Cheltenham Festival spirit survives four-drinks handicap
There had been much discussion before the off about bad behaviour at last year’s Cheltenham, with something of an outrage win-double as not only footballers but underdressed “reality” television “stars” demonstrated why, as a nation, we cannot have nice things. So how did Tuesday’s 66,019 get on under the new “four drinks at a time” rules?
The betting ring itself was a booze-free zone, because heaven forbid someone might not be on his best behaviour when interacting with those nice bookmakers, sensitive souls that they are. These turf accountants are perhaps just too pure for this dirty world, and the least we could do is not consume alcohol near them.
At the Dubliner Irish Whiskey stand, morning uptake on hot toddies was slower than a 100-1 shot labouring up that famous hill with a piano on its back. But Zac, the enthusiastic barman, expressed confidence about his patch being “packed” later. With the weather unseasonably warm, it seemed that conditions were not in favour of the stall, but Zac was as good as his word. The afternoon did indeed bring hot-whiskey takers, and more than a few punters who needed a stiff drink after Altior made them sweat for their 4-1 ON lump.
The Guinness Village is not what you would call a picturesque village, certainly not compared with the notoriously pretty places of the surrounding Cotswolds. But it does its job and the bars Hurricane Fly and Hardy Eustace were certainly doing a handy trade if, according to Rhianna dispensing the black stuff at the former, “a bit quieter than last year”. Nevertheless, she was getting tips – not a whisper about a horse, but the sort of tip that you can actually use – about “20 or 30 quid already”. And this at lunchtime, before the Cheltenham Roar had even roared.
As the day moved into the back straight, a man called Brett weighed up the pros and cons of the much-discussed new ruling preventing people from buying more than four drinks at once. “You can still drink the same. You just have to queue up for longer.” We British and Irish are a creative, dogged pair of breeds.
Norman, solidly but kindly guarding the entrance to one of the corporate jolly-up marquees, is a veteran of many a Cheltenham. “It’s the mixture of people you get, that’s what I like. They say people get too drunk and you do see a few. But you get that everywhere, don’t you? At rugby, at football. The police are very decent to people here. I’ve seen them helping drunk people into taxis. Rare to see an arrest.”
Paul, enjoying a day out in a corporate box, was one of several I talked to who “feels it is a bit quieter than usual”. He added that the layout of the communal spaces was less crowded than in previous years, that the flow of human traffic is better managed around the central parade ring. Do better experiences encourage better behaviour? Either way, readers will be reassured to know that there was no problem with a four-drink handicap in Paul’s private box. “Really, it’s just about how many glasses of champagne you can drink.”
Inside the Turf Club, the in-the-know had made a very early start: like Lord’s, there are no reserved seats and the members don’t hang about in the morning. A packed tent was hosting parties of friends who consider no luncheon to be too convivial and, in some admirable cases, no check-tweed three-piece too busy. It would be an exceptionally brave pen-pusher who attempted to introduce any sort of arbitrary drink allowance in here.
But from the impeccably bred to the corporate raiders to the more earthy pleasures of the Guinness Village, people were having a fine time and almost with exception managing to do it without being beastly.
Coming into the home straight, the Guinness Village was still teeming for the last race but, according to steward John: “There has be no trouble all day. People have behaved great, there has been a really nice energy and no glum people making a nuisance of themselves.”
There will be a few sore heads this morning, not least a young man with his necktie wrapped around his head in the classic Rambo fashion, who was taking bets from an assembled crowd of at least 100 as to whether he could somersault into a wheelie bin. He managed it at least once but was not in the mood for quitting while he was ahead. The man who poured beer on him while this alcohol-fuelled acrobat was upside down in the garbage must answer to his own conscience.
Several police officers also noted that the event had been a good-natured affair. In the Golden Miller champagne bar after the last race, I even saw somebody knock over another party’s entire bottle, ice bucket and all, and this disaster was met with equanimity all round. At £102.50 a go, that seems pretty exemplary behaviour to me, and typical of the day, although I did not meet any footballers.
