Jeremy Clarke Jeremy Clarke

Low life | 23 March 2016

I shared a cab with a stripper from Cardiff during the Cheltenham Festival

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His satnav brought us to the village church, and an email on my phone with directions took us the rest of the way. The road became a track winding for several miles through pitch darkness. The final direction was that we must cross three cattle grids. The driver concluded his thoughts on the sex industry and instead worried aloud about potential damage to his suspension.

I arrived at the farmhouse in time for dinner. Eight of us sat down to eat, all of whom were horse-racing fanatics and gamblers. They had just returned from the Cheltenham course after the first day’s racing. I asked how their day had been, expecting to hear tales of dramatic horse races and eye-watering amounts of money won or lost. But the most sensational of the day’s affairs, apparently, was a fight in the Guinness tent. It was a proper fight, too: toe-to-toe, prolonged, drug-fuelled (it was thought), with many on each side, and some serious, lightening-fast punching going in, draught Guinness and advertising fixtures flying in every direction, the tent threatening to collapse, and lasting a full five minutes. My fellow guests had been going to Cheltenham every year for decades and it was agreed that it was the best fight they’d ever seen at the festival, or indeed at any other racecourse, and by some distance. One chap said he had seen a tremendous fight on the rails at Newbury once, but that was between rival Cardiff and Swansea City football fans, so lacked novelty value.

Next morning, Ladies’ Day, we piled into a minivan and were in the Guinness tent by 11 o’clock getting stuck in. Ladies, I’d estimate, were outnumbered by gentlemen by a ratio of approximately 100-1; but the few I saw looked fantastic. As far as my betting went, it was the same old story — complete disaster. In previous years I have at least looked at the newspaper tipsters’ choices beforehand. This year I thought I might as well just bet on the name. Sgt Reckless, Dodging Bullets, The Romford Pele, Chic Name and Coeur Blimey came nowhere. I’d have been better off going to the shopping mall and buying myself a decent hat.

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