Corey Brown rides Shocking winning the 2009 Melbourne Cup during the 2009 Emirates Melbourne Cup Day at Flemington. Slattery Images
It’s that time of the year again: Australia reveals its idiosyncratic streak as being the only nation on earth that will actually stop for a horse race.
The still well preserved Phar Lap is treated with a reverence akin to Argentina’s cultic love for Evita Perón.
In death, their bodies (or body parts) are still mystically cherished like saints. His demise near Menlo Park, California in 1932 due to a colic condition still riles some racing enthusiasts – surely it was those sneaky Californians who did him in?
The timing of the race is inscribed in what seems to be holy writ. The race commences at 3pm on the first Tuesday of November.
It has run now for an impressive 150 years, so much so that the race has now become something of an international event. International expertise is now muscling in at speed.
Historians and observers of the Cup detect the elements of a medieval carnival – a time when the social orders mingled in a way that would otherwise be inconceivable. The toilers would be at the same venue as the rich.
Rich gazing was simply another form of fashion watching. Before the presence of Mammon, Australia would pretend to be egalitarian as the bubbles flowed. All classes would mingle in an effort to dazzle and grab the filthy lucre. The horse race would be, in a sense, the sideshow.
The main dish would be everywhere else.
The expert’s chatter means little once the race starts. No jockey or trainer in their right mind would want to be a favourite at the race. To be selected is to be doomed, something of a sporting assassination.
That said, there is always a sacrificial victim. This year, it is So You Think. An ominous name.
Andrew Eddy, writing in the Sydney Morning Herald (Nov 1), has no problems going for this particular beast: “So You Think can, should and most probably will win tomorrow’s Cup because he is so superior.”
The horse keeps company with others such as Maluckyday, the hardy Zipping, and the wet loving Descarado.
The modern race retains the old ingredients, though there is a distinctly vulgar corporate flavour to the proceedings.
The men suit up and sport a set of obnoxious manners (in their rather empty books, the clothes maketh the man). Packs ready themselves to descend on the racecourse. It is also an occasion for the ladies (the term is used advisedly) to flaunt.
The trick for the members of Victoria Racing Club Committee was to reveal to the fairer sex how exciting a horse race could be without necessarily looking at the horses. Numbers in the early 1960s were down. Appeal was ebbing.
The gambling element was therefore minimised. Instead, fashion would be worshipped. Enter then, the Fashions on the Field competition, replete with headpieces and dresses.
The number of creatures that seem to be worn at the race beggars belief. Few heads go undecorated. Fascinators that resemble a cross between salads, fruits and slaughtered game make an appearance as the day moves on.
These get more ruffled as the drink hits home. Shoes get scattered. Rowdiness sets in. The crowds gradually dissolve, and the masks of savagery are revealed.
Mark Twain took time to pen a few words on the Melbourne Cup when he was visiting in 1895, words that came out in his Following the Equator: “Nowhere in the world have I encountered a festival of people that has such a magnificent appeal to the whole nation. The Cup astonishes me.”
He noted the clothes ordered in advance, sumptuous, with no expense spared. The drinks seemed to spring from an endless well. So did the thrilling gains and regretted losses. But Twain was prescient: “I can call to mind no specialized annual day, in any country, which can be named by that large name – Supreme.”
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