Musings at the Melbourne Cup

I discover to my surprise that I’m the youngest person at the RSL.
These people are so old they’re still buying newspapers.
Which makes me wonder – if only there was some way of “monetising” RSLs online like newspapers.
A brainwave hits me: maybe they should sell newspapers in RSLs?
I congratulate myself on just having saved the newspaper industry.

I choose my horses according to the time-honoured way – by name.
Did I ever tell you about the time I almost put $50 on Oxford Prince to win and it won at like 200 to 1?
It’s like the time I almost invented Post-It notes, except that I forgot that when you make glue first you need to thermoset your resin and then after it cools you have to mix in an epoxide, which is really just a fancy-schmancy name for any simple oxygenated adhesive … and then you raise the viscosity by adding a complex glucose derivative during the emulsification process.

I order the first of several Strongbow Ciders.
Did I ever tell you that I drank cider 20 years before everyone else suddenly did?
You’ve heard that story already?
Pipe down, Judgey McJudge.

There is a bowl of nuts at the table.
Just how many different types of urine from unwashed hands do I want to sample today, I wonder.
The correct answer is none.

I am served my chicken schnitzel.
I tell the waiter that the pepper grinder isn’t big enough and ask for a bigger one.
Only one person will get this joke.

I think it’s unfair that horses aren’t given a representative at the Melbourne Cup.
They should have a spokesperson to speak for them at the podium.
And that spokesperson should be a horse.
And someone should be there to translate their horse words for them.
I may have possibly had too many ciders at this point.

Dami Im sings The Power Of The Dream.
She has an amazing voice – but there is something about the lyrics, the idea that with the power of belief that anything is possible, that bugs me.
In particular these lyrics annoy me: “It’s the moment that you think you can’t/You’ll discover that you can.”
For example, you can’t suddenly afford a house in Sydney just because you BELIEVE you can.
I start rewriting the song as “The Power Of Inheritence”.
“You’ll find your fate is all your own creation/
As long as you have a wealthy relation,” I sing in my head.

I wonder how many jockeys have been held by their ankles over hotel balconies the day before the big race.
An urban myth, surely?

Dami Im returns to sing Advance Australia Fair.
Did you know that this song was chosen as our national anthem by plebiscite in 1977?
I presume it also cost $160 million in 1977 dollars to hold the plebiscite.
“Boom!” I think. “Cutting-edge satirical humour!”

I cheer on my outsider Japanese horse until it becomes clear that it won’t win. Once again my foolproof scheme of betting has failed.
I suspect tonight that more than one jockey knows he’ll be allegedly spending the evening being dangled over a hotel rooftop by his ankles.

I still around for the speeches afterwards.
There are too many humans talking.
It eventually becomes clear that there will be no horse spokesman – or horse translator – to speak for the horses.
Disgusted by this speciest behavior, I leave.
At the doorway, I leave a tiny origami unicorn.
“It’s too bad she won’t live!” I shout. “But then again who does?”
Only one person will get this joke, too.

My ebook military thriller The Spartan is out now on Amazon.

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