I have of late developed a fascination for speed. And I don't mean the
fine white powder British squaddies whipped up their nostrils in order to
beat Rommel in the Desert War. I mean the speed of life, the pace by which
seconds tick, hours tock, newborn babies wail, old folk don't and cops and
robbers keep getting younger and meaner while the four great, glorious and
increasingly identical seasons just keep whizzing around and around and
around, gathering speed all the time.
Aye. Sometimes I sneak a glance at my blurry blue eyeballs in misty mirrors
and I feel like a tomcat in a tumble-drier.
Which is why it's nice to have a few consistencies in life. A few of those
rock-solid set ups that you know and hope and hope to God you know will
never ever change.
The Veterinary Paddock of the Dublin Horse Show might sound like an unusual
contender for the above but, for me, its up there with the best of them.
I am not a man famed for consistency. I very rarely know what I'm going
to be doing until I'm actually doing it. Quite often, I don't even know
what I'm doing while I'm doing it. On the plus side, this means people rarely
expect me to be anything other than a spur-of-the-moment scallywag. If ever
I turn up on time or accidentally do what I said I'd do, then I'm treated
like man of the match and drinks are on the house. It's an irresponsible
approach to life but it seems to be working reasonably well.
There are only a small handful of folk who can halt me once I'm off and
stumbling down my spontaneously combusting autobahns.
One of them is the Chief Steward of the Veterinary Paddock, a fine-looking
and dapper dressed fellow who, coincidentally, doubles up as my father.
A brief explanation of the Veterinary Paddock. It is the policy of the Royal
Dublin Society that all horses intending to compete in the Dublin Horse
Show be given a thorough examination by a vet beforehand. Hence, the
Veterinary Paddock's function is to entertain some 200 hunters, lightweights
and heavyweights, each one of whom must be comprehensively tickled and squeezed
for 15 minutes by a vet who will conclude with either a "Yes"
or a "No" verdict. Rather like the Nice Treaty, a "No"
vote means the horse gets a second chance to become a "Yes".
In this case, a Referee Vet is called in to perform further tickle and squeezage.
If the Ref says "No", then the offending horse is taken
to a corrugated warehouse in Donnybrook and shot. I jest. It's quite straightforward.
"No" means tough titty long-face, go home. "Yes"
means clap clap, more power to your shanks, merry jumping.
As a Veterinary Steward, my job is to wear a suit, look faintly pompous
and bellow out orders when ordered to do so. I am an equine traffic cop.
I simply gander about the paddock locating horses and directing them to
vets. I don't have to do any menial tasks. They have people called "Officials"
to do that bit. Officials don't wear suits and I've yet to meet a pompous
one.
As horses don't usually understand humans, most of them come equipped with
a Human Interpreter. By and large these are Horse Women who can themselves
be broadly divided into two groups. The vast majority are sweet-natured
Thelwell types with admirably shaped buttocks and an inspirational zest
for life.
For every ying, there is a yang. And the most frightening thing about being
a Veterinary Steward is the inevitable encounter with the second type, an
Angry Horse Woman. You can identify these types fairly easily. The terror-inducing
pedigree is clearly etched on their striking but haughty faces. For centuries
they have risen from their beds at the crack of a sparrow's fart and mercilessly
galloped their trusty steeds across rocky rivers and muddy fields. The immense
power that they wield over their equine is second only to the stern authority
they wield over their humble husbands. They are most commonly found in front
of a Steward, leather handbags poised for a facial wallop, demanding to
know why the bloody hell they're horse failed. The Talibans would be hard
pushed to look scarier. I find the best method of dealing with this situation
is to sympathetically about turn and leg it.
I've been stewarding at the Horse Show since I was 17. I have only missed
one year and that is because I was trying to establish a small guesthouse
in Cambodia at the time.
Harsher types would say my consistent showing at the Veterinary Paddock
is purely because they have a free bar there for the stewards and vets.
And I suppose there is a small truth in that. My vision of Heaven is that
of the Great Big Free Bar in the Sky so why should I not enjoy these fleeting
glimpses of paradise on earth.
But I will stand my ground and insist that the fluffy yellow rosette on
my lapel saying "Steward" means more to me than free grog.
I serve as a Steward of the Veterinary Paddock because I know it's going
to be exactly the same sort of genteel shenanigans every year. Dubliners
will watch from the sidelines in gob-smacked awe as these sublime and beautiful
creatures neigh and rear and snort and gallop and buck their way around
the Ballsbridge paddocks. Angry Horse Women will rugby-tackle me as I try
to flee and threaten me with tranquillisers. The vets will get howling drunk
in the Free Bar. The bells will ring in the Pembroke Tower behind us but
that's one of the few tick-tocking clock that don't bother me. The Veterinary
Paddock is about the only thing I know in Dublin that hasn't changed in
the last decade. And I love that.