A DAY at Warwick Races for Team Lockley: an intoxicating gathering of high-rollers, glamorous women and common folk, like us, united in one quest to make a financial killing.
Alarmingly, a bookie at the track refused to take my 25p stake, bellowing: We dont do Mickey Mouse bets, pal!
I accused him of encouraging gambling, which, as a bookmaker is no bad thing. To be fair, we were at a racecourse.
It was the camaraderie of the punters that touched me: the eagerness to pass on snippets, to whisper the name of the 100-to-one outsider which was a cert for the 2.15.
I desperately tried to put cash on Lend Me Your Biro before realising it was a simple request by the gambler next to me.
Apparently, there is concern over the level of drug abuse in the horse racing world, which would explain some of the ridiculous names.
Daddy, can we call my new pony Lady? No, well stick with Lonnies Two Headed Monster.
I learnt the sport is dangerously addictive. By the end of the day, desperate to recoup the s2.50 that Id squandered, I became reckless 50p here, s1 there. Give me your last s1.50, Joe, I demanded.
But I was saving that for a pie, moaned the 17-year-old. Just hand it over, I bellowed. Look whats running in the three oclock Ethels Escort.
So? What car was your mother thinking of getting before she bought the Fiesta? I babbled. An Escort, mumbled the confused youth.
And whats Auntie Kaths name?
Auntie Kath. Her middle name? I demanded. Dunno, Dad. Ethel! Weve been given a sign, son.
The mare came in second from last limping, just like Kath after her hip operation. I wouldnt mind, Dad, whinged Joe as we trudged to the car park, but the race was won by Mr Reporter, which is your job. Not nearly cryptic enough, son.
The older I get, the more I despise those with bigger bank accounts, which is most people.
Im so low down in the pecking order of our well-heeled parish Id probably make a fortune selling Big Issues.
The wife reckons were more content than the rich folk, but whats the point of happiness? It cant buy you money. We can still keep up with the Joneses, providing the Joneses are lame.
Take the recent uncomfortable parish social gathering to celebrate American Independence Day. We were seated next to a leading mover-and-shaker who has amassed a fortune through brain surgery.
Ive never tried brain surgery, but Id give it a go. Cant be as difficult as car mechanics there are hundreds of
different types of engines but only one brain. That was our son, Toby, gushed the surgeon after taking a call on his mobile. Hes in Rio for his gap year. Just about to go to a street party, he tells me. He added, leaning back on his chair: I think its frightfully important they enjoy themselves, but do they appreciate it thats the question?
The medic asked what my son was doing during his gap year. Picking potatoes, I mumbled. Ahh, hes on a kibbutz, he trilled. Arent you worried about him being in Israel?
I would be, I stressed, fixing the surgeon with a steely glance, but our sons picking potatoes in Warwickshire.
The conversation dried a tad after that. The evening, organised to raise enough cash to fix one of the chipped gargoyles on the churchs west side, included an auction. I tentatively bid 50p for one of Mrs Corbetts famed Victorian sponge cakes: I wouldve bid more, but was privy to inside information Mrs Corbett frequently loses her dentures while baking.
The surgeon became involved in a bidding war with a financial advisor, finally securing the cake for s40, I think.
A bottle of damson wine went for the price of a second-hand family car, and you could holiday in Bermuda on the cash garnered from a vest Ian Botham once thought about wearing, but didnt.
I wouldve bought a raffle ticket, but the financial advisor needed more time to work out a loan package.
That was appalling, I seethed once wed returned to our modest home. A bunch of rich people using a charity event to publicly display their wealth!
You can talk, scoffed She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed. You made sure everyone saw you putting a note in one of the donation envelopes on the table.
Too right I did! It was a begging letter!
THE wife and I have spent two days swanning around in bathrobes at a health spa. Two days, the blurb pledged, that would rid our bodies of harmful toxins gathered during decades of bad living.
On arrival, I had to fill in a form chronicling my eating and drinking habits.
The shocked receptionist took one look at the sheet, promised the facility would do all it could, but felt removing my toxins was probably best tackled by an industrial company such as Biffa.
And even they may have difficulty finding somewhere to dump the stuff afterwards.
The hard-hitting form asked if I abused my body. Abuse is a big word: I prefer to think I scold it on a regular basis.
Sometimes I scold it so much, I cant walk straight. And jibber.I learnt a lot about the human body, which has seasons, apparently. And what season is my body in at the moment? I asked.
Not so much a season, informed the instructor, more a wet, windy weekend in Skegness.
With a push, he could whip my flabby torso into something resembling a short break in Torbay, but it would have to be during October.
We glided from treatment room to treatment room in our brown robes, accompanied by tapes of pan-pipes, waterfalls and chirping birds.
The spa is becoming an increasingly popular venue for stag and hen parties, we were informed. This concerns me. Being chained to a lamppost is embarrassing, being chained to a sauna is both embarrassing and dangerous.
I enjoyed the steam room part of the fire and ice treatment. I didnt enjoy the leap into a freezing plunge-pool afterwards. The hellish dip increases blood circulation, an assistant assured me. My blood circulation increased so much only my skin stopped me being a fountain.
The Romans believed in it, apparently, but they also believed in fighting lions. That, too, would increase the blood circulation.
In the relaxation room fat people sprawled on bean bags and watched a projected, soothing image of blazing logs.
By the look of them, most wouldve rather watched a projected image of a chicken on a spit.
I relaxed so much a staff member had to shake me awake with the bombshell news fellow customers couldnt relax because of my snoring.
Everything in the restaurant was poached I thought poaching was illegal and the portions were minimal. How did you find your chicken? asked the waitress.
It was hiding under a lettuce leaf.
Youre allowed one glass of wine with your main course, she added.
That was fine. Id brought my own Elvis Presley pewter tankard.
Whisper it, but I underwent a massage and facial. I felt somewhat uncomfortable at the mercy of masseuse Angela, but eventually plucked sufficient courage to take off my duffel coat. She had to work round my string vest, however.
Come now, she chided, Ive seen mens underwear before.
Not with ALL the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on them, I corrected.
Angela smothered me in oil so much I slipped off the couch three times and rubbed heated stones on my legs and body. I squirmed so dramatically she replaced the stones with four half-bricks to stop me rolling off the couch again. Thankfully, she decided against the car jack.
My, those muscles ARE knotted, she pouted as her skilled hands got to work.
I pointed out those were my car keys. Shed pressed them so hard, shed opened the hatchback of my Ford Focus.
Angela mixed a solution, smeared it on my face and waited for the mess to harden into a rubber mask: ideal for bringing impurities to the surface even better for those really tricky bank jobs.
That is an improvement, gasped Julie as I emerged, on trembling legs, from the hour-long treatment. Your face looks a lot better?
Younger? I asked hopefully.
Ill know more when you peel the green latex mask off and take the cucumbers from your eyes.
The wife, in a bid to give an intellectual, upmarket feel to Chateau Lockley, has bizarrely placed a copy of the
Oxford English Dictionary next to our toilet.
This, I fear, is a serious own goal.
How long are you going to be? I demanded, cross-legged with discomfort after enduring a 15-minute wait to use the loo.
Quite a while, Dad, said Number One Son. Im only on the Ds.
My wife has assured me that, at 50, the glass is still half full. Unfortunately, pretty soon my teeth will be floating
in it.
HOW many Freudian analysts does it take to change a light bulb? Two. One to change the bulb, the other to hold the underpants... sorry, I meant ladder.
DO you think the bloke who put a letter s in lisp was taking the mickey?
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