Grand National

Brendon reporting on his Grand National expedition: 

I cycled out of town today looking for a Ladbrokes betting shop and then a pub to watch the Grand National. This decision to go on the town rather than the gown side of the tracks was well worth the extra miles cycled. I found a pub full of well lagered yobs young and old. The proprietor was a classic leather jacket-wearing bruiser with a huge crucifix necklace and an earring (tough guys with earrings is something I haven’t seen for a while...). It was the kind of bar where they served all the regulars before the stranger even though I was the first customer at the counter. Got a large pint of Greene King. It tasted watered down compared to the same brand served in Balmain two weeks earlier. Settled in the corner of the pub to watch the big race.

     Close by, young largerlads and ladettes were charging down pints and eating the most massive shared platters of chips, wings and fried schnitzels I have ever seen (American bar food is gourmet and healthy compared to this fare). My horse, the favourite, lost its jockey on the warm up lap –  not a good sign and in fact a portent of things to come. Instead of starting in barriers the horses line up behind a rope. Men with bad teeth string the rope in front of the horses and then attempt to put it in a vice on the other side. The rope collapses at the starting gun – hopefully, or else we would be facing the sight of some decapitated jockeys. As a result of the general shambles there are a few false starts before finally these geezers who may well have been kicked in the teeth once or twice (who can tell) get the race going.

     44 starters rush towards the first hedge and a few horses collapse on the other side. This carnage is both compelling and wincingly awful to watch; there are jockeys down after each hurdle. One was injured so badly they put a portable black curtained off box around him/her and got the horses to skip around the outside of that jump the second time around. My horse is down early and so is most of the field. About 10 horses with jockeys fight out the last section of the race. A few riderless horses race on reminding you of the early madness and brutality you have witnessed.

    I think all is lost but then hear the name of the horse I drew in the office sweepstake called out over the increasingly loud chorus from the most pissed and aged section of the pub. These punters are now yelling out the names of their horses and willing them on. I don’t profess to be one of the world’s greatest linguists but even I could tell the various French and Italian names were being well mangled. Back in the race, my office sweepstakes horse “Neptune Cologne” a French journeyman emerges from nowhere to threaten the leader and win by the smallest margin imaginable. I claim victory to the lad now sharing my table with his huge plate of schnitzel. Great Cambridge experience, if a bit atypical.