The champagne bar won out over the EBF Premier Fillies’ Handicap, even though both the senior grandson and Milady’s nephew had runners in it.
It just seemed a good time to enjoy a little refreshment before my companion went off to saddle her runner in the last. The commentator seemed to think that Brazilian Beauty had won, an impression confirmed by the speed at which her remarkably agile trainer sped to the parade ring to greet her. Then came the official verdict. ‘First, number eleven’. Good heavens, the senior grandson had played his vital - if unsung - role to excellent effect, persuading the high-mettled, massively-built Sharisse to go into the stalls. Padraig Beggy had done the rest.
This somewhat tenuous connection seemingly sufficed to promote me to ‘lucky mascot’ status. I must take the place of the absent owner in the parade ring for the last. Any thoughts of a sneaky return visit to the superb Good Food Ireland Village behind the champagne bar had to be reluctantly discarded. A tragedy really, for not since those faroff days in the stewards’ dining-room at York has racecourse food looked equally appealing. Let this experiment be repeated, please!
Never having met her apprentice jockey, my companion could only identify Michael Cleere by the colours he wore. He came across as polite, attentive and intelligent in the face of information that the early pace would see the mare somewhat on her head. However, if he sat and suffered he should find that she was doing her best work at the end of this two-mile stamina test. So it proved. Barely in touch throughout the first mile, the mare plugged on resolutely, beating more than beat her.
The de-briefing was a cameo of conciseness. ‘All she does is gallop, but she’s as honest as the day is long.’ What more was there to say? Back to the champagne bar to romance about an Irish Cesarewitch tilt. She’s be more likely to get her preferred ground in the autumn. She would be less likely to be in season, as she had been on this occasion. And if she could pick up a race -any race - in the meantime, she might just get into the handicap proper.
Such happy, enjoyable musings were interrupted by the appearance of the ubiquitous, indefatigable Chairman of the Curragh Committee, who immediately offered to refresh our glasses. No, he would not join us in imbibing, explaining that were he to partake with the winning connections of every race throughout the three days he would be on his ear. It was, he declared, simply safer not to go there. Admirable restraint, we said, instantly accepting his kind offer. The Chairman is an example to other racecourse executives, endlessly putting himself about, inviting racegoers to offer suggestions, criticisms and whatever. A revelation!
As the Chairman took his leave, other people to see, other details to check upon, we took our glasses out into sunshine and to as pleasant a surprise as it has been my fortune to experience on the Curragh for many a long day. There, under an awning, stood the mastermind of the greatest thoroughbred breeding and racing operation of living memory, chatting quietly to Frankie Dettori and Michael Kinane. ‘Gobsmacked’ is an understatement, and it must have been apparent, judging be the great man’s amused nod of acknowledgement.
We finished our drinks and went our separate ways, exhilarated by a delightful day’s racing at ‘Headquarters’, ‘Home of the Classics’, call it as you will. Much of that exhilaration stemmed from co-mingling - however discreetly - with the movers and shakers of Irish flat racing. It is part of flat racing experience that has effectively vanished since corporate boxes came into vogue, creating a ‘them and us’ segregation, almost akin to apartheid. Ironically, that segregation originated at the revamped Phoenix Park, widely blamed for the failure of the ‘new look’ metropolitan track to recapture its old, raffish charm and sense of togetherness that brought thousands streaming through the turnstiles ever since its inception in 1902.
It is probably unrealistic to propose the abolition of private boxes and corporate ghettos that have become a feature of Irish racecourses. Clearly there are people who prefer to go racing in their own little goldfish bowls, but in doing so they deny themselves and others that sociable intercourse that is the fundamental charm of Irish racing, win or lose. It’s all about differences of opinion, as the bookies will cheerfully confirm.