RACE MEETING


It's all over. The crowds have dispersed, leaving behind the empties,
the rubbish piled high, stinking toilets, one abandoned shoe and three
lines turned to ghostly slime on my favourite mirror. Worth a lick. I
see on the TV it's a sorry mess at Cheltenham too, only they clean up
after the Queen Mother, old bitch didn't choke to death, again. Shame.
I said to the second Clancy, this morning, 'Missed your chances there,
Pat'. He's not speaking, it's his voice, but he agreed.

You don't know until it happens to you. I don't drink, for my health,
so it's always me the spare hand at the wheel, short order cook, hard
currency negotiator and general dogsbody for the Limerick crowd, with
Seamus and his Uncle Ralph Don't Ask, in reserve. Mrs. Seamus allowed
the pair of them to go this year, on the Wednesday, the day my fockin
horse kissed the ground came up to meet him. It couldn't lose, if you
listen to some people. TV Woo catered the evening at my place - she's
a diamond, I tell you, but she threw the box of tricks in at the door
and fucked off sharpish. She's from London, too. We're a colony. They
never missed us till we were gone. Patel was on the phone asking when
he can expect a visit. I ask Herself to look him up if I'm tied to my
desk. She says he pines. It was a fucking fatwa last time, when Aaron
pulled his second cousin twice removed and seduced her on the bedroom
carpet, she wouldn't undress. I think Seamus has a plan.

I made them all breakfast this morning, the works. My reputation. My
phone warbled. It was the other Clancy, would I be sure to scorch his
bacon. I wouldn't mind but he was on the toilet. So, it's all over. A
celebration. Your man was a Welshman, but any excuse. Still, as I pan
the camera, making sure I get the sinister green Transit in the scene,
I can't help wondering, about the shipment.