A day at the races - 16th October 2004

It didn’t take me long to realise that “Who you know” goes a long way in Barbados.
24 hours after my daughter Becky had made a string of phone calls, we were in possession of 2 complimentary tickets giving us access to the Owners and Trainers bar at the Garrison Savannah racetrack for the Diamond Day meeting.
It sounded quite grand; we thought we’d better wear something smart.

Saturday turned out to be yet another fine day, 30 degrees again as we pulled onto the grass by the racecourse. A man stood in front of us and shoehorned us into a parking space.
As we locked the car he relieved me of a few Barbadian Dollars and advised me to back Bill Marshall’s horses, couldn’t go far wrong he said.

Highly-strung racehorses were being led through the cars from the training stables on their way to the saddling enclosure, I hoped nothing would spook them; the car was hired after all. A racehorse could easily cause mighty amounts of damage to my wallet without having any other damage to pay for.

We found the Owners and Trainers Bar, at the top of the oldest stand; time had passed this place (and some of its inhabitants) by years ago. Air was moved about by an old fan situated at one end of the gloomy bar; faded photos of past winners complete with dust covered the wall. I reckon the last redecoration had taken place sometime before Independence was granted in 1966.There was a toilet that even the flies were refusing to use, and a couple of old ladies operating the Totaliser computers. There are no bookmakers in Barbados.
Dress code could only be described as shabby, but at least the beer was cold.

The first race was underway. As I was about to sit down on one of the old wooden chairs facing out over the course, I felt my arm being gripped in a vice like manner.
I turned to see the man had his other arm raised with his clenched fist shaking above his head.
He was transfixed by what was unfolding on the track just below us.
As his horse passed the post first he released my arm and proceeded to slap me hard on the back yelling, “I knew he’d win” “what a beauty”.
Then looking at me he seemed confused, perhaps he’d thought I was someone else.

Becky was busy photographing everything, she decided to place a bet on a horse in the next race but the computers had crashed, no helpline to call here.
Her horse duly passed the post in front without her bet being placed, she was not pleased, I tried the old chestnut “well these things happen you know”, but she wasn’t having it.
I imagined the uproar if that had occurred at Champions Day taking place back at Newmarket that very day.
However as was to become a normal event that day, a steward’s enquiry was announced and due to barging and interference the placings were reversed, Becky would have lost anyway.

We stepped back out into the brilliant sunshine of 21st Century Barbados and went down behind the stands to eat some food bought from the people cooking on the barbeques. The food was delicious, homemade meatballs with sweet corn and yellow pepper sauce on the side.
Washed down with ice-cold beer it was just perfect.

As we watched the horses being saddled, I just managed to avoid being mown down as Bill Marshall DFC, (Champion Trainer many times over) came around the corner driving his motability scooter as if he were back in his Spitfire cockpit. I read later that his most famous wartime exploit was flying his fighter plane under a bridge to impress a girl waiting in a nearby pub, unfortunately an Air Commodore, also in the pub, was not so impressed. No promotion for Bill.

Back up in the safety of the Owners and Trainers Bar things had quietened down, a combination of heat, excitement, and large ones had subdued some of the inhabitants.
An elderly lady shook her husband back to life with the words “wake up you old fool, Kabul is about to run“. His mumbled reply, inaudible to me, caused her some mirth.

I had decided to forgo betting just as a crackling announcement was made over the tannoy stating that due to a computer malfunction, winnings for the fourth race could not be calculated and would any people holding winning tickets please return on Tuesday to collect.
Glad I hadn’t won…I would be flying home on Monday.
I looked about to see if Groucho Marx was anywhere to be seen.

The afternoon continued, the shadows lengthened, the Garrison clock chimed its different tunes at each hour, my decision not to bet was soon forgotten, my wallet became a little lighter and the ice cold beers kept the heat at bay until the time came to go home.

Bill Marshall, like me, had no winners that day.

As Becky and I sat on the veranda in the evening after yet another wonderful fish dinner, listening to the noise of the crickets and the surf, I reflected that I felt quite privileged to have witnessed the colourful sights, sounds, and characters at Diamond Day. It still makes me smile now.

A year later on my next visit to see Becky we went along to the track early one morning to watch the horses being ridden work.
Bill Marshall was there supervising his work riders, The Garrison clock chimed its strange 6am tune and again I had that feeling of stepping back to another less hurried time.

Postscript:
Towards the end of last year Bill Marshall DFC died aged 87, I imagine he will be remembered for a long time.

Something I wrote last month



The Bear and Ragged Staff

It’s Saturday evening and I have found myself agreeing to accompany my niece Sheila to this establishment as she wants to see a rock band but does not want to go alone, quite understandable I think, as in her description of the venue she used the phrase “could be a bit rough”.

She drove me down to tattoo land, otherwise known as Crayford just south of the river, over the Dartford Bridge and turn right. We found the Bear and Ragged Staff without any problem, from the outside I would have to say that the best looking bit was the car park. We stepped out of the car having put all belonging out of sight, to be greeted by a burning smell. We were told later that not long before a cars engine had been on fire but the vehicle had since been removed. A large sign proclaimed, “Kent’s no 1 Music venue”

The band were setting up and thankfully the pub was not crowded, probably because it is August and people are away, décor was what you would describe as “in need of refurbishment” although it’s write up on the beerintheevening website mentioned a 2004 refurbishment. Mind you to be fair it also mentioned “necessary unfriendly bouncers” but there were none in attendance this evening.

The singer seemed to know everybody female within 20 yards of the band and greeted them all equally, “hallo darling” accompanied by a grope of a buttock, or a hand resting on a thigh as he kissed them. He knew my niece as this band had played at her wedding some years ago; she had a photo to show him.

About ten o’clock the band started, loud and heavy, the singer using his mike stand suggestively as he gyrated in time with the music. The lead guitarist was good, crystal clear riffs cutting through the racket; he was playing an old Gibson Les Paul.

I’ve never been to a pole dancing club but was given some idea of what it could be like when a couple of nearly sixty year old lardy looking women started to gyrate around a metal pole that was holding up a girder, in a highly suggestive manner running their hands through some old geezers hair who was sitting right there. The dress code for women seemed to be what I could only describe as “out of the back of a white van at a boot sale”, most of them had their cleavages on display and were in general, overweight. Their was a “chorus line” of three fairly ugly younger women over to the right, mouthing along to all the words, fag ash falling down onto their short skirts, clutching their breezers brought by a young man covered in tattoo’s. I thought a hooker had wandered in but “she” seemed very tall and it wasn’t just the high-heeled boots, she was definitely a he, where on earth do you buy a Basque like that?

Behind us whilst I was talking to the guitarist in the break, a younger couple were having a row, more like a screaming match, “you have been drinking too much”, I think she might have been pregnant but that wasn’t going to stop her from dancing her tits off during the second set.

The highlight was yet to come. The band was well warmed up and into their second set when three feet from my face I was treated to the sight of two well fit forty (?) year old lesbians dancing together. I always thought dancing was supposed to be a precursor to sex; this was some way beyond that. Compared to the pub benchmark both had good bodies and knew how to move them.

Five pints in and I was belting out the words to “Born to be Wild” with the best of them but resisted embarrassing my niece by displaying my air guitar skills. At the bar I was greeted as if I was a long lost local back from an enforced category ‘A’ holiday in Belmarsh ten minutes down the road. “All right Mate” “yeah Mate, I’m all right, you” “Yeah I’m all right too Mate”, best South London accents.

We passed safely over the border back into Essex about a quarter to one, the car had not been torched or broken into, there had been no bother and everyone had been very friendly.