I employ an odd way of conducting research. It consists of a rather vague and undefined combination of red wine, YouTube, cups of coffee and cats on my keyboard.
When the words aren’t quite flowing the way I like, I’m struggling to hold onto the train of thought or that ‘spark’ that can somehow ignite an entire column in 5 minutes flat, I tend to revisit books, people, places that inspire me. Things that pare away the layers of clutter that fill our days, lives and conversations and threaten to separate us from the simple passion – the horse – that landed us in front of a blank computer screen several hours past an acceptable bed time in the first place!
Like Monty’s expression ‘the horse will tell you’. Like Mark Boylan, that fabulous young lad from Ireland who composed songs for the Cheltenham Festival and the Breeders’ Cup. Beauty, passion, simplicity.
That passion and optimism always inspires me to dig a little deeper and try a little harder, look a little further. Steve Jobs’ hunt for the ‘insanely great’ if you will. A big ask for a small column, I grant you, but shoot for the stars and all that.
Don’t Shoot the Messenger
My latest electronic journey took me to PharSide.co.uk which is ex-pat Marky Mark’s Lifestyle Blog for South Africans living in London, providing ‘daily entertainment for young Saffas during dull days at work or whenever you just want some shit to occupy your mind with’. His recent video ‘I Have Something To Tell You’ is currently going viral on Facebook and related social media. It is, in effect, a treatise on why we should object to Ezemvelo KZN Wildlife handing out 23 permits for rhino to be hunted in private South African game reserves.
The conservationists (who are bizarrely the ones issuing the permits to hunt these endangered animals) are of the opinion that it is far quicker, easier and more successful to raise much needed conservation funds by offering paid opportunities for people to shoot rhinos than to try and raise those same monies via more accepted fundraising channels. So a few less rhino, but a bit more money, allowing better, faster more effective conservation efforts to save the remaining rhino that have not been shot. Yet. Hmm.
L’Ormarins Queens Plate
I have been accused of taking the scenic route to making a point (or to borrow the Afrikaans phrase – ek gaan haal altyd die hond agter die bos uit). So, this weekend’s Queen’s Plate. I’d generously been offered a media pass by the organisers. And I wanted it badly. I attended last year and it was wonderful. The racing was top shelf, the food and setting was classy and elegant and the company was superb. Even the weather played along and it turned into one of those peerless balmy summer’s evenings. I’d had, to quote Mr Jobs, an insanely great time.
Such was my confidence that this year’s event would be a repeat, that I invited a non-racing and in fact (shock horror) entirely un-horsey friend along for the day. She was recently enamored of the game after house-sitting a property in The Paddocks complex and being forced to watch my horse run a rather exciting 2nd last Friday (slipped that in there subtly, didn’t I?).
So did it deliver? Well, I guess it depends which side of the rhino argument you choose.
The Experience
There were plenty of bright young things, in bright young attire. There were the requisite representative demographic which everyone places such emphasis on. People seemed to be enjoying themselves.
So why did it all feel rather unsatisfactory? Perhaps my age. I admit that it takes a bit more than beer on tap (no disrespect to the excellent Peroni that was on offer) and bottomless tapas to excite my interest these days. The poor sound on the marquee TV’s was an enormous frustration, making racing difficult to follow and when I gave up and went to stand at the rail to watch a finish, I encountered one of our newly won patrons, arm wrapped around his scantily clad filly, loudly asking where the finish post was. I politely suggested he turn around and focus on the big blue structure with the mirror on it, clamped my jaw firmly shut before a less helpful comment escaped and beat a hasty retreat before my brain could reach down and throttle me.
My usual friendly gate staff seemed banished to distant outposts and the foreign, strict replacements seemed to make it as difficult as possible to get from one part of the course to another. Even the weather turned disagreeable towards the end of the day.
My tame member of the public wanted to place a bet, which the Tote staff managed to complicate so far that we both glazed over in defeat.
Fortunately I have a bit of pull in other areas and managed to sneak us into the stabling area to see Pocket Power arrive. I also managed to get us into the parade ring for the main race. Although we missed most of the canter past due to an altercation with a guard insisting that we go in through THIS gate, we were at the finish to shout our fancies home.
When we did a de-brief, her summary of the day was ‘It’s sort-of like the Met, but a bit nicer. It’s basically a p*ss up with horses, isn’t it? I guess people come for the party because it’s a bit different, but you probably won’t see those people back again next year’. Ouch!
Success
If even an ‘outsider’ can recognize that the day is tending towards a big, commercial fixture like the Met, then it seems that the hard work of the last few years is paying dividends. The organisers are to be congratulated heartily for putting L’Ormarins Queen’s Plate day on the map and growing it into a mainstream social event, where I have no doubt it will continue to flourish. But it rather feels as though we’ve abandoned the rhino, to pursue the hunter, to save the rhino, if you see what I mean.
‘It about the money, isn’t it?’ Well, yes, but I suppose in the current climate that’s sort of the point. Racing folk can follow the juveniles making their way through the ranks, perhaps see them contest a few minor features, but big race days, no. Those are for the anonymous VIPs who swan in once a year. And we empty their wallets, while filling their stomachs with superficial fare that will leave them hungry and continuing their search for substance elsewhere. We’re selling the gloss and not the ’hoss’. So our hunter will pay his money, shoot his rhino and horn in hand, head off in search of the next adrenalin high while the rest of us stay behind and mop up.
On the Bright Side
There were some good bits and a glimmer of hope. When I asked what she’d liked about the day, my friend’s enthusiasm immediately returned with memories of the parade ring. ‘It was so cool to get so close to them. And the horses running right past you down the track – they’re so powerful. And so big ! It’s much better than it looks on TV. And Pocket Power! Oh my goodness, I can’t believe I managed to get so close – he’s SO beautiful!’ And he was. A bit more rotund than we’re used to, but the incredible pride on Boy Boy’s face, Belinda’s wraparound smile, the way the historically quirky Pocket seemed to abandon all restraint and stretched out across the grass for the sheer hell of it – that really was something, wasn’t it? As was the super consistent Mzwandile Mjokwa’s win in the groom’s race. And The Black Rose’s second facile win. And great runs from Thunder Dance and Jackson for the Crawford yard, Igugu’s withdrawal in the Paddock Stakes, Gimmethegreenlight’s triumph, Variety Club’s gutsy fight, Link Man’s epistaxis. Bright, magical, tragical moments that shimmered briefly before being lost in the beer froth and sick beats.
I see how we’ve ended up here, but it’s not ideal, is it?
In Conclusion
This could just be a case of the purist vs the realist – pretty words and ideals are not worth much when there’s no food on the table – so I do see the argument for shooting the rhino. I just can’t help the nagging feeling that there is another option out there.
Perhaps G J Chesterton was on the right track when he said ‘The Christian ideal has not been tried and found wanting. It has been found difficult; and left untried’.
