We are only human and our personal experience and existing views sometimes dictate that unbiased opinion does not always come easily to those of us who work the daily grind of the politics, problems, but mostly pleasures of horseracing. We were thus pleased to receive this little observational gem and insight into our world from an independent thinking, non-gambling and very infrequent visitor to Scottsville Racecourse. The extract is from this past weekend’s ‘Sleepy Scottsville Sunday’ in our popular daily, Random Thoughts.
I went off a couple of days earlier to funny little Scottsville. I spent the whole afternoon there, alone, with time to look and to see (not always the same thing). I reckon if it wasn’t for the casino it would have gone the way of Bloem or Germiston by now. It has all the droop and shabbiness of a failing business, and it made my heart sore to see it. I will be very hesitant to take any visitor there.
Case in point: the little matter of toilets. Nasty but necessary. The ones on the inside of the course have always been tatty, but this time I searched diligently and eventually discovered (no signboards provided, so God help those who are desperate) the ones in the main concourse, outside the entrance to the casino. If there were others I didn’t find them. They look ever so smart when one steps into the room, gold-coloured taps and all, but, alas, when you use the things you find out that the doors don’t lock and there’s no hook to hang your bag. There were toilet seats and paper, but it is only a matter of time before these also become liberated.
The other head-shaker was the fact that cheap food/drink was no longer available. In fact there was only one place to get food and they had a notice up saying that the menu was limited … probably due to a lack of custom. I did buy a Grapetiser, being desperate enough to pay R15 for it.
Ah, but the visit had its compensations. The horses were horses, albeit not in the top rank, and the few hundred people there were loudly enthusiastic and cheerful (or equally loudly not cheerful), even if they had only a limited menu and had to pee in the subway.
And I had a hilarious conversation with the dame that ran the little local shop that sells racecards, books, mementos, etc. She so obviously knew zilch about racing or horses.
“Have you maybe got a copy of the book about Pocket Power?”
“Book?”
“Yes, the one about Pocket Power”.
Which book’s that?”
“It came out late last year, it’s new … it’s just called “Pocket”. Have you got a copy I can buy?”
“About Pocket Power?”
“Yes, you know, about the famous South African racehorse, Pocket Power”.
“I can sell you a really good book of recipes if you like.”
