The Jockey

the horn blows wild.

tidal wave, six to one, 3:35 sharp, the bell clanging, and there she goes, the grey ghost streaking over Sandown’s green lung.

punters lean into the dream, eyes wild, hearts pounding against the rail, while Mary — sweet Mary of the quick laugh — slides the coldest pint across the oak, foam kissing the rim like a lover who won’t stay, and the banter rises, curses and boasts, reigning 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, 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 bent low, clumps of grass flying up behind, sweat and mud all over them.

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

twenty quid on the grey, his fingers clutching the crumpled ticket like scripture.

down to the last gate now, the long swoop home, tension thick as a Guinness head, the last hurdle rising. and the blasphemy bursts loose, Jesus Mary and Joseph —never was that 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, their slow afternoon, the children sit wide-eyed, little angels in monster masks, listening to the mad poetry of the punters, mouths ringed with crisp salt, 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.