Preconception (350 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 0.06 on 9 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by BillyGoat (View user info) at 2008-01-05 17:47:34 EST
Maybe I should just say no. Politely walk up to Tarquin and look him dead in the eye and say I can't go, I have had a change of heart and I don't feel up it. Obviously he's going to ask why and I shall say I have a friend's birthday to attend and I haven't seen this friend for a long, long time. And he will nod and tell me good luck and "say hi to your friend." And that will be the end of that.
Well that's the theory any way.
But in truth I don't have the balls to do that, coz I have worked so hard to get to this position and the last thing I want to do is waste a crucial chance to further enhance our friendship. It's not easy for a guy like me to find himself in these hallowed walls. Knock and ye shall receive, they say. Maybe elsewhere, but not here; a battering ram wouldn't even scratch the surface.
See it's not as if I don't know anything about gambling or horse racing for that matter. I hold a mathematics degree and had taken a special interest in probability in my undergrad years. If anything, I could take on the bookies and whoop their arse with the proverbial horse whip. Joking aside, it's the tradition of the whole thing that worries me. Old Boys and girls drinking their champagne, guffawing at what happened to some other chinless wonders horse, or catching up on last weeks pheasant shoot etc. I have always seen the horse racing fraternity as a close knit community made up of gentry and arisrtocrats that would rather die than see a new face amongst them. I feel it's not enough that I worked hard and went to a 'reputable' university and somehow found myself here at Goldman Sachs. Something is still missing; I don't know what it is. Maybe it's an inherent inferiority complex. Sometimes I ask myself whether I could have been predisposed to this condition, owing to the fact that I almost feel unworthy each time I push my way through the revolving doors on my way to the 10th floor were my office is situated.
This aside, a more pressing issue is the choice of clothing for tomorrow. I know it sounds pathetic, but presentation is a big part of being at the races.
What does one wear at such events?
I have spent countless hours glued to the racing channels, for some tips without much luck. The general trend seems to be an impeccably tailored suit adorned with a top hat, but that would cost an insane amount of money and I'm not yet ready to pay tonnes just for a day's event especially when I'm not sure if it's gonna be a success or not. Instead I have opted for the higher end of the high street hoping that 'they' wouldn't sniff me out. Hopefully the casual brogues and the standard shirt and trousers combo will wash and I will blend in seamlessly.
Looking at Tarquin, working away in his office, I see he is perfectly suited to the event. He has the correct background, the clothes, the lingo and more importantly the connections. He even has the name, for goodness sake, how can I compete with that. Yet he catches me watching him, and smiles, and then he points to the clock to remind me that it's getting to lunch time.
And to this day, I'm still surprised that I will once again be joining him and his chums for lunch at our usual café at the foot of the HSBC building, just across the tiny footbridge.
**
It's 3. 50 at Aintree Racecourse and I'm standing by the window of the grandstand, 5 storeys above ground. I have a panoramic view of the race course and I can see all the way to the start line. Behind me are Tarquin and the gang who are enjoying the corporate hospitality. I myself, have briefly left the kraal to see what its like to be literarily on top of the world. This is a first for me, and judging by their nonchalance I'd say the 'boys' are so used to it, that the race itself is a mere distraction. However, I'm like a kid in a candy store, surveying all that's around me from the magnificent horses (never knew they were so big) to the jockeys (God, are they small) and to the lush landscape flanked wonderful forest. I'm so taken by the whole spectacle that I'm mildly annoyed when a pretty waitress offers yet another glass of champagne.
I steal a quick glance at the fine fille as she makes her way around the grandstand. My smile must have lingered a bit too long as it is acknowledged by an Old Boy, sat not far from where I'm standing. I raise my glass to him and promptly look away, now intensely aware that I'm being watched. The glass rattles against my teeth as I try to calm myself down by taking a quick sip. Some of the liquid goes down my windpipe and I just about hold it together, trying not to splatter too much.
I steal another glance and he is still looking my way with a wry smile. He can sense it for sure; I really am not from these parts. He is the archetypal tweed wearing Old Boy slouched on the leather sofa, legs crossed and glasses hanging on the bridge of his nose.
I return to the table in sheer desperation and I have to slowly set the glass on the table, so that the rest of the gang doesn't notice that I'm shaking. The waiter immediately brings a menu and I use it as cover, burying my head and pretending to read, whilst surveying my surroundings. I order a small dish in the hope that wouldn't come over-if that's what he was intending to do- whilst we are eating. Moreover he's less likely to attack me if I'm in a crowd. With all this going through my head, I find it difficult to follow what the boys are saying and so I focus on drinking the wine instead whilst trying hard to settle into the rhythm of the day.
I hear shuffling sounds which can only mean that the waiter has returned with my order. I turn around hoping to find a dish of duck a l'orange, but to my horror, it's the Old Boy who now stands just to my left facing Tarquin.
"Tarquin my dear, who's this new fella you have with you". He says using his glass as a pointing device.
All what's in my mind is that I'm so screwed. The fact that he knows them, means he's gonna linger a bit longer and sooner or later he'll want to know what I'm all about.
I now am praying for the waitress to return as quickly as possible to break the humiliation that's about to ensure. I can't look around or stare at the TV coz that's just rude. So I hang my head low, but then I realize I'm playing to the image of a lowly peasant.
"He's a friend of mine, executive manager at Goldman, we met a few years back when we were both interns." Tarquin finally replies, completely oblivious to my inner turmoil.
With head raised and back straight, I decide to assert my position. I'm not going down without a fight.
Tarquin reply must have intrigued him because he has fully turned towards me.
Oh shit. My spine is caving in again and I can feel myself getting smaller and smaller.
"Well...who'd have thought?"
Who'd have thought what old man, please I beg you spare me.
"So who's your money on, fella, mine is on Hedgehunter, I have seen him a few times this year and he is a shoe in, should give me a handsome return"
"I'm going with Silver Birch, and although his odds aren't so good, I have a feeling he is more suited to the soft ground than most of the other horses. The ground should help his grip when he lands those horrendous looking jumps, particularly at the beginning when the race is more smash and grab...."
Ok so most of what I'm saying is bullshit, but I know most these boys use these events as a social call and less for the actual racing, they are non the wiser, plus it's not like losing a few hundred quid is gonna hurt their pocket.
However they are thoroughly mesmerized. Why! The Old Boy has taken off his glasses and has moved closer.
When I straighten my back this time, i do it slowly, akin to an emperor with all the time in the world. And when my hands return to the table, they are met by a full plate of Duck a l'orange.
This couldn't have gone any better.
User Reviews
Submitted by Berty (user info) at 2008-01-07 06:02:07 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Ignore the naysayers, this was very good.
Submitted by TheUniter (user info) at 2008-01-06 20:04:53 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
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Submitted by TheUniter (user info) at 2008-01-06 20:04:44 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Bryanhoop (user info) at 2008-01-06 15:53:01 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Preconception = Sex?
That's what I got out of it.
Submitted by Shlongy (user info) at 2008-01-06 11:49:11 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
I could LIVE at the track and love the horses but this post blows.
Submitted by Fartman (user info) at 2008-01-06 11:37:57 EST (#)
Ranking: -1
I have no idea what I just read. Honestly. Something about a bunch of people(?) with strange names and a racetrack. I think.
Submitted by monkeyswithguns (user info) at 2008-01-05 22:38:06 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
Well written, but it lacks context. Work on that.
Submitted by 8track (user info) at 2008-01-05 20:54:45 EST (#)
Ranking: -1
i read the first and last sentence i hate duck and i'm not too fond of you either
Submitted by Ltap (user info) at 2008-01-05 18:20:26 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
The writing was pretty good, but it was a bit dense, I couldn't get through it. Also, it didn't explain a single thing or any kind of background, so it was hard to understand what the story was actually about.