Magic moments between races at the gallops

Press, 30 December 1988, Page 15

Magic moments between races at the gallops

The Christmas box, so to speak, is normally best left off, full as it is with repeats or mini-series, or repeated mini-series. Mostly, this is easily done. Lightheaded with the weight of food or the festive spirit, slumped in an armchair asleep, or resting in the sun irrespective of the lack of ozone, the telly can pass without thought. It is irrelevant. There are two exceptions to this rule. One is the Queen’s speech, which, two years out of three, one turns on just as it finishes, twice. The other is an hour or two when sleep fails or the sun is too hot. This led your ever-vigilant reviewer to spend an hour with the horse-racing on Boxing Day. Knowing nothing of this pastime, the aim was to learn. In spite of an un-prom-ising beginning in which the music slipped and slurred much as the world had seemed to for the previous 48 hours, it was good value. There is something curiously sooth-

Ken Strongman

on television

ing about ‘53.90 and $22 even, $10.70 and $3.95” intoned with near religious precision. It is the same with the horses’ names. The lists are always interesting. Red Chiffon, False Ayelash, The Filbert. What quirks of life have led to their creation? There were special guests, the most notable

being Jim Bolger. “I’ll be on Maurine,” he said. That’s as may be, but should a possible leader of the country be a gambler? A disturbing thought, that, particularly since he picked a loser. There was also Linda Jones, being interviewed by Phillip Leishman at every available opportunity. Whoever she is, she is quite knowledgeable about the nags, picking the winner of the Jaguar Cup, although less so about adverbs — “She went down tremendous.” Later, in another race, she picked a horse that was not even running. She looked puzzled for some minutes after Philip gently pointed out her error. The fascinating bits of the hour were between rather than within the races. The woman who won the fashion parade was picked from a line which from a distance appeared to be swinging like monkeys. Closer inspection showed them all to be clutching their titfers in the Ellerslie wind.

Linda Jones ... a puzzled look.

The men’s winner won because he had “a striped shirt which he teamed up with a fabulous tie.” It wasn’t Jim Bolger. There were other magic moments. There was mention of “One of the classic races for horses to win.” Why say horses? The jockey could hardly win without them.

Visually, the most compelling sight was a screenful of the close-up of the relevant bit of a horse engaging in its pre-race evacuation. It was unusual Christmas viewing, although not without a basic honesty. Recovery from this lasted for half an hour

during which the new British soap "Albion Market” happened. It was good to see it once in order never to see it again.

It is a celebration of Britain’s new multicultural working class, as white, black, brown, yellow and even Scottish chance their muticoloured arms with market stalls. There is no humour, merely jealousies and envies spat out through lips curled venomously (or venomous, as Linda Jones would say).

It is not only poor in content, but has taken a step back to 1950 s camera work. The characters look as though they are on a stage which is only about one metre deep. Even if you are within range of a telly at 4.00 in the afternoon, give it a miss.

Tailpiece: It is probably only by association, and she is a very good presenter, but Gail Ludlow herself is beginning to seem like one of the more exotic “Our World” species.