Low life
Flat people
Jeffrey Bernard
The flat racing season got off to a rather slow start for me. The 9.35 from Kings!, Cross wasn't the right train to gertac Doncaster. All the bookmakers, ttCi men and what they and other cockneys ea' the 'faces' were on the next train. Mine ;4:1": strictly BR instant coffee if you fell queuing for one solid hour; usually it 5 bubbly all the way there and back. Doncaster is a dump but the racecourse I; first class. In the press room there vieth some friendly, familiar faces like 131.°11gs Scott's, Hotspur's and Gimcrack's bur always up north there were those Min,' unknown to me faces belonging to northeol0 racing correspondents who take racing Ilse terribly, terribly seriously. I think les til, Yorkshire Post that has a man who actua"; walks away from you if he catches Me P; smiling. He doesn't walk away from lot. In the members' bars downstairs _ looked around for some friendly trairleht; but had the bad luck to be accosted by tws Black Widow. She is one of raeilllo on to horrors, a Turf groupie who latches bookies, jockeys and trainers and seer?! re be at the races every day. God knowsw",i will she gets the money from. Some people r pass the time of night with anything, as seem to remember doing at 18. Ain o As soon as I'd got rid of her I bumPe",_1-,te the Weasel. He's a shifty little tout wny'is only interest in racing is betting, sO,Ile is another who doesn't know what ne missing. I got rid of him by offering him a large brandy remembering he's a teetotaller and forgetting just how many shits there are O n the Turf, but a lot of them hadn't crawled out from under the woodwork on the first day. I actually missed Jimmy the Spiv and his appallingly constructed wig and limp carnation and phoney 'public school' accent. ,But I did have a word with Alec Bird, zugland's greatest professional punter and i therefore a fascinating man. When he s at the races he's usually to be found in the champagne bar surrounded by sexy-looking women, clutching a large Havana. I think the world may well be his oyster and I think the two of us together could possibly represent chalk and cheese. Talking horses with him, while clutching my pathetic roll of f',29 in my pocket, it occurred to me that a Lau amount of luck in love isn't alwayi a fair compensation for not being able to win £2. 5,000 on a Grand National. I shall tackle him on the subject at Newmarket next. The first favourite, Six Legs, got well and i truly stuffed. I was just dipping my toe n to test the temperature as it were in that race, so I didn't catch too bad a cold. Then the day brightened when I met Gavin Hunter and Barry Hills who achieved the remarkable with a treble, which isn't bad on any day never mind the first. Gavin had a couple of fhis owners with him, two kind, rough armers with horrifyingly long memories. R. emember York 1970, Jeffrey? We got you ,drunk on champagne and bought you a lobster? No, I didn't, but it sounded like any osther day in that year when I was on the rlating Life. Barry's third winner, Prince mond, I was on and then went through that boring business of kicking myself for 1!0 t having had more on. What I call the Flat disease — symptoms, stupid dissatisfaction With small mercies. At least it paid the day's expenses. Barry got stuck into a fit of cha rnpagne buying and I had the sense to call it a day. It Only remained for me to renew weighing room acquaintance ships. There Was a beaming, friendly Pat Eddery and even Lester smiled. The world has suddenly Unproved by at least 12 lbs or four lengths, the sun was shining and the Black Widow was mercifully speechlessly drunk. There were seats in the buffet on the train back, eggs and bacon and a winning owner bought some champagne. It was then I got involved With Johnny the RAF, a tic-tac man so called because he flew Lancasters, and two Jocks both of them bookmakers' clerks. Iow they make a book full of booze is bl eyond mathematical belief to me. An argument followed, They maintained that c hanmagne was 'a mere cordial'. Between _ eterborough I think it was and Kings Cross the argument raged a little listlessly. About Lio worth of vodka passed over the counter and eventually I had to agree that perhaps ebaMpagne was a little bit too nice. Any, _ ay, we're continuing the silly argument Lois, weekend at Salisbury where I shall have art away' bet on the National. The horse? Cheers, of course.
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