Hats off to the Melbourne Cup

As another Melbourne Cup falls upon us (not literally – how painful would it be with all the horses, gallons of champagne-spew and Lillian Frank?) I feel compelled to reflect on Melbourne Cups past.

I’ve only ever actually been to the Cup once, about eight years ago and it was a big day. To give you an idea of how big, I left the house at 6.30am and returned at 1am that night. Amazing what you can get up to after 632 glasses of cheap bubbles followed by scotch.

Attending the day involves a full pay packet and hours of preparation. I bought an outfit, a hat, then another hat because I realized the first one was ridiculous (seriously, feathers should only by worn by birds.) The day started with a chicken and champagne cruise along the Yarra then I followed the throng of beautifully dressed beautiful people (or average people hoping that a nice outfit and a spray tan would be enough) to Flemington racecourse. And that’s where all my Cup dreams were shattered.

I’d envisaged a genteel but exciting day of betting and sipping Moet. What I got was severe sunburn, foregoing the betting ring because the place was so ridiculously packed, the true terror of Cup Day port-a-loos, and cheap champagne-induced nausea that could only be dealt with by drinking more of it. On the advice of a friend who was already in there, I tried to crash the Channel Ten marquee and failed dismally. A tip for anyone trying to crash a marquee on Cup Day: if you’re going to get someone to pass their wristband out to you, don’t do it in full view of the security people on the door.

The trip home on public transport will stay with me for life thanks to the alcohol-fuelled behaviour of the passengers. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a forty-something-year-old woman step out of a train onto the platform in order to hitch up her skirt, squat, wee, then get back on the train as if nothing had happened. This was all in full view of all the other passengers who applauded her ability to do all this in the time it took the train to pause at Gardiner station. Brilliant.

I reckon Cup Days at home are heaps better than going to Flemington. The past few years have seen The Bloke and I hold an annual celebration where we get everyone over for a barbeque and a cocktail in our very own marquee. In the spirit of the famous Birdcage, we set up a marquee filled with pictures of Baby John Burgess and call it the Burg-Cage. Sure it’s nowhere near as classy but marquee-crashers are always welcome provided they bring a plate. Everyone gets into the Cup Day spirit: last year The Bloke was dacked by a mate who punctuated the act with the traditional racing cry “And they’re off!” And continuing our idea of class, there’s a lemon tree in our yard for anyone who wants a public wee.