Spring Race Relations
Spring Race Relations
Images: Pietro Gellona
Text: Michael Scott
Melbourne – our divided city – so eloquently delineated in the Melways. The red pages, the paper cut that divides the suburban from the urban. The invisible barrier that keeps the bogans at bay.
Inner Melbourne: bastion of art and culture, coffee, music and bar-beaten lounges.
Greater Melbourne: Misnomer.
In the inner sanctum, we cram into our lanes full of bars stacked on bars, impossibly huddled together, socialising to forget the endless suburban no-man's land at our borders.
But the barbarians sneak in. Cleverly disguised, they infiltrate the inner city dressed in silk and feathers and toting champagne that is not from Champagne.
Spring racing carnival.
The promise of spectacle. The glamour. The embodiment of all things fashion this side of Milan.
Flemington at nine in the morning, when the verdant green has barely felt the first pierce of a stiletto heel, you could be forgiven for having such high hopes.
Immaculately clipped rose borders mark the barrier between the stands and the course. Horses rest in their stables, their muscles shivering in anticipation. The members survey the idyllic scene from behind the bluegreen glass.
And the onslaught begins.
They step delicately from the trains clutching their purses and their grey-suited chaperones. They strut down the platform with the poise of supermodels, perfectly arranged; so complete is their disguise.
Inside the gates, as if unable to exist without the comfort of their own plot of land they pull from their bags tarpaulins, picnic blankets and rope to fence off their personal backyards. Soon they spread from finish line to mounting yard, their petite empires pinned to the ground with foam eskies and fold out camp chairs.
And then the drinking starts (as if it hadn't already) and any attempt at pretence begins to falter.
It is not a steady decline, the descent into overt boganism – by eleven the alcohol and the sun have already taken their toll. Not content with the relative dignity of scoffing a quart of gin and shouting, "Mooove your blooming arse!" - one young racegoer pulls back
her fascinator and vomits into her purse. Not one to drop the façade, she gently clips it up and totters off into the crowd.
The day wears on. The horses intermittently punctuate the drinking with the hassle of having to place another $5 bet at the TAB. Ice melts, foam eskies crack and spill sliced salami onto the grass, heels peel off and the fallen sprawl on their tarpaulins covered in the carnage of the day. And as the last gulp warm sparkling is no longer sparkling, the least hammered realize they haven't heard the thunder of hooves for a while.
And so, the hordes look towards the city, its frosted beer taps and freshly-muddled cocktails.
Lobster-faced, they pour themselves from the platform into the trains. They arrive at Flinders Street Station with stomachs jostled, ready to burst. With their boyfriends holding back their hair (their hands already clutching their heels and their clutches) they heave themselves up and into the city streets.
Now begins the true reason Melbournians love the races. Like a comedy of errors, the compromised dignity of the racing set spills into the streets, mixing with the punks, the bearded flannelette, the inner urban students and a brace of amateur photographers.
The crowd flocks to Transport (because it doesn't require any to arrive there). Through the glass aviary, feathered fascinators flit left and right, up and down to the almost-retro chic of 90s classics. Bewildered Melbourne sits back and watches, as the spectators become the spectacle.
What attracts us to this pretty little train wreck of humanity? Is it the delight of seeing Kath and Kim come to life? The memory of something that we lost when we left behind Doncaster Shoppingtown? Is it the alcohol-hazed memories of taking part in carnivals past? Or the secret desire to jump the fence next year?
Needless to say it speaks to the inner bogan in all of us. And that needs to be nurtured - at least once a year.
| < Prev | Next > |
|---|
Comments