A day at the races

It’s time we got something straight - I’m a townie. Not an ignorant one; I understand the food chain, I know that meat comes plastic wrapped from the supermarket before it goes in the ’fridge.
Don’t get me wrong, I like the countryside, particularly in a Constable painting. And I love looking out of a ’plane’s window at all those pretty little green and yellow squarie things (the fields?) when flying across England. But you won’t catch me in it, the countryside that is. I’m comfortable on paved streets, smelling the glorious odour from a coffee shop or hearing laughter spreading through the open door of an overheated restaurant on a cold night. I am decidedly not comfortable with the dark and the haystacks and the farmyard smells and especially not with any of God’s creatures larger than a cat, unless, of course, it’s human. OK, I can tell the difference between a Great Dane and a Bengal Tiger, but only just, and certainly not from the effect on my pulse rate. Perhaps it’s something to do with having been chased by a sheep on the Derbyshire moors as a child; let’s face it, if I have problems with sheep, what chance have I got with, perish the thought, beef, pork or venison on the hoof. You’re absolutely right, none whatsoever. And I wouldn’t want to mess with a chicken either, particularly one with hooves.
Rather strange then, that I enjoy a day at the races.
Beirut has a racecourse, the hippodrome. That is a miracle in a city where so many traditional houses have been ripped down so that the land on which they stood could be pressed into service for an eight storey apartment block. The real estate value of the hippodrome must be astronomical, but it has escaped the clutches of the developers so far. There’s a decent sized track with all the trimmings, modern starting gates, photo finish equipment, winners enclosure and paddock. There’s also the stuff for us people - stands, restaurant, bar, lounges, live TV feeds from other European race meetings and, of course, betting. There’s a Tote of course, with the changing odds flashing up on TV screens, but no little men on the course waving their arms about and tapping their hats. Oh dear no, all mobiles and laptops today.
Now I wouldn’t say that gambling is big here, putting the equivalent of a tenner each way on the Tote will change the odds noticeably, but the excitement level is much the same, as are the excuses for backing the wrong horse – “Did you see what that jockey did to my nag? Trying so hard to pull him up, he was, he almost slid off down the tail!”
So there I am then, ready for the next race, in the bar, computerized betting slip in my pocket, glass of local red in one hand, binoculars in the other, focused on the closed-circuit TV on the other side of the room. Perhaps I could get used to country life after all.
Picture courtesy of Yahoo sport.