Point Blank: Hi, My Name’s Dan, and I Thought I Could Beat Willie

Apr 09, 2025

"Hi, my name’s Dan, and I thought I could beat Willie."

[Group murmurs] “Hi Dan…”

"I’ve been coming here a year now. First time speaking. I thought I was ready. I thought I had the horses. I beat Nicholls. I even led by £1.3 million after Cheltenham. I thought that meant something. And then..."

...deep breath...

"FUCK YOU, WILLIE. FUCK YOU."

[Polite claps. Nods of solidarity. Someone passes him a tissue.]

"It’s one thing being taken down by Willie Mullins. I can handle the bumper horses. The nephews. The non-Willie Mullins children—like Paul Townend. But Mr P. W. Mullins..."

Dan starts to lose composure.

A meeting veteran steps in, calm but resigned.

“It’s okay, Dan. Let it all out…”

Pause.

“Because that’s exactly what Willie’s going to do at Ayr.”

The Ones Who Cried

There was a time Gordon Elliott went into the final day of the season over half a million in front—and had already resigned himself to defeat. His horses were burnt out. The season-long pursuit of Mullins had drained the tank.

The maths said he was favourite. Elliott wasn’t crunching numbers. He knew he had no winner on the card. Willie had them all.

One used to wonder what price Gordon Elliott would pay for his relentless pursuit of the Irish trainers’ title. We have the receipts now. Year after year, he pushed to the brink—led into Punchestown, went toe to toe—and got swept away in the final surge. What once looked like a rivalry became something else entirely.

Now, the man who once dreamed of beating Willie cries with relief over a Cheltenham handicap winner.

But that’s what Willie does to them all.

Gordon Elliott believed. For years. Had the horses. Had the firepower. Came within €200,000 of the title in 2017. That year, he admitted he “just wanted to go home and cry.”
In 2025, he did better.
He cried on camera.

The Ones Who Tried

Dan Skelton was leading. Comfortably. He’d finally left Nicholls behind. The line was in sight. The numbers looked uncatchable.

This was supposed to be the moment. The apprentice surpasses the master. The weight of Ditcheat lifted. No more second-fiddle. No more comparisons.

And then came Aintree. And everything changed.

Because when you’re in front of Mullins in March, you’re not winning. You’re just in range.

Now Dan is the one standing in the middle of the room, voice shaking, staring into the abyss that is April. All that effort to finally get out from under Nicholls—and Mullins kicks the door in and wipes it away like it never mattered.

And Paul Nicholls OBE? Still perched on the memory of his 2016 last-ditch defence—noble, yes, but barely. He clung on like a man hanging from a window ledge, watching the sea level rise.

Knowing The Fat Man as we do, there’s no doubt he takes quiet pleasure in the fact that he held Willie off, and Dan can’t. In his head, he’s still the Big Dog. Dan might beat him some days, might finish ahead some seasons—but he’s still the assistant. Still the apprentice.

It’s the devouring father dynamic: he raised the lad, but he’s not ready to let him win. Not really. So he pays lip service to Dan’s pain and quietly enjoys the view from above.

That’s the contrast, isn’t it? Willie cried when Mr P. W. Mullins won the Grand National. Nicholls would cry if Dan ever took the title—but not for the same reason.

The Ones Inside the Palace

Willie Mullins was in tears. His son had just won him the Grand National. A lifetime achievement, he called it. He didn’t know who finished third or fourth. He didn’t care. The emotion wasn’t about who he beat. It was about who he impressed: himself.

He’s a perfectionist. Cold, even. Not a man to gush. He’s criticised his own jockeys mid-celebration. He expects standards, not sentiment. But when Mr P. W. Mullins, amateur rider, second string all season, crossed the line—it all cracked.

Because that was the moment it all made sense. The second-string rides. The slow build. The plan behind the plan.

Mr P. W. Mullins wasn’t jockeying for position. He was being positioned. And when it came, Willie broke—not because he’d won, but because it had gone exactly the way he wanted.

And if you think Mr P. W. Mullins just happened to be on the right horse in the Grand National—go back to the Aintree Bowl two days earlier. Townend rode Embassy Gardens. Mr P. W. Mullins rode Gaelic Warrior. The market panicked. Switch Ricci, who once said he had no confidence unless Paul Townend was on board, suddenly changed his tune. Two weeks later, he’s on record saying Mr P. W. Mullins “suits the horse.”

Sure he does. Like a bucket of paint suits a smashed window.

The truth? Willie wanted Mr P. W. Mullins on. And when Willie wants something, it happens.

Just a few feet away, Paul Townend stood empty-handed.

“I’m still sickened to be beaten.”

Not angry. Not resentful. Just sickened. That’s not the language of a jockey who feels hard done by. That’s the mindset of a place where second isn’t second—it’s failure. It was a career-high day for most. But at Closutton, it’s not about history. It’s about hierarchy.

The Emperor Himself

This is what makes it all so hard to grasp: Willie isn’t trying to beat anyone anymore.

He’s broken Elliott. He’s worn down Nicholls. He’s erased Skelton’s lead in a matter of days. He’s odds-on to win the British title for the second year running. And when asked what’s next?

“We’ll see you in Ayr, Perth, Carlisle… wherever there’s a race.”

It’s not ambition. It’s not pressure. It’s obsession, rebranded as routine.

When he cried, it wasn’t from exhaustion. It wasn’t from competition. It was from the rarest of sensations: surprising himself.

Water Cooler Talk

Of course, this is probably nothing. Just whispers. Pub chat. But word is Mr P. W. Mullins (never Patrick, we don’t do that here) has bought a yard in Britain.

Not to leave Ireland. To complement it.

Willie rules at home. Mr P. W. Mullins builds across the water. Like Henry II and Richard the Lionheart—father and son, running parallel campaigns. One to hold. One to conquer.

This was always the next move. Not a retreat. Not a handover. Just expansion. Willie stays in the castle, stacking titles and rewriting the rules—while Mr P. W. Mullins rides out, armed and ready.

And like Richard the Lionheart, Mr P. W. Mullins doesn’t just command from afar—he rides into battle himself. Silks on. Tack up. Lead horse, lead yard, lead the charge.

And now, maybe, one quiet Tuesday at Hexham, Mr P. W. Mullins leads one into the winner’s enclosure. Nothing big. A maiden hurdle. A bit of fun.

And then he plants the flag. Literally.
Irish tricolour. Plastic pole and all. Into the turf.

A stable lad from another yard glances over.

“Is this theirs now too?”

And so the only question left is:

Does Willie finally admit Mr P. W. Mullins is his de facto number two—
and perhaps, at times, even number one?
Or does he keep conquering Britain on the King’s behalf and let the world figure it out for themselves?