'I saw drunk blokes fight over Grand National betting slips – and drugs clogged the urinals'

I arrived at the Queen’s Arms pub at 11.30am on April 13 - the 'big race day'. Situated on the corner of Warbreck Moor, the large boozer was already crammed with revellers wearing several shades of Luxuriance.

Being just a minute’s trot from the famous racecourse, it served as the perfect pre-loading place for punters about to head to the Grand National. It was Saturday (April 13) of the event and an excited buzz abounded as rounds of Guinness and Prosecco buckets made their way down the 4-person-deep queue around the bar.

I shelled £4.75 for a pint of Pepsi Max, wincing momentarily before pulling up the BetFred app to navigate how I could recoup something in the coming races.

Around 70,000 people were attending the Liverpool racecourse to watch the UK’s version of the Kentucky Derby.

READ MORE: Jaw-dropping Aintree snaps show bloody brawl erupting ahead of Grand National

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It’s a bit of a bunfight to get from the entrance to the stands at around 1pm. The lively throngs are funnelled through the main gate while sniffer dogs with police owners patrol either side, on the lookout for narcotics. I see at least three people get picked out by the hounds before being syphoned off and out of the event. Day well spent, that.

Once through into the grounds, I was treated to a carnival-esque, if slightly unhinged, atmosphere. Loud club music blaring from tannoys assisted women in brilliant fascinators dancing around in heels. 20-something blokes smashed together plastic cups that erupted with Stella. Old, mottle-faced geezers in suits embraced each other - “what do you reckon on the grey horse?”

Dodging the crowds, I headed to the betting stalls. When in Rome? I’ve only made one bet in my life - in year 7 I won 40p when my mate Ed emerged victorious from a playground scrap with a kid called Harry. 2/1 odds, I was no one’s fool. Why was I willing to tarnish this long unbeaten streak? I’ve got zero knowledge of horses, apart from that sometimes they’re quite fast.

Perhaps this new-found enthusiasm for gambling was boosted by events the night before. While having dinner with a friend in Liverpool, an inebriated man had staggered to our table. Without invitation he’d assuredly told us to put money on a horse called Kitty’s Light, following it up by claiming he’d ridden in the 1993 Grand National - the infamous ‘race that never was’. Obviously, I was very willing to trust this man and fondly recalled his puffy, red cheeks as I put a fiver on Kitty’s Light winning at 12/1 the next day.

Back on the track and seconds into watching the first race, I became very aware of the effects of two pints on the bladder. Rivalling the entrance queue was a long, snaking line of men in varying degrees of discomfort that led from the toilet. I waited at least five minutes before the procession even took me inside to the room with the urinals. While I completed my vigil, the man in front told me exactly which horse to bet on in each of the coming six races. With little horse-knowledge-ammunition of my own to return, I calmly told him to “watch out for Kitty’s Light’s - she always breaks late”.

As I got closer to the toilets, war cries began booming from the deep. Departing men and women swung out of their respective restrooms ashen faced, unable to look people in the eye. “Wouldn’t go in there, mate.”

Once I was through past the gents sign and into the grotto itself, the thronging mass of blokes in suits all trying to get in and get out as quickly had become a sea of bodies. “How am I supposed to go in there, there’s too many baggies in this p****r,” one disbelieving scouser yelled, remonstrating with the room.

Eventually I managed to escape and hopped next door to return to the betting stalls. The large room seemed even more packed than it was an hour before - now resembling a life-size snow globe as slips of paper flew around to the soundtrack of manic laughter and clinking glasses.

Some blokes were angrily debating who had who’s betting slips in one booth. “Give me that!” they shouted and I turned to see a bit of a tussle going on. There’d been some bloodshed the day before on Ladies Day (April 12), and although this was far more contained, it was still a rather ugly scene.

The races themselves passed without much incident in weather I was told was “pretty decent for Liverpool in early April”. From my spot in the stalls, I could see very little, guided mostly by the roars of the suit-laden crowds as to the location and positioning of the horses.

Atmosphere was a lot to take in - one of those heightened, giddy feelings you get at any great sporting event, but here it was tinged with a certain melancholy. The gathering at Aintree that day felt like a very English island - hell bent on dredging as much enjoyment out of this near-200-year tradition.

Then it came to the big race. ‘The Grand National’. Did Kitty’s Light win? She breaks late, right? Of course she bloody didn’t. Kitty’s Light finished fifth, coming behind eventual winner I Am Maxiumus, ridden by Paul Townend. As betting winners roared at the sky, I trudged off towards the exit under darkening skies, but not before claiming my £3.50 winnings on Kitty.

Will I go to the Grand National again? Probably not. Will I trust a drunk man who said he was a jockey in the nineties again? You bet.