Travel Story «October Bank Holiday Weekend - Part One - The Race»

Australia | 0 Comments 30 September 2006 - Last Update 24 December 2006

The Sport of Kings, an Australian Bank Holiday AND the birthday of a goddess – celebrations were par for the course on the weekend of the 1^st of October 2006 (My birthday people – age = irrelevant).

Yes readers this weekend was event full. Another thing that was full was N106 233 Harris Street.

My family was so distraught, so utterly bereft at my leaving for a year that they decided to send my first cousin, my mother’s nephew, John Murphy – renowned motor-sport enthusiast, to to mind me. My father’s niece, Karen Coakley, had already been dispatched by the powers that be 12 months previous to pave the way for my arrival.

So John arrived at the end of September with his posse from the Bush Bar, Millstreet.

In the great and ancient tradition of the Irish abroad we opened our home to refugees from the old country. So into our two bedroom little slice of the Australian dream already inhabited by Aisling, Emily, Grainne and Lorna, we welcomed John Murphy (AKA Bawny), James (AKA Chuck), Denis (AKA Denis Paul), John Daly (AKA John Daly) and Denise. So in this way four became nine.

The Fellowship of the Mingers.

The whole experience brought screaming back the stories my mother would tell about walking to school through the fields, barefoot in the snow after milking and making butter and cheese in the croft – actually those are from Alice Taylor. But Mam and my Grandmother, Nan , (Hi Nan) always told us about how they would fit 10 children and 2 adults in an old VW Beetle in order to go to Mass on a Sunday or to visit relations.

Our problems were more immediate. 3 beds and nine people meant the visitors slept on the floor (John Murphy and Denis on the couches) and had access to mattresses after the residents had left for work. There was also the language barrier. The refined Laydees I live with occasionally found the Vernacular of North Cork difficult to decipher. For the most part our guests made a concerted effort to speak the common language, but when talking to each other they tended to lapse into an accent that sounds like a cross between race cars taking sharp corners and underwater French.

Despite cramped conditions and very competitive games of “Bathroom Tag” our family was very happy (Well the people with beds were anyway) and when we decided to go the races (ponies, fillies, horsies – whatever you call them yourself) at Randwicke a full complement of 9 were to attend – ooh and Aileen (Knuckles) who is an honorary member of our household anyway – so 10 really.

The unofficial Irish Sports and Social Committee of Templemore Émigrés (comet teeee – say like D’Unbelieveables would) of Patrick Joseph Kirwan and Emily (No Middle Name) Lewis rallied even more troops. So aside from the occupants/squatters of Pyrmont, other tentative gamblers from Bondi by way of Athlone (Brid, Helen, Hilary, Ruth, Cathy, their friend the lovely and youthful Laura – she’s like 11- ) friends of Paddy’s (Podge, Timmy, Darren, Simon and Fran) along with Paddy Joe (PJ as in McManus) and some of his housemates (Philly, Michael - The Bull and Jen – lovely girlfriend of the Bull) were also going to lay down bets at the track – that’s how you say it!

So we rose early on Saturday morning to begin the long and protracted preparations which would enable us to get into a DRESS – different dresses, not the same one – don’t worry. A frenzy of hair spray, eyebrow plucking and perfume application ensued and once they were finished the girls started to get ready.

It was like any house on the morning of a Wedding, Confirmation or First Holy Communion – everyone (everyone female at least) was rushing around wafting very pungent fragrances around the place and booking each other’s time to apply fake tan, straighten hair and discuss jewelry choices.

Amazingly enough we were still ready 10 minutes before Emily’s schedule. Aisling and Lorna were going to arrive slightly later because Aisling’s couturier wouldn’t have her dress ready in time and also they were waiting for a delivery on my behalf (Thanks Girls). My wonderful family (Mam and Dad really) had flowers and a fruit basket delivered to me in honour of my birthday.

On leaving the apartment and hopping into the Taxi we had stolen from the boys we began to wonder whether we hadn’t gone a little bit overboard with the dresses and coiffures – but once we arrived at Randwicke we were left in no doubt, we may have looked nice and some of us really scrubbed up well, but the veteran race goers left us in the ha’penny place. Ascot, Galway on ladies day were rivaled by the sheer number of beautiful women and the fact that no two of them seemed to be wearing the same dress or HAT – I knew I should have bought a hat!

The weather on the day in question was lovely, very warm but with a cooling breeze – however the conditions became positively arctic in the shade.

Initially we doubted that we would ever be able to round up our various groups into the one corral (Get it! Corral….horses…racing!) but flitting about the viewing enclosure like demented and slightly drunken butterflies proved difficult in the heels. For one reason, high heels REALLY hurt (God wanted me to be short and I’ve decided not to anger him further with the fake height – so no more feet-killers for me) and another was that we keep sinking into the grass with the aforementioned heels.

So eventually the Millstreet contingent found the perfect viewing area, close to the front (so we could actually see the horses), close to the bar (so we good fight off the dehydration with water and the like) and close to the betting stands (so we could fly in the face of the Vatican and throw money away).

The first thing that we had done on arriving into the arena was purchase booklets with the names, numbers, colours and form of the horses in the various races. However I decided to eschew this traditional and boring form of choosing a winner – and I picked a horse that had a name I liked. So for the first race I place $5 to win a long shot called Rainbow Pony or Happy Horsy or something, the nice gentleman, whose children my money is putting through University, asked me if I’d had a tip – I took this as a sign that that my Horse was a sure fire winner – The nice man was looking for some sign as to why anyone would put money on a horse affectionately known as the nag.

Emily and Aileen asked Simon for a tip (so weak Ladies – we do NOT ask the men for help just because we are wearing Dresses) and the Athloners and Laura decided to sit out the first round of money losing.

So off to the front we went, probably highlighting the fact that we are eejits by asking question like “Do they get to pick their lucky numbers/ Do the Jockeys like animals/ Should I have picked a horse whose colours complemented my outfit?”

Giddy children in a sweet factory would have had more cop on and restraint than we showed on that fateful day. So while we were waiting patiently for the race to begin we discussed the various ensembles of our clique, and Emily watched a race on the big screen.

Grainne – Is that our race?

Emily – No Gra (same tone as “No dumb-ass”), this is live from Melbourne

Aileen – But what about those horses running fast over there?

Like idiots we missed the start of the race and had been waiting for the thundering sounds of hooves to come from the other direction – by the time the race was over we hadn’t even had enough time to remember what numbers we were rooting for (They are surprisingly fast!). Post race investigation revealed that Emily was a natural gambler – as her horse came in first – and that I was not – but I didn’t mind as I viewed the process as a learning curve and have always been a dedicated student.

As Emily got the first round in with her winnings I decided to study the form rather than rely on the failing “Pretty Colours/Pretty Name” method. Soon we were joined by the Athlone girls, Lorna and the Ace.

Aileen, Emily had informed us, was a very experienced member of the horsy set back home and we should really look to her for guidance. John Daly, who was clearly being polite, took heed of Emily’s words and followed Aileen the Sage’s advice. The results were disastrous. After a while John’s only methodology for betting was to make sure that it wasn’t the same horse as Aileen – and even then they picked the same animal by mistake – by the end of the day John Daly was weighing the pro’s and con’s of selling organs in order to recoup the losses suffered. Aileen was spending a lot of time apologizing and alternatively hiding from her former protégé.

The rest of the day followed a very static pattern.

Study the form and randomly pick a horse that may or may not have Irish Blood

Buy a round of Drink

Place your bets (and say hello to the Nice Betting man who just loves to see you coming)

Deposit your drink and run back to the Toilets/ATM

Return in time for the race

Throw away the betting slip and wait for the lads to make the jokes about all the money they’ve lost and how the horse they picked was actually a donkey/large greyhound.

Study the form again……(though clearly it makes as much sense as the subjunctive in German)

As the day wore on more and more of the people we knew came to stand in the area chosen by the Cork Boys – and soon we had pushed out all the Aussies and claimed a new parish in Randwicke.

Despite the massive losses suffered and the pain endured by those wearing the people-hating shoes, the day was successful in a fun way and we only went inside when the cold became too much and the last ten minutes of the Grand-final were televised. The Sydney Swans were hoping to retain their title as AFL Champions for the second year in a row – but like our contingent in Randwicke they emerged as losers and were defeated in a thrilling final at the MCG (Melbourne Cricket Ground - we were there!) by the West Coast Eagles.

We watched the last race inside after the footie game and congratulated Lorna as she won $13 in an internal betting pool.

Obviously we weren’t quite ready for things to finish there, and plans were made for everyone to rendezvous at the Coogee Bay Hotel (CBH) for post race analysis.

Helen and I had already laid out our conditions and were assured by Paddy and Emily that the CBH would have:

a)      Seats (so we could take off our green shoes – we coordinated)

b)      Heating (so we would stop shivering)

c)      Food (we were STARVING)

d)      Alcohol (Not for us, we were thinking of the other people)

So eventually our convoy set off – I’m not sure how everyone got there, or even how long it took everyone to get here, but in dribs and drabs our session was relocated from the racecourse. I cried tears of joy and happiness when I saw the seats – beautiful wooden stools.

The rest of the night was composed of eating in relays (in order to keep the seats at the bar – I wasn’t the only one in foot agony) and discussing where we went wrong with the betting – Catholicism says NO, we should have listened to the Pope!

After eating a pig – you know the start of the Flintstones when Fred, Wilma, Barney and Betty go to the Driven-in movies/restaurant and Fred gets an order of ribs so huge that is causes the car to flip over – large portion of ribs, I was feeling my age and Lorna and I decided to slip off home and the obscenely early hour of 9-30PM.

The rest of the gang seemed to be buoyed by our departure including my cousin John Murphy was just going to finish his drink and he’d be home right after us , and to be fair in some countries six hours is probably “right after you”, but we don’t live in either PJ O’Brien’s or Scruffy Murphy’s.

So while Lorna and I slept the sweet sleep of the slightly inebriated the rest of the gang partied in PJ’s recelebrated Ireland’s golden days in Italia 90 and took plenty of Photos to record the occurrences they wouldn’t remember in the morning. Generally a good time was had, by all accounts and the photo evidence.

Stay tuned for the part two of the weekend's story (Don’t worry – it will be much shorter).