The Jockey

blow that horn —

“Tidal Wave,” six to one, 3:35 sharp, the bell clangs like a drunk monk in the rain, and there she goes, the grey ghost streaking over Sandown’s green lung, that lush emerald breathing under hoof and sky.

Punters lean into the dream, eyes wild, pounding hearts against the rail while Mary—sweet Mary of the quick laugh—slides the coldest pint across scarred oak, foam kissing the rim like a lover who won’t stay, and the banter rises, holy jazz of curses and boasts, reigns supreme over all the sad little kingdoms of England.

Tyrolean curtains flapping lazy in the breeze of the Borough Arms, folded napkins white as surrendered flags, and another pint foaming golden, sacrament for the damned.

“You shit, get in, whip it; whip it now!”—the cry tears out of some red-faced prophet in a flat cap, voice cracked like old vinyl spinning the blues of the turf.

The horse, the jockey small god bent low, clumps of grass flying up like green shrapnel from the battle, sweat and mud baptizing them both, glory days exploding in the chest.

“You fucking shit, I said dig in, man, dig in!”

“Twenty quid on the grey,” he mutters, voice thin as a razor, fingers clutching crumpled scripture of the racing post.

Down to the last gate now, the long swoop home, tension thick as Guinness head, the last hurdle rising like judgment itself— and the blasphemy bursts loose, Jesus Mary and Joseph — never was the jockey a Christ, no, just a small frantic man with silk on his back and hell in his heels.

And in the corner booth, Frank and Martha nursing their slow pints, slow afternoons, the children sit wide-eyed, angels with monster masks, listening to the mad poetry of the punters, mouths ringed with salt from crisps, tongues black-sweet with Coca-Cola, drinking in the whole wild mass of life—one pure shot at heaven on earth.

horses thundering,
the men praying in swearwords,
money burning down