Horsing around

Diary of a home bird
Ciara Galvin

THE form, the going – firm, good, yielding, the handicap, an exacta, a quinella, a trifecta, an accumulator. There’s a lot to learn about this whole horseracing business. The horse racing folk are an intimidating breed, Barbour Beaufort wax jackets, Stuart Weitzman riding boots finished off with a pair of binoculars adorned with years of admission tickets to various meetings. Most do the annual racing circuit. ‘Are you going to Galway’, only means one thing and Christmas Day is just a formality before Leopardstown. When you enter this circuit it’s easy to feel like a giraffe among the fillies. And a giraffe I was, at the last meeting in the calendar of Ballinrobe Racecourse. The jewel in the crown of south Mayo drew a nice crowd of ‘racing folk’ with plenty of talk of ‘form’, ‘the going’ and ‘Well the owner’s here, so they must be expecting something’.
Racing has always been a staple in the family calendar, it was like going to a disco before you were allowed, you’d get some spending money and treat yourself to some of Frank’s legendary curry chips.
I wouldn’t be much of a betting woman, quite frankly, I don’t understand what I’m doing, and since these days I’ve to fund my own spending money, more often than not I prefer keeping the money in my pocket and enjoying the spectacle. This is coming from the woman that went to the Cheltenham Festival earlier this year and put on one bet. The last race meeting was an example of why I should steer clear of having a punt.
‘Studying’ the race card last Friday week I ran down through the odds in one race and did my usual, ‘does the name ring a bell’, ‘do I recognise the trainer’ and ‘what are the odds like’. Asking a member of our table for advice I pointed to the card, trying to sound knowledgable and said, ‘I know Gordon Elliot is a great trainer but what’s the story with the odds’. Puzzled, the man looked and quietly informed me that I was looking at the jockey’s weight ‘11 stone, 8’ and not odds of 11-8.
Yep, turns out, all these years I’ve been keeping just as much of a watchful eye on jockeys’ weight as they do.
With the racing clearly not my forte I moved on to other conversations with the group – politics, GAA, golf, etc, but again, showed that some sports just aren’t for me. Asked if I played golf, I informed the group that my last outing on the course didn’t go so well.
Deciding I’d crawl before I could walk, one Monday I decided to caddy for a friend, ‘get a feel for the game’. Approaching Ballinrobe’s 8th hole I came across a ball from the group ahead of us, one of them had, what can only be described as an atrocious drive, that went so awry it landed back to us. Taking my caddying role very seriously I thought I’d be of assistance and happily picked up the ball and walked towards the golfer making his way over to the spot. After handing him the ball I was confused when he kept walking past me in the direction of where it landed. Dawning on me 30 seconds later I began to comprehend that my good samaritan efforts where ill placed and soon realised I basically broke the first commandment of golf. I don’t think Willie Mullins or MIlroy will be seeking my expertise any time soon.

In her fortnightly Diary of a Home Bird column, Ciara Galvin reveals the trials and tribulations of a thirty-something year old living with her parents.