A horse is a horse of course, unless you bet on that horse and lose lots of cash, then the horse is a nag headed for the pet food factory. Today I am dressed like a fool at a lunch celebrating the Festival of Trashy Drunks wearing not so fascinators AKA the Race That Stops A Nation. If you’re not Australian you probably call it the Melbourne Cup. It’s a long day and dealing with people who are smashed and have spray on tans sponsored by Vegemite (thank you Kraft) and know nothing about racing is exciting so I’ll just get up on my high horse…..

Giddy Up

Here I am on the day of the race that stops a nation, dressed in jodhpurs and a top hat, hamming it up for drunk people, most of whom don’t realise this how I earn my living (they just think I’m some kind of kooky lady), as they slam down their drinks. We humans are very strange, we tame wild creatures, then watch them going round and round a track. When I was a young warthog, I went to the races most weekends with my grandpa Aubrey, who was nuts about betting on the gee gees. He would place small bets for me and I always picked the grey horses, probably because of Gunsynd, the Goondiwindi grey, a famous racehorse from the 1970s. Now I’m getting paid to act like a goose on a horse, my grandpa would be so proud.