Or Getting Shot Maybe

The Met: An annual Cape Town event.

Someone asked me the other day why I never wrote about the Met, the annual horse race which occurred last week at Kenilworth race track, and whether I had in fact forgotten about what many regard as a prestigious social event. The reason for the omission is actually a rather simple one really.

I just couldn’t be bothered.

For me, the Met is about as much fun as breaking a leg, or sitting at the beach on a particular windy day. In all three instances, you are left feeling annoyed, irritable and in more than a little discomfort, especially if you were unlucky enough to break the leg while sitting at the beach.

Now, let me just start off by saying that I have in fact attended the Met, I’m not going to just sit here and slag it off without having experienced it first hand. It was fours ago and - It being my first time - I actually looked forward to attending the event. In fact, I would even go so far as to say I was excited about it, which, due to my rather dour personality and general outlook on life, is a very rare thing indeed.

Armed with a dashing suit, crocodile leather shoes, and an open mind, I entered the hallowed turf of the Kenilworth race track, ready to soak up the glitz and glamour that I had read and heard so much about.

“Well, this is rather impressive indeed,” I mused, as I looked around at all the pretty people standing and milling about. This lasted for approximately 15 minutes, after which I wasn’t that impressed anymore. Disinterested would probably be a good description of my feelings at that point. Bored would be an even better one.

You see, the thing with the Met is, if you are not lucky or famous enough to be in one of the corporate marquees, there really isn’t much point in being there. Sure you are able to view one of the sporadic and brief races which occur throughout the day, but watching a collection of horses ridden by brightly dressed midgets, or “jockeys” as they are also sometimes known, has never really appealed to me.

In the marquees however, you can rub shoulders with ex-Springbok rugby players, former beauty pageants, Afrikaans soap opera stars and a range of other B and C-grade local celebrities. More importantly however, you also have the opportunity to literally soak yourself in copious amounts of sponsored booze, which history has shown can heighten the mood of the dullest event.

Outside these tented havens however, you are left to fidget and try and think of subject matter to discuss with the rest of the plebs who are milling around, as you desperately wait for the overpriced whiskey you quickly gulped down to kick in and help make the day more bearable.

Through the grace of God, I somehow managed to get through the afternoon and into the evening, an evening which I was assured by a mate would make up for the mediocrity of the earlier proceedings.

Alas, I soon realized that my friend was a liar, with the highlight of the evening being harassed and felt up by a drunk woman with bad teeth, who then proceeded to vomit on my treasured crocodile shoes. So yes, I think I will pass on the Met, thank you.

Oakes signing off.

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