Royal Ascot Horse Races., inking Tom Morgan-Jones., words jwh.

Ascot, the royal horse racing meet, where for the first day i felt queasy with the disgrace of the whole world-view/attitude that was propagated by the cycles of their frenzied maniac styles of life’s gaming {where money isn’t an object of any type of concern} - where i saw the women as horses and the horses as divine equine beings of a higher purer breed that those "gentlemen" and "Sirs" begged to burn through and down the track to fill their over-flowing ever greedily-grasping hands again and again with more and more and more… But as the week went on and my defences were eroded (by fatigue, drink and a general acid-like lack of sleep) the more subtle confessions of that place became more clear to me watching (always watching). The daily Queen’s Procession somehow captured a magical respect in everyone who watched, as She was real royalty, really without taste {the hat etc} but that is the point of royalty i think - to embody the aspect of being beyond taste and decency. As she was paraded down the final strip of the race course each day, her progress was followed by a vast volley of applause (50,000 capacity at Ascot) which rang deep in my anti-monarchy chest, and i was moved by the blind adoration and soon joined in the clapping feeling quite bemused… As a member of staff i had total access in that place, and would often disappear from my duties to wander that strange terrain, to watch and bet on the races and generally ogle the crowds who exuded some un-earthly scent. I’ve always had a good sense of the odds and other such finacial dealings and so using the tips etc i made quite a bit on the races, eagerly discussing the "insider" details of horses and jockeys, trainers and etc. There was a large population of nouveaux-rich present and these were the ones who would really jar me, fucking me off a great deal; purchasing the most expensive champange and requesting that it not sit in an ice-bucket so that its label would be clearly visible to anyone who cared to look {etc etc for that type of mind-set is a serious - possibly life threatening - disease that only execution can properly cure}. You could spot these prancing twats a long way off, as they coughed on over-fat cigars and staggered dizzily about the tracks always looking over their shoulders as though they expected to be asassinated at any point or dragged out by the heavy security presence for not being whatever they were pretending to be. There was though, a very reassuring old money presence {whose life etc does not sit well with me but all the same represents something that cannot be eroded by all our capatilist-schizophrenic-enducing worlds of false choices…}. These people are mind blowingly well off but always take care of those who look after them {they’ll slip a £20 note into your hand and say softly/all-knowingly "look after us today, and we’ll square you up before we go…" and so on}.

Ascot is an ugly/beautiful place. On the last evening though, the beautiful side came out under the sticky-humid Yorkshire sunset as we were collecting up the furnitures of the very large grandstand lawn. We had made a human chain of 30 or 40 waiters that swung around the lawn passing the furniture down the line to a point where it was being stacked. Then, to my wide-eyed amazement, the chain doubled then tripled as the punters flocked to help us out. The sun going down on the week must have smiled then, for at that moment there were no staff and there were no punters, there was only people left, who on seeing other people sweating on a humid night, happily gladly {singing chanting encouraging} lent a hand to help take the weight of Ascot of our tired shoulders. So once again, all the bitterness that i may have tried to keep, was desimated/destroyed/turned on its head by the real truth that people are people and i am a person - so what could possibly be the difference?