Melbourne Cup day – Doomben Races
Melbourne cup. The race that stops the nation.
But it doesn’t stop them from drinking themselves into an absolute, frothing stupor.
Plenty of people across Australia take this opportunity to stop working, dress up in the nicest clothing, don a fascinator or other hat-type accessory, indulge in some food, sometimes play with some office sweepstakes or even throw a couple of dollars onto the races themself and often times….consuming an absolute shitload of alcohol.
This year, we decided that we would attend the Nova Lawn Party at Doomben racecourse in QLD to celebrate the occasion. This saw me putting on some dress pants, a dress shirt and a waistcoat while Tarn *gasp* decided to not wear pants and instead *double gasp* opted to get her pins out with a lovely skirt and top ensemble.
Fashions on the field
Let’s be honest here. While, the Melbourne cup is a horse race, Fashion is a big aspect (if not THE biggest aspect) of the races. A vast majority of patrons at Melbourne cup events tend to ignore the large thoroughbreds being galloped around the paddock by helium sucking midgets (in fact the only view of any race tracks at the Nova Lawn party were via large screen televisions dotted around the event), and instead tend to focus purely on who was wearing what. To that end, I give you, the people I saw at the races;
Too cool for Races AKA The hipster
This is the guy that treat socks with pure and utter disdain. His moustache is freshly oiled (and more often than not, twirled into deadly razor sharp, up-turned spikes reminiscent of the wild boar that took down Robert Baratheon in the Game of Thrones. He is sometimes wearing shorts in an effort to show that pants or trousers are so déclassé and to potentially bring attention to his complete disregard for socks (being too cool to possibly get smelly shoes).
The Woooooooo girl
We saw these girls travelling in packs, the Woooooooo girl is generally very considered in her outfit. Attire, shoes and accessories are not only coordinated as a complete outfit, but oftentimes coordinated as a team. This is to assist them in recognising each other as the stalk their male prey throughout the event after drink 8 Moscato’s and calling out WOOOOOOOO to show their level of excitement (incidentally, the number of O’s in their WOO tends to align with the number of moscato’s that have been imbibed by said Woooooooo girl. Likely to be found pushing police officers into bushes or riding rubbish bins down the street. There were a number of these at Doomben this year – one happened to be wearing what I could only describe as a body suit and a wrap of gause around her waist, while another took every opportunity she could to either slut drop or perform the jersey turnpike (both dancemoves that one would normally associate with a scantily clad pole dancing harlot.
Check out my chest – male
There were quite a few of these at Doomben this year. These guys have definitely not forgotten chest day.
They have purposely purchased a shirt that is a size or two too small to accentuate the hard work they have put in at the gym and probably take every opportunity they can during the day to quick smash out some pushups to keep that “pump” at it’s maximum. While standing in line for drinks, food or bathroom, these chesty bloke will tense and untense their chest muscles to perform a dance to whatever music is (or isn’t) currently playing. A couple of the guys that I saw this year were a mixture of Check out my chest and Hipsters in that they were wearing shorts, tight, tight shorts and braces/suspenders – because, hey….belts aren’t cool enough to hold up their shorts.
Check out my chest – female
Ahhhhh bolt-ons. The ever present accessory at all Shindigs from Brisbane to the Surfer’s Paradise.
Some describe Queensland as the Fake Boob capital of the world and it, quite literally, was on show this year at Doomben Melbourne Cup. Breasts, Boobs, Noombies, Jugs, Paps, Tatas, Cans, Knockers, Bongos, Chesticles or whatever you like to call them were on full display. Low cut or Deep V-cut dresses were aplenty to show of their purchased cleavages as well as a lot of dresses with well placed cut-outs or draping to create side boob.
The Older Filly AKA The Cougar
We all know the one. Sipping on her skinny bitch (vodka, soda and a wedge of lime), twirling her straw with her tongue while casually waving her glazed eyes over the crowd, pausing only to mentally undress men that pique her curiosity. Gone are the days where this older lass pranced around in leopard print (although this does still happen on occassion), but you can guarantee that the dress is probably a little too tight (with a high chance of boob-spillage) and the heels are guaranteed to be a little too high (but with straps to dangle over their shoulders after an afternoon of too many Chardonnays)
These are the people that take fashion seriously. Their hair is immaculate, their accessories are on point, shoes on fleek (I don’t know what that means, I just heard someone say it the other day and told myself that I’d add it to my repertoire), they also sign up for Fashion’s on the field before placing a bet or even touching a drop of alcohol. Pants and blazers over matching suits, full dresses over skirts and blouses, peplum at it’s finest, fascinators and pocket squares galore (this year, a lovely gentleman was taking photographs with the masses as he had donned a top hat, can and was also wearing tails).
These are some of the people that we saw at Doomben this year. Granted, Flemington would have seen a greater concentration of these characters (maybe with a bigger focus by “The Fashionista” – due in fact to involvement from the likes of Myer and David Jones and their associated fashion houses.
All in all though, we had so much fun. Granted, we had to wait a long time for food (before Tarn lectured one of the servers and scared them into attending our table before anyone else), and drink limits were lowered pretty early in the afternoon. We were able to listen to some great music, enjoy a lively atmosphere, have some great food (the custard filled donut balls were devine) and Tarn was able to get a win (yes….she picked the winner of the Melbourne Cup….no, I did not bet as much money as she asked me to….yes, she has reminded me numerous times since….no, I am not giving her the winnings….yes, she will get it eventually, somehow). Our trip home was in comfort also, thanks to the great service from our Uber driver Andrew and his BMW M3.
Will we go again next year? Without a doubt.
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