Not the worst, or the best, day of your life
Horse-racing sceptic Philip Matthews returns to Cup Day and has a pretty good time.
Overcast? Overcast was good. Rain would have been miserable. And sun? No one wants to end Cup Day sunburnt, drunk and possibly under arrest. No, overcast was good.
First things first. There has been too much sneering at Cup Day shenanigans. Too much pearl-clutching and shockhorror. It is, as they say, what it is and everyone enjoys it. Why sneer?
I’ve been guilty in the past. And I won’t pretend this was ever my scene. I really did think the sign saying ‘‘race books’’ said ‘‘rare books’’ and made a beeline only to learn that an antiquarian book dealer had not set up shop among the food trucks.
So, what was the Cup Day vibe? Addington Raceway’s media managers offered two possible hashtags for the event. Hashtag cupday17 seemed like a natural one. Hashtag bestdayofmylife seemed like it was asking a bit much.
But maybe it was ideal for a couple I overheard on the way in. ‘‘It’s our anniversary today!’’ the man said. ‘‘She picked me up seven years ago on Cup Day.’’
They looked good, they looked happy. Cup Day feels self-contained, a holiday from the world. Nothing filters in about Wikileaks or Donald Trump. There are hardcore betting zones like the Trackside Retreat, a dark tent with black tables and chairs, a cash bar, some food and a few TVs tuned only to racing. Bliss.
Punters hunch over form guides and glance at screens. Even a homeless man on Jack Hinton Drive outside the raceway had the racing page from the newspaper in front of him.
On the Lindauer Lawn, a glass of bubbles is $8. There are $20 food platters. This is the elite end but these are not astronomical prices. Maybe a theorist would say that another thing that appeals about Cup Day is that it reproduces the class structure of old Christchurch, with its posh zones and its prole catchments, but makes it accessible or affordable for all.
There are three dimensions to it. There are horses, there is drinking and there is fashion. They don’t necessarily overlap. Sometimes it feels like a very long wedding reception that happens to be adjacent to a racetrack.
I was thinking about that when I heard the voice of Christchurch City Councillor Raf Manji.
‘‘What are you doing here, a serious writer?’’ he said.
‘‘This is a serious event,’’ I replied. I could have told him about the accidental poetry of horse racing: ‘‘Father Christmas is making an effort,’’ said the race caller, identifying a horse.
Or I could have mentioned the comedy of the best dressed race.
‘‘Sun’s out, guns out. As in the guns of fashion!’’ chirped radio host Stacey Morrison as she introduced the best dressed men. The first guy up was a cop, in his actual uniform. Some shameless objectification of the male form followed: ‘‘Are you going to give us a ticket, Constable Ben? Arrested for being way too high fashion.’’
An old guy with one eye appeared in the line-up too. He beamed at the attention. ‘‘This is Michael’s moment, everybody,’’ Morrison enthused.
The best dressed? I saw at least three guys in kilts. A dude who rocked a pink suit deserves some credit. Pink is big in 2017, we learned, and not just for men.
Friends David Garters and Michael Willetts went dressed as Superman and the useless Greatest American Hero from the 80s TV series that only people aged over 40 remember. A couple of Steampunk women wore white and looked better than Steampunks usually look. A bloke wore a short-sleeved Christmas-themed suit and gave Oppo Suits a plug. Thanks to a woman elegantly sporting five large feathers arranged perfectly on her head by Christchurch designer Seventh and Figg, I learned that you call that a head-piece not a head-dress.
Regulars said the police and security presence seemed heavier this year. I saw a chilly bin searched – apparently you can sneak alcohol into those tiny Up & Go cartons – and a young woman interrogated. By about 2pm, the heat and drink was starting to wear a few people out. There was some swaying, some propping up, but there were few arrests.
In the beer garden, I saw a table with half-full glasses but no people to drink them. It was like the Marie Celeste or a beer garden after the Rapture hits. I returned later and found brothers Kees and Anton Witteman, older guys who come every year with the same friends, often sitting at the same white table in the shade.
Kees, the younger of the two, has Cup Day badges above the brim of his hat, like notches. One for every year, going back to at least 2005.
When I notice a young guy dragged out by police, Kees stops me from taking a photo on my phone. There is too much media emphasis on all that, he says. The arrests, the drunks, prurient coverage of young people not wearing enough. The positive stuff seldom gets a look in.
They left their regular table to watch each race. They bet but they don’t usually win much. No-one touched their beers while they were gone.
The sun came out. People behaved and got along. Even Father Christmas made an effort.