What’s a fella to do, as the song says. The thunder
clouds roll in and it’s sweaty and the flies are out and it’s been another Race
Week. To be honest, I’ve no idea what the weather’s like as you read. I just
took a punt. A gamble. Sunshine, showers, humid and bit on the shtinky side,
d’y’know. Race Week weather.
Siobhan in
Claregalway spent hours in front of her long cupboard mirror on Thursday morning, checking her
accessories. Tommy from Salthill, well, nobody’s seen hide nor hair of him for
days, but that’s the way it is in Race Week. He’ll get himself into a card game
and you won’t see him ‘til he’s done. Used to be a problem back in the day when
the kids were young, but now, well, to be honest, it frees up his
long-suffering missis for a few days. So everyone’s happy.
Everyone's
happy because it’s Race Week. Himself from Ballybrit is happy because he gets a
bit of work at the Owners and Trainers Bar. He’s on the door, watching the good
money coming in and the bad money going out. He’s grinning to himself at the
pittance he’s being paid compared to these Fianna Fail gombeens. He’s watching
it all and lapping up the scenery. It’s like a human Noah’s Ark so it is,
coming and going.
There’s the ones who should be coming and going, and they’d
tend to be yer trainers and owners, and then there’s all these other yokes who
are looking for nothing but a little bit of information, d’y’see? Just a nod or
a wink from the bloke who owns a fetlock and Colm from Roscommon is on to his
phone to do the betting on t’internet faster than the Heineken floods cold
nectar into his glass from the tap in front of him.
Then
there’s the players. He sees them, because he knows how people can hide in
plain sight. The really good ones are the ones that most people miss, but he
sees them, what with his training and all that. Hiding in plain sight, relaxed,
happy, calm, but sucking up the hottest angles, placing the biggest bundles on
the nose.
They’re not
yer each way betters. He smiles as he thinks of it. No, these aren’t yer each
wayers. These are the players.
The work is
good, he’s happy for it, but the watching, listening and learning, that’s
better than a banker’s bonus. Well, no, not better than a banker’s bonus, but
great craic. Rather be doing it than not, safe to say.
Siobhan’s met
up with her friends in Eyre Square, and heading up to the course on the bus.
They were going to get a taxi, do it Full-On Girl Style, but there was a bus
right there, so wha’the.
Her mates
all look great and it’s just a kickin’ day out. She’ll get
the first round in. That’s it, she’ll get the first bottle of bubbles for the
girls, that way everybody’ll remember and nobody’ll notice that she doesn’t do
much betting. The bus had been a Godsend. Thank you God, she says to herself as
she listens to Anne-Marie’s story about Bulmers and an English lad called
Brian.
She’d
budgeted for her share of a taxi, but now, as long as the bubbles weren’t too
crazy expensive, she might even have a bit left to bet with, too. Now that’d be
a bit of a laugh alright. She’s working part-time in a supermarket and hitching
to lectures at NUIG. Loans and rent and life’s not all fun, but you have to
sometimes.
Sometimes
you just have to, and it’s Ladies Day.
Then it’s
Family Day, at the weekend, and another buzz, relaxed and bouncy castles and
still the streets of the city are buzzing and fussing with eaters and drinkers,
Gardai and men in gold and silver standing still on top of boxes.
After his
stint working the bar door, Himself is back in town, sitting outside Coili’s,
watching a fire juggler across the way.
Turning to
the grey-haired boho next to him he says
“He’s
alright, s’pose, but not good enough for Johnny Massacre Corner!”
The man
replies,
“I am
sorry. Vot? Who is John ze Masterpiece, pliz?”
Himself
smiles, moves his head forwards and backwards like a wading bird and
“S’alright
mate, no bother.”
What was he
thinking? Like yeh, really, the guy’s gonna be a Galwegian, tonight, in Race Week!
Race Week,
the concentrated essence of the city of Galway, attracting the rest of the country
like no other single national Irish event. Cork’s got its jazz and Kilkenny
makes comedy and well as hurlers. There’s the All Ireland Finals at Croker, but
that’s a couple of hours sport with a day and night’s drinking. They come to
Galway for a week, but it’s not the length of days. This is not merely some
pathetic endurance test. Back when Wednesday was the big day, Plate Day, and
the meeting ran only a few days, the Galway Races were no less significant;
important; immoral; magnificent.
There’s a
depravity, corruption and decadence to the affair that cannot be ignored, but
putting aside the traffic and the pavement pizzas for a moment, the best part
of Race Week is the spirit of the city. Galway soaks up the farmers,
politicians, insurance brokers and hairdressers. They are all welcome to have
their own parties, to gamble and screw each other, or gently sip tea and suck
Galway oysters from the half shell.
Siobhan’s
mascara is a disaster by the time she’s back on Quay Street. The cobbled
streets are a total mare to her now, ouch, those bleedin’ heels, exhausted, too
much to drink, but nobody noticed about the money. Now they want to go for a
drink. She’s enough for one and the bus home.
“Coili’s
for the music?” asks Roisin.
So they
head up High Street, and in the distance, Himself spots Siobhan, and she kinda
catches his eye.
What’s a
fella to do?
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