Right. I’m writing today’s entry in approximately 10 minutes flat because I’ve got a Buck’s party to go to and there’s absolutely no way that I am going to be in any sort of condition to be writing when I get back. That’s the thing with Buck’s parties; all of the attention and pressure is on the Buck, so you can quietly get righteously pissed without anyone even noticing. Even better is the fact that it’s kicking off at a neighbourhood pub in North Melbourne, so I’ll be getting super comfy with a pint and enjoying the shit out of this delightful weekend Melbourne sunshine. I even got up early today and went for a kick of the footy and played street hoops, so that I don’t feel guilty about the abuse that I’ll be putting my body through in approximately one hour.

Derby Day is on today, and I’m glad I’m not there. I mean, sure, I’m not doubting it’d be an absolute belter of a day, but it’d be incredibly hard for me to enjoy when I’m trussed up in a fucking suit and tie. Any day that I’ve ever spent at the races has basically revolved around me ensuring that I don’t reach the core body temperature where my body goes into meltdown and I start sweating profusely. When it starts, there’s no turning back, either…

This sees me darting in and out of cover like a vampire, avoiding the harmful rays of the Sun in a vain attempt to prevent myself from looking like I’ve just stepped out of the shower. I mean, I’m sure the tradition of wearing suits to the races originated somewhere cold, like Great Britain, where the weather was perfectly suitable for this type of attire. Australia, on the other hand, is completely unsuitable for anything other than a pair of shorts and a fucking singlet. Admittedly, not as classy an option, but significantly more functional. I know that menswear companies market ‘summer-weight’ woollen suits, but I’ve bought my fair share of them and I can tell you that it doesn’t make a scrap of difference what material or weight it’s made out of, once youre trackside and the Sun starts beating down on you, you’re basically fucked.

I’ve got to say, girls have got it made at the races, with their ability to wear gigantic hats to shade their heads and flowing dresses that let the wind cool them down. It’s enough to make a man want to turn transsexual for the evening… nearly.

Maybe I’ll wear a kilt to the Melbourne Cup while going commando. That’ll get some wind rushing around the old plums… ahhhh delightful!

/end communication