by Cecil Poole

“Would you like to come to the races with me?”  To Flemington, home of the famous Melbourne Cup, Australia’s premier race, home of the exclusive Victorian Racing Club (VRC).  The invitation came from a friend, a long time member and regular, though not frequent, racegoer.  She neither bets, owns horses, nor drinks (excessively) at the races.  Why does she go?  To view the horses, to soak up the atmosphere.

I have a number of friends who do own horses, race horses that is, and or breeders, mares and stallions.  Usually as part of syndicates.  I sought advice from one of these friends, one who, with a group of other women, owns a racehorse.  I asked for a ‘hot tip’.  This is the response:
Statistically Race 5 No 2 collects the $$$.  Realistically you choose a name you associate with, don’t bet each way on odds under 4, read the track… dead 4, heavy etc. and match horse stats to the rating.  
Put $50 in your pocket, split winnings with (me), tho once it’s gone that’s it.  No more.  Bookies are not your friend.
Boxed trifectas, choose five horses for first three places.  My fav bet.  
Observe who is winning, eavesdrop on their choices.  Follow winning jockeys.  Sniff out the drugs.  
Cash usually better wasted on beer.
Don’t offer to drive.

With this sage advice I accepted the kind invitation, after all what could possibly go wrong?

It really was a gorgeous day.  I’d been involved in a 12 hour business meeting the previous  day, a meeting which started with lunch and finished after music with a fine nightcap.  So an early priority was to determine the state of my suit – spotless was my conclusion, (although my host thought and told me otherwise, later in the day).  Then for the tie, something with flare, taste and refinement.  I chose my pure silk (naturally) purple tie with light blue and dark blue spots.  When I say purple others may call it puce.  That is unkind as it reminds me too much of the previous day.  Now as I look at the tie I notice some previously unseen brown stains in the lower quartile.  Obviously left by the previous owner  – I’d purchased the item from the Abbotsford Salvo op shop.

We alighted our conveyance and joined the throng of other immaculately dressed and coiffeured people, not a single person to be seen in the ubiquitous ‘tracky daks’ – another plus for the racing crowd.  Lots of legs, lots of leg.  Shoes designed to either disintegrate spontaneously or to cause permanent long term damage abound.  None of which will look quite as smart later in the day – neither foot wear nor wearer.

We met with friends on the Members Lawn, adjacent to the mounting yard.  The occasional whiff of horse dung crossing our noses, but only if the spritely stewards were tardy in their ‘pick-up and dispose’ role.  I was puzzled by the absence of people on the lawns, where we partook of the obligatory champagne, and a second, in the glorious afternoon sun, whilst studying the impregnable ‘Official Racebook’ ($5.00)

From my observation the vast bulk of the crowd spent the day inside, drifting between the tot/TAB/bookies and the bar.  Very much like Crown Casino, only a decidedly better class of clientele, and definitely more socially acceptable.

And I did make friends with a bookie.  He was so nice, smiled broadly each time I approached him and gave me such confidence that I emptied my wallet!