Monday, June 14, 2010
WE'RE OFF & RACING
Ah the Races. The horses, the fashion, the champagne, what’s not to love?
Decadent marquees are lined up along the track with seemingly endless supplies of delicate canapés and champagne, providing glorious viewing pleasure from the corporate boxes that sit above them.
Women submit themselves to hours upon hours of boning, corsetry and this season’s super high heels, while gents put on their latest Sunday best and shoe finery.
Ah yes, the Races, where the fashion pendulum can swing from impressive interpretations of chic to horrifyingly short sequined dresses within minutes.
I’m unsure as to whether it’s the swift melodic sound of the race call or the enthusiasm that comes hand in hand with being glam-packed at a bar with a half a dozen of your nearest and dearest but the expeditious consumption of alcoholic beverages seems to be part and parcel of the good Aussie race day.
Innumerable news stories show women cavorting with bottles of sparkling and giggling with friends as their new fifteen centremeter heels sink into the now grubby lawn strewn with empty hot chip packets and unsuccessful race stubs. Getting boozed into oblivion while having some guy in an ill fitting suit grab your backside is sadly all too common on such a day.
From lawn to member’s bar and marquee to corporate box, there are some that just cannot contain their excitement no matter how sophisticated the environment.
While I adore the races, I struggle with the post match carnage. Women witnessed going in with stunning laboriously crafted ensembles now half dressed and holding their shoes while sitting in a gutter throwing up, sans underwear.
We've all had a little too much champagne on occasion and maybe got a little over excited with racing cheer, but ladies, throwing up on the shoes you had on layby for three months is just not cool. Nor is carrying them while you walk to the nearest taxi rank in your fishnets.
Most of us have resembled the man or woman in the government’s latest community service advertisement at one time or another but surely there comes an age where sensibility kicks in?
I’m not reserving my judgment solely for women; the men are just as bad.
Alcoholically fueled confessions of love from boozed post private school twice divorced lawyers is not really my gig either, regardless of the fact we are in a luxury car brand’s marquee and he’s loudly announced his new XJK thirty-two hundred something that ‘cost as much as a house,’ I still find him an arrogant drunken twat. It seems this alcoholically fueled Dutch courage has acted like an industrial strength woman repellant as most others seem to share my view except I’m apparently now a lesbian for being able to resist his ‘charm.’
As the day wraps up and last drinks are called by the patient wait staff, the pretty little northern suburbs stunner that won Fashions on the Field clings to her winnings and calls her mother to collect her, overconfident gents line glasses of Moet up on the bar like shots and women reunite themselves with coats, hats and handbags.
And so another stunning Winter Racing Carnival day concludes. If you’re lucky, you can back up next weekend and do it all over again.
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