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MELBOURNE CUP DAY 1980

It had been arranged that I should meet with my mates (i.e. my drinking - gambling - cavortingassociates) at an early-opener city pub at 9.00 a.m. for a few "heart-starters"before adjourning to therace track at 11.30 a.m. I was greedily anticipating the occasion , not because of fondness for thematiness but because I knew that these fellows would be flinging their money around and that I wouldenjoy a long day of free drinks.My lifestyle was reduced to scrounging and stealing booze. I had been granted severance pay after my employer had asked me to resign because of my recalcitrant alcoholic drinking (four strikes and Iwas out), but this $3000, supplemented by the dole, had only supported six months of independentlyfunded drinking. Subsequently my dole money paid the rent, with infrequent gestures to the electricitycompany, and the rest was used as "introduction" money , whereby I would go into a bar, buy a drink and then reconnoitre for a likely target. Having spotted a mark I would engage him (usually a male) in pub talk before spinning my tale of woe - my wife had run off with another man and all of my money, or my house had burnt down and I had lost everything (no insurance), or I had been sacked from my job because I found the boss screwing his secretary , or whatever happened to sound like a good tragic ideaat the time, or combinations of these. At the worst I would get as good as I gave , a contest of the"poor mes" , however I often earned at least one drink, and sometimes won a session of drinking or afew dollars. Having a pass for the free use of public transport enabled me to move around from pub to pub so as not to wear out my welcome (or luck). In the evening I had a couple of establishments wherethe barmaids were mightily impressed by my intellectual style and my fabulous tales of tragedy such thatI could scrounge free drinks and leftovers from the kitchen; there were other places where the bottleshops were vulnerable to thievery. Thus were my days spent ; very long hours labouring in desperate anddeceitful pursuit of grog - it was not fun .Consequently the prospect of an easy ride at the expense of my old school and university mates was exhilirating.Cup Day eve was occupied in my usual fashion, culminating sometime around midnight in alapse into an alcoholic coma. I had not been concerned about missing my rendezvous because it wasnormal for me to stir after four or five hours, when I would spend the next hour or so vomitting into a4L ice-cream container. In the throes of the vomitting I would become saturated in sweat, my rib cagesorely and severely strained , my heart feeling as if it would burst, the bottom-of-the-cocky's-cagefoulness in my mouth replaced with the burning bitterness of bile. When it seemed that I had completedmy purge I would crawl to my stock of port (a cheeky wine, at $1.40 a flagon) from which I wouldswallow a hearty mouthful; a difficult task given that I would be weakened from my vigorous exerciseand would be shaking violently. Nevertheless this small draft soon strengthened me sufficiently to be ableto fill a pint glass with more of the medicine which would settle my scalding stomach and boost my blood alcohol level towards preventing the onset of an epileptic seizure. After the port my final test wasto be able to tolerate a cigarette and a half bottle of beer; if these corrosive agents could be coped withthen I knew that I was looking good, otherwise it was back to the ice-cream container etc. On thisoccasion, I had planned that once I had stabilised my condition I would catch the first possible bus to themeeting place; this strategy had the advantage of allowing me to leave unfinished grog as a bonus for that night or the next day. As it happened I managed to organise myself for the 7.00 a.m. bus. It had been a long time since I had experienced the bright, fresh morning air which stood in stark contrast tothe stale, musty, putrid atmosphere of my continuously closed room. As I awaited the bus I becameaware of the reek of putrefaction about myself - the foul odour of cigarette smoke, stale grog, stalesweat, vomit (in my beard), and dirt. Bathing, or more particularly showering, had become not only achore but a painful experience, for the roar of the bunsen burner shower heater was terrifying andhead-splitting, certainly at that critical time of the day when I was struggling to resurrect myself .Subsequently when my condition was reasonably stable I didn't care; I couldn't be bothered wastingdrinking time in the ritual of showering or washing. I did try drinking under the shower once but it proved to be a frustratingly disastrous experience. Shaving was not a problem for I had long since

grown a beard. Teeth cleaning was out of the question because the minty flavour of the toothpastecorrupted the tang of my morning port; at best I might quickly rub over my teeth with a wet toothbrush.Anyway, hygiene was about health and health was for neurotics. The only attention which was given tomy external condition was to ensure that my clothes were relatively neat and clean ; this attitude derivedfrom necessity rather than choice, for it occurred to me that dirty, shabby clothing might exclude mefrom admittance to certain establishments - besides, while the clothes were tumbling around in thelaundromat machines (for the price of less than one drink) I could be drinking. The contradiction of afilthy, smelly body cloaked in clean clothes never crossed my mind. Thus it was strange that on thismorning I should have been self-conscious about my personal hygiene. I suspect that it was largely dueto the fact that I had not yet boosted my blood alcohol level to the point of being oblivious to the restof the world. Added to this was a sense of joy about my bright prospects for the day such that I wastemporarily released from my "poor-me", scornful, misanthropic state of mind. I noticed the other people at the bus stop and almost welcomed their presence; I did not feel an overwhelming hatredtowards them, no resentment, no jealously, no envy. Rather than wishing to disgust them, to horrifythem, I felt an urge to greet them heartily and blurt out that I was going to see my friends. I was like akid on Christmas morning who wanted to show the whole world his new bike. But, then I becamescared. Maybe they wouldn't let me tell them about my good luck; maybe they didn't want to know;maybe they could smell me; maybe they were disgusted by me; maybe they were laughing at me,sneering at me. My heart sank to my boots and my anger boiled to my head. So I made a great din aboutconjuring up some phlegm, and a great spectacle about spitting it onto the road. The toffy-nosed bastards off to their shitty working-class jobs and going home to their pathetic mortgages and wives andtwo kids. Boring vegetables. And I was right, they , and others who boarded the bus were self-centred,gutless, dullards - none of them chose to sit next to me. By now I was quite edgy and uncomfortable,feelings which were enhanced as I became more conscious of my smell and the sweating and tremblingwhich I was sure were attracting all eyes (and noses) to me. I was feeling dizzy (God! please don't letme have a fit - don't cheat me) and wished that I had had another port before I had left my room. I threwopen the window of the bus and gulped air all the way into the city; by now I was too panicky to carewho was looking or sniffing. I knew that I would have to get off the bus by the nearest early-opener where I could get a top-up; it was all I could do to hang on. It seemed that every traffic light was againstme. But I made it - it had been twenty minutes of hell and terror.The appointed place was on the other side of the city, about a thirty minute walk, however therewas another early-opener between me and the rendezvous point so I felt secure. Regardless of the delaysI arrived well before time - just under three-quarters of an hour early. I was free to spend the remainder of that day's allocation of "introduction" money as I pleased, and there was no need for me to be alert to potential targets. What a great sense of relief, a revelation which enhanced my regained feeling that thisindeed was my lucky day. In this elated state I had been overly enthusiastic in disposing of my money,and it struck me that I would be on my last drink by 8.45. The relief turned to anxiety; what if I hadcome to the wrong venue? maybe I had confused the arrangements. Panic, a not unfamiliar state for mewhen faced with the possibility of not being able to meet my alcohol quota for the day, began to chokeme; I started to sweat on the palms of my hands and forehead; I felt as if I would swoon. I tried toformulate an escape plan. Being not far from the main public hospital I considered that I could tell the barman that my wife/mother/father had just died a horrible death and I was in a state of shock and hadno way to get home; maybe he could lend me $5 for a taxi - but no, maybe he would want to ring for ataxi ; $5 for food - but no, maybe he would fetch me food from the kitchen ; $5 for flowers, yea, that's it- but why would I want flowers now ? $5 for my bus fare back to Port Augusta, or wherever. By nowsweat was dripping from my face; the barman soon noticed my state and asked if I was alright. Myattempt to answer him was incoherent and bumbling - I was trying to put my "wife/mother/father had just died a horrible death " story into words but I couldn't decide who of wife (ex-wife in fact) , mother or father had died, or what was the cause of death . My confusion and agitation was infectious, for the barman became flustered and floundering until a moment of inspiration decided him to thrust a half

brandy towards me with the advice "Here try this mate it'll make you feel better"; with his conscienceand discomfort somewhat assuaged he turned and scurried to the other end of the bar. I whimpered"Thanks mate" and downed his gift in one gulp. Momentarily I felt positive again; I had a brief respitefrom horror; aggressive confidence flickered. I realised that I would be safer from myself and my terrorsif I could engage myself in my usual style of banter with someone, to play my usual game, so I scannedthe bar for a likely victim. There were four (or five) other men in the bar and I was disinclined to takethe more difficult option of attempting to make conversation with any of them . Consequently I decidedto use the pool table method of introduction. With my half-finished glass of beer - I felt self-consciousabout ordering rum this early in the morning, the barman might think that I'm an alcoholic - I stiffly (for my legs felt wobbly) and slowly strutted over to the pool table and started absent-mindedly bouncingthe cue pool around the cushions. Before long a young man approached me and asked if I wanted agame - he nibbled at my hook. A simple "Yea, alright" was not a sufficient response for I needed toimpress upon him that I was (a) forlorn , (b) broke , and (c) not a very good player. Point (a) wasdesigned to win his sympathy, (b) was to let him know that if he wanted my company he would have to pay, and (c) was to encourage him to want my company by implying that he would be able to beat me(repeatedly) at this ball game. He seemed willing to play under these conditions; he paid; we began to play. My usual strategy was to play like a duffer and finish my drink just before the winning shot wasexecuted, at which point I would announce that I had run out of money and so must depart. Accordingto plan my opponent would invite me to have another drink at his expense and request me to play on -and on. But on this occasion a dilemma was niggling me; if my associates arrived after I had acceptedmy first free drink I would be discovered as a fraud; if they did not arrive and I failed to develop myscheme then I would lose all. It was 8.58. I began to sweat profusely; we played on. I had to delay thewinning shot. A trip to the toilet, some uncannily "flukey" snookers on my part dragged the contest out.9.05 , and with three of my opponent's balls left on the table, the first two of my associates arrived. Iwas safe; I was saved. My confidence soared, I was flushed with vitality; I then potted the five balls of my colour and finished the game on the black. I had been transformed from a slouching , simperingwretch to a winner . Throwing a "Thanks mate" in the direction of my astonished opponent I swaggeredover to my associates. "What are you drinking Max?" was the siren's song which I knew I would enjoyfor the rest of the day.When all had gathered I needed to remind them of my parlous state; my "anxiety-induced" epilepsy;my shabby treatment at the hands of my former heartless employer; my struggle to survive on the dole;in general, poor me, a good bloke out of luck, abused and unappreciated. I suspect that they were ableto assess for themselves that I was unwashed. So as to impress upon them that I was not a quitter I toldthem that even on this special day I was keeping up appointments with my neurologist - I wasdetermined to overcome the epilepsy and regain my life. They pretended to believe me, to take meseriously. With the morbid stuff out of the way I could now settle down to drink, confident that I hadwon their sympathy and sponsorship. Max the clown, Max the tenor, Max the thespian, Max thehooligan, Max the reprobate, Max of the rapier wit was released. As the alcohol accumulated within meI grew to be six feet tall and assumed the physique of Tarzan; I became invincible. I could look theworld squarely in the eye and stare it down; I was Superman.On the walk to the racetrack the ground did not touch my feet , I was floating. Feeling in generousspirits I had volunteered to be "the boy", that is, I would place bets (and collect winnings) for the other fellows who could hold their places at the bar. This was a highly profitable exercise, because I knew thaton each occasion I would be granted money to "have a bet yourself", or rewarded with the smaller denominations from the winnings. As we entered the track one of the fellows thrust two $20 notes atme, one for my own pleasure and the other for me to place a bet for him on the Cup Hurdle which wasdue to start in a few minutes. I charged off to the betting ring ; I matched the designated $20 bet with $2of my own; we won. The pattern was set for the day. Money and grog suppliers were in abundance.With my own modest punting I had the Midas touch - I was ready to take on the big one, the MelbourneCup. In the past my betting system had been based on horses with names derived from King, or having