And Another Thing

October 2008

Arc Weekend at Longchamp

IT MAY NOT have escaped your notice that it is Arc weekend. That means planeloads and coach-loads of Brits will be descending on Paris for two glorious days of racing in one of the culture capitals of the world. The mix of Anglo Saxon and Gaelic has not always worked terribly well. There has been some unpleasantness between our two nations over the past five hundred years or so, resulting in muskets, tanks and ships exchanging fire. These days altercations are more likely to be restricted to the hurling of glasses after a football match or the French refusing to speak English even though, in many cases, they have a better grasp of our mother tongue than we do. Know what I mean John?

For those of you taking the cross-channel trip in whatever form to Paris this weekend, an expensive but unforgettable experience awaits. Paris is a costly city. Prices in restaurants seem to vary as to whether they like whomsoever they are serving. Wear a bulldog baseball cap or one with Manchester United written across it and you can expect to be charged £5 for a cup of coffee. Have a visible tattoo that proclaims something to the effect of, “England Forever” (or knowing the educational standards of some tattooists perhaps Eggland Forever), means the price could shoot up to £6.50.

As a racecourse, Longchamp puts many English tracks to shame. The French dress properly to go racing so do not turn up in tracksuit and trainers. You will look like a wally. Try a suit, or slacks and a jacket. If you don’t own any of those items, check that your temporary leave of absence from prison has not expired.

The purpose of being at a racetrack in France is not to get as much beer down your neck as you can. And no, they don’t serve Boddington’s

Forget football. Arc weekend is all about celebrating the racehorse. If you want to chant about Arsenal and the likes, stay at home and be your usual dildoic self.

The French take their food and wine seriously. If you order either in anything but the equivalent of a Macdonalds, the chances are the waiter will be snooty. He will relish the fact that the menu has left you clueless. Don’t leave him to choose for you. It is likely he will punish you for your ignorance by bringing you a plate of unmentionables poached in a sauce that disguises the fact you have just eaten genitals. Genitals are not for eating! You are normally safe with the fish but remember that accompanying wine should be white or rose and not red. You don’t want to appear as ignorant as Red Grant in From Russia With Love. Remember what happened to him! White wine should be chilled. Ask for it warm and it is likely to have a taste that resembles ammonia. Whatever the New World says, the French and the Italians invented wine and all grapes derive from them. Asking for Rioja in a French restaurant will not go down well. Stick to Beaujolis, Corbieres or anything with Chauteau as a prefix.

Yes, the French eat horse. It is sweeter than beefsteak and steak often means you will be eating one of the beasts that once graced the turf at Longchamp. If you have a problem with that, stipulate you would rather the plate did not contain a descendent of Sea Bird. Frogs’ legs are surprisingly nice but snails taste as you would expect something that spends it life wallowing in dirt and mud to taste.

Do not mention the war and in particular avoid any reference to Dunkirk.

If a British horse wins a race at Longchamp, don’t punch the air and shout, “Yes! Get in there my son!”

Zarkava is quite rightly the queen of Longchamp. Her task on Sunday is nowhere near as easy as the betting suggests and if she wins, it will require a mighty performance. Even if you have backed against her, be generous in your applause – she will have deserved it.