The Melbourne Cup circus is in town

“Victoria Racing Club barman Les Taggart’s smiling face greets connections as they arrive in his Flemington bar to celebrate a win”, says the Sunday Age. The Flemington Winners Bar, however, certainly doesn’t look like a place for winners; what with the cream carpet and white walls spotted with old racing photographs.

The carpet used to be white like the walls but with any organisation that relies on volunteers the first casualty is the decor.

Old Les has been smiling and serving winners (Moet on a Boags beer mat) for seven years now.

Who are these owner connections poor Les has been pandering to all these years? The ones you see in the paper after their horse has won – a group of them all in the same suits and wearing the same sunglasses (Who owns how much? Who is connected to who? Who cares?).

The business sections of the newspapers don’t show these connector types – saturated in oily ambition, their skin the colour and texture of the canard aux abricots farci they’ve just ingested, open mouths laughing off the NV Billecart Salmon Rose – when their share prices have risen. So why show them here?

Now don’t get me wrong about enjoying great food and wine. On one rare occasion when I had the time and money to fly anywhere I got upgraded from 24B Economy to 1A Business Class – it must have been my shirt because it’s that light purple eveyone has been wearing to the races over the last couple of years.

I sat back with a sigh and after introductions with the business looking chap in 1B, (1B: “Hello, I’m in mining and horse racing. What do you do?” Me: “Hi I’m in … house husbandry”) I order the charcuterie plate and a glass of full bodied chardonnay.

Just as the steward approaches with my order I realised I couldn’t open my table. 1B had opened his, like a Transformers toy, in a blur of moving parts and angled surfaces. He finished his bottle of red in a blur too.

“Flemington is the home of tradition and the Melbourne Cup Carnival” proclaims the VRC website.

According to the Oxford Dictionary carnivals traditionally referred to the “festivities and riotous revelry” before the fasting period of Lent.

The prospect of fasting must explain why getting p*ssed on Melbourne Cup day isn’t enough for some people so they also get p*ssed at the Victoria Derby, the Mackinnon Stakes and the VRC Oaks.

Carnival time also included circuses and this spectacle is certainly a circus. There are the wonderful aspects of a circus: the glorious colour of the racing silks and turf, the athleticism and the NOISE generated by these magnificent animals.

Whether it is also a sport has been debated fiercely on The Roar.

Are jockeys athletes, or small men who steam themselves dry and then hang on for dear life?

Perhaps the role of jockey is downplayed because we just can’t bear having to hear them talk after a race. Especially when one of them is being interviewed by another in a helmet with an antenna.

Are trainers the equivalent of coaches? If sport is a mental and physical contest can horses be classified as athletes?

But the clowns of the circus are those stumbling around in high heels. In the carpark that they’ve never left and with all those teeth and big eyes (those who don’t have big eyes wear big sunglasses) they vomit up flute-loads of Yellow sparkling while their male counterparts disgorge themselves over the guard-rail.

While the training staff, jockeys and the equine performers should get all accolades I just wish the ones with all the money were people like old Les Taggart.

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