Louisville. Home of the Lip. Home of the Slugger. Home of Kentucky Derby. Oh boy. Yes. The Kentucky Derby is debauched and depraved. When you were young you might have been to parties which resemble the character of the Kentucky Derby. You haven't been to a sports event which comes near. There is no sports event which comes near.
Yes, somewhere at the centre of it all there is a horse race and somewhere else living in a fragile world akin to an airbubble at the bottom of a collapsed coalmine is a sliver of society which dresses up nice and sips its drinks and eats its dinner off linen tablecloths. Everything else is chaos.
On Fourth Street they are queuing patiently in the broiling heat. The situation is this. Every two people carry a cooler box between them. Mainly they keep beer in the cooler. The beer will be confiscated at the gate. So they drink the beer in the queue and by the time they hand over the $35 dollars cash which permits them to graze in the infield they are nicely broiled and don't mind paying the $5.50 which the organisers charge for beer.
While they queue men wander up and down the line selling $5 dollar tee shirts. On the back they say "Party Time" on the front they say "Show Your Tits".
Entrance is a sort of crossing over, a bit of a Rubicon for the masses. Swept along within a sea of thirsty, happy, horny drunks you are suddenly in a long tunnel. In any other place in the world this form of access and egress wouldn't be allowed. It is terrifying. One moment of panic and we'll all be in danger of getting stomped like a fallen jockey in the Grand National.
We survive and pop out the other side. Out into the air. It's not new air. It's second hand. Beery and smokey. You can't see a patch of grass anywhere. There are 154,000 people here and most of them are plastered. You shuffle along in the crowd. You can see the Twin Spires. You are in the right place. There must be a race course in here somewhere.
You thought the theme for the day was racing. It is not. It is the female breast. Part of the timelessness of Churchill Downs is its pre-feminist outlook. This may be the last place in the world where men ask "where's your sense of humour, love?" as they have their sweaty paws removed (or not) from a female anatomy.
The crowd is a mix of the sort of hardcore rednecks who have spittoons on the dashboard of their car and college types who engage in endless drinking games. Some horsey people too, but they keep a low profile. The map of the infield you are carrying has the territory marked out helpfully. You have to go a long way to get to the patch which is marked "Traditionally More Sedate Area."
Indeed the Borgias were traditionally more sedate.
This would be the day when Wynona got on Wayne's shoulder and showed "most all she's got" to the crowd. She'll be hearing about it till she's a grandmother. Probably feeling it too. Once atop the shoulders of a sponsor the bare-breasted racegoer must suffer to have her exhibition interrupted by countless clumsy and roughly-executed instances of nipple tweaking. Eventually the sea of nipple-tweaking hands will force the jockey to fall off her brawny mount and some other woman will be left to take up the slack. All fun and games till somebody loses an eye, we say.
Ah, the sights and sounds! Once every hour or so a field of horses will flash by, temporarily distracting the crowd from the business of the day. Go on number six! Is number six ours? Screw it?
The business of the day could be anything. Take the mud wrestling. At the end of low building is a shower attached to a wall. Why this al fresco facility exists is anybody's guess but on Saturday it was running all day thus creating a massive mudbath at the bottom of a natural amphitheatre.
Boy do drunks love a mudbath. For most of the afternoon they wallowed in there rassling and fighting and being interrupted every half hour or so by a weary squad of riot police who didn't fancy the mud or the abuse.
As the Derby drew nearer the mud wrestling festival was forced to up the ante. Women were dragged into the swamp and rassled merrily till nipple tweaking occurred. Several muddied revellers climbed up onto the roof of the building. There was a professional exhibition of breasts.
Then one of the rooftop number attempted an eloquent response on behalf of the male sex. His bare buttock bent towards the appreciative crowd, his trousers around his ankles and the slanted roof covered in wet mud. Art ain't easy. Indeed it was all too much and he fell backwards breaking an ankle and badly grazing his sweetmeats.
So it went. All human life was here. All human life was drunk.
Hours later, having consumed the world's most expensive hot dog and washed it down with the world's most expensive Mint Julep (you're paying for the foliage, baby) we spotted a thoroughbred horserace. It lasted for two minutes. Whoosh!
We tore up our tickets, shook our heads, noted that 153,000 people could pay $5.50 a throw for beer but couldn't afford a tube of sunblock between them.
We filtered back towards the tunnel, our glowing red faces illuminating the path. There was some fighting amongst the men folk. A topless woman was offering sexual favours in exchange for beer. Indeed by now the sunburned Wynona who had entirely drunk away her inhibitions was mounting Wayne's willing shoulders so she could have a quick bosomy flap at the crowd.
Many also were the sunburned Wynonas who had drunk their way into grief, tears, regret or vomit-stained belly tops.
Together we all squeezed back into the long dark tunnel towards Fourth Street. A day of wonder. A day of enlightenment. We came away wondering if Fairyhouse, the GAA, or any of the sober suits at DISC or the Sports Council are really interested in offering sufficient nipple tweeking, buttock flashing and public fornication to make the big Irish sports occasions really work.
