Race Week – the triple-distilled spirit of Ireland
The horse’s name was Minesadouble.
I mean, come on. I had to, right?
After all, I’m a whiskey drinker.
In 1980’s London I was a whisky drinker, without the ‘e’. Before your triple-distilled Jameson became my liquid home, Scotch whisky was my tipple.
That English sixth of a gill measure barely dampens the glass, so I always ordered a double.
Famous Grouse, probably because it was my Dad’s choice too.
On the morning of that bet I was strolling the Portobello Road. Go there now and even the dirty street cobbles are polished. The area has gone up in the world, gentrified, but in those days there were two distinct areas of what others called Notting Hill.
Notting Hill Gate was yuppie cappuccino bliss, perfect for Julia Roberts to swoon on in the movie, while a few blocks away the streets of Westbourne Park and Portobello were poor and dilapidated.
Around the corner, All Saints Road served as West London’s Front Line for street drug deals, and therefore confrontation with the police.
I was hopelessly and helplessly in love, wandering the legendary market, looking for something that might put a smile on the face of the lucky winner of my obsessive attention.
Taking a breather from the packed streets, I turned up a side road, and spotted a few paces on Ladbroke’s familiar Golden Circle.
Ah go on. Why not? It’s Saturday, so all bets are off, so put one on.
You just can’t argue with that kind of logic.
Read Charlie’s full column in this week’s Connacht Tribune.