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Mullane Melbourne Cup Special - The Race That Stops The Nation

The Melbourne Cup is Australia's most prestigious thoroughbred racing event. Internationally known as the race that stops a nation. Now, the USA has their Kentucky Derby, and France has its Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe, the UK Royal Ascot.

WARNING: The Following Article is an Opinion Piece written by The Anonymous Author Mullane. This article respresents his views and not that of The Anonymous Publishing House. Free speech as well as freedom of expression and opinion are a fundimental and natural right for all. Censorship will only ever silence the truth and in the persuit of free speech there may be times where you read words objectionable to you and your beliefs. Either contest and debate the opinions expressed, or skip to the next article/video.


We might not agree with the words written below, but we will fight til our last breath for the authors rights to say them.


The Melbourne Cup is Australia's most prestigious thoroughbred racing event. Internationally known as the race that stops a nation. Now, the USA has their Kentucky Derby, and France has its Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe, the UK Royal Ascot. The populations of these countries do not exhibit the same frenzied excitement as displayed by Aussies for a three-minute horse race.


The Melbourne Cup is Australia's pre-eminent public horse abuse holiday official in Victoria, unofficial in other states—the sickest day of the year. The one day of the year, everyone becomes a horse expert. People of questionable character own the horses participating in the race: Obscure Royals, Arab Oil Sheiks, car dealers, captains of commerce and Industry, and 'noureau riche.'


The organisers of the Melbourne Cup would have us believe it is a sophisticated sporting event. When the reality is it's an excuse for a dress-up, piss up for suburban bogans. The corporate marques are a fancy name for a tent. They are full of decadent degenerate Rich-listers, bitch-listers, and B-grade celebrities who are social arse lickers; speaking of arse lickers, a particular male son of a has-been TV presenter who gets an invite whose only claim to fame is the fact he is a homosexual transvestite freeloader. Maybe change the name from the sport of kings to the sport of queens. Also in attendance are recent reality TV rejects. All the TV networks send their second-division announcers, dressed in their finest, to report the event. They could save money by showing file footage of the event three years ago because nothing has changed.


This year, the cup was sponsored by Lexus, a fraudulent brand that wants you to believe it's as prestigious as a BMW, Mercedes Benz or a Porsche. Lexus is a Toyota with leather seats; however, the Japanese dare to charge the same price as the German brands.


The suburbanites are not allowed into the hallowed cavernous corporate carnival canopies. More security than the US President receives to keep non-invited out, or is it to keep the invited in? The proletariate attending has three objectives one, to have a punt, two, to get pissed; being drunk eases the pain of losing a week's wages and three, to obtain a stray root. Tradies look uncomfortable in a suit they last wore to nans funeral or a day in court, with an uncoordinated shirt tie and shoes sans socks. The young ockers ogle the young ladies hoping to get lucky. However, as the day progresses, they often settle for an older chook rather than a chick. Waking up the following day and not viewing their catch through beer goggles, they revert to the coyote syndrome. The young women and bourgeois middle-aged Tookrak types. These flash females go to extraordinary lengths to dress in coordinated hats resembling lampshades that could house a small family or a feathery fascinator, wearing killer high heels. A competition exists to see who can display the most cleavage. Tits tumble out of inadequate bras, a la natural ones, ity bitty tities and manufactured massive mammaries.


These amateur punters find out a handicap race does not mean a jockey with one leg. As the day passes, the punters have lost their money, self-respect, and inhibitions. They have no further interest in watching a withered anorexic midget with a whip belting the shit out of a hapless horse. They decide to become inebriated, sucking warm beer from a can in each hand. The youthful ladies and the battered Botox geriatric grizzled gals slurp on cheap Champagne, trying to allude to some form of sophistication. All the while hopping, they will score a sex session with a young, handsome suburban stud or an experienced lothario. Towards the end of the day, they'll settle for a male barely alive, as long as rigour mortis hasn't set in.


As the day drags on, everyone has achieved their first objective of being legless. Speech slurred, falling over into hedges, bragging blokes brawling, "You want a go mate?" human fillies displaying their frillies as they fall arse over, often giving the likely lads some joy with a vertical smile. The killer high heels are now in hand or handbag. The older women remove their painful, restricting Nancy Ganz's pantz, relieved they can breathe again.


Now, all this liquid being consumed has to be emptied. The pissed patrons observe the long toilet lineup. The blokes say, "Yeah fuck this." Where is the nearest tree? Whack out their willy and piss with a big smile of pleasure, shake it put it back. Now, the ladies observe the long line up busting to urinate. They have two options piss themselves or find a private spot to squat wildly fucking impossible with 80,000 people present. One can observe women stepping out of wet knickers, wringing them out and putting them in their handbags; all forms of dignity dissipated. From the secluded squatters, a chorus can be heard, "Anyone got a tissue."


That about covers Flemington; however, similar scenes can be observed at race tracks around Australia. Every suburban club, pub, and restaurant holds a Melbourne Cup day. Suburban men and women dress up, enjoy a set menu lunch and drink more than they should. Ten bucks bet on a nag. A great day, win, lose or draw.


Now, please do not misinterpret this as me being against horse racing. I have been a horse racing journalist and worked for an SP bookmaker. My editor once told men, "Listen, son, horse racing is a business; horses are a commodity. It's off to the knackery when they stop making money and end up as food for the dish lickers." In my day, the Melbourne Cup was possibly one of the few races that wasn't rigged. Prize money for the winner is $4.400 million; the jockey receives 5%. Perhaps that's why jockey's wives are attractive 180cm beautiful blondes. Jockeys also suffer terrible injuries, and some get killed. A horse is an animal of flight and weighs 500 to 600 Kg. A jockey weighs 45 to 55 kg. Jockeys torture themselves to maintain this unnatural weight.


The animal cruelty protesters like vegans are pushing shit uphill if they think horse racing will be banned. Horse racing is a multi-billion-dollar industry. Governments collect billions from betting taxes—thirty billion being wagered each year. The racing industry employs 750,000 directly and indirectly. Every night on prime-time TV networks, we are bombarded with substantial production ads with casts of thousands endeavouring to convince the gullible you can win betting on horse racing. These betting agencies are mainly overseas-owned companies. On a per capita basis, Australia has the most substantial racing industry in the world.


Like Australia Day, Aussies don't need an excuse to get on the piss and have fun. The only difference is that Australia Day is cheaper, and you can wear Australia's national costume shorts, T/Shirt, thongs, or a bikini. Hang on, you say men can now wear shorts to the Melbourne Cup. Call me old-fashioned or conservative; men's hairy pins are the last thing I want to observe. However, the homosexual transvestite most likely is delighted. Until next year.


Danny Mullane


Buy Danny's controversial memoir Car Dealers and Other (Honourable) Professions below.



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