A View From The Jeep: Saturday, December 29

Connie is shocked at LEOPARDSTOWN

Connie is not flitting off to the slopes until later in the season when she has a rather exciting invitation to a very exclusive Swiss chalet. So, in a fit of motherly kindness, she has agreed to chauffeur darling Fionn and Molly to Leopardstown Races, under strict instruction to disassociate herself from them at the entrance so they can go off and meet their friends in one of the booze tents.

So, she finds herself jostling and shoving with the great and the bad, not a sport for the faint hearted though thank the Lord she has access to a box, heaven forbid if she had to stay on the lower levels, she would simply expire with shame. Having said that she does enjoy the parade ring and occasionally barges right into it, throwing her arms around the owners and trainers despite being barely on nodding terms with them if at all. Still it’s worth the awkwardness if even one of her frenemies were to catch a glimpse, not to mind the RTÉ cameras …

She also amuses herself by staring in near disbelief at the ‘best dressed couple’ entrants.  The men look like they are paying homage to their ethnic minority heritage, all in very tight and eye wateringly loud three-piece travelling checks. However, at least the men are warm unlike the ladies who clearly did not plan for the bitter cold and howling gale.  Indeed, they look like they are going to a nightclub or at best a summer wedding. What do frilly umbrellas, lace gloves, homemade gaudy headpieces or flimsy frocks have to do with being well dressed in the depths of this Hibernian winter? It’s clearly become some sort of show pony circuit where the entrants don this absurd, and wholly unsuitable clobber in an effort to out ‘my fair lady’ each other. Well it doesn’t wash with Connie who at winter meets channels tweed and fur, strictly. And she saw to it that her children arrived suitably wrapped up in Moncler and Burberry overcoats, purchased from Brown Thomas of course.

As she is leaving, she pops into the drink tent to check on the Young. Here she is confronted with the spectacle of very wild céilí dancing led by a complete scanger, clad in the ubiquitous tight garish plaid three-piece suit, jacket abandoned, shirt slashed to the waistcoat and he is ably assisted in his whoops and jumps by an orange girl clad in a mere slip. Oh, dear sweet Jesus, it just can’t be Molly and Fionn, can it?


Read previous instalments of A View From The Jeep …

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