WANTED: Marcus' Arse

Early in the morning of Richie’s big race we got the phone call every race horse owner dreads. The jockey was missing.

The run up to the race had been close to perfect. Richie was in good health, jumped well and looked good on the morning of the Derby Gallop the Tuesday before the big race. Even the weather was on our side. After the most miserable summer anyone can remember we had no rain all week so the ground was good –just the way Richie likes it.

And then the bastard stupid arse jockey didn’t get on his stupid plane. And didn’t even tell anyone why. And on the biggest racing day in the calendar. We were only alerted after someone called the trainer and told him our man was not on the minibus that collected the jockeys from the airport. And yes this is the guy whose brilliance I have been raving about and who up until the Derby Day was believed to be the reliable type as well. Obviously not.

So then what do you do? The alternatives were slim to say the least in the country of one racecourse and about two jump jockeys. The trainer picked up his phone and called the only one of them who was available. And he said yes.

So you would think the crisis was over and all was good. The boy is in his late teens, son of a flat jockey and has jump raced abroad. But to put it this way, it probably wasn't a coincidence that he wasn’t already booked for the race. The last time I saw him jump he crashed through the wing of the fence and was dumped quite spectacularly. Then he sat on the grass and cried whilst some girl jumped it instead. Not quite what we had in mind for this race in other words.

“Oh, he normally gets around,” another racegoer said reassuringly as we explained the desperate situation. Great! I was starting to get seriously worried.

The rest of the time up to the race was spent cursing Marcus, wondering what could have happened to him (everything from broken bones to pulling hot women was suggested but in my opinion only something drastic like being kidnapped or being in a coma is a good enough excuse to not even pick up the phone and explain yourself) and sharing stories of other similar desperate situations.

Like that time our trainer’s jump jockey pulled out only minutes before the race and with all other jump jockeys booked up he had no other option than to walk into the jockey wardrobe and announce to the flat jockeys “I need a rider for a jump race. Anyone up for it?” Whereupon a small Argentinean guy said “That sounds like fun, I’ll do it!” and he ended up coming third.

Or back in the days when there was such a thing as a Grand National over here and my dad found his aunt’s jockey asleep in the water jump after a particular good party the night before the race. Luckily they managed to carry him home and he came out the next day and won.

But despite trying to take it with a smile it was a serious blow that Marcus didn’t show. Having performed so well this far in the season, Richie was actually tipped as favorite by the racing program. This was of course also based on the experience of the pilot.

And as Richie came galloping towards the test jump in front of the stand with our replacement jockey I was just tempted to close my eyes. But of course I couldn’t. And as he jumped the first fence nicely his jockey jumped with him miles over the saddle like a doll that was being thrown into the air. It became even more evident how good Marcus is. There was a world of balance between them.

Luckily Richie has some experience now. So the riding instructions were simple: Take it easy - He knows what he’s doing and jumps well. And that was pretty much how the race went. Richard got around well but was never up there. He ended fourth.

I could now go into a long deep analysis of how Marcus would have done a much better job and all the rest of it, but I think I got most of that out yesterday. Our replacement jockey did his best and got Richie around safely. We couldn’t really ask for more.

And as for Marcus, my dad and uncle decided after a couple of beers at the races that he best either produce a really good excuse for his absence or send a picture of the woman - or women - who caused him to be late. There was a certain amount of understanding in the air and I have a feeling they saved some of the really good stories from the old days until my mother and I were out of earshot.

Drag Dinner Party

It was a Saturday night, we were invited to a dinner party and we were nearly 4 hours late because of a horse. Nothing unusual there then.

But after some serious map reading issues, mainly caused by being instructed by our host to go to the wrong town, we actually found the place. It turned out to be a beautiful traditional farm with a crazy amount of cars parked on the lawn. It was clearly a party going on. We had just found a spot between the farmhouse and what appeared to be the stables when I spotted a person through one of the windows.

“Oh my goodness, did you see that?!” I said to Kris indicating towards the farmhouse.
“Where?”
“Oh!” Kris said and started laughing as a massive man in a shimmering silver dress and so much makeup he resembled a clown rather than a woman, came into view again.
“Are you sure we’re in the right place?”

By now Cat and Thomas had appeared from their car as well and just as I started whispering the words transvestite and bloody hell the person I was referring to appeared on the steps outside the house. He, or she I suppose, must have been 6ft 4 and looked seriously frightening in all her excessive glamour.

“We are going to a party, but I am not entirely sure we are in the right place,” Cat tried whilst the rest of us did our best to not stare and suppress the giggles.

“The party is that way,” Sheman said and pointed in direction of the stable door. As he took a drag off his cigarette and blew the smoke over his left shoulder in a rather dramatic fashion, probably only used by drag queens, I dared look at him a bit closer.

He was a very big bloke. Both tall and - how do I put this nicely –a bit chubby. The really odd thing though was that there was nothing feminine about him at all. I mean some drag queens look quite good after all. And without his wig on and a short public school boy haircut it just looked bizarre. So in silent consensus we decided it was safest to just do as we were told and headed quickly into the stables.

It was just a classic. The four of us walking down the stables towards the indoor school door, the music getting louder, our pace slower until we stopped leaving Cat heading for the door on her own.

“You bastards!” she said as she turned around and realized none of us where going to open that door in this lifetime - or next.

“For all we know it could be 40 transvestites dancing on the tables,” said Kris to our defence.

“So it’s probably better if you go first,” he added and then we all just cracked up completely.

So there we were, in a stable in the middle of the countryside, too scared to open the door to what appeared to be an indoor school and laughing hysterically like naughty kids. That was when the door flew open and Andy appeared with a glass of wine.

“Are you here already,” he exclaimed, leaving us uncertain whether he was being sarcastic or just drunk.
He then threw himself at each of us in turn in a far too friendly greeting before he turned around to guide us into the now very silent party. No one else seemed too keen to follow him so I took an executive decision and decided it was better to get it over and done with. So I walked behind him to a table, the others now in tow, and tried my best to smile at the staring faces. At least there seemed to be no transvestites. And if I had been more updated on the who’s who in the horse world I would probably have recognized most of them.

We had only just grabbed some food and sat down when the music started and the room went silent again. And in came the world’s largest women in a silver frock and a long black wig. The 30 cm high heels make her look like a circus freak. It turned out our friend from outside was the evening’s entertainment. Whilst miming to “I am beautiful” she did some sort of moves that resembled dancing and inhaled half a can of hair spray. And the room went mad.

As for why we had no idea. Our little group completely failed to get carried away. Clearly we were missing the point.

”I feel like such a snob,” Cat whispered to me. She wasn’t the only one.

But in between the numbers we were filled in on the secret: He had been on TV. They loved him over here. Personally I just felt a very strong feeling of embarrassment well up inside and went for the wine.

And the wine came to good use when Sheman appeared again for the grand finale. Dressed in a white body decorated with crystals he came alarmingly close to our table whilst making sure none of us will ever enjoy listening to Cher ever again. But judging by the reaction of the rest of the room when this monster with three tits escaping south as he wriggled his way around us was just what the party needed. Suddenly they all got up on their chairs.

”We are not getting up on the chairs,” Cat said to me in a slightly desperate tone of voice clutching my arm as if to physically stop me from doing so.
“No, no,” I assured her. “I am already 6 ft tall, I certainly don’t need to get on a chair.”
“Good, because my chair would break!”
“But I think we should at least stand up, as it could be potentially quite dangerous to stand out,” I whispered as Sheman started touching himself in unmentionable places whilst dancing with some rider who was wearing his now discarded skirt around his head.

”This must be the party from hell!” Cat said.
“Well, at least it can’t get any worse,” I replied.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. We were at a barn party, I should have known better really. Half an hour later, after we had been informed that we were more than welcome to put our tent up in the other half of the school and stay the night – not so tempting somewhat – Cat said to me:

“I should say hello to the person sat behind you. Could you just poke him on the shoulder for me?”
“Yes no problem,” I replied, turned around and poked this guy’s shoulder. When he turned around and looked straight at me I realized I was wrong. It was a problem indeed.

Because looking straight at me was the guy who about three years ago had put his hand down my shirt at a party bak home. This happened about 3 ½ minutes after his girlfriend had left the building and when I told him there was no hope in hell he answered by picking me up and trying to carry me out of the flat to go clubbing. 3 seconds later I tried my best to punch his lights out. When this was not particularly successful I pinched him until he finally let go before I looked myself in a bedroom. At this stage he still could not understand why I did not want to go clubbing with him. We just named him the Groper after that. The Groper actually worked for Cat for a while but turned out to be fairly useless and disappeared back to his home country.

But here he was again. Just as I got his attention someone had called Cat from the other side of our table so she suddenly had her back to us. I frantically pointed in her direction indicating that I did not by any means or under any circumstances want his attention for myself. It was for Cat! It was seriously embarrassing. I could have died.

Seeing my shocked expression Cat said to me “What’s the matter with you?”

“It just got worse! A lot worse!”


Just for the record:

- TV is a very powerful media. In fact frighteningly so.

- The food and wine was actually very nice, and did in no way reflect the tacky entertainment.

- We did not spend the night in a tent or on the hay bales as suggested. Why would we bring a tent?!? As soon as our host was too drunk to notice we escaped and made our way home.

- Sheman became famous through a reality talent show and his biggest dream is to get on the front page of Vogue.

- The Groper was last seen dribbling down some poor girl’s cleavage whilst the mother of his child looked suitably cross.

- Cat still claims that she new nothing about my incident with him and that she would never have done it on purpose. Eventually we chose to believe her. But she certainly will never forget it now.

- Sheman turned out to be quite the gentleman when she gave up some of his bath time to let me use the toilet…

- …and I totally lied when I told her I thought she had better legs than me!

Happy Days

My two boys July 2007

Blast From the Past

Suddenly it all came back. And I remembered why I found it so hard to leave the UK.

I was at a dressage show in down south, normally a pretty boring affaire, and really enjoying it. It took me back to the days when I was a groom and got to go to big shows and be around great riders. Not that this show was big, the horses that nice or the riders at all great, but my old boss was there. Nereds had come to town.

A former dressage rider and now a grand prix judge, Nereds is normally right where it is happening. Well maybe apart from last weekend that is, when she was in our neck of the woods. Some genius in a local riding club, now my new favorite person, had decided to invite her to judge at the summer grand prix show.

It was so good to see her again. Her stories at the evening bbq of judging incidents and general mischief she had got up to lately had us laughing so hard the organizers must have feared for their garden furniture. With a weakness for wine, oakley’s and sports cars she is not your average 70 year old. Rumour has it she was spotted at the dressage show in Aachen last year wandering the streets with her Sat-Nav looking for a wine shop.

As her groom I was always updated on the latest gossip, given large amounts of wine and Pimms and frequently “lent out” to other riders. The latter might sound like an unfortunate fate but for me it was invaluable experience and an opportunity to work for some top class riders without being employed by them –which is normally not so great.

In the last year I have missed my old horsey life less and less. But suddenly I was right back there. Remembering all the fun we had when we went to Carl’s for lessons, organized the summer dressage festival and that time James’ breeches split right up the back just before his test. The mind has a funny way of toning down the bad times. Because we sure had plenty of them too.

The thing is those days are gone forever. I will obviously never be 19 again. And the 26 year old me does not want to work 24-7, live in a shared house (16 of us at one point) and be paid hardly any money. But the interesting thing will be how I can shape the future. And seeing Nereds again confirmed that anything is possible.