Cheltenham.

A story about the magic of the place, winning a prize for getting dressed, and acting like you belong.

It is amazing how quickly things become outdated. It is eight years since I had my five minutes of almost-fame and won Cheltenham Festival’s (a horse racing festival for the uninitiated) “best dressed lady”, and already it feels like an outdated concept. The world seems to have moved past best dressed ladies it feels all a bit Father Ted “Lovely Girl” competition. After watching it avidly this week, I see now that is it no longer just for ladies, but best dressed person, and I’m not sure what the prize is. However, it was then big business, as I didn’t just win bragging rights (Miss England asked ME for a photograph) but a prize of £10K for my efforts.

However, for more than just that reason, Cheltenham holds a special place in my heart. Let me tell you about it.

Me, with the champagne, and some women who really really belonged there, including former Miss Universe in the jumpsuit, and Miss England with the fur collar.

Beginning 2012 and missing a few years here and there, my then Himself and I made a habit of attending the Cheltenham March festival. We returned to the same B&B owned by a lady called Gail and her beautiful greyhound Lizzie. We were part of the same quartet that came over successive years: Quentin, a Londoner based in France who would frequently call his Mrs, have a sweet exchange seasoned by terms of endearment, and finish the call with a million good byes; and Birmingham Tony, also a London dweller, who I always suspected had a bit of thing for Gail. He was the most through-other of the bunch, either not making it home, or making it home with company. We all, including Lizzie, LOVED to be regaled by his tales, and whatever he got up to he always presented it as the most reasonable thing in the world, and so got away with it.

The four of us nailed our morning routine: whoever got up first got the newspapers and coffees for the whole house, leaving them outside the bedroom doors for the others. Energy would build in the house as we would chat between rooms while getting ready; me inevitably hunched over a compact mirror as the boys’ giddiness hummed around me.

We would each leave for the course separately accordingly to our own agenda for the day, and walk the one mile to the race course, stopping off at the iconic Pittville Pump Room for a more substantial breakfast. Always busy, but never overcrowded, it was there in later years that I realised the thing about Cheltenham that I love the most: the people. You never meet an dickhead there. I’m not sure I can say that easily about anywhere else I have return visited. You jut never meet a dickhead at Cheltenham.

You can walk into a bar and on one side of you have Paddy John Joe from Ballygobackward; the kind of man who carries a wedge of notes in his inside pocket, and who drenches every spoken word in suspicion, believing strongly that everyone is in fact out to get him, none more so than The English. Watching joy seep into this kind of mans face , like molten lava seeping in slowly before taking control of all his features, causing them to illuminate, is something to behold. On the other side you could have a Lord or a Lady, to whom a trip of Cheltenham is but another day on the high society calendar. But somehow both Paddy John Joe and Lord or Lady whoever can all find a way to have the craic together, united by unspoken social contract that has drawn you all there to have a good time. By some sort of indefinable chemistry I could find an easy nestling space in that formation too. It makes no sense, but it works.

This one year, 2017, upon arrival at the racecourse, someone stops me and asks if I want to enter Ladies Day? I (delighted) say of course, all in a days craic. Cut to three hours and six drinks later and I get a message to say I am in the ‘final three’. I would presume this was an extravagant piss-take by friends, other than the fact that my picture is already being beamed from huge screens, alongside two other ladies, with the crowd being urged to vote for their favourite. I immediately hit panic mode. My then Himself offers: “take a moment, and whatever you do, don’t be yourself”.

At first read, these words seem unkind, even mean, but they were actually quite reasonable. He meant DO NOT rock up there and do the self deprecating thing that is so deeply ingrained in who you are. Act like you belong there - because you do. It was perhaps the first time it dawned on me that I was in the habit of inadvertently keeping myself small, and I was surprised that he was aware of that. I still think of those words often.

After a while, I am led to the winners enclosure and announced as the winner. A wall of photographers then start snapping me, shouting things like “smile!!” while I try to get the grin to reach my eyes, and to disguise the fact that I have only a few episodes of “Americas Next Top Model” and talk of “smizing” to draw upon as a guide on how to not look constipated, or as though I am solving some mental arithmetic, for the photos.

Even as it was all happening I was craving a quiet corner to get five minutes to gather myself, but it was quite some time before it came. BBC Gloucester approached me for interview, and in the course of the 90 second exchange I said that I was ‘glad to be here’ four times, and struggled to describe what colour my outfit was (teal, duh). Newspapers were asking for quick quotes and outfit details. Former Miss Universe Rosanna Purcell was kicking about and people seemed keen that we were photographed together. If I was at risk of developing notions of myself, they were soon put to bed, standing beside her - nothing will remind you of your own status of mere mortal like standing beside a former Miss Universe.

The look, that I had to steal from the internet to show you.

My picture was all over national socials, and hard copy media the next day too. I was front page of The Telegraph. Somewhere online a man who went to the same gym class as me but had never so much as grunted a ‘good morning’ engaged in a lengthly conversation about my outfit, and speculated over the likelihood of me attending the gym the following week. A lady called Maureen from Sligo trolled me for my chubby ankles. I really felt like I had made it then - with my own trolls and everything.

It was manic and overwhelming and slightly terrifying - but also funny, that this would happen to me, someone who was there essentially just for the hell of it.

So yeah. Thats why Cheltenham will always have a special place. The atmosphere, the people, the happy memories, and a little bit of the realisation that I should act like I belong, because I do.

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It is St. Patrick’s Day eve, so wishing everyone celebrating a fantastic bank holiday. I’ll be back with a story about what it means to be Irish next week - I can’t commit to twice weekly at the minute as there is too much going on - but those posts will return soon!

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Thanks, as ever, for reading

Big Love

Una

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