CLANCY OVERELL | Editor | CONTACT
With ANZAC Day and those abhorrent ‘sportsball’ grand finals in the rear lights, one local inner-city opinion-penner is today relishing another opportunity to punch down on people for enjoying mainstream festivities.
Claudia Bardot-Whitely (55) has today enthusiastically shuffled into her workspace at the Guardian Australia, before cracking her knuckles and stretching her neck.
Today is her favourite day of the year.
A day where she can channel all of her rage surrounding Australia’s cultural deficit and macho-sporting culture into yet another 2000-word thinkpiece of full-blown classism, perfectly entwined into the unarguable vehicle of animal rights.
She takes a moment to browse her Twitter feed for inspiration, before launching into today’s headline.
‘We need to talk about the Melbourne Cup’ she writes, off the bat, while trying to remember if she’s ever opened one of these annual op-eds with this same cliche.
Claudia dreams of a day where the Australian working class take pride in themselves, like they do in France.
A day where they opt against spending their public holidays crammed into general admission dressed like one-punch-offenders, a day where they spend embrace culturally relevant performances like theatre and song.
But that day is a while off yet.
That’s why today is so important, for her, and for them.
While Claudia acknowledges that she has, in years gone by, frequented the birdcage at Flemington on Cup Day. She says there’s a difference between attending a corporate event as the head of marketing for Lexus, and actually watching the races in General Admission – like a bogan would.
Throughout today’s on-the-spot manifesto, Claudia is able to draft up her vision for a post-straya Australia.
She is able to subtly inform the 300,000 readers of this prominent echo chamber megaphone of her dreams of a day where the equine servants of our nations racing industry are free to run wild with the inbred brumbies of the Snowy River and Fraser Island.
A day where Australia’s greatest contribution to cinema isn’t a film about a tow truck driver having his outer suburban family home seized by an airport expansion.
A day where she never has to have her eyes assaulted by the hideous colours of a Camilla kaftan.
A day where she doesn’t have to hear names like “Andrew Johns” and “Buddy Franklin” around the table at Christmas.
That day may never come. But all she can do is try to tell the uneducated masses that there are other ways to spend your day off.
You can start by saying #nuptothecup.
