Melbourne Cup day

Today it was the Melbourne Cup. The Melbourne Cup is a horse race held in Melbourne, hence the name Melbourne Cup. It features about 20-25 racehorses and all the requisite jockeys, in a traditional horse race on a big field. I don’t know what else to say about it. It’s a horse race, but a flipping big one. And all of Australia stops to watch it.

Obviously with Australia being something of a ‘young’ country its customs and traditions are still developing. You don’t get the zealous religious festivals of Asia, or some of the weird folk ceremonies that exist in parts of Europe, which have evolved from medieval or even pagan times. There are only three big ones to remember: Australia Day (where everybody gets pissed), ANZAC Day (like Remembrance Sunday, but everyone gets pissed) and Melbourne Cup day (horse-racing and, yep, everyone gets pissed).

That’s about as deep and meaningful as it gets, but there is the occasional unwritten rule to remember. One tradition of Cup day is that the women, all over the country, get glammed up and go to work wearing fancy hats. So you get a lot of eye-candy, which suits us men just fine. We’re not required to do anything. The ship of political correctness is but a glimmer on the horizon in this country.

All the offices grind to a halt around midday to screen the race, and they put on vast quantities of food for the workers. There is a flurry of last-minute bets and sweepstakes. All pressing business is quickly forgotten for that brief half-hour.

This year, like the last, I was in Perth, plodding along in a temp job; observing the Melbourne cultural circus from afar on a TV screen. I had an inspired bet last year and won about $80 when my horse came in third. This time round I didn’t have the luxury of sneaking out to the bookies, as my work is marooned in a big industrial estate out near the airport. So I just sat there demolishing the buffet and watching the race. It was a pretty decent contest and a horse named Shocking won.

My journey home after work turned out to be strange. With summer newly in bloom, the afternoon sun was stifling. The bus became very crowded as it threaded its way down the highway towards the city, full of people leaving work early. Clearly a lot of workplaces had downed tools for the day and thrown a full-scale party. A crowd of revellers clambered aboard and one of the young guys plonked himself down in the seat next to me.

He was about 18, stank of booze, and wanted a chat. He wanted to be my friend. Nothing wrong with that, but suddenly I realized his hands were caked in blood! Surprised, I asked him what happened, and apparently he had got into a drunken bust-up with his girlfriend at the work party, then she ‘attacked’ him with a bottle. “She’s a f**kin’ psycho mate, ay,” he confirmed. “That’s why I’m going home!”

I reckoned the girl's angle to this tale would be quite different. Who knows what chaos he had left behind. He seemed a bit remorseful and was heading off home to stay out of bother. The bleeding had stopped but his hands were covered in blood. I considered giving sage advice about seeing a doctor then thought better of it; the school of hard knocks would look after this guy. He’d probably wake up the next morning, blood all over his sheets, and wonder what the hell had happened.

I meanwhile was stone-cold sober, still in my work gear and had a book in my hand. He was determined to have a chat, and was asking me where I was from and where I was heading to now. He wasn’t an aggressive drunk, just aggressively friendly, in the manner of one whose drinking habits are yet to be impinged by frequent hangovers. I was stuck in the seat next to him and had no alternative but to take part in a conversation with the guy. Ignoring him wasn't going to work.

He sensed my agitation, and gave me a friendly poke on the leg, unwittingly smearing a postage stamp of blood on my work trousers. I was not happy and told him so. He attempted to touch my shirt in apology. I halted him again. He was like a bull in a china shop. He asked me where I went out at weekends, I told him Fremantle. I was not in control of this conversation.

“You go to Metro’s, ay?”

“Nah, not my scene.” I replied. Metropolis is a nightmare, a massive club where there is trouble every week.

“Yeah, full of dickheads, ay!”

“Yeah that’s right.” He reminded me remarkably of one of said dickheads. “I usually go to Little Creatures.”

“Yeah, it’s good, ay. Full of good people!” Clearly he saw himself in this sub-strata.

He got off a few stops after, looking for a McDonalds. And like that, this crazy drunk man stumbled out of my life.

“Don’t worry mate, I’ve not got the Aids!” he added, touching my fist with his in parting.

"Take care, mate," I answered.

What a weird afternoon! The Melbourne Cup might not have been that interesting but it’s not every day you get to have somebody bleed on you on the bus. I just hope the little bastard's blood comes out in the wash!