Okay, a warning to all ye who are about to enter and read: I am about to write an UNPOPULAR OPINION (Shock! Horror! Gasp! Swoon! Oh no, Great Auntie Ethel's unloaded in her granny knickers!).
All I have heard about, or seen in my news feed since about 6.00pm yesterday (I wasn't looking at the television any earlier, so no, I didn't watch That Event) is the great shattering of the glass ceiling, the trailblazing victory for women everywhere, the trite From Humble Beginnings etc articles because we have achieved the pinnacle of greatness (or so one would assume) in that - are you sitting down? Are you comfy? Have you voided your bladder? Removed your socks so they don't get knocked off? - a FEMALE jockey has ridden the winning horse in the Melbourne Cup. Everyone appears to have lost their shit, and is flapping their arms and shrieking, 'Yaaaaaay!' a la Kermit the Frog at the beginning of 'The Muppet Show'.
I normally applaud any person who breaks stereotypes. Indeed, I was very supportive when a male entered the Miss Australia pageant years ago (from memory, he was technically the winner in that he raised the most funds for the nominated charity, but he could not be awarded the crown because the rules stated the winner must be female, and da rulez is da rulez). However, whilst I understand the accolades being bestowed upon the winning rider of yesterday's Cup, I am having trouble giving a shit. Not even a box of Laxettes and a cup of prune juice will induce me to give anything even resembling a shit. I just cannot conjure one up at the moment. I opened the cupboard where my fucks are stored, and it's rivalling Old Mother Hubbard's, so there were no fucks for me to give, either.
People are already saying what a great movie it will be. It has all the hallmarks of a Typical Aussie Movie. Underdogs everywhere. The jockey is female, and from a large family. The strapper, her brother, has special needs. The winning horse was purchased quite cheaply by a syndicate, and paid handsomely on the win. Casting agents will be checking the books for scrawny actors. I'm sure it has AFI written all over it. There's bound to be a John Williamson song somewhere in the soundtrack.
And of course - sigh! - the usual mob are bleating about the 'misogyny' of it all. I will buy sexism and chauvinism, but not misogyny. Oh yeah, another bugbear will emerge when everyone starts going on about the mis-o-gyn-eeeeee to which women are subjected in sport. Can the people who throw around accusations of misogyny please look up the definition of the damn word, and then place a rubber band around your wrist and give yourselves a good, eye-watering snap with it next time you feel the urge to misuse the word. If you can't find a rubber band, settle for giving yourselves an uppercut.
Perhaps my cynicism is generated by the fact that horse racing does absolutely nothing for me. Never has. My experience is limited to having worked as a wait person at a race meeting many years ago, and almost had my head bitten off by a well-known socialite who was one facelift away from having a beard. I have also partaken in the traditional office sweep on Cup Day, as well. Often the situation was just painful because the old bag in charge of the office annoyed everyone, and most people didn't want to be there because of her yet felt pressured somehow to be there. I envied the receptionist who cried off on religious grounds one year, and I cried off one year on financial grounds and was on the receiving end of the stink-eye from the old bag all afternoon. There was a secretary working there who asked did I want to go in a syndicate and purchase a race horse. I'm thinking of this particular person because he also defied a gender stereotype in that he worked in a traditionally female role. People used to be surprised when I mentioned there was a male secretary on the floor, and I'd hear him speaking to people on the phone: 'Yes, I am a man. Not at all, ma'am, it's the twentieth century now, men can do this.' He actually resorted to announcing himself as his boss's clerk instead of secretary to save putting up with the guff. As much as I liked the busting of the gender stereotype, the guy himself shat me to tears. He stayed with me for a week whilst in the process of moving flats, and not once did he re-wrap the plastic around the cheese properly. In terms of flat sharing, this is a deal breaker for me. Never mind the old adage 'Who moved my cheese?', 'Who didn't re-wrap the fucking cheese properly?' is where we should be directing our energy.
My malaise and inability to give a shit is undoubtedly symptomatic of the lack of sleep I am getting lately. My lack of sleep is due to personal issues, but the issues seem to be getting slowly, slowly resolved. Resolve, damn you! Resolve, already!
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