One-way ticket to the knacker’s yard
Our fortnight of pretending we’re all experts on horse racing is over for another year.
New Zealand Cup Week and The Race That Stops A Nation - or in fact two nations - provide good reason to dress up to the nines and indulge in some sophisticated binge drinking.
And once again, even though my previous form at picking a winner suggests I shouldn’t, I got completely sucked into the hype.
Every year I study the form guide for the Melbourne Cup and pretend I know what I’m looking at. It took me several years to kind of decipher what all those numbers actually meant.
But that old saying that a little bit of knowledge is dangerous is quite apt on the first Tuesday in November - or for me, any old race meeting really.
So is that one about a fool and her money being easily parted.
I wait until Tuesday afternoon until I make my annual pilgrimage to the TAB, where I pretend I’m totally comfortable with what’s going on around me. Placing a bet? Yeah - I know exactly what I’m doing.
Totally at ease with all your quinella and trifecta lingo. Easybets? You betcha. No-one need know that I’m placing a lazy tenner on a horse based purely on the fact that I like its name or the colours the jockey is wearing. I never pick the favourite. It’s always one that’s a slight outsider, but with a good run it could go okay.
That way, I have visions at work of winning big and what I’m going to do with the cash all afternoon.
Then it’s a case of digging out the fascinator I bought at the two dollar shop last year and trying to finish work early so I can watch the race with other poshly-attired people at the local pub. It never happens. Running late, most years I listen to it on the radio while in the car heading towards aforementioned establishment.
It’s hard to picture what’s actually going on in a horse race when you can only hear it.
But you can almost guarantee my nag has bolted in the first 500m and then either fallen off the pace, or just fallen over.
Two years ago my lucky pick got shot after crossing the finish line, the poor thing.
Sorry TAB - but my poor form in the Aussie race usually means I’m a little bit wiser when New Zealand Cup Week comes around. The cash stays in the wallet. Fashion In the Field is far more entertaining.
I’d have more chance of win- ning that, and that’s saying a lot from a girl who’s happiest in a pair of tracky-dees and a hoodie.
Despite my best efforts, it seems racing just isn’t my thing.
They’ve never, ever called my horse’s name close to the finish line.
It’s like that lazy tenner is a ticket to the knacker’s yard.
‘‘No-one need know that I’m placing a lazy tenner on a horse based purely on the fact that I like its name or the colours the jockey is wearing.’’
The Race That Stops A Nation provides a good reason to dress up to the nines...