Daily Star Features Editor Meg Jorsh left the lovely region of Yorkshire to join jockeys in the big smoke as they the horse racing world went on its first ever strike, but it did not go too well
Daily Star writer Meg Jorsh had an eventful day(Image: Jeremy Selwyn)
It’s fair to say I have an unusual job. As features editor of the Daily Star, I’ve ended up in some odd situations and I’d say I’m not easily surprised.
Still, I didn’t expect to be dressed as a jockey today. I wasn’t planning on heading to Parliament Square and if I had been, I would have tried to avoid carrying pretty much everything I owned.
I’m on my way to cover a photo call organised by the British Horseracing Authority, in support of their #AxeTheRacingTax campaign. It’s not normally the kind of thing I do, but I’m nearby at about the right time and frankly, it’s nice to be helpful.
‘Yeah, so you’ll need to pick up your jockey outfit before you go,’ says my boss. ‘I beg your pardon?’ ‘Go on, it will be brilliant. You’ll look great. See if you can get one of the jockeys to give you a piggyback.’
There were plenty of jockeys at the protest(Image: Jeremy Selwyn)
Now, I’m not a huge woman. I’m quite short, if anything. But I believe the average jockey keeps their weight down to around 50kg, to help them go faster on a horse. If I rode one, I would probably kill them.
As a compromise, I decide to offer a piggyback to the first jockey I meet. I head over to Mad World Costume Hire and Party Store, in central London, where the helpful staff are waiting with my outfit.
I slip into my jodhpurs, picking out some pink and black silks that look… not terrible, actually. With the matching hat and goggles, I’m almost convincing. Still, there’s a worry at the back of my mind. I’m dressed as a jockey, but I’m not a jockey. Is this cultural appropriation?
I send a snap to our picture editor, who’s concerned about the whip I’ve been given. ‘I’m sure you know Meg, but that’s not a jockey’s whip.’ I did not know. We conclude that it’s best if I stash it in my suitcase.
Meg was heading to show support but was hindered by London transport(Image: Jeremy Selwyn)
At this point, I should mention that I don’t live in London, so I’m lugging around a small suitcase on wheels. With the jockey costume in a surprisingly bulky plastic cover, it’s absolutely full to bursting.
I’ve also picked up far too many presents on my travels, which I’m taking back to Sheffield in two large carrier bags. Then there’s my work gear, including a laptop, in my backpack. I’m half jockey, half snail.
It shouldn’t matter though, once I’m in the back of an Uber. I don’t fancy changing in the street outside Parliament, so I’m already wearing my outfit, but the friendly Greek driver is very understanding.
I’ve left plenty of time for the journey – or I would have done, if it wasn’t for the Tube strike that’s pretty much gridlocked the capital. Still, I’m hopeful. It’s a half hour journey, isn’t it? Ok, 45 minutes.
The strike saw model horse with ‘#Axe the racing tax’ listed on it(Image: Getty Images)
By the time I arrive – about an hour and a half later – the Uber driver is my best friend. He’s got three degrees, it turns out. We’ve talked about ethics, philosophy and his position on the Parthenon Marbles. I’m disappointed I can’t take him with me.
Of course, the jockeys are long gone. My long-suffering photographer, who was there the whole time, has all the details. Apparently they’ve disappeared into the nearby Queen Elizabeth II Centre, but we’re not allowed to join them.
So now I’m dressed as a jockey, in Parliament Square, for no particular reason. Ok, this is fine. I pose for a few photos and head into a café to change, feeling guilty at the space I’m taking up with my belongings.
It’s nearly time for my train, so I check the quickest route to St Pancras. And according to the TfL app, it’s currently… a 57 minute walk. Assuming you’re not carrying loads of stuff, which I am. And it’s raining.
As I hit the road, a human snail soaked in rain and sweat, a thought hits me and I can’t help but smile. My nine-year-old daughter still thinks I’ve got a pretty cool job. And the weird thing is, she’s actually right.