Hen Racing. Where our hero smells Rory McGrath.
Posted by Nik Myles on Saturday, August 1, 2009
Not to go all GMTV on yo' ass, but this summer, eh? What's that all about? With Mrs Oops resting up before working for most of the remainder of the weekend, it fell upon me to entertain myself. Try tho I might, I could find no other game more appealing than Staveley Miners Welfare v Retford, which I'm not sure paints anyone in a particularly good light. However, as I desperately scanned the interent for an alternative, I received a "tweet" from Paddy McGinnes (oh yes, friend of the stars, me) stating he and Rory McGrath would in Matlock at the World Hen Racing Championships. Now, I ask you, who wouldn't see that and pass it up?
And so it was that at half one I was walking thru the pissing rain, behind a remarkably dull woman talking about stitching patterns. I won't bore you with the details, dear reader. Suffice it to say that every day is a school day, and I reckon I could now have that Sally off of Corrie. The venue for what transpires to be the 19th World Hen Racing Championships is the Barley Mow pub, in the ludicrously cliched northern outpost of Bonsall, just outside Matlock. It is that most British of traditions, a pointless folly that rewards no one, and requires no skill. Witness the youths making a pretty penny from hiring out racers from a ramshackle hut, which also served to protect them from the incessant rain.
The rules of Hen Racing are as simple as the chickens themselves. Start line + race way + finishing line. No throwing, no fighting, and no shouting from owners-cum-trainers. First past the post wins. Several heats, two semis, one final. Winner wins buttkiss, not even the admiration and respect of their peers. If only more events followed this ethos. This year, folks had come from miles around, most noteably Grimsby, Doncaster, Nottingham, Epsom and even Canada. Each "owner" clasped their entrant to their chests, before being introduced to the audience by the jovial MC, all the while mindful of the risks of defecation. One poor entrant wore his soiled jeans as testament to the lack of toilet training given to todays racers.
The result itself is both a lottery and fairly irrelevant. The whole point of the day is a celebration of that which makes us British. From the local characters, through the curious visitors, to the presence of a slightly bemused McGrath and McGinnes who, despite the presence of their camera crew really did look like they wanted to be anywhere but here. Which is a shame. This event is precisely what their Great British Adventure programme is all about, and I only hope that it was a combination of the poor weather and the allure of the Barley Mow itself that lead to their appearance being so fleeting.
As the rain continued to fall, I decided to cut my losses and make way across North East Derbyshire to Staveley, in an attempt to make the second half. I wish I hadn't bothered. The weather was no better on the other side of Chesterfield, and the entertainment of a markedly lower standard. God knows why. We've kept the good, and improved on it. On paper. Still, as I keep telling myself, it's only pre season. And truly, who's reading this far anyway?
(please note there are photos to accompany this. But for whatever reason the host is playing silly buggers currently.
And so it was that at half one I was walking thru the pissing rain, behind a remarkably dull woman talking about stitching patterns. I won't bore you with the details, dear reader. Suffice it to say that every day is a school day, and I reckon I could now have that Sally off of Corrie. The venue for what transpires to be the 19th World Hen Racing Championships is the Barley Mow pub, in the ludicrously cliched northern outpost of Bonsall, just outside Matlock. It is that most British of traditions, a pointless folly that rewards no one, and requires no skill. Witness the youths making a pretty penny from hiring out racers from a ramshackle hut, which also served to protect them from the incessant rain.
The rules of Hen Racing are as simple as the chickens themselves. Start line + race way + finishing line. No throwing, no fighting, and no shouting from owners-cum-trainers. First past the post wins. Several heats, two semis, one final. Winner wins buttkiss, not even the admiration and respect of their peers. If only more events followed this ethos. This year, folks had come from miles around, most noteably Grimsby, Doncaster, Nottingham, Epsom and even Canada. Each "owner" clasped their entrant to their chests, before being introduced to the audience by the jovial MC, all the while mindful of the risks of defecation. One poor entrant wore his soiled jeans as testament to the lack of toilet training given to todays racers.
The result itself is both a lottery and fairly irrelevant. The whole point of the day is a celebration of that which makes us British. From the local characters, through the curious visitors, to the presence of a slightly bemused McGrath and McGinnes who, despite the presence of their camera crew really did look like they wanted to be anywhere but here. Which is a shame. This event is precisely what their Great British Adventure programme is all about, and I only hope that it was a combination of the poor weather and the allure of the Barley Mow itself that lead to their appearance being so fleeting.
As the rain continued to fall, I decided to cut my losses and make way across North East Derbyshire to Staveley, in an attempt to make the second half. I wish I hadn't bothered. The weather was no better on the other side of Chesterfield, and the entertainment of a markedly lower standard. God knows why. We've kept the good, and improved on it. On paper. Still, as I keep telling myself, it's only pre season. And truly, who's reading this far anyway?
(please note there are photos to accompany this. But for whatever reason the host is playing silly buggers currently.
Tags: psf
