Here’s the film of the blog so to speak: http://bit.ly/1UlAaiR
POTTS GOES TO THE EPSOM DERBY
Category: Entertainment
Serendipity Wins The Epsom Derby
“I had a dream” Clare Balding told me as I started to explain my win in the Epsom Derby. Poor Clare. I wanted to know, I really did but unfortunately with the overexcitement of the main race, I’d been reduced to a babbling mess. I needed to tell her the story of my day, which in racing terms had a magical twist of fate.
It had all started gently enough. Whilst waiting for my comrade in arms for Epsom at the train station a coffee truck pulled up and before you could say ‘Mine’s a cappucino’ I was chatting to the cab drivers, one of whom treated me to a latte: Things were looking good so far.
An hour later found us still struggling to find our carpark, but once inside the media tent all that was forgotten and the race was on.
A day at the track is like no other. Time flies but in the most surreal way. No sooner have you watched one race than horses parade in the paddock for the next. Bets are placed, champagne or beer is ordered, a roar comes up from the grandstand as you realise you’ve missed the 2.35 and need to get your act together for the 3.10.
Then, there’s the arrival of the Queen, just a week before her official 90th birthday, and you have to guess what she might be wearing, in French, with a party of that country’s finest gentlemen as you all endeavour to get a photo of her.
What seemed like moments later, I leaned across the railings next to a handsome man in a top hat chatting to his friend. “Where are you from in Ireland?” I asked.
“The Curragh” came his response.
“I’m from Meath – just next door – near Trim.”
“Oh yes, I know it. I used to have to drive through Trim all the time to get to Navan.”
“To the races?”
“Yep.”
I asked him what he was doing here today. “We’ve got a horse in the Derby – Harzand” he told me. “My Father’s the trainer.”
“Aidan O’Brien?”
“No! You don’t study the form do you?!” came the retort with a grin.
In fairness I hadn’t had time, but this was all I needed. “We must get to the Tote!” I said to Chloe. I’d heard first hand Frankie Dettori’s tips for the Derby (‘The main challenge for Wings of Desire is US Army Ranger’), and John McCririck had also weighed in with his comments before he waved me off and told me to ‘Keep blogging’. But this. This was pure gold.
Cakes and coffee by the winning post preceded an inspiring victory by Harzand with one of my each way bets coming in second.
On the train home I conversed with yet another fellow Irishman. We high fived our Derby success. “I won big” he told me.
“I broke even, and a bit more” I replied.
A bit of magic more in fact.
It all started with a coffee
Waiting for Frankie
The French were in town
Clare, the inimitable with Sir Tony McCoy
Mr Dettori and yours truly
This is what it’s all about
Mr McCririck
Mr Dettori. Again.
Pretty sure this is Postponed – winner of the 3.10
Seriously, I think my first ever racing win
Winner of the 3rd race: Postponed ridden by Andrea Atzeni
Clare you’re a legend. Already.
Nice spectacles. CWS approves
Cakes and coffee pre Derby
Pat Smullen, winning jockey of the Epsom Derby 2016
Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, Aga Khan, Dermon Weld
Kieren Fallon
Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II looking spectacular in hyacinth blue
Nice pic by Getty Images
Chloe Haywood Milliner extraordinaire. Hats off after this pic. It’s been a great day!
Very many thanks to Epsom Derby, JSC Communications and Chloe Haywood for a magnificent day.
Highlights and a Chelsea Blow Dry
Pinter. Harold Pinter. The name says tension to me and a play fraught with awkwardness, strain, characters stretched to breaking point. I wasn’t sure I could handle a second one in as many months, but theatre invitations are rather lovely and it would be a hard woman that could say ‘no’.
I gasped as I entered The Old Vic to take my seat – grand and imposing and absolutely packed to the rafters. V’s programme lay on my lap with no time to read as the final bell sounded and this evening’s performance of The Caretaker was off.
As the curtain raised, like a projected image, the set moved towards us and we were there; back in some dingy Pinteresque bedroom with peeling wallpaper, junk everywhere, joy buried under neglect, the purpose of survival laying comfort to rest.
So far, so expected.
One of the boys
I was here again. Years have elapsed since the last time I sat in the backseat of my parents’ car en route somewhere while my brothers played ‘I spy the flash automobile.’ Actually, I lie, the automobiles didn’t have to be flash – it was the identifying of them that was key. Whenever I spotted one and called out the name, I was generally ignored.
Fast forward to now: Regent Street on May 2 and the arrival of the Gumball 3000. To the uninitiated that’s a kind of race where, to quote a stranger I met on the day, ‘Rich guys drive from one place in the world to another showing off their souped-up motors’. The reason I’m aware of it is that one of my favourite entertainment acts of all time quite often compere the arrival of these gas guzzling beasts to whatever destination may be on the agenda. I’m talking about Los Hermanos Cubanos of course.
‘Oh yeah, they’re on at about 7pm’ an official told me early on in the morning. I texted to get some insider info. ‘No, we’re actually in bonnie Scotland’ came the reply. Never mind. Given I’d yet to experience these cars roll into town in all their revved up glory, I decided I’d go along, see what all the fuss was about.
Wedged in the crush between various fans hours later, one of them let me in front to take photos. ‘Oh, I think that’s a Hummer coming – that gold one, is it?’ I asked of my new friends. No answer.
‘Ohhhhhh mate, can you hear that – what is it?’
‘I think it’s a Lambo, mate.’
I forget sometimes, I am a mere girl.
‘Oh, mate, I think this is Mr Gumball comin’.’
Continue reading “One of the boys”
The One and Only
“Whaddya mean you’re having another double espresso?! What’s the matter with you Al?!”
“I dunno, something’s gotten into me, and the coffee is pretty good here.”
It was all my fault as usual. Having left a rather brilliant but harrowing movie – Victoria – we needed something to take the edge off. The cinema bar told us it was closing: “Well, we are in London after all and it’s almost midnight, so that makes sense” said my droll companion.
We walked out onto the festival type crowded streets of Soho wondering where to go, when it occurred to me. There really is only one place for such a moment. “Bar Italia” I said, “Let’s go there.”
Like a homing pigeon I found my way easily. Perhaps 20 years have elapsed since I last visited but on walking past the jovial heat-lamp-lit tables outside, I was relieved to see absolutely nothing had changed. The large screen at the back relayed football; even the waiters looked the same.
Miraculously two stools appeared free at the counter top. I quickly commandeered them whilst Al did the honours in the queue. Reaching for one seat nestled up close to another on which sat an elderly gent in animated conversation with a distinguished looking waiter, my hand was seized. “You’re trying to touch his ass?” Roxano, the latter, asked.
“No! No! I just need to grab the stool next to him!” I said laughing.
“You will see, it is as hard as a rock.”
Conversations with Strangers 