Ok, so, I have a lot of Australian friends. Tons. And you know who you are, preeeety ladeeees! Love ya!! Amazo fun chicks. What I’m writing about today is so totes N.O.T. about you, girlies : ) Mwa-Mwa xox
What I didn’t realise from living in London is that Aussies are seriously such wannabes. In London they just all seemed super nice. Back-packery drinking types. Since joining the elite expaterati though, I have inadvertently stumbled upon a profound realisation. Basically, at the end of the day, if I’m honest, Aussies want to be real British people – well, people from the south of England, I mean – like they could’ve been, had their ancestors not made some really rubbish decisions.
What proves my point is Adelaidians. I am reliably informed that people from Adelaide are a cut above other Australians because they are descended from the only free settlers in the country. And so, people from Adelaide speak with a more plummy, more English accent (LOL, well they think they do!! I beg to differ, Your Honour!!). Now if it is generally accepted that people who are more like us Brits are superior, then we can quickly establish beyond even the faintest shadow of a doubt that therefore all Australians want to be English. Not only that, but ideally they also want to be related to the Queen. [I haven’t mentioned this, and I’m not one to boast or name-drop because I don’t need that sort of fake ego-boosting (Clara says it’s a defence, and the thing about me is, what you see is what you get, I’m totes my own person, & I don’t need to pander to the crowd), but I am related to the Royals. On my second cousin ex-husband’s side. Yes. True story.]
Anyway, so I went to the Melbourne Cup party here in Singapore a couple days ago, with all my gorgeosa Aussie girlfriends. I wanted to update you on it asap, but yesterday was just a wash-out. I had to stay in bed all day because my head was pounding. I don’t think it was the champagne or the late night. It was more the pressure of the fascinator. I had it bespoked, and it was quite heavy because of the battery pack for the flashing lights, and the wireless router so that I could display my Twitter feed via a small screen on my head. What with the weight of all that, the headband part needed to have a very tight grip on my skull to stop it falling off. Ouchey!!
Don’s bank was one of the sponsors, so he came too. He acted like it was suuuuuch a big drag for him (especially after catching the red-eye back from Cape Town the night before), but for some utterly unknowable reason he wore one of his best suits. So of course, he won the best dressed man! Meanwhile I came third for most creative hat. Is there no justice in this world??
Despite the fact that it was such a major bore for him, he looked pretty happy to be chatting up the 350 women there, many of whom were trolleyed and abso gagging for it. Hmmmmm. It was sickening how these women were coming onto him. And he was lapping it up, positively purring to himself. A revolting spectacle.
At one point during the roof bar after-party, I had to take Don aside and have some strong words with him. He feigned ignorance, as if he had zero clue that these be-hatted whores were hanging on his every word.
Not long later, he said he had to go because the travel had caught up with him. Liz left around the same time which was such a shame. I was looking forward to chatting with her about her previous work in publishing, and my promising career as an author.
Once Don was gone, I felt a bit disappointed that Will wasn’t there (work), but he would’ve hated all those women throwing themselves at him. So not his scene. Plus, Michelle disgraced herself, as per usuo, and that would have been completely upsetting for him.
Doom and gloom wife was there, wearing vomitly vile shoes, and she somehow ended up in our gang. She was talking about how terrible it was that the two horses died (ya, bloody terrible for me!! They were the only two I bet on! Wtf, horseys?!), and saying that it’s barbaric and disgusting that we were getting drunk on champagne and having a laugh, when the animals at the centre of it all were being exploited. And that 15,000 racehorses are slaughtered every year just because they’re not fast enough. And that we should all sign a pledge to stop betting on horses because we’re “betting on cruelty”.
“Oh god, here we go!”, I thought. I didn’t want that miserable woman plundering my buzz, so I told her quite plainly that exploiting, degrading, and abusing animals for pleasure is just one of those things that we humans do. We’ve always done it! Since the dawn of time!! So deal, baby. Get over it, and get over yourself!! That sorted her out. She moved to a different table, thank phewie, so that the rest of us could get back to our interesting conversations about helpers and holidays.