Tuesday 06 August 2013

I got invited to an outing at Ripon races when a colleague found out I was visiting our office in Harrogate tomorrow. Come down the night before and come with us to the races, they said – saying they went every year. I gave it a go. Why not? What would I not do? is my equivalent of ‘what would Jesus do?’

I was a touch disappointed to find out is was only a small group. Four people and I. Of course this made me more comfortable: I was with two people I’d met a few times and two people I didn’t know. But the point was that I’d convinced myself to go to and do something that I wouldn’t normally do. Life can be a son of a bitch at times can’t it?

As if events conspiring for me weren’t enough..the four other people all insisted on buying me drinks even though they weren’t drinking. UTTER BASTARDS.  Proof – if proof were needed – that there is no god.

Well it could get worse: I won £40 on the last race meaning that the entrance fee and drinks for the evening had been paid for by the turf accountants at the racecourse. Perhaps leaving me a small amount of money up on the whole thing. Sickening, sickening fate.

An upsetting postscript is that the training the following day, the reason that I was in Harrogate, would prove quite interesting and worth the travel. Thing just going from quite good to reasonable with regards this trip. I cannot catch a break.

—————————————————————————–

An old man was very insistent that he got served before everyone else at the bar at the racecourse. His reason just seemed to be that he was a fucking mean old bastard who thought he deserved to ignore the people queueing. I didn’t agree with him. Fortunately the woman serving at the bar was one of those who says “who’s next?” rather than just FUCKING NOTICING who is next (and serving them). Then I have to (a) ask an old man where his manners are, and (b) tell someone how to do their job. Basically meaning I get to look like an arse because some stupid old bastard has no manners and a bar person can’t keep track of who is next at a (not particularly busy*) bar.

*So why are you that bothered about getting served? Well the bar people were also not very good at serving people quickly; it wasn’t that busy but letting someone else get served could add 5-8 minutes to the wait.

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