Double trouble
Jeremy Clarke
Last bank holiday Monday we took a case of ice-cold La Piazza Bianco Tenuta Casalbaio 2001, purchased from the Spectator Wine Club, to Newton Abbot races, Simon Hoggart wasn't joking. The wine was indeed as 'delectable, fragrant, fruitfilled, mellow and silky' as he said it was. And it was quite pokey too. By the fourth race, The Summer Jumping Novices' Handicap Hurdle Championship Final Bonus Race (Class B), we were three sheets in the wind.
Our betting system, that of putting money on the largest horse in each race, was on the whole a failure. But we did slightly better than our neighbours, who claimed to know a thing or two about horse-racing and had studied the form book. I'd been to a race meeting only once before, in Zimbabwe, where they scattered raw tobacco on the racecourse to make it smell nice. No such thing is done at Newton Abbot, as far as I'm aware. But what the course might lack in the way of exotic fragrances it more than makes up for in the conviviality of the atmosphere. You could bowl up to anyone at all and say, 'So what do you fancy in the next race then?' and, you know, it would be absolutely fine, The sunny stands were packed with cheering holidaymakers and it is amazing how thrilling a horse race can be if you've got your shirt on it. It came as a terrible disappointment to us when suddenly there were no more races and the crowd had evaporated, leaving us disconsolate on a bench, surrounded by litter.
Out in the carpark, however, I was hailed by a man hanging out of the door of a minibus. It was Ronnie, whom I used to work with, at night, transferring live crabs, lobsters and cray-fish from Cornish fishing boats to Spanish lorries fitted with aerated water tanks. (I've still got the scars on my fingers to prove it.) I went over to the minibus to greet him. It contained regulars from The King of Prussia on their annual beano, said Ronnie, handing me a joint. I put my head in. Not one of them, not even the driver, was upright. The driver had won £300 and they were going on to a cider bar to spend it, said Ron. Why didn't we come as well?
Ron's directions to the cider bar were a little hazy. First we drove 20 miles to the wrong village. Pulling over beside the village green I leaned out of the window and asked a lady walking her poodle whether she knew where a cider bar was. As well as looking disreputable, my speech may have been a little slurred. 'Sauna bar?' she said, greatly surprised. 'I don't think there's a sauna bar around here.'
We eventually found the cider bar. It was back in Newton Abbot, right opposite the racecourse. It was an unpretentious establishment. A barman was dispensing cider from a row of large black wooden barrels. The contents of the barrels were chalked on the sides. One said simply 'Rough'. The one next to it said 'Old Rough'. And the one next to that said 'Diesel'. I plumped for the Diesel. It was bright orange. For those seeking an alternative to cider there was a row of smaller barrels containing cowslip, elderflower and raspberry wine all at 14.5 per cent proof. My friend, a wine buff, opted for a large glass of the raspberry.
The King of Prussia regulars had been in before us, hut had been asked to leave, said the barman, because one of them had exposed himself to the landlord. The landlord runs a tight ship said the barman. No swearing for a start, and anyone exhibiting symptoms of intoxication, such as exposing themselves to the landlord, is asked to leave. I took a sip of Diesel and immediately the side of my face went numb.
After three pints of this stuff I was seeing double. I could see two of everything: two barmen, two of my friend, two doors to the gents. By a process of trial and error, however, I discovered that the right-hand image was the real one, and the one on the left some sort of a trick. While the duplicated images were on the level I could cope reasonably well. But next I was seeing two of everything on an ever increasing slant. It was like being on two sinking ships.
Then two identical landlords appeared behind the bar, stern-looking men with mutton-chop whiskers, both leaning hard to starboard. They wished me a good evening. Hoping to give them the impression that I was not only sober but well-mannered and intelligent, I wished the right-hand landlord one back and went to pick up my glass from the sloping bar with the intention of raising it to him in salutation, Unfortunately, I clutched at the one that wasn't there, which threw me completely off balance.
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