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Show Day
Show Day is the first post-school poem I wrote, after an interval of 27 years. I include it here simply because it is the first. It was written originally for the Shorthair Cat Society annual magazine, but was printed with a verse missing and so didn't make any sense at all. I reprinted it - correctly this time! - in the British Shorthair & Tipped News Winter 1994 edition (I was the editor at the time).
Dawn is breaking; bleary-eyed
My wife lies waking close beside.
For once, she rises before me.
Though half-asleep, I clearly see
Saturday's lie-in hopes have died.
"Show day! Show day! Come on, John
We've lots to do, we must get on."
Fill the flask and fetch the chairs
Pack the bag and run upstairs
To fetch the cat (nearly forgot!)
And finally, all set, we're off.
"I can't believe it - see that queue?
To think we set off early, too
At least we're in out of the rain -
We'll never do this show again!"
"Next ones please. Vet number two."
Once our lad is settled in
Blanket rucked-up under chin
The day slows to a walking pace
So I go off to find a place
To read my book and have a snack
And wander round the stalls, and back.
The judges crawl from pen to pen
(getting spat at now and then)
Now out comes Boyo, struggling madly
Growling, hissing, behaving badly
Pretty soon, he's penned again!
At one o'clock come public milling
Round the hall, their children shrilling:
"Mummy, Mummy, this one dribbles!
And that one looks just like our Tibbles!"
Meanwhile pedigree owners wait
To see the scrip which tells their fate.
"Are you sure the results aren't up yet John?
You've only checked twelve times since one.
Don't really think we stand a chance -
She only gave him a cursory glance
I think our Championship dreams have gone."
For twentieth time shove through the crowd
Our results (as usual, last) are out.
My eyes glaze over; can I really see
Those wonderful squiggles "1cc"?
"He's done it." "Fantastic!" "Fancy that!"
A Champion in six weeks flat.
"You know, this is a nice venue
We didn't have so long to queue
That judge! The best we've had for weeks."
Our friend arrives and gaily shrieks
"Oh haven't you done well my dear!"
"Yes, we'll certainly be here next year!"
Night is falling; bleary-eyed
My wife sits napping close beside
Through uneventful journey back,
Then fix a drink, a quick unpack
And down we flop, glowing with pride.
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Synopsis
Show day was always dreadful. From the often 3am start to the 7pm finish the day dragged for me; trying to tread that fine line between doing the right thing, saying the right thing, and total boredom.
I was never really interested in cat breeding, or showing, or any of the paraphernalia that went with it. The sucking up to judges, most of whom in my opinion were sad people who had nothing better to do with their lives than spend every Saturday, year in year out, travelling the length and breadth of the country (often by public transport) to give their oh-so-expert views on your breeding efforts. Of course, that was the headline, naïve view. Under the covers, like any other clique, it wasn't so much whether your cat was well-bred and acceptable to the cognoscenti, as whether you were. Did your face fit? Did you turn out to the right number of club AGMs? Did you demonstrate sufficient obsequiousness in the company of the almighty Judges?
It was all far too two-faced and arslikhan for me. Why did I do it? Mostly because I was brought up to believe marriage was a partnership, and if your partner wanted to do something, you helped it along - turned up and "did the right thing." I saw some lucky buggers drop their wives off and then head out for a day on their own. Some even luckier buggers didn't get involved at all, just left the women to it. That wasn't my way though, more's the pity.
The poem reflects the early morning scramble to remember everything, get to the show hall before the queues really get going (there can be 1,000 cats at big shows, and although that's somewhat less than 1,000 owners, they all have to be "vetted in") and get the cat's pen set up to standard. Mostly, that's all done by 8:30am and then there's nothing to do for the rest of the day except wait until the judges' results are posted. These start to go up around 11am usually, and the last ones often don't appear until after 4pm, so you're constantly visiting and revisiting the results boards waiting for the good or bad news. I just used to take myself off somewhere quiet with a book. At some shows, the bigger ones, there'd be an assortment of stalls selling nothing much of interest. A preponderance of cat equipment, naturally, and some tired looking bring-and-buy, but little to hold your interest for more than half an hour, and you would have seen the same stalls at all the other shows in any case. Some venues weren't big enough for more than half-a-dozen stalls, so that part of the day could be over within ten minutes.
Then of course there would be the obligatory self-flagellation. "Oh, we don't stand a chance, his coat's all greasy, he's lost weight, the competition is too fierce, the judge doesn't like us, etc, etc." This would start the week before a show and go on all day until the results were up. The venue wouldn't be quite right for success, there'd be some major or minor problem with it, and the judge, whoever he or she might be, had always got it in for us. Worst were the venues where one could find a seat within sight of the pen, and so could actually watch the judging take place. To see your cat being dragged out, scrabbling to hold on to his/her protective blanket, ears flat, face a picture of disdain, or fear, or anger. A cursory glance from the judge, and the animal would be almost literally thrown back in the pen, and on they'd go to the next one. However long they took, it was never long enough. Unless it was too long.
If you'd managed to find a quiet hidey-hole for book reading, this oasis of peace was inevitable denied you at 1pm, when the hall was opened to the public. Absolutely essential for the financial viability of the show, public access turns a show hall into a gladiatorial contest as judges struggle to manoeuvre their trolleys against the flow of well-proportioned women dragging hordes of eager children around the pens, stopping every so often to stick their fingers in through the bars, despite warning notices imploring them not to touch the cats to avoid spreading diseases.
If you're lucky, you won't have to spend the entire day on your feet, although some of the smaller venues could sell their meagre seating spaces for a king's ransom, especially on a hot summer's day. But whether seated or not, by the time the show closes at 5pm you will be MORE than ready to gather up your cat(s) and associated equipment, and battle out to the car park through the last vestiges of the public and the other exhibitors. Some dedicated people travel very long distances to get to the shows they like, or to follow their favourite judges, and would often not get home before the early hours of Sunday. Thankfully (!) I was never subject to such misguided dedication and the furthest afield we travelled to a show was about 3 hours. Still a 17-hour day though, and boy am I glad that episode of my life is closed forever!