Guy Willoughby joined a motley crowd of punters to watch the Durban July _ in a Pretoria bar-cum-tote
IT’S Durban July day, folks, and I’m down at the Assembly Hotel in Sunnyside _ Mecca of Pretoria’s blue-collar punters. Look, it’s the biggest event in the local racing calender, and I couldn’t get to Durban, okay?
The Assembly Hotel is a well-trodden joint, a pleasure palace honeycombed with bars, belles and more bars. By day it’s solidly focused on one thing: the tote. Positioned between the Parrot Bar and the Pink Panther Pub, the tote _ lined with slot machines _ occupies a small room just off the lobby, next to the courtyard. No need to turn up at Turffontein or Greyville itself any more: at convivial venues like these, you can have yourself a virtual-reality day at the races.
My good companions are Nigel, a Yeoville caterer, and Richard, a civil servant from Kalk Bay _ the sort of small- time punters who dream of Hitting the Big One, whereupon they’ll “start a business”, “pay a few creditors”, or maybe just “drink till I drop”.
Now, the Durban July is a fascinating cultural phenomenon. We have very few public rituals like it that catch the popular imagination right across the land, from Cape Town to kwaMashu.
Mostly, sport in South Africa is saturated in ideology: the game you back tells other people about your politics, race, gender. Yet horse-racing has somehow avoided such partisanship. The fascination of the Lucky Bet that can change your life cuts across class and race lines. Just look around you at the variegated crowd in the Assembly Hotel.
There’s one curious apartheid hangover, however. Says one gambler: “See, we don’t need apartheid here, ’cause everybody knows the rules.” While scores of black punters throng the chilly courtyard next to the tote, their white counterparts fill the snug Parrot Bar.
Back to our intrepid party: Nigel the caterer is your reckless red-haired gambler _ the type who risks all to bait Lady Luck. “Okay, boys, what about R100 to win on Ravenous? _ Ravenous is 66 to 1. We’ll be rich!” Richard the civil servant is nervously mystical: “The field’s too open. I haven’t had a sign yet.” As for Guy, the English lecturer: Well, I put R20 on Pas de Quoi because my wife saw the number three as she woke up on Durban July morning.
Horse-racing is one part science, three parts hokum. A seasoned punter spends hours analysing the turf, the jockeys, the trainers, the breeding lines, etc _ and then throws all his money on a horse that looks like his mother.
After much squabbling, Flaming Nigel, Golden Richard and Dancing Guy make their selection and Take a Walk to the tote, seeking a Hidden Fortune before Surfing Home.
The tote’s a great place, especially if you like communal worry on a huge scale. From here you can place your bets on any course countrywide, while up above _ in the tote and in all four of the Assembly Hotel bars _ jabbering video coverage of each race goes on all day.
Drinks flow, waiters jostle, gamblers grizzle, groan and curse _ and predictions flow faster than the race cards that swirl round the room like confetti.
For the uninitiated, let me explain that you can place bets two ways: either through cross-race selections of winners and places, or by individual, “exotic” bets on each run. So each passing race is a thrill in itself, as well as part of a cumulative package: will our selection keep us within reach of the Place Accumulator, the Pick 6, the Jackpot?
Bets placed, we’re back in the Pink Panther Pub, joshing with the locals, chewing Portugese sausage, swallowing beer. We’ll be bobbing up and down to the video screen to watch each race _ and rushing back and forth to the tote to make last-minute bets.
Things start well. In the first race, our horse comes romping in five lengths ahead of the field _ “Yess!” Nigel is so excited, he threatens to buy the entire Pink Panther a round.
Then, things begin to droop. In the second race, our favourites let us down so badly that we’re out of the Place Accumulator. Nigel starts gnawing on his supposed victory cigars: Richard starts a regular nervous march to the urinal: “Dammit, why didn’t I wear my lucky socks?”
By race five, the beer’s spilling over the meridian and it’s all but over for us. We’ve been knocked out of the Pick 6 as well as the Jackpot; Nigel is complaining bitterly that we “rushed” our selection. “You need calm for this kind of work.”
Our hopes, like those of hundreds of thousands round the country, are pinned firmly on the big one _ race 7, the July. We decide to sit out the climactic race in another of the Assembly’s watering-holes _ the Parrot Bar, full of mock- Tudor beams and seriously tough tipsters.
The phlegmatic barmaid has a floppy hat pressed over her failed perm, “because it’s the July”. Judging from the fashion parade on the telly overhead, she’s not likely to give the Durban trendies any competition.
And they’re off! _ South Africa holds its breath, and the Assembly Hotel falls strangely silent. Thunder of televised hooves. Nigel the caterer bites through his cigar, Richard the civil servant heads for the loo. Jabber of breathless commentary as the horses round the final bend: “It’s Surfing Home followed by Pas de Quois followed by Flaming Rock and they pass the 500 metres Surfing Home’s neck and neck with Pas de Quoi and no wait no Surfing Home’s in the lead Surfing Home’s winning by a nose…”
The Parrot Bar, we discover, is Pas de Quois country. Around the room, we hear the muttered mantra: “Pas de Quois, Pas de Quois … Come on, Pawdeekwar… Get in there, Pawk the Car, I mean Pawdeekwa …”
The TV again: “And Surfing Home’s first past the post! _ But did he get in Pas de Quois’ way? _ An objection’s been lodged. Hang on for a final verdict!”
Groans, hisses, muttering from the crowded bar. We’re out of luck _ a day’s worth of form-cramming and dream-analysis has borne no fruit. Even before the squabble over Space Walk and “Pawdeekwar” is over, our syndicate of three troops disconsolately towards the snooker-room, doing the traditional tearing-up-tickets number.
All around us, disappointed punters are gnashing teeth and drowning sorrows. Only Mr Basco, wide-girthed proprietor of the money-spinning Assembly, is beaming around the tote room _ he’s a winner whichever horse comes in.
So that’s it: another Durban July has come and gone, allowing those in the Assembly Hotel a brief, soaring moment of communion with fellow fanciers around the land. Leave the last words to Flaming Nigel: “That’s it. No more Julys for me. I’ll give you Ravenous. Why’d you talk me into backing that bloody donkey, Richard? I won’t bet again in a hurry! (Pause) “Okay, so who’d like to play a bit of poker? I know this really good little machine. And while we’re about it, we can discuss the form for Tuesday’s meeting at Newmarket …”