The long day occasionally gets the better of punters.
guys. To my family at home on the rivers, to my beewt-iful wife and children at home watching: I love youse all — and we got it.”
This writer attended the Cup in 2006. Perhaps it hints at his level of sobriety that despite being stationed on a picnic rug 20m shy of the finishing post, he had to Google the fact that Delta Blues pipped Pop Rock by a nose. However, he can recall that his lazy $5 on the nose of Mandela came to nowt.
Regardless, the day provides an indelible album of memories.
I had flown in from covering a cricket tour of India. Fortunately an advance party of mates had set up camp on prime Flemington real estate.
Following a Clark Kent-type transformation at a chum’s apartment, the family suit was unveiled after weeks in subcontinental captivity. It was time to stride to Flinders St Station.
Downtown Melbourne on Cup day oozes glamour. The hairdressing, fashion, food and beverage industries must count down the days before spring carnival fever takes hold.
Men don suits which could have had them swaggering from the pages of GQ. Women totter on stilt-like heels which hold their Achilles tendons to ransom. A kaleidoscope of dresses and fascinators waft amid bespoke tailoring and polished brogues.
Much of this sartorial elegance has unravelled by race seven on the card, but no one should be docked points for trying as they embark on the 45-minute north-west train journey to Flemington.
Reviewing the 2006 footage online, you’d swear Melbourne was basking in a balmy spring day. In reality it felt like Antarctica had moved in beyond the Maribyrnong River. Jackets became prime currency. Chivalrous blokes with chattering teeth pined for a seat inside the grandstand; or at least a dram of single malt as the southerly breeze stiffened.
Fortunately the thundering hooves, the crowd’s kinetic energy and sporadic hauls off the bookies provided enough incentive to drop anchor.
A melee ensued as the threehandled Cup — one each for jockey, owner and trainer — was presented. The waning mix of unlucky punters, unrequited lovers and thirsty preloaders resembled a B-grade Shakespearean production. That scene was offset by winners striding to the tote.
The return journey was less memorable as a squall of jaded hedonists prepared to plunder the CBD. However, a hearty feed of tapas at Movida and a chocolate martini nestled in Gin Palace’s cushioned armchairs provided the perfect footnote to one of sport’s red letter days.