Don't Look at the Sheikh

 

‘A small number of you have been selected to work in the VIP tent. This is a very important location and you will be representing the college, therefore you must be well turned out and professional at all times. The people selected are as follows: Tracy, Louis, Cather….’

 

Tracy and I looked at each other. ‘That’s us,’ I said.

 

‘We won’t be able to mess around,’ Tracy said.

 

I shrugged, ‘I’m sure there’ll be a way.’

 

Royal Ascot was the poshest thing any of us had experienced. I soon realised that there was an edge to being posh, a hardness, a cold wasteland of distance which must be maintained in order to prevent just anyone from entering that space and spoiling whatever value it supposedly held other than a supreme level of comfort.

 

The South was different, the air was milder, more humid, the roads were busier, people moved more quickly and there was a strong sense of money sloshing around, I could smell it as soon as I stepped off the coach. Old money yes but a lot of hard earned money too.

 

We were staying at Brunel University for the week, the students had broken up for the summer. As part of the first year of our college course in ‘Hospitality Management’, we were posted at Royal Ascot to serve food and drink to wealthy people, not necessarily lovers of racing, rather folks who followed a social calendar.

 

For most of us, this was our first unsupervised time away from home.  We were either sixteen or seventeen years of age but that didn’t stop us being served alcohol at the local off licence. We purchased White Lightning Cider, bottles of Asti Spumante, Vodka, Beer, you name it, squirrelling them back to our rooms at the uni accommodation. Most of us, myself included, indulged in hard binge drinking. We were loud, we argued and stole each other's drinks, I climbed onto a roof and danced, a lot of people were sick and we went to bed very late.

 

First thing in the morning a coach came to collect us but we had horrific hangovers. I remember my head pounding and waves of nausea came creeping across my insides. The weather was wall to wall sunshine and the bright light bouncing off the white plastic furniture in the seating area outside of the VIP tent, literally burned my eyeballs.

 

Inside the tent or rather a marquee, there was a large circular table, all dressed up immaculately in white linen, including the chairs, and there were fresh flowers everywhere, it was just like a wedding venue. We were instructed to carry out table service in the way that we’d been taught, silver service, no flapping, serve from the right, clear from the left. The guidance was clear, but for the creative among us, simple instructions can be more stressful than complex ones since we tend to develop extra details in our own minds.

 

‘And whatever you do, don’t spill anything, don’t speak to anyone unless you’re spoken to and don’t stare at the sheikh.’

 

There were more staff than guests inside the VIP tent. A couple of very professional hosts, a man and a woman dressed in suits, a small army of chefs, all red in the face as their fingers worked ten to the dozen placing perfectly prepped bits of salad and smoked salmon onto plates, the smell of dill was overwhelming. 

 

A few people came into the VIP area for drinks, they sat outside on the white plastic chairs and as we served them I felt the thunder of horses hooves as they raced past us on the track. My head was turned, those VIPs were dull as anything but those horses, wow, what a privilege to see them run like that and be so close to the track. If I could have my time again, I would work with horses, in some capacity which didn’t involve forcing them to run so fast that their noses bled.

 

Sometime in the afternoon the sheikh came in, I won’t name him but it was the one who likes horse racing. He was accompanied by several women and yet another host type person. To match the interior of the tent, he wore his ‘wedding’ outfit; a white shirt, a pale pink tie, a black suit with tails and a top hat. There was a sort of serenity to the whole party, they were quiet, demure, the sheikh carried a faint smile, rather like the Mona Lisa. He seemed rather bored, nonplussed, he drank a small amount of wine, then consumed a plate of smoked, wild salmon with salad. 

 

I thought of that salmon, how it had likely swum around quite happily in Scottish waters, only to be caught and end its life in the mouth of a sheikh. They had something in common, both being rather oily and rich, sitting there, literal fish out of water.

 

There was some other morsel served in between the starter and the main, I can’t remember what but some fussy mouthful of something minute with a garnish, Caviar maybe. After that  we had to flex our silver service skills. 

 

We manoeuvred slimy fillets of Dover Sole, potatoes and salad from a large, heavy silver salver onto the sheikh and his party’s plates, using an oversized spoon and fork, while holding our breaths and praying not to drop anything on anybody’s lap. A skill which I now realise is entirely useless except in perpetuating huge inequalities which unfortunately still exist in this supposedly developed and modern world we live in.

 

There was no real reason for us to look at the sheikh, there was nothing fascinating about him except for his wealth maybe. We were all kids from Birmingham so were well used to seeing people from different cultures and he was no different. He was a very quiet man, I don’t remember him really speaking, even to members of his party but he did say thank you and nod his head gently, all the time wearing his Mona Lisa smile. 

 

It was the same all week, same ‘very important people’ in our tent, their phantom importance contaminated right from the start by that ridiculous and tacky title. The wonderful horses thundered up and down, we drank paint stripper grade alcohol at night and served Dom Perignon and posh grub to people in wedding clothes during the day. The sun shone, the linen was perfect, the horses and chefs sweated in their labours. Generators hummed at the rear of the tents.

 

Most of the other students from our course were employed in the regular bar and restaurant venues across the site, the ones for commoners rather than VIPs. Tracy and I worked out that we were least offensive looking girls, although she had the strongest brummie accent out of all of us. It didn’t matter because we weren’t allowed to speak, only top up wine glasses, carry plates and handle a fork and spoon. All that oppression would be released by our nightly binge drinking sessions.

 

On the final afternoon of Royal Ascot, Tracy and I wandered across the racecourse towards the car park where our coach was waiting. There was a different vibe to the place and many drunk and sunburned people falling about like idiots in their smart clothes. A group of men in waistcoats were being very lairy, they stopped and stared at us as we walked past. 

 

Without warning one of them picked me up off my feet, grabbed hold of my legs, held them open around his waist and threw me up and down, feigning copulation, several times. The people around guffawed with laughter as I was helpless to escape. I was also wearing a skirt which he’d hoisted up. When he’d finished he dropped me to the ground. As I stood up, I was visibly distressed.

 

‘Oh she’s gone all red. Don’t go all cherry on me!’ he said as I scuttled away, pulling down my skirt.

 

His mates, who were most likely city traders in their expensive clothes and watches with thick London accents all laughed their heads off and I remember Tracy laughed too. I think these days that would be seen as a sexual assault but in the early nineties that was just some traders having a good time and I was just some waitress from Birmingham and it was all fair game. ‘Don’t go all cherry on me’, that’s all I think of now when I remember that week in Royal Ascot. I was assaulted, nobody supported me and then I was told to modify body language that was beyond my control and occurred in response only to the assault I was subjected to.

 

I don’t know how many horses died at Royal Ascot that week, there’s usually at least one or two and the weather was particularly hot, the going was firm. Money was won and a lot more was lost. My opinion of traders was formed and has since been galvanised, lowly bottom feeders who profit from other peoples’ misery, in this case the misery was my assault and humiliation, their profit was a good laugh. For a while I lost my super powers but I regained them.

 

I learned about the absurdity of the super wealthy and the labour intensive service industry which supports their every whim. I didn’t go into the ‘hospitality’ sector and I consider my college course a complete waste of time. I did however meet lots of good friends, we bonded over alcohol poisoning and for the most part, we didn’t have a care in the world.