It’s fair to say that The Queen and I were in contrasting states, as we waited for the late-night protest.
Her Majesty had taken a large cup of tea. I had taken a large bucket of wine.
She was in a magnificent blue dress, on the lawns of Royal Ascot. I was in my Cowboys T-shirt. In bed. Eating biscuits.
I’d arrived home in fine spirits, with the Moon high, to find world class racing on the box. And money in the account.
That’s when I had my Royal Encounter.
The Queen owns Dartmouth, who was first past the post in the Hardwicke Stakes.
I had twenty bucks on Highland Reel, who finished an unlucky lip away second. The stewards called an Inquiry. Which is Royal Ascot-speak for delaying things a few minutes until Her Majesty takes the trophy.
I had hoped that the protest hearing would be fair and telling, despite the players involved.
Those hopes faded ever so slightly, as my jockey kissed The Queen’s feet.
As the stewards grilled the race participants, I noticed a bloke hovering towards the rear of the room. I’d never seen his equivalent at Randwick.
He may or may not have been An Executioner. The large shiny sharp thing gave the game away. He seemed to be looking directly at my trainer.
I struggled to hear all the evidence, because the Stewards broke into a chorus of God Save The Queen as the video replay hit the furlong.
Once I saw them taking Royal selfies, I’d accepted my fate.
While I was gracious in defeat that night, there’ll be no such niceties if we don’t claim a different piece of Royal silverware at Eagle Farm this afternoon.
The Azkadellia camp would still be having nightmares, after their Stradbroke plan sank into the shifting track on day one back at headquarters.
I’m tipping the dreams will be more pleasant tonight, as the mare romps away with the Tatts Tiara.
The simple fact is, she’s better than these. By a stretch.
Watch for her flying down the outside, to win the final Group One of the season.
Only bad luck can beat her. Or owners who can make stewards sing.
I’ll be watching carefully if there’s a protest. The first hint of feet-kissing, and you’ll find me back eating those biscuits.