The urge to vent is too strong
I've said it a million times, but I despise this time of year, I truly do. The Spring Racing Carnival brings about the worst in humanity, Due, perhaps to it's willingness to celebrate some of the worst traits of humanity, in particular, the sections of our society who can't hold their alcohol, and those who strive for "hotness" rather than beauty yet so seldom achieve it. All for the greater good of herd conformity, I presume. (As a footnote, I have no grievances with the concept of conformity, I find society's greatest individuals to be those who rarely stray from the straight and narrow. However, conformity of the generic sort is truly an evil in itself.)
We're a nation that prides itself on its ability to drink large masses of alcohol without too much trouble. Those who do so on a consistent basis, seemingly work their way onto pedastals. Yet somehow, these people seemingly disappear around this day off, replaced by teenaged girls armed with mini sized bottles of Passion Pop and the errant combination of rampant douchebaggery and cheap cans of mixed bourbon drinks.
The dress sense, or the errantly referred to "Fashions on the field" leave me scratching my head. The fascinator does as its name suggests, and fascinates me as to what logic dictates this accessory to be adding to ones appearance, rather than giving off the appearance of Pocahontas themed hooker meets Dennis Hopper's character in Apocalypse Now.
Then there's the necessity of the fake tan. Yes, it's been made well aware to me that due to holes in the ozone layer in this part of the world, it's bloody hard to tan in comparison to those on the other side of the world. No shortage of people pointing this out and it is certainly crystal clear when I look in the mirror. Regardless, it hardly merits the status of necessity, especially when one considers how often people seem to be just perfectly unable to apply it. Fake tan should be reserved for Mr. Universe contests and for those, like me, who just cannot tan in the slightest. Not for those who want to reinvent the Dulux colour chart or make their dress tone suddenly a lot more acceptable.
Speaking of dresses, I can't help but feel completely bored with the predictability of it all. If I had to take a wild guess what a potential female companion will be wearing to the races, I'd really go out on a limb and predict a floral pattern or a faux-pas Twigley-esque plunging neckline, the choice pending on levels of available finances and their respective score on the skank-o-meter. But is it really the fault of the average race-go'er, or just the retail outlets supplying a complete lack of choice? In theory, perhaps. In practice, leaving the fate of fashion's moral conscience in the hands of Cotton On doesn't strike me as anything that benefits anyone.
The blokes are no better. And I'm just as guilty as the next poor sod.
I've never quite understood why a suit at this time of year seems to give punters the metaphorical power to act like a drunk bogan moreso than the actual drunk bogans themselves that they share a pub with. The cheap suits out bogan the bogans themselves, sitting there bemused, in a Holden jacket, slurping back another VB tinnie, wondering when the meat tray is about to be drawn or why that poof Italian soccer shit's on the TV.
I dare you to peruse the field competing for the title of Fashion On The Field.....err..winner, and find someone who matches the description of traditional beauty. Someone who's actually used make-up, fake tan and whatever was out the door at the Bridge Rd factory outlets to enhance their natural beauty, rather than hide cocaine eyes, a deviated septum or two, or a lipstick that L'Oreal certainly didn't put the semen in.
Sadly it's not going to change. Fortunately, it's one week of the year out of fifty two.
I'll take that.
