the ponies

I vaccilated a fair bit before writing this post. Yes, I find the Spring Racing Carnival tiresome in the extreme and I would quite like to say so. On the other hand, I would quite like it all to go away, and perhaps writing about it will just draw people’s attention to it further.

In the end, I decided there was so much crap being written about it anyway, I could scarcely make things worse.

Horses
Don’t get me wrong, I quite like horses themselves. They are quite remarkable creatures: proud, strong, athletic, intelligent.

Horse people
The people who surround horses, however, are quite another story. Most of the year the only people you see around horses and horse racing are inveterate gamblers, “colourful local business identities” and the old men you see at the local old-man’s pub. Then, bizarrely, in spring-time the race courses are invaded by tens of thousands of dressed-up bogans desperately hoping to hang out with the couple of dozen beautiful people, all of whom hang out in various glamourous tents.

I don’t understand the appeal myself.

Horse races
The appeal of horse races has well and truly worn thin. One horse race would be kinda interesting: the thunder of hooves, the speed, the silks the dramatic finish. But they have thousands every year, and after the 454th horse race, they all kinda look the same. I don’t buy the “historic” nature of the cup itself. Phar lap was historic, possibly, but generally it’s just another horse race.

The sweeps
If you, like me, were stupid enough to come to work today, you would no doubt have been subjected to the office sweep. Some helpful person would have cut a picture out of the paper and run around asking for $5 to pick a horse’s name out of the pot.

Horse media
I have no way of proving this, but I’m pretty sure at some point in this week, Sandy Roberts will be wheeled out to “commentate” on the horse racing. The only way I’d like to watch Sandy Roberts at the horses is if someone tied him to the back of a horse and he was dragged around the course bouncing until his head was a bloody pulp.

My tip
Spend your time doing something nice with your family. If you absolutely have to bet, do it on number 3 or number 8. Why? Because I always put one bet on a year on this race, picked at random, and I always seem to win every second year. This year I’m due a win, and those are the numbers I’m feeling in my waters.

Running
16 hills kms yesterday, nicely timed between showers. 9km this lunch-time, dodging the remains of the parade crowds in a brief break of sunshine about lunch-time.

wanted

My favourite song lyric at the moment:

I wish I could eat the salt off of your lost faded lips

That’s from a song called Obstacle 1, by Interpol. They also have a song called “Stella was a Diver And She Was Always Down”. Nice.

I was innocently googling away this morning, looking for stuff up stuff about Interpol (who have a nice looking site) when I came across a far more interesting, though ugly-looking, site: Interpol.

This bit is particularly interesting, in a morbid sort of way – Interpol – Wanted. Endless amusement can be had, browsing through lists of people you should definitely avoid if you bump into them in a dark alley.

You can search by crime, nationality, sex, etc. Yes, Usama Bin Laden has an entry – quite extensive too, as you might expect.

Correction
On Monday I had a bit of a whinge about the Spring Racing Carnival, implying it’s all about drunkenness, vomit, women dressed as mutant bridesmaids and tawdry sexual encounters. I see now I was being a bit judgemental.
That’s all class.

sex and booze

Imagine, if you will, a terrible epidemic that spreads through out the population each spring-time. It comes on in the late morning and early afternoon and by late afternoon there are tens of thousands of otherwise healthy people staggering about the streets, decorating the place with the contents of their stomachs and falling off their shoes.

Sound familiar?

Yep, that’s right, it’s Spring Carnival time, which has roughly the same effect on my life as the apocryphal South American butterfly. Actually that’s not quite true: we don’t get a day off in Melbourne for Apocryphal South American Butterfly day. We should though, don’t you think?

At least work is quiet today, as those amongst the population with any forethought have already run for the hills, beaches, caves or anywhere were there are no horses.

Back in 2004, I was in the Provincial about 1am on the Saturday night before Cup day (Derby day?) and the joint was doing a mighty-good impression of a bar in San Fransisco when the fleet’s in. There was a “couple” there becoming rather amorous on the couch. She – mid 50s, him – late 20s; both with eyes glazed over: cigarettes and alcohol inserted in various orifices.

Anyway, I mention it as I still remember the guy looked up from his “pash“, lit a cigarette, belched, took a swig from his bourbon and coke, said “hello” and went back to the lip-action, all without taking his hand from her ample rear.

It was enough to put you off alcohol, or sex, certainly the two combined.

I wonder if they’re still together.

I don’t want you to go away thinking I’m totally against gambling and booze. God no. Horses are great animals, especially at a distance. Gambling is an excellent way to get rid of any superfluous cash you might have lying around, particularly when you’re drunk. It beats using $50 notes to light your cigar, especially with the plastic money we have now.

Also, romance has been known to blossom at the bookies. An old house-mate of mine got lucky one particularly sodden night at Moonee Valley. Not only did they remember each other’s names the next morning, but they ended up getting married. In a church. Wonders will never cease.

Running
If you detect a certain level of grumpiness in the post so far, you’re not wrong. I didn’t get to run over the weekend past, what with rain and the like, and I’m not overly happy. I do plan to run this lunch-time, so there’s a chance I’ll feel better about things in the afternoon.

god bless the Spring Racing Carnival

Km for last weekend: 25, for the week, 56.

As I grumpily stared out the curmudgeonly window of the train this morning I was mentally composing a great long diatribe about the Spring Racing Carnival. As I recall it started out something like:

“If you’ve ever wondered why islamic fundamentalists consider western society completely decadent and depraved to the point it would be improved by a large dose of fertilizer, take a look at the Spring Racing Carnival”.

It went downhill from there too. The first draft was uncannily similar to Hunter S. Thompson’s account of the Kentucky Derby, except without the wit, humour or charisma. Also, the sense of realism was slightly handicapped by the fact I’ve never actually been to the races.

The second draft centred on last year’s parade and included an extensive description of the 35 minutes it took me to cross Swanston Street on foot. (bastard security guard!). Anyway, blogger refused to publish that draft, perhaps sensing I’ve already passed my grumpiness quota for the month.

Which brings me to today’s post title “God bless the Spring Racing Carnival”:

The fact is, I’ve just spent 20 minutes redrafting my blog. And why is that significant? Everyone with an ounce of foresight (ie. everyone but me) has taken today off work. That means I have a lovely quiet day to catch up on little things that have been forgotten.

Perhaps that’s not, in itself, enough to excuse the 200,000 punters who’ll make tomorrow’s bacchinalian orgy the kind of event that would make Caligula take up knitting.

It does make me happy though.