Peace on earth will come to stay, when we live Christmas every day – Helen Steiner Rice
To me, Christmas has sort of lost its meaning since I was a kid. There was all that excitement about Father Christmas, lists made, letters posted, sleepless nights and then the great day finally dawns and (unless you’re super good at dropping hints) it never quite reaches your expectations, does it? Once you get a little older you realize that there may be bigger reasons that Father Christmas didn’t deliver a pony with pink ribbons. You try to look enthused as you wade through ‘nice’, ‘practical’ (or even just plain misguided) things that will go straight into the bin on Boxing Day because you know people have tried hard and made an effort. Asking for what you’d really like seems, well, crass and a bit unimaginative and really takes all the magic out of it (the ladies in the readership will probably identify with this a little more than the blokes). You could always buy it yourself, but well, where’s the fun in that ? But just occasionally, someone somehow guesses or anticipates what it is you really want, but are too afraid to ask for, and there, all wrapped up in shiny paper, is that extra special something that you never quite thought you’d hold in your hands. That bright, magical something that somehow makes you believe that the impossible is possible after all.
So I’m going to set aside all the tat – the gossip that so readily flows after a social event (and no, there is no mole, you muppets); hideously inappropriate comments from people who should know better having to be retracted by lesser mortals who should have put a stop to it in the first place; bungled track inspections; price-inflating buy backs; and the negative, discouraging comments from those factions always so eager to see a star fall from grace.
Sure, there are two sides to every story and even a Christmas tree has its roots in the dirt, but this week, I’m focusing firmly on the top of the tree.
A Week In Pictures
My week started on Wednesday with the grand opening of the Cape Premier Sale. I was there to cover the awards for the L’Ormarins Queen’s Plate photography competition. That sort of set the scene for me and my head feels like a Christmas snow globe – each shiny flake a snapshot of the week’s events.
L’Ormarins Moment
My first snapshot is of the L’Ormarins Moment photo competition. This fantastic initiative has been running for a number of years now and it gets bigger and raises the bar year on year. We assembled in a little alcove adjacent to the Drakenstein stand in the main hall. It was beautifully set up with the winning photographs tantalizingly hidden under white cloth and juxtaposed against a fitting backdrop of stables and sales activity. A big screen set off to one side showed a revolving reel of all the entries. Being a photographer’s wife, I consider myself a bit of a critic (the SO would probably agree!!) and I make mental notes of my favourites. Gaynor Rupert, elegant as always in the Drakenstein colours, breezes in and immediately transforms the nerve-wracked assembly into an intimate, cozy gathering with her warm smile and easy grace. Francesca Cumani is on hand to present the prizes – a selection of superb Leica cameras. Ruvan Boshoff receives the award for the Movement category for his dynamic shot of the Queen’s Plate field heading down the straight. Charles Faull collects his camera (and a kiss from Francesca) for The Message category and his beautiful tableau of Justin Snaith shaking hands with Cyprian Mkhondwana while Gimmethegreenlight and a smiling Pierre Strydom look on. The overall prize for The Moment goes to celebrated local photographer, Dale Yudelman. His submissions are by turn subtle, elegant and fun – in short, the Queen’s Plate in a nutshell. He is a worthy winner.
Both Dale and Ruvan were contemporaries of the famous Bang Bang club. People laugh at the belief that the camera steals your soul, but both are weathered in that rock ‘n roll, Keith Moon sort of way that suggests their subject matter has burnt them harder than their celluloid over the years. My lasting impression is Ruvan’s comment about his time as a hard news photographer during the ‘troubles’. It was a competitive and educational time with the photographers vying with one another in the news room, comparing work and challenging each other to go one better, push a little harder, go a little further for that front page scoop – a little like racing really. It offered some interesting perspectives on how far we have progressed and made for a thought-provoking and uplifting evening.
Cape Premier Yearling Sale
Shifting focus a little, it is incredible to imagine 350 highly-bred, nervous babies in the CBD, but Ann Dalton and her team did an amazing job and everything seemed to run like clockwork. Away from the razzle dazzle of the grand opening, my snapshot from the sales is the big hall in darkness, with the only light burning down on Ann and her team still hard at work long after the revelers had migrated to the Cullinan.
The cocktail evening was laid back and congenial and although the bar (sensibly) closed early, the relaxed, pool-side vibe afforded a brief hiatus for folks to let down their guards, compare war stories, catch up with old friends and gird their loins for the days to come.
The sales kicked off to a brisk start on Thursday evening, and the next shutter click for me is visiting auctioneer John O’Kelly wielding his gavel and closing the first night’s sales up a reported R5million on last year. It is always fun to hang around the stables once the sales patter has started – it’s interesting to see who sneaks back to the horses for one last look. I met David Raphael double checking some of his selections and was thrilled to hear that when the gavel fell on the last lot, he’d purchased no less than 3 yearlings – a firm endorsement of the South African product.
The prices ran the gamut from the sublime to the suicidal, with the middle market appearing to suffer a body blow and hitting breeders where it hurt the most.
Friday kicked off early and by 7pm it was all over bar the shouting. While triumphant buyers and those who had suffered casualties variously slunk off to celebrate or lick their wounds, a core of die-hards stayed behind to chat and unwind as the staff mounted the clean up operation.
Made Different
Saturday dawned a trifle bright and hot for those nursing hangovers, but fortunately we were spared the worst of the sun’s wrath. I confess I am not a fan of big race days and the Met ranks right up there with root canal for the days I’d rather be somewhere else. It’s usually too hot, too crowded, too rowdy and while your eyes are assaulted with every imaginable spectacle under the sun, the one thing you usually don’t see is a horse. However, I am always happy to eat my words (they’re non-fattening after all) and have to say that I enjoyed myself beyond all expectation.
The traffic had been redirected to spare the usual circus down Rosmead Avenue (what a pleasure). Parking was sensibly spaced out, the hospitality areas were sensibly laid out along both rails (spectators on the in field rail – what fun !!), there weren’t any gates or no-go’s in the high footfall areas and generally there was a feeling of space that invited one to move around the course. I can’t usually be tempted too far from the parade ring on Met day, but I did a quick foray to the rail and achieved a spot with ease. I ventured up into the stands to watch the Derby and have to say I LOVED the big screens everywhere making it possible to follow the race stride for stride. The food stalls set up in the middle of the apron added a ‘food market’ touch and the J&B parasols were generously scattered to provide an escape from the sun, but sensibly arranged so as not to block access to the rail for those who wanted to get close to the horses. And just as well as it seemed that the fans really bought into racing. They lined the rails and cheered their favourites – horses and riders – home with enthusiasm.
Scoring Points
The public eye was on us and racing produced the goods again and again. Jackson was sublime in the Investec Derby and despite the fine, Karis Teetan’s daredevil victory salute was a real crowd pleaser. Ebony Flyer arrived in devastating fashion with the rest of the Klawervlei Majorca Stakes field merely competing for second. She pulled a Pocket Power by refusing to walk into the winner’s box, but the connections didn’t seem to mind. It was even apparent in the parade ring with MJ Byleveld having his own rent-a-crowd and sportingly bantering with the lads and posing for a couple of pics.
J&B Met 2012
I have a series of snapshots of the Met. Igugu in the parade ring, looking a bit too well covered and worryingly sweated up. Igugu at the 200m mark when she finally hits her stride and the horrid feeling in everyone’s stomachs started to turn. Igugu at the 50m mark, head down, eating into the deficit, the crowds in a frenzy. The melee of Igugu, Bravura, Gimmethegreenlight and Beach Beauty with Run For It belting through on the rail and then, just when we thought we couldn’t stand it any longer, Igugu passing the post, eyes bright, one ear forward and one directed back at Anthony as if to say ‘I did good, huh?’.
Igugu.
Igugu.
Igugu.
People everywhere love horses, but by God, we gave our hearts and souls to Igugu on Saturday.
Big Buy In
Whether it was the Queen’s Plate coverage or simply the story of this fantastic little horse, I don’t know, but somehow everyone had bought into the Met this year. Friends from all over the country were glued to their TV’s and there seemed to be an electronic deluge on my phone – What a race! What a filly! What’s she like? What’s happening now? A friend from Joburg BBM’d to say that Delpech’s speech had had her in tears and wasn’t I lucky to be part of such a wonderful sport.
And do you know, I bloody am.
And the public got it. I was suddenly the envy of everyone I knew. There were people out there willing to give their eyeteeth to be standing in my shoes on Saturday afternoon. Folks sitting at home thinking ‘I wish I was at the races’.
The funny little jeweled angel at the top of the Christmas tree had produced everything that I wanted underneath. The impossible possible, and all wrapped up in shiny yellow and blue.
Yes sir, while we have horses like Igugu, it is still possible to live Christmas every day.
