It wasn’t really about the horse racing that attracted us to Macau. It was a much needed release valve for those of us in Hong Kong knee deep in our various career paths that took us on very different magical mystery tours through Coloane and Taipa, where we met gypsies, tramps and thieves- but with everything somehow always being fun.
And now, the Macau Jockey Club that’s been on its last legs for the past few years, has announced its closure as of April 1, and which means that fat lady has sung and it’s the end of the horse racing which was our pink ticket for making those one-time weekend pilgrimages to the former Portuguese enclave.
The MJC and the racing was one surreal casserole of things that, looking back, didn’t seem to add up, but did- the ladies of the night who seemed to own the shopping arcade of the Hotel Lisboa and wandered through it looking for the highest bidder.
Nearby was the crap shoot called Darling with its bingo card and girls for sale, whereas everywhere else was the fabulous Macanese cuisine that could be had and washed down with pitchers of sangria.
The imperfect perfect ending to the night was always at the Mandarin Hotel Lobby Bar where there was always someone to meet.
It was The Hangover long before The Hangover.
Macau back then was a seemingly endless buffet of a walk and gallop on the wild side that was part Caligula and part “Let It Ride”.
Though some excellent riders rode there over the years- Eric Saint Martin, Joao Moreira, Gary Moore, John Didham, below, Kieran Fallon, Christophe Soumillon, Tony Ives, Brent Thomson, Olivier Doleuze, William Mongil and others- the racing took second billing.
The racing club somehow survived despite gross mismanagement and rampant corruption, where breaking the rules contributed to welcoming in the unholy mess that it was.
It might have tried to be upmarket and kinda budget haute couture foo foo like the HKJC is trying to do, but it was almost like Michelangelo trying to paint the Sistine Chapel with some Crayola and his toes.
For example, one had to check their mobile phones in before entering the elevators that took us up to the Clubhouse, but one never did this as there were illegal bookies to call and either place bets with them or have them help plan the night ahead with reservations to the usual favourite restaurant and whatever was planned for later.
Though all this was accepted as “normal transmission” during the early years of people like Edmond Wong and Kenneth Liang in management and whoever was really calling the shots, the fixing of races from the third floor became silly.
Odds were still changing dramatically and drastically when the races had almost been run and jockeys’ licenses taken away if they accidentally won a race and some Mr Big associated with the Club lost money.
Still, those times and the cast of characters and all the plots and subplots and the well-known game of changing partners within the racing community somehow added personality (and poisonality) to the monstrously odd proceedings going on.
I was a virgin to horse racing and depended on my good friend and colleague in the music industry- Norman- to explain how this game was played.
After all, he owned horses around the world, dealt with international Bloodstock agents and knew trainers, jockeys, riding boys and bookies and knew betting strategies.
