Melbourne Cup is around the corner and it’s time for all those once a
year betting wankers to talk til your ears bleed with their tips for the race
that stops a Nation...
Once in a while, you may dust the cobwebs off the 'bag of fruit' and head to the course to take a in some live action.
A day at the races:
8am - Collect suit from the local dry cleaner's, forgetting last time you
wore it at Macca's wedding where you spilled half a VAT of scotch over it singing 'bohemian
rhapsody' until 3am.
9am - Pop in to the local news agent and grab a paper, chew off any poor bastards ear that’ll listen to your tips despite you not knowing the nose from the arse end
of a horse. Carry on this facade until the completion of the race only then
remembering you don’t know shit about racing after you’ve blown the monthly
mortgage on what old mate down the pub guaranteed you was a 'sure thing'.
 |
| 'Put a gorilla on the 4th in the 5th' |
10am - If you have a Mrs. etiquette would suggest a 'Champagne Breakfast' but if you're single you can drop the bullshit, crack a frothy and get stuck in. The term 'Breakfast' is used but food is totally optional.
11am - Whack the suit on in front of the mirror and take a collection of selfies... this will be the last time it looks any good all day. Call a cab and finish off the remainder of your beverage while the cabbie struggles to find your apartment block.
Midday - Arrive at the track with a bunch of mates, complement each other on how you well you scrub up for a bloke with a head like a half sucked mango. Stand in a circle spruiking your expertise on the nags and rattle off a couple of stats to back up your theory. Ogle any half decent sort that walks within your vicinity, this would be socially unacceptable in any other scenario but today there is safety in numbers.
12:30 - Join the line of 150 other patrons gagging for a drink.
1pm- Take full advantage on the 6 drink maximum carrying your plastic
cups back to the Grandstand, spilling 30%
of them down your freshly cleaned suit after bumping into every man and his dog
on the way back to your seat. Take seat in stand with the equivalent of 3 beers
remaining in your shitty plastic cups. Notice there is at least half a beer in the
carry tray – drink when nobody is watching.
2pm - Drink beers at rapid pace to avoid them getting warm in the 35 degree heat, agree to get in a shout to avoid spending half your day in line. What could possibly go wrong!
2:30pm - Make your way to the closest port-a-loo… this is the equivalent of a drunken steeplechase. I challenge you to find a more difficult task than entering an unstable, hastily cobbled together enclosed space containing urine, vomit and faecal matter wearing your finest clothing after downing seven schooners and come out the other side. If you’re female add in high heels and a dress that needs to pulled up to your ears!
 |
| Maybe it's time for a water. |
3:30 - Take longer than expected at the bookies and miss the entire race - call Mum to find out the result.
4pm – Follow the brightly coloured dresses and the sound of clunking high heels to the nearest pretentious bar in a last ditch bid to turn around your fortunes for the day.
5pm - Fold in to taxi a broken man, cut a deal with the
driver that you will give him your last 20 if he can get you home in one piece!
The next day:
7am - Wake up with the world’s worst hangover, a lecturing girlfriend and
not enough money to buy lunch!
 |
| Forgot the SPF! |
7:15 - Look in mirror, ‘Should have worn sun screen'.
7:30 - Remember you have a job to go to – ‘Fuck!’
