Perhaps no sport can claim to have an image quite as dualistic as horse racing. On one level, it is a sport that oozes status and snobbery and conjures images of aristocrats wearing tails and sipping champagne at the Royal Ascot. While on another level, it is the sport of the underworld, watched primarily in dilapidated bookmakers with bars on the windows, where the stench of Special Brew hangs high in the air.
A ‘day at the races’ is something that had never appeared on my radar until a few weeks ago, with my interest in horse racing typically confined to a one-time yearly two-pound-fifty bet on the Grand National. Yet an interesting newcomer on the racing scene would soon serve to radically alter my perspective.
Launched in 2019, Invades Races sets out to both promote the sport of horse racing and create a unique and new opportunity for a student day out. Invades race days see a section of a racecourse hired out specifically for the use of university students and travel laid on for students from their respective universities, providing them with the ability to watch – and place bets on – horse racing, and have an almighty drinking session and party.
Such occasions have quickly become a fixture on the calendars of each and every university up and down the country, with their events taking place at twelve different racecourses, and attracting punters from fifty-six different universities. It is now hard to find a student Facebook or WhatsApp group that is not inundated with messages begging for spare tickets to an Invades race day, while the company’s relentless TikTok marketing campaign promises a day of chaos, debauchery, and excessive alcohol consumption at their events.
Therefore, giving into a combination of FOMO and pure curiosity, I decided to purchase a ticket to the Invades North West event at Aintree Racecourse – the famous home of the Grand National 6 miles north of Liverpool – on Saturday the 11th of November.
It is an unusual occurrence, when at university, to find oneself both up and out of the house by quarter to ten in the morning, and dressed head-to-toe in a tuxedo. Though the sight of yours truly looking like I was walking down the aisle while trudging up Wilmslow Road was nowhere near as peculiar as what would greet me upon arrival at University Place – where we were picking up the chartered buses to take us to Aintree.
Manchester’s university campus, usually about as crowded and lively as London Bridge in 28 Days Later on a Saturday morning, was a scene of utter pandemonium. Hundreds of individuals donning flat-caps swigged from bottles of wine and smoked roll-ups in the street; the open-air bus stop was as packed as Bank Station at rush hour. The queue for the disabled toilets at Caffe Nero seemed to snake all the way down to Stockport.
The pulse-raising experience was truly topped off by the endless amount of confrontations between students and security guards as a result of the rules banning alcoholic drinks on the chartered buses. As the engines began to roar, it was clear we were in for an eventful day.
Upon arrival at Aintree, both the scale and absurdity of the event began to dawn on me. The enormous Princess Royal Stand was covered entirely by a sea of students soaking up their first ever day at the races, who were wholly incongruent with the smaller – and much older – crowd of seasoned horse racing. As well as the hard-nosed, profit-seeking bookmakers, thriving in an environment even more disorderly than the New York Stock Exchange.
Credit: Thomas Woodcock
There was equally as much juxtaposition in the hospitality provided at the race course. By the side of the track stood wood-panelled, formal bars that served carefully poured pints of Old Speckled Hen and Guinness to a clientele who looked like regulars at the Conservative Club and Women’s Institute.
Yet about thirty yards away was a party marquee erected by Invades, where a DJ played a selection of recent house tracks to a buoyant crowd of Manchester and Liverpool students, and food trucks served over-priced Pork Gyros, in an atmosphere far more reminiscent of Creamfields North.
The actual races themselves were far more of an engaging spectacle than I initially expected. The cheers from the crowd as the horses thunderously tore down the final straight were up there with any spectatorial experience in sport. And it all makes for a particularly enjoyable day out with one’s friends. It is certainly something I would recommend to anyone looking for a nice way to spend an autumn Saturday.
That being said, the betting element of horse racing is something that I certainly will not be partaking in again. Upon arrival, I – along with many others – made a quick dash for one of the variety of bookmakers dotted around the racecourse, joining a queue that could rival the bedlam of the bar at even the roughest Wetherspoons on a Friday night. And was excited by the prospect that it was seemingly impossible to lose when putting an each-way bet on the favourite. I ended up being well and truly proved wrong, and oversaw a loss of £17.50 over the course of four bets.
One area of the event that was not particularly pleasing was the lack of options for punters once the racing had finished, as despite promises of a long party afterwards by the organisers, the music and flow of drinks were stopped pretty soon after the final horse had crossed the finish line. Therefore, at around five o’clock, as the sun began to set and the temperature began to drop, it was clear that it was time to head back east to Manchester.
On the bus home – against a soundtrack of an overwhelmingly annoying group of fellow freshers who sang a host of detestable sing-along hits, including ‘Sweet Caroline’ and ‘Mr Brightside’ – the organised chaos of the day, along with the dual sense of happiness and sensory overload that it brought with it, finally began to dawn on me.
