Best of the breast as the Spring Carnal kicks off
Something’s in the air and it’s not just a truckload of pollen. National stockpiles of Zyrtec, Tuscan Tan and ostrich feathers are all being hammered relentlessly.
The Spring Racing Carnival is upon us. Originally a celebration of the finest in equine flesh, the event has diversified into an exposition of both equine and female flesh.
Like musk sticks or anchovies, etymology either does it for you or it doesn’t. I would be happy to see the recipe for musk sticks go up in flames, but I do dig a bit of etymology.
Accordingly, I have mulled over the meaty origins of a word like carnival.
The prevailing opinion is that the Carnivale was originally a period when, in addition to celebrating riotously, people gave up (levare – to lift) meat (carne). Clearly things have come full circle.
Today the flesh on display at the major days of Spring Racing could take a butcher’s breath away. Even the most lecherous need to start their ocular exercises now to avoid eyeball fatigue on the day.
Flemington has become a breastfest: whether poached and enfolded in the softest ribbons of white bread, or spray-tanned and showcased in the finest fabric, Melbourne’s best is on display. And don’t get me going on the thighs.
Talk of this season’s colours and cuts is all a distraction. Spring Racing Fashion is all about minimalism - the minimal amount of material possible.
Did Generation Y stay up all night hand-stitching their dresses only to discover after midnight that they simply hadn’t bought enough cloth? Or did they just set out to look like tarts and achieve unparalleled success?
Perhaps I am steeped in a bitter marinade of middle age - if I could whip an inch off my thighs I would probably snip an inch of my hems.
And of course while I allege that the lambs are in a state of undress, they may well counter that this is only because the mutton have taken their clothes.
Fashion, however, is only part of the spectacle. As an example of a mass mating ritual Flemington compares with anything you could see on the National Geographic Channel. For a sight, our very own Birdcage rivals the sea of pink flamingos that migrate to and descend on Lake Natron in Tanzania to get it on.
This should come as no surprise though because the Carnival combines all the benefits of traditional dating, internet dating and speed dating. You can assess what’s on offer first hand, you can sift through hundreds of candidates you would not otherwise meet and it’s acceptable to cut off contact after 60 seconds.
As Effie my manicurist said, if a guy can’t pick up at the Spring Carnival he should start batting for the other team.
Effie gives good nail but she is an even better storyteller. Some of her spring racing tales have taught me how to blush again. If you’re old enough to hear them I still won’t tell you for fear of shorting your pacemaker. Knickerless Hollywood starlets wouldn’t get a look in.
And as for Ticketmaster, I’ve heard of buying a bad seat with little hope of seeing an event properly, but what stroke of genius is this to get tens of thousands of people to buy tickets to an event that they have no intention or expectation of watching.
Anyway I’m off. It’s time for me to book a spray tan, cut out bread and dairy (they bloat don’t you know) and hunt down some kind of headwear that I would have to be stark raving mad to wear any other time of year – the Spring Racing Carnival is upon us.
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