There was a work do at the races, which did not set my heart a flutter. See, I’m not a pony girl. I’m not hot for horses. I don’t quite understand horse racing – it’s just gambling on animal performance. And there’s something about racetracks that seems really bleak.
The function had a dress code, wherein ladies were advised to wear a cocktail dress. But ever since the cocktail dress incident of ’96, well, let’s just say that there are some promises that can never be broken. I wore jeans.
So, upon arriving I checked out the bar. On the weekend I was having a discussion about how the worst drink in the world is anything that can be described as “complementary bubbly”, i.e. cheap sparkling white wine that someone is providing (free!!!!) in attempt to class things up. Well, there was complementary bubbly a go-go.
I sat down with my complementary bubbly and read the race guide. A few pages in was “a ladies’ guide to betting,” which seemed to have been written in 1962.
[L]ife itself is a bit of a gamble. We marry, buy dresses one size too small in anticipation of a huge weight loss and we embark on a myriad of programmes to preserve our looks and prolong our lives. Any dead certs in there? Only one so far that I can see.
You know how some people ask if feminism is still relevant in our modern society? Well, when I got to the part where it compared horses with husbands (lolz!!!) I knew the answer.
The race guide also had a hilarious list of the theme tune each jockey had picked to be played after his or her victory. Now, it’s probably not a huge surprise that most of them were songs with obvious victory choruses, like “U Can’t Touch This”, “I Want It All”, “Blaze of Glory” and “These Boots Were Made For Walking”. But there were a few unusual choices, like “Of Wolf and Man”, Metallica’s song about a shape-shifting man-wolf, and the “Ghostbusters” theme song, suggesting a Scooby-Doo-like adventure featuring a horse being ridden by a goulish jockey.
As it happened, I couldn’t bet on any of the horses because I didn’t have any cash. If I did, I could have followed the “ladies’ guide” and chosen the horses based on their names or the colour of the jockey’s shirt. (“$20 each way on Princess Fluffy and the one in the pink shirt!!!!”) That would have been fantastic.
The magic combination of complementary bubbly plus horse racing plus bad ’80s music (Really, since when did Club Nouveau’s 1987 cover of “Lean on Me” ever get any party started?) did not add up to a good time.
So the valuable lesson learned is that Robyn and the horse-racing experience does not make a good combination. Perhaps I should stick to greyhound racing.