I was wandering around York one morning last week. The clouds were low and dark and heavy with more than rain. The dog’s nose was a-twitch. My brow was furrowing deeper than usual. There was some serious tension in the air. What could it be? The city was as busy as ever but, hang on, what’s this? The pubs packed out well before midday? What for, elevenses? A smartly dressed couple passed me. He looked grave, like he might be off to a funeral, but her outfit was too colourful for mourning. And, without breaking their brisk step, she was troughing urgently on a Marks & Spencer sandwich. Ah yes, of course! It was race day.
The blokes were, to a man, sporting suits worn in the manner of blokes the world over who rarely wear suits. That is, worn uncomfortably, on account of their suits’ sizing being a tribute to younger, slimmer, happier days. I sit very tightly in this category of suit-wearer. In the days when I presented football matches on television, I used to wear them all the time. I’ve no idea why this was required. Since then my suits only see the light of day for weddings, funerals and court appearances. And yes, they’re disappointingly snug. In my case significantly so, as I was persuaded by a fashiony friend that the trousers were too baggy and needed taking in. I was talked into spending an hour I’ll never get back standing like a lemon in the back of a tailor’s shop, triggering awful memories of my mum rigging me out in something itchy for a distant cousin’s wedding.
When I got my old, newly narrowed TV suits back from the tailor, I must say they looked quite magnificent. When I finished admiring myself in the mirror, exhausted by all the self-love, I went for a sit down. Or tried to. With a harrowing tear, the seam on the trousers popped. I considered henceforth only accepting invitations to weddings, funerals and trials that were standing room only. But back went all the trousers for more adjustments. They’re now tight but just short of tearing. Misery to wear but apparently bang on trend for racegoing.
As for the women, vicious putdowns from the daughters in my life encourage me to keep my opinions to myself. All I’ll risk saying about the female racegoers in York that morning is that the heels were to die for, quite literally given the distance from the town to the course. And all I could think of was those heels sinking, perhaps irretrievably, into the turf. I checked the course conditions. The going was good to firm (good in places). But good for what? What’s good for hooves is surely too soft for heels.
As the big and little hands on the city’s clocks ticked past the top of the hour, the pubs began to empty. The punters were under starter’s orders for the march to the course. Heels clacked and seams stretched as this army moved as if into battle. There were some smiles and the odd peal of nervous laughter but, overwhelmingly, you’d describe the mood as determined. The men, particularly, walked wordlessly with their jaws set, like rugby players coming down the tunnel. These boys had had a few already and a whole afternoon of the same lay ahead. Use your experience; pace yourself; there will be fallers but do not mourn them; you must battle on. These are the things they might have been murmuring to themselves as they paced left right left right.
I fell into step with an earnest group of squeeze-dressed geordies. As we parted, I said: “Good luck, lads.” They nodded solemnly, grateful for my good wishes, and marched on. At this level, merrymaking is a serious business indeed.
English (US)