The big race reaches its thrilling conclusion. Photo / Supplied
The big race reaches its thrilling conclusion. Photo / Supplied
Thousands of Kiwis cross the Tasman to see the Melbourne Cup each November. Ewan McDonald went to see why.
Christmas in Bethlehem. Easter in Rome. Eid al-Adha in Mecca. Each of the world's great religious traditions has its capital city, its festivals, its customs and rhythms and celebrations. I'm experiencing such a moment. I'm in the capital of Victoria for the Melbourne Cup.
For Aussies and Kiwis who flutter $5 in the office sweepstake every year it is "the race that stops two nations"; five minutes of thundering hooves, shimmering silks, palpitating punters. For its hometown, the spring racing carnival is 10 days of nose-to-tail fashion, parties, events, dining out, betting and titillating displays of exposed flesh, some belonging to horses.
I don't know much about racing, but ...
Saturday. Flemington, the vast racecourse in the city's northwest suburbs, is heaving: five-storey grandstands, rosebed-garlanded lawns, VB-bedecked bars, betting stalls, food stalls, horse stalls.
The carnival opens with Derby Day, the first of four days of racing, each with its own personality. Today is "people's day"; 90,244 watch the 150th running of the classic race for 3-year-olds.
Tradition rules. Women pin fascinators into new 'dos and shimmy into new dresses in every possible shade of black and white. Most of the younger women sport flouncy minis and stilettos; the shoes not quite right for walking or picnicking on a lawn for eight hours; the skirts not quite right for this blustery, showery day.
It is near-impossible to balance one's plastic flute of Champagne with one hand and one's modesty with the other.
There's plenty of fashion on display at Flemington. Photo / Supplied
For men, suits and ties: yes, ties, unseen elsewhere Downunder since the 90s, even on the public lawns, let alone in the lounges, high in the stands.
The big names (apart from the horses, occasionally observed galloping around the outskirts) are Chris Hemsworth, Aussie actor-turned-Hollywood superhero, and Solange Knowles, who lives up to big sister Beyonce's diva standards by arriving four hours late.
I don't know much about fashion, but ...
On Monday morning, a day before The Cup, I swelter in a curtained cubicle in the ritzy Emporium shopping plaza. Several changes of clothing are partly responsible; the sun belting through the glass roof must take more of the blame.
Raquel is invading what would be my personal space except that we are in the company of several thousand curious shoppers.
My style consultant is measuring me for the new suit that is de rigueur for tomorrow's events. I'd sent her the measurements a couple of days earlier. This had been trickier than it sounds: circumnavigating one's chest, waist, arm and so on with a tape measure is a fiendishly difficult exercise when one lives on one's own.
Some estimates were inches adrift; however, Raquel charmed away my embarrassment with small talk, through a mouthful of pins, as she adjusted my inside leg.
Blue pinstripe suit. Shirt in two-toning checks. Finally ... "we're not going to be safe, are we?" says Raquel, and I know she means "boring". She reaches for the apricot tie.
I don't know much about partying, but ...
I tram to Southern Cross station next morning in my re-engineered suit, surrounded by thousands in new millinery, ensembles, shoes, coiffures, cosmetics, posies, top hats, cravats, on the same pilgrimage.
Most will enjoy their day on the lawns, at the public bars and fast-food stands. But those who know people who know people, or are in the mood to splurge $1000 or more on their day (and frequently night's) frolics, will make for the marquees.
Here, corporate entertainment reaches new heights: some 250 lounges have been moved on to the site next to the main straight and the birdcage where thoroughbreds parade before an adoring public.
They have been designed, decorated, plumbed and stocked over four months for a different, just as preening, species.
Inside, you'd never guess they are temporary structures; the attention to detail approaches a Las Vegas cocktail lounge.
Expect, at the least, a three-course lunch with waiter service, bottomless bubbles, beers, wines and cocktails, a private bookmaker and pamper lounge, live music and the chance to rub shoulders or anything else that appeals with Aussie celebs and Hollywood B-listers.
Hottest spots are, natch, the Emirates Lounge (best position as the race's sponsor), Myer (Fashion On the Field sponsors), Johnnie Walker's whisky bar and Lexus, with uber-chefs Neil Perry and Ben Shewry producing the victuals.
Standards of behaviour have been known to decline as the hot afternoon wears on, and the tired and emotional become fodder for tabloid photographers.
On hand to step in is a roaming band of Galahads known as Gentlemen to Help, armed with implements to soothe most crises from a broken heel to more intimate matters.
I don't know much about betting, but ...
They come by helicopter, boats and trains. For obvious reasons cars are the least favoured mode of transport. On Saturday I'd cruised to the racecourse along the Yarra and Maribyrnong rivers from Southbank. The bubbles weren't all in the river.
One woman pulled an envelope from her handbag and counted several hundred notes - the pool which her small office had clubbed in to punt on Derby Day. There would be another envelope-full on Tuesday, and Thursday, and Saturday.
The amount of money that changes hands during the carnival may be impossible to count. This is not a flutter on the horses; more a seismic event. Enough to alter the economy of a large Pacific nation.
The horses parade ahead of the big race at the Melbourne Cup. Photo / Supplied
A globally respected fiscal commentator - okay, the Mail Online - reports 77 per cent of working Australians spend three-and-a-half hours or more celebrating The Cup.
Almost 14 million Australians bet $448 million, an average of $32.50 each. In 2013 IBISWorld estimated The Cup boosted spending on food and alcohol by $188 million thanks to the number of events at workplaces, bars, clubs, restaurants and private homes.
More than 48,000 travelled to Victoria specifically for The Cup, spending $28.66 million on accommodation.
Retail spending hit $59.5 million in Victoria alone: more than 62,000 hats and fascinators; 60,000 pairs of shoes; 50,000 dresses; 30,000 items of jewellery; 27,000 ties; 21,000 handbags; 18,000 suits; 17,000 items of underwear; 14,000 shirts; 11,000 pairs of sunglasses; 13,000 pairs of socks and pantihose.
The clock is winding up to 3pm; time to decide where I'll invest my Aussie dollars.
I consult the small type in the race guide and am struck by the relevance of one horse to this morning's news bulletin.
There's been a crisis in the eurozone and Chancellor Merkel has issued a stern warning to the world's stockmarkets.
Righto, geopolitics has just become a reliable pointer to picking the winner of a horse race. It can't be any less informed than a lucky number, colour or name.
I march up to the counter: "$5 on Protectionist," I say. It didn't seem good form to watch the great race, or the great racehorses, on a giant TV screen in an air-conditioned lounge when strappers and stewards, judges and jockeys, were taking the time and trouble to entertain me in scorching heat just a few metres away. Go and play in the fresh air, as my mother would have said.
So I pardon-me'd and may-I'd my way as near as I could to the winning post, the better to see my money evaporate, as the commentary reached fever-pitch and the crowd's cheers reached a crescendo that would have impressed Wagner's Valkyries. Hooves pounded like something from the Somme.
One hundred thousand voices rose, one hundred thousand bodies leapt, two hundred thousand arms reached for the sky between me and the champion. And that was all I could see of the moment my horse won the Melbourne Cup.
CHECKLIST
Getting there: Qantas flies several times daily from Auckland to Melbourne.
