Last Saturday saw my first day at the races since pre-COVID19 lockdown. The outing part of a weekend in Newcastle with my son-in-law Simon; meeting up with my brother Ian who lives across the River Tyne in Gateshead.

Incidentally, although I refer to Simon as my son-in-law that is not strictly true. Well not since his transition to a woman on the journey up. This unplanned life choice taking place when he broke too hard near Thirsk, causing a severe impact injury to his testicles. His Bosker Browns requiring three hours of unravelling from the steering wheel upon our arrival at the hotel.

Seriously, though, as he is not married to my partners daughter Katelan (or me to her mother) we are not officially related. It is just easier to explain our relationship ties by calling him my son-in-law. 

Speeding north up the A1 to Newcastle, agricultural engineer Simon enlightened me with protocols and edicts surrounding tractor oil and red diesel usage. A ‘fascinating’ range of anecdotes which I’d pass on for your delectation if I hadn’t have fallen asleep as soon as he started banging on about them.

Recently Simon, in conjunction with his twin brother Nathan, started an agricultural engineering business. A brave new world for the lads; especially considering they are only in their early 20’s. 

During our odyssey north, Simon revealing in this venture he will oversee company finances, work schedules, delegation of jobs, making the lunchtime sandwiches and boring customers with red diesel edicts… Nathan will… errrr not.

Footnote – Regardless of the filling, due to contamination from fingernail oil, all the sarnies Simon makes taste the same.

Seriously, though, I can’t help but admire the lads for taking on such a huge employment venture as such a tender age. 

Upon reaching our Gateshead hotel, in his newly acquired soprano voice, Simon checked into his room. The high pitch vocal range shattering the receptionists spec lenses, leading to a sheepish apology from my young buddy. 

The man on front desk stating he would forgive Simon for the gigs damage on the condition Sizzers did not mention anything more about red diesel for the stay’s duration. My son-in-law agreeing to the condition, prior to skilfully selling the receptionist a tractor innertube. Considering the hotel employee’s motor is a Ford Fiesta, a quite remarkable piece of salesmanship.

Friday evening witnessed the young fella and me cross the River Tyne for a few drinks and a splendid curry on Newcastle’s quayside. With my energy levels diminished after last week’s COVID hit, I retired to my room early to recharge my batteries ready for the races on Saturday… Well, my phone battery.

After picking up my brother Ian on Saturday morning, we headed by Uber car to Newcastle racecourse. A venue, despite spending my childhood in Gateshead, I had never previously visited.

When booking the gig, my ‘son-in-law’ arranged for us to have a table in the restaurant overlooking the finishing post. A welcome spot of pampering aimed at augmenting our viewing experience. An enchanting place to enjoy a three-course meal while endeavouring to understand how the tote f***ing works.

With low wintertime sunshine producing mild temperatures, we left the comfort of our restaurant table to watch the first few races. Each of those three inaugural contests seeing Ian, Simon, or me back a winner.

Such serendipity against the course bookmakers raising our party’s brio levels further. Simon celebrating by downing several pints of Guinness… Well, I think it was Guinness. For all I know, the black appearance of the drink might’ve been caused by his glass being enveloped in tractor oil!

As the day progressed, our Ian’s good luck with the gee-gees put him in great spirits. Ordinarily he’s not a betting man; his habitual cautiousness with his brass usually extending to avoiding gambling. Losing the shirt off his back to a toxic ex-wife potentially contributing to a usual aversion to taking monetary risk. On life’s metaphorical roulette wheel, placing his house on green undeservedly backfiring on my overly generous brother.

Saying that, his luck evaded him in the second race. With his horse romping ahead of mine in second, he seemed set for a windfall. Only to witness his nag pull up a furlong from home, leaving mine to canter home victorious. I can’t think I’ve ever felt so underwhelmed after backing a winner at the races.

Anyhow, a great day was had alongside the turfed furlongs of Northumberland’s premier racecourse. Thanks for arranging the event, Simon… Oh, I forgot you don’t read my blogs; I better text my gratitude.