Yesterday was Melbourne Cup Day. The Race That Stops A Nation. Well, it certainly stopped me dead in my tracks as I looked around at what it means to be a middle aged Australian woman on Cup Day.
Don't get me wrong, I love Melbourne Cup Day. I don't have a bet because I can't work out how to do it. If I have to go into a TAB and ask someone you can guarantee the only one to help me will be Willy Welfare Payments Buy Me Fags But I Can't Afford Soap Racelover. But I always like to watch or hear the race and choose a horse by name alone. I think I am probably the only person in Australia never to have backed a winner of the Cup. Yesterday I chose Drunken Sailor and I believe he's still staggering over the finish line...back and forth, back and forth... some 30 hours later. I also pick Australian horses. One day I will learn that our horses are only there for the Cup Party, the same as the rest of the humans. It's the Horses from Overseas that do the winning because they think it's all about actually racing. Best not to tell them any differently at this point.
So, at my place of work, and in the streets surrounding that hallowed ground, middle aged women came out dressed to the nines because it was "Cup Day". Usually you are hard pressed to get anyone in a pair of heels higher than a squashed gecko which has dried out in the sun, and the clothes are usually either riding up their arse or just that tad too short above the fat wrinkly knees or the bra straps are constantly slipping and glinting in the hot Australian sun. But not yesterday. Oh no. Everyone was in super high heels, pretending not to notice the ache in the calf muscles or the fact that their toes were dangling over the front of the shoes because their ankles were no longer at a 90 degree angle to their knees but instead had blended into their achilles tendon and were causing them to Rudolph Nureyev with every step. I trod on lots of toenails today, the day after "Cup Day"; there was a crunch on the footpaths underfoot.
And the dresses!!! Oh Lord... how many black and white belted dresses teamed with long black or white gloves and a perfectly accessorised clutch purse are there in town?! The smell of mothballs permeated the air like a mid summers nightmare. Whoever makes red beads had better put on extra staff too because there can't be anymore left to buy in the entire Western Suburbs of Sydney.
But the thing that got to me most, the thing I just can't fathom, is the headgear.
Since when did a middle aged woman think it was right to put a feather and flower in her hair and call it a Fascinator? And since when did it become law to do it on "Cup Day"?
Fascinator?? What's fascinating about impersonating a chook? Everywhere I looked I saw Old Ducks, Turkey Gobblers and Meat Chooks all sticking their beaks in to every nook and cranny like a Royal Easter Show Parade of Fowls.
Fascinator?? Well, now I think about it, yes, maybe it is fascinating in a perverted sort of way.
It's fascinating that these women were just 24 hours prior drudging around town in rejected 1980's aerobic tights with "I'm with Stupid" t-shirts hanging over them, fag in mouth, the obligatory tattoo on their ankle of their child Angelina Brittney Shaylene Kardashian's name so they don't forget it when they cash their Centrelink payment, and were screaming foul mouthed abuse at their partners as they pushed a 3 wheeled stroller up the street.
But on "Cup Day" they dress up and stick a feather in their hair and act all posh. Hmmmm. Fascinating. Yankee Doodle Dandy did that, didn't he?
The Tribesmen of New Guinea stick feathers in their hair and put on their best shrunken skull jewelry when they are about to eat someone... or so my grandmother used to tell me. Are these women out for a good feed on "Cup Day" or are they in some way symbolising the giant feed that awaits the Cup Winner?
Does impersonating a fowl actually personify their character?
Do horses run faster when surrounded by feathers? If a chook loses it's feathers in the forest, does anyone hear?
Are the males of the species attracted by ""feathers blowing in the breeze on the top of staggering red lipped black gloved taller than they were yesterday and laughing fakely" females?
Hmmm. Fascinating.
And then there were the males. I saw one bloke dressed up in a suit and bowler hat. This is Mental Man. He frequents the TAB (which is just below us at work) every day and usually chucks a spaz attack at least once a week which causes someone to call the police and they drag him off, sober him up, call his mother and it's all over until the next time. Yesterday he was dressed up for "Cup Day".
Mental Man was the only one I saw in the male parade of madness to don a suit. All the other males were in tribal gear.
I took a walk at lunch time to the local shopping paradise to buy Milly Blue Eyes Forget Me Not a Build a Bear (but that's another story for another time) and as I walked back to work, carrying my bear, the mothball fumes from the ladies attire filled the air and everything went hazy for a moment. It was very surreal for me. I felt like I was in a modern day television advertisement where everything is soft focused with increased red and black highlights, decreased yellow skin tones, coupled with a black vignette and extra layer for more dimension on the objects in focus who are walking in slow motion, casually, carefree and not knowing I'm watching them.
I saw the Tribal Men walking towards the gathering place, known as the TAB. It was there they were to meet the feathered fowls. It all became very clear to me.
There were the Grog Tribe. The blokes who are a bit shorter than most, with a very flat back of the head, no neck, protruding forehead, scowl on the face, chest that sticks out, arms that stick out and swing only from about the elbow region, pot belly, and skinny legs. They dress in t shirts that are too tight, cargo pants, thongs and have tattoo sleeves. This apparently signifies toughness.
Behind them were the Dog Tribe. Taller than Grogs, straight backed, shaven head, silver hoop earring, tattoos on the neck, white t shirts, black jeans, boots, black sunglasses, face with absolutely no expression and long leads holding very big dogs. This apparently shows they are tough.
Across the road was the I"m A Skinny Runt With Tattoos Tribe. Underfed, under-endowed, under educated, under-intelligent, underpants hanging out of their holey jeans, fag behind the ear and doing a sort of lope along the street with their one leg that is always stiff from some terrible injury they've endured because they are, obviously, tough guys.
Then there was the Davo Tribe. Davo is your middle aged Australian male who is weather beaten, rough hands, couldn't give a damn what he's dressed in, jusgowyndownthatabtohavabetyabastard, who has been there and done it all as you can tell from his sneer around his unshaven salt and peppered paunchy face and he's tough... because if you tell him he's not, he'll bloody show you ya bastard.
All these tribes were converging on the "Cup Day" meeting place to feast their eyes on the befeathered fowl impersonators who were cackling and crowing along the laneways leading to the meeting place.
Fascinating, isn't it? Once they all go there, they stood, silently, for the race start, feathers unruffled, B.O. permeating the room until the gates opened and the caller yelled, "They're off". The tribal calls started "Go ya bastard, run ya bastard, gooooooo, goooooooooooo..... jesuschrist what a bastard race...who'd have picked that.... christ, the bloody missus is gonna be spewin I lost it all.....bastards" .
I wonder what happens to all the feathers after the race? Does Sharon Smith, middle aged Western Suburb mother of 4, go home and look in the mirror at her worn off make up, faded lipstick and droopy feather and put on the Chicken Dance Song for her husband that night? Is her husband one of the tough guy tribes? Do they procreate, or do they just get out a carving knife and battle it out to the death with the victor eating the leftover Thai takeaway as his or her just reward?
I don't know, but I do find it fascinating that not only can mutton dress up as lamb but old ducks can turn into chooks at the drop of a race card.
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