5:45am alarm call with the prospect of being home somewhere around 10pm. Unavoidable delays on the track meant that was nearer 11pm as it turned out. Greggs around 7:30am for the obligatory sausage butty and a cappuccino (extra shot, obviously) as is now the Newcastle habit- the only surprise being Steve passing on the bacon baguette as he'd got something flaky and buttery before I picked him up.
We arrived to light drizzle soon deteriorating to something darker and altogether more ominous. Pitch in was 12:00 and at 11:50 the huddle was still hunkered under cover by the tunnel with joints abandoned in various states of build readiness around the ring, rather like expectant chicks awaiting the return of their doting parents. But with grumpy middle aged bookmakers and no worms.
A late dash saw us build up just in time and we duly stuck one pitch on the frontline as a hedge against the rain persisting and one at the far end of the silver ring in the expectation that it wouldn't. Simon was working the silver ring pitch and opined at 1pm that I'd picked wrong. I reminded him I never, ever picked wrong, but I occasionally didn't always pick right. I also extolled the virtue of patience and, on cue, the clouds lifted, the sun shone and the picnic tables were right back in play.
1) Roger Henry for the max and it looked like we were off to a bad start until the toiling favourite, The Glen Rover found from nowhere and got us out of jail to give us a small move forward rather than a big move backwards.
2) We wanted Tryfan. How we wanted Tryfan. Looked like we were getting it too as it went clear and the in running drones agreed as 1.08 or so was flashing delightfully. We'd seen this film before though and it ended in one of the romantic leads dying tragically in unforeseen circumstances. Metaphorically. In our case the showreel ended with the jolly winning in circumstances that film critics would consider implausible. We had similar thought but with fewer letters and slightly more agricultural language. The places were sensational which meant we didn't lose on the race but the crumbs of comfort were meagre and stale.
3) And whilst the actual clouds were rapidly receding there was an Olaf style one sat over the CairnBet joints as worst in the book, Bear Kode won, though at least this time the ending was rather more straightforward and predictable as no other result looked likely. We wanted the jolly this time- old timers will sagely nod their heads and suggest we got our comeuppance.
4) Things come in threes, they say but I don't do that karma, fate nonsense. But they sure did. We wanted any of the 50 or so horses which hit odds on in running for the mother of jackpots. In fact, the mother, father and benevolent old uncle you only see at Christmas of jackpots. We had the top 3 beaten and we looked like we were cashing in, and in monstrous fashion. Instead we did cash in but only in middle of the road fashion. And anyone who knows my taste in music knows that middle of the road isn't really my bag. Good places, good win but thoughts of what might've been but will never come to pass.
5) Things come in fours, they don't say but I don't do that karma, fate nonsense. And it's not a saying anyway. And they didn't come in fours anyway. Cracking result as BarleyBrown nabbed the absolute nightmare result (Little Ted) on the line. I was coming back to our pitch from Simon in the Silver Ring, where the tannoy is conspicuous by its total and utter absence, so couldn't hear the commentary at the end of the race, apart from the words "Little" and "Ted" but, given they were also accompanied by the absence of noise from the stands I knew the word "beaten" was in there somewhere. We were now very nicely ahead but felt we weren't quite back to level par given the chances we'd had, and needed a couple more jackpots. I idly pondered with Simon whether he still thought I'd picked wrongly when the sun was out and the picknickers were frolicking. He muttered something unrepeatable.
6) And we didn't stop there. No siree. Every other bet on Split Elevens, massive drift on the off, finished third and it was just a case of which massive winner was better- turned out it was Barossa and the place gods once again shovelled their benevolence our way as we steered a couple of shocking potential places on Rockin Rosa and John Kirkup.
7) That 3s thing? Maybe there's something in it. Betting was a lot quieter in the last due to the delay to the previous race but we were a lovely visitor to Skinner Territory with the barely touched Three Beauz after we got stuck into Musical Diva, Henry Hawk and the obligatory Stallone. And the best place result in a day of great place results was the gold leafed, artisan crafted chocolate covered cherry on top of the best, most beautiful cake in the world (the wife's Victoria Sponge if you're wondering).
A great day for us with 3 fantasy results to finish and we prepared to pack away in high spirits.
And so to the actual packing up. No metal pull pole for the trolley on our pitch, so had to fashion something out of bungees, limped the 2 miles backed to the car, and hoped that the shins stayed intact. Met Simon at the car where he had two poles- one in each hand, like a bargain basement, slightly sullied version of Zeus. He said he wondered why he had an extra one. It hadn't occurred to him it might be ours. He was fortunate we'd won so well or one of them would've been inserted somewhere he'd rather it wouldn't and he'd have had the taste of stainless steel in his mouth for a week.
Musselburgh next Friday for an evening card and a 90s Rock at the Races thing afterwards. I fear it'll be more Steps than Inspiral Carpets so it'll be a quick march back to the car 5-6-7-8. You're welcome. Until then...
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