Royal Ascot - 24th June 2006

Posh frocks, hats, drinks, a few horses, a few more drinks....

Standing around waiting to board the coach to Ascot, sheepishly sipping my first beer of the day, I looked at my watch - 09:32 am; and thats when I thought to myself – sheesh, this is going to be one heck of a day. And was it ever.

It was so well organised. Like clockwork, Swiss clockwork. A friend of a friend named 'Anne' played way out of her boots to organise two coaches to cart about 60 of us to Ascot and back. Gone were the fears of having a nightmare trip back to London on the trains after a day of drinking, praying you don't pass out only to wake up in Brighton.

After a pleasant trip on what had slowly become a brilliantly sunny day (depsite predicitons of rain) we made our way westwards, passed Heathrow towards Berkshire and the Ascot Racecourse. Upon arrival we all sat together and had one almighty picnic. Blankets unravelled everywhere like great sails on an old pirate ship. The sound of Champagne bottles simultaneously bursting open echoed through the air. Cans of beer and cider fizzed open, the smell of Pims and lemonade filled my nostrils. I looked for shade, some respite for my now burning bald head; drat, I had forgotten to pack sunscreen…

Somewhat mellow and chomping at the proverbial bit we made our way up towards the main (newly refurbished) grandstand. The first race (of only 6?) kicked off at 13h30. This is what it was really all about. Time check – 13h40 – pick up the pace. It was hot. Dammit why was I wearing a black suit?

What happened from then on becomes slightly blurry. Racecards were studied, bets were placed, jockeys examined, their jackets scrutinised, 'Intrepid Jack', 'Amadeus Wolf', outsiders, trifectas, sweeps, looking for connections, something, anything to go on, but nothing. Five races later it was all over and I hadn't made a cent. In fact I was down. Literally and figuritively. You see, for me horse-racing is too much about luck, the roll of a dice, a lottery ticket. There are so many variables that it almost becomes painful. And yet, that feeling you get when your horse runs passed, second from the back, is so strangely unique. Blind hope is what it is. It's the very opposite of the feeling people who live on the San Andreas fault line experience. 'It'll never happen to me'. 'It's going to happen to me'. Well it didn't happen to me and I still had fun.

Once the final race was over, in true British style we were herded like cattle back towards our Coach, and in no time we were on our way back to South-west London and the after party that awaited. In closing, some of you may be wondering how the Durban July compares to Ascot. Well it squares up pretty well, personally I think the July is just as good. For starters there are way more races (14?) and the after party/ies continues way into the night. In Durban you are also made to feel far less aware of your social standing, (there's no Royal box and areas aren't demarcated by living class), and that's a tribute to the laid-back South African way of doing things.

And that's where I'll sign off…

Shuz