Stay at home Saturday

There were two things I wanted to do today and I have done neither.

The first was to go to the Point-to-Point. I resigned myself yesterday to the fact I would miss it because I am skint. Ratcheugh is the coldest place in the world: it has its own weather system transposed from Siberia. Even on a beautiful spring day, you can be assured that the crowds will be shivering. However, today has been veritably hot so I imagine Ratcheugh reached a tolerable temperature.

It is a place of giant skies and stunning views, even for those who are not of a horsy inclination; you can see the sea and at this season’s first meeting in January, we saw Robson Green. He was smaller than I imagined and impossibly tanned for the time of year.

I should also now be at a birthday party. But my sister has decided she is too tired and as I am a wussy girlie, I am not going on my own. It’s probably a wise decision: there is bound to be a fight. There are always fights. When I was younger, it was the local lads versus those who had the audacity to come here from elsewhere for a drink. Then, there was a nightclub of sorts and police presence on a Saturday night to deter the drunken brawlers.

Now, locals fight among themselves. I have seen the trouble erupt from nowhere: no argument, no raised voices, just suddenly spilled drinks and tables turned over as some unfortunate is bashed about. Sometimes it is the local lads against the Polish lads. The shouting alone is frightening; then the Polish lads fetch a knife and the tension is ratcheted another notch. The police, however, are no longer on hand; they have to be called in from elsewhere and the damage has been done before they arrive.

Brawling upsets me. I don’t understand why they do it. I wonder if they do? Perhaps it’s a sign I’m getting old.

And they’re off!

Oh to be at Cheltenham, now that the Festival’s there. I’ve never actually been, and people I know who have say that you can’t see anything, but it would be worth it for the atmosphere. The same with Aintree on Grand National Day. I adore going to the races; I love seeing the horses, the people, the hats, and the sound of galloping hooves approaching the winning post is one of the best noises in the world.

I have booked the day off so I can watch the Gold Cup on Friday. I will consult the bible, but since the sad demise of Best Mate, I have been no good at picking the winner so don’t ask for any tips. I’m a bit better at parting the bookies from their money on Grand National Day.

I think Elizabeth Taylor galloping about on The Pie in the schmaltzy Hollywood-ised version of National Velvet must have started it for me (read the book by Enid Bagnold – it’s much darker: suicides, children who throw up a lot…). The golden age of Red Rum fed it, and it gathered pace with The Champions, then more recently Seabiscuit, plus the liberal doses of Dick Francis I still frequently prescribe myself.

As a child, it was my ambition to win the Grand National. I figured if Liz could do it, why couldn’t I? Nowadays, my sights are set a bit lower – I’d love to ride in a point-to-point. I just need someone to lend me the horse.

I sometimes suspect that my grey mare has her fantasies too. After all, she lives with four horses who raced under rules, plus her significant other was a point-to-pointer. I bet they tell her tall tales. When we’re galloping along the beach, I wonder if she has the same dreams as me …

A fickle female

My grey mare is the most wonderful horse in the world. She has eyes like melted dark chocolate, a velvety muzzle, and in the summer, dapples are scattered across her bottom like the splodges on an Ayres rocking horse.

She (usually) canters over when I call; she rests her head on my shoulder and blows in my ear, while expecting nothing in return but her dinner. She is my passion in life.

I am not alone in that opinion. The little minx has not one, but two, boyfriends. You can’t blame them for being besotted with her. I imagine she’s the equine equivalent of Marilyn Monroe with her Bambi-eyed gazes and voluptuous figure.

Boyfriend No.1 is a charmer, a long-legged bay former point-to-pointer. I always thought it was a proper love thing going on between them.

Boyfriend No.2 is also bay and although not the tallest horse in the world, he's quite possibly the biggest in Northumberland. Standing 18.2hh, he’s built like the proverbial brick outhouse. I consider the grey girl’s relationship with him to be political, as he’s a great Lord Protector and doesn’t let anyone chase her away from the hay in the field.

The first chap has been on box-rest because he had a poisoned foot. He gets pretty stressed when he’s kept inside, so imagine his delight when madam came in for her tea. He whickered repeatedly with a rhythm like a road drill, sounding like one of those overly vocal actor-horses on Rough Diamond. It’s funny how horses in dramas seem to spend all their time whinnying. I mean, have you heard the horses shouting away at each other on Black Beauty?

“Look,” I said, “there’s your boy.” Madam gave him a cursory sniff, turned to me as if to say: “Where’s my tea?” then proceeded to ignore him. I don’t know what he’d said to upset her. She was rather off with him the next couple of times she came in too, even though he shouted piteously in a Rough Diamond-esque fashion when I took her back to the field.

Today he was well enough to be turned out. After being inside for nearly a week he was on his toes and, ignoring the rest of the herd, he tit-upped over to my mare. They arched their necks, sniffed, leapt and bucked, then went off for a hoolie around the field together. Love, eh?