Melbourne Cup day tomorrow, and as usual, the entire country goes ga-ga over a horse race which only a select few get to attend and many more use as an excuse to drink to excess and act like a buffoon
Me? Well, I usually manage to scoff my share of free luncheon and a couple of glasses of whatever’s on offer, drifting through the afternoon in a pleasantly blurred haze. I don’t follow horses, in fact, I never have. It really is a mugs game, especially this group-think one day of the year bet on a race where no-one can accurate pick a winner because every single horse has a good chance of taking out the prize. Still, it’s a fun thing and an apparent ‘done thing’ to participate in all of the silliness.
The real fun is at the track from what I can gather. The sights especially. There’s extra attention being paid now to the fashions on the field by those who like to place extra attention on the seriousness of the business of being seen by those who like to be seen and drawing comparisons. ‘Feral Chic’ it’s being called and judging by the snaps which make their way into the tabloids, there’s very little chic, but a whole lot of feral about going to the races.
One really does need to realise that if you’re female and heading off to the races, you’re not doing so in a bid to win money or out of a love for horse flesh. You’re there to be seen and the more of you there is to see, the more likely you’ll be seen, if you get my drift.
The message, ladies, is clear. Get those jugs out and give them a damn good airing if you’re out to be seen. If you’re not into flashing your better bits, then seriously, why are you there?