographers Association Derby Awards galloped into the Royal Lancaster Hotel to do what racing now does best: celebrate itself with trembling fervour and studious detachment from reality.

Lee Mottershead Wins Racing Writer of the Year for the Fourth Time, Racing Post Wins for the Eleventh Consecutive Year—Diversity of Thought Be Damned

Lee Mottershead, Racing Post stalwart and patron saint of politely crafted prose, took home the Alastair Down trophy again—his fourth. Which is both a testament to his polished professionalism and an indictment of an industry where the only thing more ossified than its readership is its award shortlist. The Racing Post has now had a lock on this category for over a decade, making it less a competition than an internal memo with trophies.

What’s next? “Best Horse Coverage By Someone Named Lee”?

Patrick McCann Wins Photographer of the Year (Again), Presumably For Still Pointing the Camera in the Right Direction

McCann's portfolio included horses at sunrise, mud-splattered jockeys, and Aidan O’Brien doing his best “trainer-as-deity” pose. Gorgeous, yes. But also the equivalent of photographing a burning building from the one corner that hasn’t collapsed yet. Not a single image of a boarded-up paddock bar, a tote queue longer than NHS waiting times, or a pensioner explaining a Lucky 15 to their grandchild over a pint of warm Doom Bar.

Jack Keene of The Sun Wins Reporter of the Year, Which Is Like Awarding Piers Morgan for Conflict Resolution

That The Sun—the tabloid that once put tits above truth—has produced the year’s finest racing reporter is less a sign of editorial excellence and more a commentary on the rest of the field. If there was an award for “Best Sentence That Doesn’t Mention Gambling-Related Harm,” it would be a dead heat.

Nick Luck Wins Broadcaster of the Year for the Tenth Time: Somewhere, a Memoir Is Already Being Written

At this point, the HWPA should just install a Nick Luck waxwork and automate the speeches. Ten wins? That’s not a trophy haul—it’s a dictatorship. His voice, posher than an afternoon tea on a polo pony, has narrated more Grand Nationals than most fans have had hot dinners, and somehow still never once implied the sport might have problems that can't be solved by a new race sponsorship or a tweed suit.

Lifetime Achievement for Jim ‘The Croc’ McGrath and Literary Laudation for Michael Tanner: The Rear-View Mirror Is Now the Windscreen

McGrath was handed his lifetime award in Australia, because nothing screams "British industry in rude health" like outsourcing your applause. Meanwhile, Michael Tanner was lauded for “contribution to racing literature,” which sounds grand until you remember that outside of trainers’ autobiographies and betting tips, racing literature is now mostly unread PDFs and commemorative pamphlets sold at Cheltenham.

The Aga Khan Studs Take Owner of the Year—Wealth Wins Again, Shock Horror

Aga Khan Studs being named Owner of the Year is a bit like Elon Musk getting a prize for Best Use of Electricity. While small stables auction off their last functioning bridle on eBay, the awards stage hands out gongs to oligarchs with more breeding stock than sense of irony.

A Bad Look for an Industry in Managed Decline

Let’s be blunt: this is a horrible look for an industry in obvious, measurable decline. While racecourses close, young fans evaporate, and the betting industry hoovers up every last drop of goodwill like a Dyson in a glue factory, racing’s media elites gather in a London hotel to toast each other like Versailles nobles during a bread riot. The sport is bleeding relevance—and the response is to hand out trophies for content.

No one mentioned the affordability checks fiasco, the cultural rot, the digital disengagement, or the sheer volume of punters now treated as little more than data points in a bookmaker’s quarterly report. But by all means—have another canapé, Nick. Take another bow, Lee. Let’s pretend racing is roaring, when in reality it’s wheezing towards the knacker’s yard with a martini in one hand and a blindfold over both eyes.

The HWPA Derby Awards aren’t a celebration of excellence. They’re a photo finish between delusion and denial—tied neck and neck.