CAST OF REGULAR CHARACTERS IN THIS POST
A few months ago, a few girlfriends and I went to the races. We spent most of the time pointing to girls who had been unsuccessfully negotiated the perils of fake tan application and had emerged all the more orange for their efforts. As enjoyable as this was, it did occur to me that between the five ladies present in our little posse there were a total of seven university degrees either completed or nearly completed. Truthfully, this was not our finest hour.
Horse racing highlight the worst that human kind has to offer
This experience reminded me of last year’s Melbourne Cup. If you are unfamiliar with the Melbourne Cup, I shall explain it to you.
Make no mistake about it the primary function of the Melbourne Cup is to give people an excuse to gamble. If that vice isn’t enough, it was decided that the gambling shall take place whilst overseeing a freak show of animal cruelty. Tiny midget men dressed in brightly coloured satin pyjamas ride horses, cruelling whipping them to go faster. The animal who is whipped the hardest and is distressed the most, wins money for those who backed it by crossing the line first, lungs bleeding, tiny man punching the air with his tiny fist. If a horse is particularly good at its running during its futile attempts to escape being whipped, it becomes a stud and it is forced to mate with other horses to produce a bunch of offspring who in turn will enter a life of slavery and whipping.
To add to animal cruelty and gambling, at the races drinking takes place in proportions that horrify even me, a sister, daughter, compatriot of big drinkers... even me a 7th generation Australian whose blood is actually part VB. Due to the popularity of the races, people have to wait a long time in a queue to place bets and it’s difficult to get a spot where you can actually see any horses. The solution is to get so drunk that you vomit right near the gate so that when it’s time to leave, over 100,000 people at Flemington have to carefully watch where they step or end up vomit-shoed and disappointed.
In stark contrast to the jockeys who get to wear their pyjamas to the races, all other men have to wear suits. This is to highlight their love of excessive wealth as well as animal cruelty, mocking of tiny men, gambling and drinking. I believe it is also because a man feels uncomfortable being part of a pack of men standing around watching a group of flamboyantly outfitted men sporting whips. So men wear suits to remind them that even though they are taking part in witnessing the spectacle, they aren’t gay because real men where suits.
Largely up until now the pleasures of the races have been mainly the domain of men. Women; however, get in on the act too. As part of the excessive display of wealth, women drink mainly champagne which as we all know, rises straight from the stomach to the head through the bubbles it contains so all the women are pissed of their tits, tits which they are almost certainly going to accidentally reveal at some point during the day. To echo the day’s theme of cruelty, women wear shoes of epic discomfort. This tradition was originally inspired by the fact that the horses actually doing the racing have their shoes nailed to their feet.
Women for the most part are less thrilled by the torturing of horses but they really don’t want to feel left out so they articulate their love of animal cruelty in a different way. It’s pretty much mandatory that all women wear the feathers of a dead bird on their head. Women are also less interested in mocking tiny men, so they mock each other on the basis of whose dead bird matches their the dress the best.
The Melbourne Cup is one the most important events in the Melbournian Calendar:
So what does one do at the Melbourne Cup all day you may ask? Waits in queue for the toilets.
Last November my friend Cat Lady called me to announce that we had tickets to be on the rails at the Melbourne Cup. This happened at 10am on the day. I was on the couch, in my pyjamas, hair a total mess, limbs sprawled, coffee in hand and thinking to myself “OMG, I wonder why you don’t have a boyfriend, you’re so hot right now.”(Note: If you think that using sarcasm is a little immature, look, here’s the thing, I don’t bother being witty when I pay myself out, I don’t value my own opinion much so there’s not need to think up clever insults, they’ll just be wasted on me). I was like “OK... fine... I’ll come.”
Cat Lady was really surprised that I had this attitude, I mean after all this great opportunity had just come up. And then the fact that had occurred to me initially hit her, reaction probably delayed because she had retreated into denial, “OH GOD, WE’LL NEED TO WEAR AN OUTFIT. OF CLOTHES, OF SHOES.... OH GOD AND A HEADPIECE.” You see, the whole point of the races is to go, judge others and be judged. You have to look your best in order to gather the confidence to hold your own in the judging fest that takes place. It’s not so much a competition of who looks the best but rather a competition of who can make fun of who looks the worst whilst looking decent themselves.
Cat Lady and I had no time to buy outfits, no money to buy them with.
What follows is honestly the most miraculous thing that has ever taken place. Two women get ready for the races in a little under an hour with no notice. This is how it was done.
I have an ugly headband which I put on my head post conversation with Cat Lady. It’s itchy and I’m already uncomfortable. Sigh.
And then I have a fashion epiphany that Rachel Zoe would be envious of. In our bathroom, there is an orchid growing, I snip it off, flick of an ant, pin it in my hair, dress change and then I’m at Cat Lady’s house.
Now we must dress her in record speed.
Step 1
Cat Lady finds her most uncomfortable shoes.
Step 2
Cat Lady puts shoes on.
Step 3
Cat Lady takes shoes off and puts on pink Ugg boots because shoes are so uncomfortable that her feet need all the rest that they can get before we get going.
Step 4
Dress is put on. One benefit of being poor students is that decision was a relatively easy one because she didn’t have much to choose from.
Step 5
Cat Lady marches into the garden, dressed in her finest dress and Ugg boots wielding a knife, game face on, a lioness hunting a fascinator. I follow with a specimen bag.
Step 6
Fascinator shopping completed and headpiece secured with half a can of hairspray, Ugg boots switched for high heels, two ladies emerge from Cat Lady’s house, ready to train to the races.
At this point, there is no doubt that Cat Lady and I are fully aware of our legendary accomplishment. Most women shop for weeks, spend hundreds of dollars and a whole morning of preening in order to be presentable all the while whinging about their figure and unsatisfactory body fat distribution. We spent zero dollars and all of about thirty minutes each getting ready which included deciding what to wear and getting a matching head piece. Surely, surely we’ll be nominated for a Nobel laureate. Surely, surely we are the greatest people who have ever lived.
A conversation:
“How awesome are we??”
“So awesome! How awesome is being awesome?”
“So awesome! But I mean... how awesome are we!”
“I know right, so awesome!”
At this point two rock stars are strutting their stuff, walking down the street, feeling like a million dollars wouldn’t even buy you forty seconds of our time. Nothing could ruin this feeling, we are the greatest that greatness has ever seen.
And then our eyes happen to fall upon a gorgeous, brown, long legged super model type creature emerge from a cab.
A secondary conversation:
“I need a drink.”
“Yeah, me too. Champagne upon arrival for sure.”
“For sure. Man these shoes hurt.”
Cat Lady’s feet were OK... although the shoes did cause her to roll her ankle on the way home. She didn’t panic though because as long as Shelley’s OK, Cat Lady is OK.
Xx Elle
