The Grand National: Galloping Into Hypocrisy One Fence at a Time

Ah, the Grand National—Britain’s favourite excuse to wear a hat, drink prosecco before noon, and scream “RUN, YOU BEAUTIFUL BEAST!” at the telly while balancing a sausage roll on one knee. For over 180 years, it’s been the race that divides the nation: national treasure or national disgrace, depending on how many oat milk lattes you’ve had.

Paddy O’Sullivan, The Carrot Post’s very own racehorse trainer and expert in both adrenaline and arthritis, sighed deeply over a half-drunk pint:

“Look, love, horses die doing all sorts. Field injuries, colic, boredom, you name it. But slap a saddle on ‘em and suddenly it’s a gladiator blood sport. No one weeps for the 17-year-old cob that gets stuck in a bog while looking for a carrot.”

This year’s Grand National saw no equine fatalities on the day of tbe . That’s right—zero. Not one broken leg, no dramatic tarp-flapping. Just 34 starters, 16 finishers, and a few who’d rather not talk about it. But don’t let a good result get in the way of a spicy protest!

Debbie Masters, the Overenthusiastic Pony Club Mum, had thoughts:

“I told my daughter that statistically, her gymkhana pony has a higher chance of face-planting in the Shetland slalom than these horses do at Becher’s Brook. But she’s only 10, so obviously she sided with TikTok.”

Meanwhile, the usual suspects in the online outrage economy were devastated—no headlines, no slow-motion footage of falls to cut to Coldplay. PETA wept into their press release templates. All dressed up and no moral panic to go to.

But don’t worry—there’s plenty of real cruelty out there! Just off-camera. Out of sight, out of tweet.

Let’s talk about the UK’s roadside harness racing “scene” (read: illegal drag racing with hooves). Horses barely weaned, whipped senseless by teenage boys with more attitude than teeth. No helmets, no veterinary oversight—just the romantic sound of hooves on tarmac and the distant scream of someone’s stolen Fiat 500.

And yet—no protests. No gluing oneself to the carriage shaft. Possibly because marching into that scenario gets you punched in the face and possibly run over by a bin lorry. A quick scan of Luna Skye’s feed (our resident barefoot, bitless Bunny Hugger) shows not a single mention.

“I just feel like… racing is colonial or something,” Luna whispered from her chakra-aligned yurt. “Also the vibes at Aintree are just not it.”

Let’s not forget the American lads on Instagram trying to load a 300lb bloke onto a 14hh backyard trail horse for a laugh. Hilarious. The horse’s legs gave out faster than a parent at Pony Club camp. Not a whisper from the outraged masses. But slap a number cloth on and trot past the upper classes once? OUTRAGE.

And then there’s the Grand Canyon tourist trail horror stories: pack animals with open sores and no water, hauling people named Chad down a rock face for minimum oats. Do we glue ourselves to a mule in protest? Nope. That might require actual risk and a decent Wi-Fi.

So what have we learned?

Nothing. Obviously.

But we can confidently conclude that the issue with racing isn’t the fences or the distance—it’s the visibility. The real cruelty, the systemic daily stuff? Boring. No audience. No hashtag. No morally outraged influencer saying “I just love animals so much .”

Kate Robinson, our resident World-Weary Happy Hacker, sums it up:

“Until someone glues themselves to a Tesco pony ride, I’ll keep taking the National with a pinch of salt and a gin and tonic. At least they’ve got medics.”

So here’s to the Grand National: equal parts tradition, athleticism, and annual moral panic. Until next year, dear viewers—may your bets be lucky and your outrage selective.