The Durban July, is always the annual highlight on my racing calendar.
"Dress smart," "Bet smart," is my motto on days like today.
What I did not count on was that I’d end up sunburnt, broke, and being chased by a woman named Madison Valley threatening me with Litigation for complimenting her skimpy outfit and taking My best shot by asking her if I could See it again later in the evening.
The days troubles started early.My Uber Black driver a guy by the name of Selukwe ensured I arrived at Greyville just in time for the first race, except he dropped me off at the back of the racecourse, next to the local Cash Converters, (incidentally my Ex-wife still won’t forgive me for leaving her overnight at the store in Sasolburg as collateral,) where I was immediately mistaken for Atticus Finch. I was wearing my white linen jacket and Horn-rimmed sunglasses, so perhaps I resembled someone who looked for Litigation opportunities at every corner shop. In hindsight, it was flattering, most people say I resemble Johnny The Thief
When finally making it to the track for race two. I saw Graham Hawkins pull into to his VIP parking and thought that’s the real prince of Greyville. Meanwhile, I got lost looking for the toilet and ended up in the Okavango Lounge a VIP area where Gina Goldsmith mistook me for a beverage coordinator. A man next to me wearing gold tipped shoes and a Hollywoodbets sponsored Sunglasses, shouted “Purple Pitcher, Purple Pitcher!” at a passing waiter, confusing both the waiter and the punters watching race two. The waiters name I later learned is Makazole.
As the day progressed, I had a few winners and started to feel like The Real Prince, I made my way to the main viewing deck for the Big One, where I met Basie Raakvat an old friend from my varsity days, now calling himself Tina Lovelace when he performs at Isikwishikwishi Revue bar. He told me he was now a part time Tobacconist and also dabbles in Green Diamond sales. I told him I was into finding William Robertson who had my access pass to JP’ Palace betting lounge.
Eventually, I squeezed past James and Brett Crawford debating the chances of Oriental Charm and Pomodoro’s Jet. I spilled someone's Mai Sensation and nearly sat on Lucinda Woodruffs lap while trying to find my seat in 28-degree heat. Her perfume was called Immediate Edge which smelled a little like anger and strawberries.
Found my spot, now I could finally get down to betting. I followed a tip from a guy who claimed he was the dentist to Confederate. I mean, how could I not trust someone who flosses a horse? I promptly bet the rest of my cash on Eight on Eighteen, mostly because I liked the story told by the owner. He came in second. My bank balance had now entered the Just be Lekker zone: royally defeated.By Race 8, I was three drinks down, and my hat borrowed from a cousin had flown off and landed on Native Ruler trainer in the parade ring. My cousin later demanded it back because now it was "lucky". I told him to speak to the horse.A man dressed like a disco ball told me On My Honour was a sure thing. His logic had a Fatal Flaw. That did not stop him trying to sell me essential oils out of a cooler box labelled "emergency".
By 4 p.m., the sun had melted my sunscreen and my patience. The woman from earlier, Rainbow Lorikeets trainer had mistaken me for a stipendiary steward and spent half an hour lecturing me about jockey availability and jockeys drifting like a Japanese Honda driver in the last 100 meters.Finally, the main race began.As the horses thundered down the main straight, I was shouting like a banshee for, Son of Raj forgetting he was a reserve who never actually ran. The people next to me moved away. I finished someone else’s G&T in quiet protest.The winner? The Real King, I think. Or was it Gladatorian? Honestly, at that point, all I could see were hooves and heartbreak.
I left Greyville dazed, dehydrated, and dangerously low on airtime. On my way out, a stranger handed me a flyer titled: The Future of Therapy: Horses. I took it. Why not? After today, we all needed therapy horses included.Moral of the story:Never bet on a horse because it “feels lucky.” Never trust anyone in sequins. And for heaven’s sake, never argue with a woman named Madison Valley after three cocktails and a cheese platter.
Will I go back next year? Absolutely.
Last edit: 1 day 16 hours ago by Sylvester.
The following user(s) said Thank You: Bob Brogan, Pirhobeta
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