“Horse racing is animated roulette.”
Roger Kahn
It was our end of season day out organised by Sam The Tote with a trip to the races one fine autumnal Saturday. A season of being fined on a weekly basis for being either blind, crap or just slow – sometimes all three – was about to be rewarded.
Realising I would be burning cash all day like coke in a steam train, prudence awoke with me as I called on the Old Man for a lift to the station. Three quid saved on a taxi fare, a lot more waiting to be torched without a care.
Cursing the traffic all two miles of our journey whilst revving the Fiesta like Lewis Hamilton, the old boy made me wonder how much of a rush you need to be in in your eightieth year. Just as his road rage was peaking, I skipped off into the unknown leaving the crash helmet on the passenger seat.
As all fathers do, a final bit of advice was forthcoming as he thrust a slip of paper into my hand with unfathomable instructions, essentially amounting to how to blow a tenner in a breath.
Later in the day I would be moved to think that the horses he had tipped me were a justifiable case for horse burgers.
We were meeting in Wetherspoon’s at Leeds Station and given the trade going on I resolved to buy some shares if I survived the ensuing carnage. A Full English and a pint for breakfast; Cave Man was alive and well, if heading for a heart attack.
Ilkley Man arrived complete with wax jacket and a scruffy cap still managing to look more like Compo from Last Of The Summer Wine. You could take him to a personal dresser at Harvey Nichols for a day and a tramp would still look smarter.
MO had borrowed his dad’s cardigan and was doing a passable young Val Doonican as he offered advice for the day ahead.
“Follow Chancer Clarke to be sure, to be sure” whispered MO tapping his nose as if this were advice one should heed. Apparently the saintly looking one was the man in the know so out went my well tried technique of picking the nice coloured jerseys.
Big Tony stood there impassive, tree trunk forearms crossed with a look that simply said “…don’t even think about writing about me!”
Marsy turned up looking like the Next catalogue man followed by the lovely Jess tottering behind on a pair of Gary Glitter heels. Drink and those shoes looked an unfolding tragedy for later in the day.
The bearded Broken Digit had clearly escaped the secure facility he resides in during the off-season in a hurry – either that or nobody’s taught him to fasten shirt buttons yet. Ilkley Man had a rival for scruffy bastard of the day.
The Tote proceeded to hand out tiny clear plastic bags with cash in – who said the Villas did not pay – my first ever “talent money” was secreted soon to be lost on a series of three legged donkeys.
A party of Horsforth Hall Park CC lads – not averse to a brown envelope or two – were also in attendance and looked on as if we were doing coke.
The cattle wagon to York was rammed as we set off with high hopes. On arrival we burst out into the fresh air and the first beer was soon savoured.
Team Heart-throb Louis was in his own Heartbreak Hotel confessing to a break-up though unlikely to receive any worthwhile counselling. Nobody who looks like a boy band singer needs tea and sympathy from a bunch of old farts soon to be reliant on Viagra.
Streams of tattooed sunbed addicts tottered on heels like circus clowns flowing down the road about to be gently fleeced over the next few hours of money and dignity.
Ilkley Man, Arse Biter and I had agreed a syndicated approach to the inevitable bankruptcy. Several hours later our combined intellects had turned £90 into £8; bookies must so love days like these.
I was only allowed to place our bets once, Ilkley Man carefully giving me instructions which were lost in an instant largely due to a walking pair of implants in a grey dress. Fifty Shades was to be a distracting presence.
An old punter wisely remarked “that lass has muscles in her bottom!” as he closed my jaw and moved me on.
I had picked the bookmaker as her stall was called Jayne and that seemed friendly. Unfortunately the pit bull in pink had no time for my gibberish, grabbed my tenner and sent me back with two utterly useless bits of paper to Ilkley Man’s dismay.
Chancer had arrived sporting a natty tweed jacket, pencil perched behind his ear, Sporting Life to hand, his exotic wife Prosecco clung tightly to his arm. Mum and Dad were in attendance too with Young Big One completing a family outing.
Chancer’s first tip came in just as the next runners were lining up; I resolved to avoid him thereafter.
By race four I was reduced to sitting on the steps prodding Robbo’s girlfriend at regular intervals.
“I love your boots!” I wailed as she looked down on me with a mix of pity, worry and charity as if she might throw a few coins into my empty plastic pot.
Ilkley Man was now on his fifth different “strategy” – one per race – based on the unlikely algorithm of lager and fasting; we continued to donate freely to the bookies.
Fifty Shades was by now rapidly losing her sheen as my pencil finally ran out of lead; surely prophetic?
By now our guardians of sorts for the day looked worried for my survival though they drew the line at adoption for the night. Having failed to shift either son off the “payroll” despite both leaving home, there was no need for another mouth to feed.
I would like to report more of the remaining hours but cannot blame a lack of lead.
There is a rumour I was spotted clinging to a stool in The Scruffy talking bollocks with muddy shoes the result of one failed outdoor audition for Strictly.
There was little chance of dancing the night away for this maverick as standing was now the major challenge.
Morning broke and I awoke happy simply to be alive having had a great day with wonderful people.
Little did I know that I was now betrothed to Our Jackie, had bequeathed the house plus my cricket bat to her and that she would be coming up the hill with her cases shortly.
It was time to get out of town.
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