Flogging the same dead horse

Throughout my lifetime, animals have periodically hit the headlines in a major way. Remember Victor the giraffe, who collapsed exhausted while attempting sexual intercourse (I know the feeling)? Goldie the eagle, who escaped from London Zoo in 1965?

Pickles the dog who found the missing World Cup? The Tamworth Two, a pair of porcine Houdinis with rabbit in their blood? Or Pipaluk the panda, who raped Val Doonican during his celebrity visit to Whipsnade (okay, I lied about that one).

But what you seldom hear about are the real-life stories behind fictional animals, like The Littlest Hobo, Mr Ed, Tarzan's Cheetah, or Flipper, all of whom shared a remarkable ability to convey vast amounts of information to humans by simply gnashing their teeth or rubbing their flippers or paws together.

Reliable sources tell me that, once their series were cancelled, they all ended up as pet food, which somehow seems appropriate. Well, faded human film stars usually end up in Cannes, so why shouldn't faded animal stars end up in cans?

Happily, Skippy the Bush Kangaroo avoided that ignominious fate, and was last heard of living in retirement in Perth Zoo (if residing in Perth qualifies as living), but there is one famous animal that has proved to be something of an equine Lord Lucan.

It is 21 years since the greatest horse in the history of flat racing vanished from his stable in Ballymany, Co. Kildare, and a Channel 4 documentary set out last night to solve the mystery behind his disappearance in Who Kidnapped Shergar?

If you're fascinated by the sight of 25 Esther Rantzens surmounted by midgets modelling psychedelic blazers followed by ambulances, then you'll doubtless recall his astonishing Derby win in 1981, when he romped home by the greatest margin ever seen in flat racing's premier event.

Of course, his jockey on that day was positively anorexic, which must have helped enormously.

Although serious in their purpose, the documentary makers were well aware of the comic potential underlying this seemingly grim subject, and subtly allowed the humour to filter through.

From John McCririck in his early Eighties Top Man garb (looking like Worzel Gummidge after an incident with a letter bomb) to the local detective, Murphy, in his pork-pie hat commencing every news conference with his reassuring catch phrase "I have no leads," there was something about the story that constantly teetered between tragedy and farce.

We heard that every diviner, psychic, and psychotic in Ireland was soon involved in the hunt for the missing horse, and racing commentator Derek Thompson (who had been asked to negotiate with the kidnappers by telephone) wryly recalled how he had deliberately kept his caller talking for several minutes in the early hours, so police could trace the call.