I don’t understand the fascination with horse racing. I really don’t understand the whole ‘ladies day’ thing, either. Sooo much effort to get dolled up to wander around a muddy grass course in Liverpool and ruin your good heels. And no one ever thinks to put their wellies on. It’s madness.
For me, Ladies Day at Aintree is as weird as me turning up at Tynecastle to swear at the referee in my Monsoon dress and Jimmy Choos. It just doesn’t seem to fit.
Don’t get me wrong – some of the ladies look fabulous, whereas others look pretty uncomfortable. What I can’t get over if the sheer effort and expense. I’m a lazy mare at the best of times and I HATE shopping, so a day at Aintree would be my idea of Hell. I hate being caked in makeup, drying my hair, and having to keep my trouser buttons done up after I’ve eaten.
I also hate actual horse racing. It’s horrendous and cruel and I honestly don’t understand how anyone can stand and scream for some tiny bloke in a silky top to beat the crap out of his horse in the hope it’ll run faster. I mean, WTF, people?
I understand the talent, though. I’ve spent many a nervous hour, sitting on the back of a horse, grimacing maniacally, counting down the minutes until I could get the hell off the beast. I’m almost certain the horses felt the same.
It certainly takes a lot of skill to master. However, I struggled to kick the horse to get it to wander left or right because…well, I was brought up to think that kicking animals was a Bad Thing. And I still believe that.
I know it’s not cruel in the eyes of trainers, jockeys, and Clare Balding, but I’m the woman who can’t get through an episode of Alan Davies’ Dog Rescuers without changing the channel if I think something horrible is about to happen, so watching horses racing makes me just as uncomfortable.
What I wouldn’t be opposed to seeing is the tables turned. Why not, at the National 2017, line up all the ladies on the course and make them race to the finish line? I can just see them trying to canter along in their 6 inch heels and hitch up their dresses in an attempt to clamber over one of the fences. They’d be pulling out each other’s hair extensions and stopping when they cracked a nail or needed to powder their nose.
Meanwhile, the horses could sit in the sunshine, putting their last £20 on Mutton Dressed As Lamb or Too Pissed To Make It To The First Fence. Towards the end, we could all turn our heads and pretend we didn’t see someone shooting Trophy Wife 2 in the head when her stiletto gets caught in the grass and she falls and breaks her neck.
Now, that’s a race I could get on board with.