PETER THOMAS

Weblog:  Wandering the world wide web

Queuing down in Kent

I NEVER thought I'd find myself using the words 'Folkestone', 'long queue' and 'to get in' as part of the same sentence in the middle of winter, but I just have.

There was a very long queue to get in to Folkestone on Friday. So long, in fact, that I strongly suspect there were people still waiting at the turnstiles as the second race was being run.

This chaotic combination of robust local interest in the racing and mildly shambolic organisation of the facilities might have been acceptable in the middle of summer but, sadly, this was an afternoon when several other words regularly used in conjunction with 'Folkestone' were very much to the fore, namely 'freezing', 'cold', 'brass' and 'monkeys'.

For those unfortunate enough to have arrived in expectation of swift entry and an early lunch, the long line at the gate was matched by one at the food van that lasted all afternoon. It was too chilly for talk of frying pans and fires, but you know what I mean.

Perhaps the course executives were caught on the hop by the bumper crowd. If so, they'll be hoping the good folk of south Kent are a forgiving bunch who'll return to the course next time in the hope of better treatment, or at least the development of a Plan B - in case of unexpected mass enthusiasm - that seemed to be sorely lacking on Friday.

I'd have liked to see the top brass rushing from the luncheon rooms to man the gates, armed with fistfuls of tickets and money belts, rather than hordes of shivering pensioners peering longingly in the direction of the nearest radiator.

Luckily, the queue at the entrance had subsided by the time the drizzle began, and there had already been some good sport, most notably the impressive success of Aux Le Bahnn, who looks due a step up class pretty soon after treating Friday's rivals with something bordering on contempt.

Sadly, I eschewed the incredibly generous 11-10, which I'd expected to be 4-6, and left contemplating just how quickly the promise of a new year turns into more of the same blithering incompetence that characterised the old one.