From: J
Category: Other stuff
Date: 12 August 2002
Impossible to pick a winner these days, as though so much effort has worn away my judgement, too many factors to weigh: none of them important, I can read the racecard but my knowledge is only of my impotence to make the right choice. The oiks are at the races, there is a Natalie Imbriglia concert afterwards, and also this is a special, the rest of the world jockeys versus GB in a contrived event to interest more foolish people in gambling. Only matters whether you're up or down, who gives a fuck how many points David flores just won by finishing fourth for the rest of the world. Racing is white and lower middles class in the grandstand, people I haven't seen around for a while. The dresses cling and expose shoulders and stomachs, the men thrust fifities and crowd the fosters bar, or splash bottles of champagne. It is a generous and old fashioned spectacle in some ways. the sun shines and dulls the pain of losing, of having nothing to lose. Afterwards, after making ones way through the wrecked and typically ugly provincial town of Ascot, to a ghostly Budgens for cheap provisions, we return to the concert, the drunken revels are in full throw up now, and the people are just disgusting friday nighters now denuded of their old world charm, on an early saturday evening. Then the monsoon comes, heavy rain scattering those who do not strip and worship it in their ecstasy, all is chaos and we are lost till the train home with the australains singing doing more pain to our shivering bodies in their soaked clothes.
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