Postcards from Flemington II
It all ended with Steve Jackson. At least as far as I can recall. That was me, at least until I drank myself into either stupidity or sobriety, depending on your inclination. It was a big day and it needed a big finish.
And so it came to pass.
The day had lost civility a long while back. Derby Day will do that to you. Something about morning drinking, wild gambling, attractive women, Hunter Thompson-like smoking and that blue cornflower on the lapel, combined with the gamut of Making The Nut favourites and assorted hangers on, meant we were lost to decent humanity, for the Saturday and as it turned out, until well into Wednesday.
By the time the Derby had been run and won by some evil-looking bastard of a horse named Sangster, who presumably has a taste for Susans and offshore tax havens, all hope was lost that we would be able to get through the day without trouble
Financial trouble was, of course, inevitable. We had started badly. Cliff was trying to boost spirits by tipping winners but Napper and I were having none of it. We were demanding quaddies, wagers at Canberra, winners at Alice Springs. All very un-Cliffo-like. We had paid for entry and we left common sense at the front gate. We wouldn't see it for a very long time.
It all gets a little hazy after Hurtle Myrtle saluted in the mares group one, like the lyrics to a Gin Blossoms song. You know you are close, you know you were there but you can't quite hit it sweet. Stu was happy, the genial Tasmanian wordsmith, celebrating with cigarettes, bear hugs and long, long swigs. Or something like that. At the very least, we hit the gourmet sausage stand up and leant forward to avoid a mustard stain on the grey suit.
As we floated in and out of the Flemington Sportsbet offices, head bookmaker Jason Sylvester resplendent in bow-tie and rounded spectacles, we found plenty of old friends and plenty of new. The beers flowed freely, the chatter ever-louder and more opinionated. This was Making The Nut, in verbal form.
By the last, Team Nut had done its. Blackjack Boy was a special at Echuca and duly saluted, saving not only the last of the funds but the idea of a trip to the casino later. We had already won on blackjack. There was no need to hit Crown up. Nor would we have been welcomed, but that is neither here nor there.
The Blackjack Boy win did not last long though. And when time was called and the bill needed to be settled, answers were soon demanded. Accusations were made, the mood turned ugly. There always needs to be a scapegoat, particularly when it comes to a punters club, and Napper was looking Cliffo square in the eye.
It was all quickly forgotten though. Someone held court, telling tales of shady racecourse antics. The diehards looked on at the draw for the Cup. Those of us with a wide array of vices headed to the Hill Stand though, hoping for a cheeky dart, a decent seat and the state of grace that comes with seeing a racetrack that an hour previous housed 100,000 people empty and strewn with mess. It is, as they say, cathartic.
All this lasted until some jackboot security guard with a short temper and a violent opposition to decency threw us out. Someone called him an assclown. I'm going to say it was Stu. It was probably me. Napper was too busy whirring the controversy siren.
The line for a cab, naturally, was rough and ready. There is no escape from the bowels of hell and so it feels as you try to leave Flemington in Cup week, desperate for copious quantities of food, drink and sitting, all in equal doses.
Some dirty hipster, with a pencil thin moustache and a Brooks Brothers vest (and, disgracefully, no cornflower lapel), attempted to push in, making some flimsy excuse about letting the lady go first. "Ride her home on your fixie," I yelled out as I closed the cab door behind me, ordering the man with the wheel to Brunswick St and the best Greek restaurant in Melbourne.
When Bossy (one of the aforementioned hangers-on and a renowned reprobate with a history of poor Derby Day form) knocked over a bottle of wine, it was a case of 'time, gentlemen, please'. Or at least that is what I believe the loud yelling from the Greek-speaking manager translated too.
So it was off to Old Bar, the finest drinking establishment anywhere in Melbourne and probably the world, a venue that promotes long and comfortable drinking like few other places. The barmen are friendly and bearded. The music usually skews country. Fighting is rare. Weirdness is common. The toilets are dark and dank and smell like 40-year-old piss, bottled and dispensed for purposes of ambiance and feel.
At this point, standing had become a major drama. We had passed beer. We had passed wine. We were now onto vodka and straight-out chain smoking. We needed something to do with our hands. It was during some argument that a strange looking chap pointed and said "you're Elvis Costello". I told him he was a dickhead but he wanted none of it. Only a photo would satisfy.
As he got in close, he said to me: "you smell like my mum".
I quickly hit back: "I do not smell like a stinky vagina."
The evening had gone distinctly low brow. But this putz had learned his lesson. Don't stir up trouble with the Making The Nut team.
The evening was coming to a dramatic close. We had all the liquor we could possibly tolerate and more. We were mumbling about rugby league. There was Napper and Boss, Robbo and Cliff. Stu was gone. Something to do with the runs. They were standing. I was sitting on a table.
And then, for reasons unknown, I rose, like a phoenix in the night or, at the very least, a drunk with a good idea. I moved to the left and palmed Cliff. Robbo was next. I fended off Boss. Napper was out the backdoor too. I stepped. I bobbed. I dived and scored. I got up and screamed “I’m Steve Jackson” in a deep booming voice. I had just replayed the most memorable moment from the most memorable Grand Final in the greatest bar of all. Few understood the scene that was just made. At most bars, a quick ejection would have been in order.
But not Old Bar. And not on Derby Day, where all kinds of strange behaviour is accepted.
We sat down. Ordered another drink and decided that Derby Day was over for another year. We had been whipped financially, drank ourselves to a standstill, broken bottles of wine and very nearly bones. But we were winners, champions of the night.
Stick with the Nut. If nothing else, it should be a fun ride.
