Metrosexuality

I enjoyed a very rare (for me) experience the other night: I found myself overdressed. Emma and I were lucky enough to find ourselves at a wine-tasting dinner, organised by Edward Parker Wines in conjunction with Pol Roger Champagne, in the Jockey Club Rooms on Friday evening. We were on the Darley table, the occupants of which had been given the misinformation that the dress code was black tie. This proved not to be the case, so I spent the evening revelling in the unwonted feeling of being overdressed. Funny though I found that thought, even funnier was the fact that one of our tablemates, Benoit Jeffroy, had hired his unnecessary kit for the evening, at a cost of something like 48 pounds. Benoit is a never-ending source of brahmae, so we can file that one away with the rest of his gems. Benoit is one of the Darley nomination salesmen, and is blessed with two attributes which must be a big help to him in this role. Although aged 23, you'd think he was about 15, and his garconish appearance of guilelessness must give potential customers great confidence that they aren't dealing with the archetypal snake-oil salesman (eg Mark McStay, Richard Sims) that one would usually expect to find in a position for which 'Sell, sell, sell' is generally the motto; furthermore, Benoit has packed a huge amount of learning into his few years on the planet, and knows considerably more about bloodlines than most men three times his age. We had an illustration of this while discussing a painting of the 1903 Triple Crown winner Rock Sand (who was trained in this stable, incidentally; and who was possibly the first Derby winner, as the painting shows, to be ridden - by the American jockey Danny Maher - with, relatively, short stirrups) which overlooked our table, when Benoit volunteered the information that Rock Sand was the sire of the damsire of Man O'War! (He contacted us the next day to apologise for having got it wrong, as Rock Sand was in fact the damsire of Man O'War). Anyway, the gist of these ramblings is that a brahmatic evening was made even more so by Benoit's presence.

It would be fair to describe Benoit as a member of the Y generation, although he is infinitely more urbane than that description would suggest - but that's what being French does for you. I recently had my attention drawn to Peter Moody's views on the Y generation; sharing these might be quite topical, bearing in mind that Peter recently graced our shores to run Magnus in the King's Stand Stakes. "When I was a kid, if you didn't move when you were asked, you'd get a smack in the ear and kick up the backside. You took pride in everything you did - not only in your work, but also your appearance. Now if you're trying to have a beer and a feed in a pub, there'll be three 20-year-old blokes with their jeans so low that their bum cheeks are hanging out, and flies from their cracks are flying into your face. You feel like knocking them out with a piece of wood. I'm a bit backwards in terms of knowing about this so-called 'Y Generation' and metro-sexuals and so forth, and I'm only 39, yet I feel like I'm 109 when I look at these bastards." As we'd run across Peter in these same Jockey Club Rooms earlier in the month, the mind boggles about what would have happened if Peter (functionally clad in shorts, tracksuit top and trainers) had run into our little French metrosexual friend (dapperly attired in his, or rather Goldings', best bib and tucker, looking every centimetre James Bond's favourite grandson) - and if there had been a piece of wood to hand.

No doubt numerous members of the Y generation have been at Newmarket for the two 'Newmarket Nights' which we have had so far. I enjoyed Problem Walrus' account of his visit to the course on the evening when Bryan Adams played. I wasn't tempted to attend, because of the likelihood (make that certainty) of his inflicting the terrible song from the Robin Hood movie on the expectant audience. He's sung plenty of really good songs, but the thought of having to stand through umpteen encores of that one, plus the mass hysteria which it would inevitably have inspired among the sheilas, was enough to put me off. I gather that it was, though, an outstanding concert, with Adams playing spiritedly for 90 minutes and, as an excellent photograph in the Newmarket Journal illustrated, a colossal crowd enjoying the show. I'm told that Newmarket has considerably upped the ante in terms of expenditure on music this year (not my phraseology) so we can expect some treats through the summer. I'm writing this watching the telecast of Neil Diamond performing at Glastonbury, but sadly I have to announce that he won't be performing. However, I am now in a position to let you know who will be filling the remaining nine slots this summer. In chronological order, we can now look forward to: Captain Sensible, Wham! (minus George Michael), the Kursaal Flyers, the Flying Pickets, the Dave Clark Two, the Thompson Twins (although at least two of them are no longer with the band), Paper Lace, Culture Club (minus Boy George) and Midlife Crisis.

Finally, just so that this chapter has some connection with horses, I ought to mention that Filemot did indeed find the track at Folkestone too firm to allow her to show her best form, but that the outing does not appear to have done her any harm. I hope that Jill will run well at Windsor tomorrow - Yarmy was kind enough to ring me just now to let me know that it looked on television as if the horses were kicking up a bit of the turf there today, but I can't believe that at the end of a warm, dry and breezy weekend it won't be firm enough - and I think that Lady Suffragette should do the same at (presumably) huge odds at Yarmouth on Thursday. It would be rash to be too bullish about a five-year-old maiden (albeit a maiden who has won over jumps) who hasn't run on the Flat for the better part of two years and who will effectively be carrying 7lb overweight (she is rated 38, but will have to run off 45, as that is the lowest mark on which a horse is allowed to be weighted nowadays), but I would be disappointed if she failed to run competitively.