*sniiiiiffff* ah, can you smell that? That my friends is the unmistakable aroma of roses and horse shit, or if you are from around here: Spring Racing Carnival. Some of you may hear these three words and literally jizz your panties with the thought of crowds and booze and betting and high heels and the hot summer sun. I, however, detest the words. It is not only my slight dislike for the hot outdoors, my inability to wear heels for more than a few hours, my lack of money, my lack of betting know-how, nor my distaste for large crowds of australians drinking in one place. It is more the memories that haunt me. The memories of that fateful Spring where I stupidly agreed to work as an Ice-Cream vendor at the Melbourne Cup.
I suppose teenage stupidity and money lust were to blame... or maybe I had sniffed one too many gluesticks. Whatever the case, the fact still remains that it was one of the most horrible experiences of my working life. This repressed memory has been locked up tight folks, and now that I start to think about it, a few details are coming back. I must have been in high school still, as I recall a few people from my year level being roped in also. We didn't know what to expect, we were promised the world during that morning newsletter announcement...
On the first day I turned up at the deserted grounds wearing my black leather shoes, black pants and t-shirt. Thankfully the catering company were kind enough to provide me with an oversized black polo-shirt and a fashionable cap. Once looking the part, the sexy part that is, I was partnered up with the class clown and briefed on the day's proceedings. Basically we were to take an Ice-Cream cart (one on wheels with an umbrella) and pick any spot we like to stand for the whooooooole day and sell ice creams. Oh and the best part: we got to wear bum-bags!! awesome :
So out we went with the promise of a packed lunch and a lunch break down the track. Now, this was an unnaturally hot Spring, unlike this current one, I remember it being nearly 40 degrees! This is not one of my 'exaggerations' either, it was actually super hot in the sun in all those black clothes and i got a burnt nose despite my fashionable cap. The part we found out on the day was that we didn't actually earn the amount we were told, we could earn UP TO that amount as we were working on commission! So we actually made a lot of money that day - the class clown was a great entertainer and the more drunk everyone got, and the more shoes that ended up in hands, the more ice-creams we seemed to sell.
The second day, however, was not so great. I was partnered with the biggest douchebag imaginable, and someone stole our chuppa chup display as a form of protest against our overpriced wares, and threw them into the surging crowd of outstretched hands like the fire-truck santa that used to drive around my suburb on Christmas morning. On a side note, that was amazing! We would hear the siren and bolt outside to scramble for lollies on the grass, and would see children emerge from houses who we didn't know existed.
Amazing. Anyway, back to the story. I remember on that second day, I heard more complaints about overpriced $3.90 Magnums than ever before. These days they probably cost that much anyway. I also remember some paraletic guy raging to me that Souvalakis were being sold for $12! TWELVE DOLLARS!! I'm pretty sure I've ordered a lamb shish with tabouli and cheese and cooked onion or whatever brings the price up to that amount these days. Scary. I think on that hot awful day I earned only $30. I don't even remember if there was a third day - if there was I didn't go back.
These days when my friends start getting excited about the races, I get sweaty and self conscious and start feeling like I am being swarmed by people and see chuppa chups raining down from the sky, burying me. And then some drunk lady with no shoes grabs me and tells me how the line for the toilet was so long that she pissed herself. Maybe one day I will grow up and actually think that buying a new outfit (complete with hat), overpriced food and drink, losing my bets, getting burnt, sore feet, and being surrounded by drunk bogans and scrags (yes, i said it: scrags), and then having to get a train home is the epitome of a 'nice day out'. Maybe. But I doubt it. Maybe if i got a VIP invite and was in a special tent with free everything rubbing shoulders with Melbourne's best F- grade celebs I would have a better experience. Maybe.
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