It's at the entrance that the trouble starts. A bouncer with an unnaturally large chest is questioning our coherency, sobriety and the general lack of wisdom that a night at the races entails. Worst of all, he wanted us to pay the standard entry price.
"But we MUST be on the guest list. I spoke with my agent this morning who had confirmed the booking."
"I'm sorry sir, but I don't see you on here."
I reach for the bookings list and point at the first name I see.
"Ah, yes. The Yelp party; that's the one. It's an alias we use to avoid revealing our true identities. We don't like to attract attention, I hope you understand."
The girl at the admissions desk -- unfailingly helpful -- agrees to let me in and apologizes for the confusion. I'm not sure if it's because she genuinely believed this little white lie or she just wanted to get this crazed loon out of her sights. I thank her for the passes and the bouncer lets go of my arm.
"First floor and to the right" she says; but we had already fled. We weren't here to take directions from just anyone. No, we were after the big ones. We're going straight to the top. The corporate boxes are the only place to to see where the real betting happens. We're here to get the first word on who is going to win these races; we're here to make it big and blow it all on cheap booze and take-away diners.
The first race has almost started by the time we sneak into a corporate box. In here, there's one table of bigwigs who are obviously excited about a dog named Groupie Doll; we flag down a betting assistant and place our first bet. With our fortunes guaranteed, we mingle with some of the smaller tables in an attempt to acquire some free wine. Before we even have time to put our feet up, the results of the race come in.
Lolos Spanner, Of Course I Can, Satin Romeo, Isildurs Heir, North Bound, Groupie Doll
It was now certain that we had taken a wrong turn and were in the wrong coroprate box. We apologize to the table for our transgressions, quaff the rest of our wine and leave for the next room.
It's the same situation in the next box. A table of bourgeois gamblers clearly excited about Ecclestone. Our wallets considerably lighter, but the odds were looking good for this one.
Aclamon Rossi, Tintreach Tully, Totos Treasure, Hillside Royal, Ecclestone
In the next box, we make eye contact with the bouncer from the front desk. No doubt he recognises us, but we try to play it cool and place our next bet. For this one, we don't even have time to weigh our options -- the bouncer has taken issue with our presence and is quickly approaching.
Refuge of Sinner, Airforce Diva, Captain Scolari, Early Oscar, Skerries Road
Soon, we're trapped in the dining room, where ten Euro covers the cost of admission and a dog burger. Without strict restrictions on who they let in, there is only the most casual betting happening here. No experts, hunches or whispered leads; just amateurs taking wild stabs in the dark.
We take a seat at the bar and contemplate our situation. With the free booze exhausted and barely enough money left to pay for a beer, the only clear thing to do is to play the game.
After all, we got ourselves into this mess. When we arrived, we had nothing to lose. Now, nine races in, everything depends on this one. The great American dream, riding on these last two hundred yards. read more