On a whim after handing in my dissertation, I decided to tag along with my boyfriend to the Cheltenham Horse Races. I didn't win anything, it was freezing cold, and I was nowhere near drunk enough, but I had an absolutely fabulous time.
The atmosphere of horse racing is markedly different to that at a football match where it seems that noise for the sake of noise a totally acceptable way of cheering on your team. Neither is the atmosphere as reined in as at Wimbledon where every cough causes people to turn around and look at you. Instead, the day was filled with moments of jubilation, stress and a lot of Guinness.
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| Well, let's pretend that's true for a minute. |
The first thing to know about a day at the races, is that drinking starts early. Not afternoon early, morning early. I shakily carried a pint of ale to our table at the pub at around 10.30am. It was a very bizzare feeling; it was so early in the morning that I felt as though I needed some Dutch Courage to get that pint down me, ironically. As it happens, as soon as I got the first few sips out the way, I was soon on to ordering another, and feeling rather pleased about it as I grinned at my boyfriend's friends from across the table.
An important thing to take into account is that there is a lot of walking, a lot of standing around, and in some cases a bit of running to the bar/bookies. Luckily, I was feeling pretty smug in my boots as we all walked to the race course. It took me a little while to realise how tipsy I had become as I launched into a discussion about daffodils: "They really are such a happy flower aren't they?" I was promptly told to shut up and keep walking as I chortled away with another member of our group about my drunken epiphany.
Soon enough we were queuing up to enter the Best Mate enclosure which offered the cheapest tickets to watch the horse racing. Unfortunately, we had arrived a little late and by the time I got my head around who was the favourite to win in the first race and understood what "five pounds each way" meant, it was a little late for me to place my bet. Not all was lost, as I had a chance to look around and take it all in. What first struck me was that I was most definitely in the minority, gender wise. The second thing that occurred to me was that not all bookies are crooks. Online betting shop, Paddy Power, clearly knew the truth of the Cheltenham Races populace as their controversial and now banned advert illustrated.
I don't know why people keep trying to deny it, Chavs are very much part of our society and, much like the African antelope, thrive on social interaction when near a watering hole or, indeed, a Guinness trailer. Apart from an incident at the bar when I was shouted out by an intelligible man who seemed to be angered that I was holding two pints of Guinness- "Don't worry, there's more!"- the day was not made unpleasant and there was no fighting, as there was at Ascot last year.
A final tip: If you're a sore loser, don't bet. It is as simple as that, or at least it was for me. Sore losers are often those that are more likely to fall victim to the sin of gambling; the more they lose, the more they want to win, the more money they spend. Not me. I was so distraught when my horse came fourth that I stalked off to get yet another pint all the while muttering phrases including "the whole world's out to get me" and "bloody unfair". I tried my luck one final time in a stingy £1 each way bet on a horse I liked the name of, and can you believe it, I lost again. It is probably already clear that I don't know the first thing about horse racing, and I probably should have read some sort of manual before I committed myself, but there we are.
Between races, the forty minutes or so goes so quickly in between going to the toilet (a breeze if you're a lady) grabbing a drink and placing a bet so a day at the races goes a lot faster than most people imagine it to. It can get a bit hectic, running along the bookies to try and find the best odds, all the while looking out for a group of guys in tweed, sipping single malt scotch from a hip-flask. Oh yes, the boyfriend went all out for this event. Stress levels peaked and dropped throughout the day which were directly connected to the times at which the finish line was crossed and when Guinness was consumed.
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| I learnt my lesson from betting on the jockey with the nicest bottom. |
All in all, there was much laughter, much excitement and much Guinness. Going to the races is an event I would recommend to anyone with a penchant for afternoon drinking and a competitive streak. What better excuse to get drunk in the middle of the day and watch a bunch of short guys compensate for something?
Have the races changed my life? No. But I have opened a Paddy Power account.
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