Bank balance proves only fools back horses
It is the official sound of the jubilant punter, giddy with ongoing success, as his filly flies first past the post and his winnings fly off the Richter scale.
Day three of the Galway Races and this noisy assault on my ears shows no signs of abating. It torments me as I stroll the course, wallowing in spectacular failure.
To compound my misery, the Patrician brass band strikes up “Hey Jude” as I shuffle forlornly by. In my mind’s eye I see my shirt join the legions of other lost shirts that have covered the bookies in clover. A couple of horsey terms spring to mind. Handicap. Novice. Bad vibe. Blinkered.
So blinkered that I barely avoided colliding with half the Cabinet on a ministerial day out.
First past the post - an Taoiseach Bertie Ahern, with Foreign Affairs Minister Brian Cowen a length behind. Defence Minister Michael Smith was gunning for third and Sports Minister John O’Donoghue brought up the rear. Agriculture Minister Joe Walsh turned up but was declared a non-runner. No sign of Finance Minister Charlie McCreevy. Some said the form was bad following banishment to Brussels, but he’s odds-on to put in a show today. In his absence, Charlie McCreevy Jnr carried the flag, sparking a flurry of betting on who will fill his father’s seat.
He’s hot favourite, should he deign to run.
My failure with hot favourites is at an all-time high. By close of meet yesterday, I had racked up more than eight defeats and have now opted to restrict my bets to losses I can actually afford.
Jackpots and Placepots are acceptable, given they’ll accept a minimum bet of 50 cents.
The poor man’s pot is infinitely fuller since my arrival here.
A night out in Galway on Tuesday did further damage to my balance sheet.
A twirl in Halo’s, a nightclub shrine to ’70s kitch, set me back another €13, just to set foot inside the door. I ended the night in exotic Abrakebabra, the most extravagant meal I could afford, and had to barter with the taxi-driver to bring me to Renmore for less than it costs to sit into a taxi in Cork.
Yesterday morning found me raw around the gills and suffering from Ballybrit burnout, but not so Westmeath’s footballers. Out in force at Ballybrit and heady from their recent success in the Leinster final replay, they were busy strutting their style and testing the turf. I was heady with excitement when a bunch of photographers mentioned Colin Farrell was present.
Tracking him down, unsurprisingly, proved Mission Impossible, given the Colin Farrell in question was from Monivea.
Tracking down winners has proven equally elusive but today is Ladies’ Day and already full of promise.
I have an invite to dinner in the perfumed inner sanctum of the Hospitality Village, with instructions to leave my nose-bag at home.
A glimpse of yesterday’s menu - a smoked salmon and cream cheese timbale entrée, followed by baked seabass steak floating in a creamy tarragon sauce, with passion fruit mousse for the finale - has me foaming at the chops.
I may not beat the bookies but a €200-a- head feed is some consolation prize.
