Always Back a Kiwi Horse - Melbourne Cup 2021

The last time I thought I’d take a flutter on the Melbourne Cup my daughters were in primary school and my son kindergarten. At around about 3.15pm on a warm November afternoon, I determinedly dragged them into the first TAB pub I found in downtown Queenstown. With my sweet blond boy child on the hip and girls holding my skirts, I scanned the crowd sinking jugs at leaners, pencil stubs poised over racing books, and instantly realised they were not my people, and left.

My grandad on my mum’s side, Buster, was a keen Hawkes Bay racegoer. I still have his racing binoculars in their handy leather case. A wedding present from my gran, which cost a cool sixty pounds way back a long time ago. Like Buster, I’ve often enjoyed a flutter on race day. Two bucks each way on a fine steed named Lady Jaynee or Sir (insert bf name) and I was as happy as a filly.

But on Monday, I went all out. Under the current feeling of doom pervading every New Zealander, I felt a glow of optimism. Something good was about to fall from the heavens. On me! I’d been sniffing around on Twitter. I had the hot tip. A kiwi horse from Rotorua. Owned and trained by a smooth looking dude with a moustache and a beige hat. The father of great crime writer JP Pomare. The horse was my favourite horse colour – chesnut. It even had a cool name - Ocean Billy. 

I told The H and Lily. Hey, I’ve got a hot tip on the Melbourne Cup. Before I couldn’t even name drop OB I was told he’d been on the nooz the night before. Everyone already knew. Lily said, get in quick. She should know the system. She dated a bookie in Sydney who handsomely substituted his student allowance working the big meets. 

I didn’t even have to walk over the sticky carpet at the Pig & Whistle, I could bet online! All I needed was a TAB account. 500 hours later this Boomer managed to make one. It didn’t take much, my mother’s maiden name, ID facial verification, microchip in my forehead, my right forearm, 5000 passwords, 50 pin numbers, and I was in. Only I’d locked myself out and had to reset. And re-enter my credit card details 50,000 times. You have to be in credit to bet, you see. When I finally selected my bet amount and hit pay, another warning triangle flashed at me. Good god almighty, I was a loser before I’d even lost. The winning stake on Ocean Billy had already dropped from $51 for a win, to $41. I gambled anyway.

Tuesday 2^nd November 2021, as fellow Melbourne Cuppettes sloshed on their fake tan, Showpo Dresses, Kmart hats and started preparing to get totally shit-faced at a Covid free venue by commencing pre-drinking, I received an email from my new best friend the TAB. Informing me of ‘The Shark’s Top Four’. There set out under four, easy to follow punter headlines. BEST. NEXT. VALUE. ROUGHIE. Horses and jockeys were listed and their stakes. I should note at this point I was HIGHLY alarmed not to see mention of my sure-bet-baby Ocean Billy. However, VALUE (with a Silverfern) caught my eye Verry Ellegant paying a decent $17. Well, I scratched my fascinator and logged into my account. Thanks to the handy feature on Chrome – save password. I hovered. I dithered. I thought no, I’m addicted to a lot of things but I’d already spent more than I ever had on a horse in the hope I’d reap the returns which would be more than what I’ve earned from my writing this year. $4,400 to put you in the picture. It was tough, but I drew the line I would not put $10 bucks each way on the sexy Kiwi mare very, Verry Elleegant. More fool me.

At 5pm I turned on TVOne. We all watched the race. I’d chilled champagne to celebrate my winnings. What a dick. My horse lost. No, I wasn’t the punter who put a heady $27,000 on the nose of Ocean Billy. While the totalizer quivered at the thought of paying out close to one million buckeroos. Nevertheless, I felt a huge disappointment and a certain shame as I turned off the telly and took the dog for a walk by the river.

Moreover, I didn’t even realise until the next day that sweet, three-white socked Ocean Billy game 23^rd.  Dead last! If I’d pressed ‘place bet’ on the clear winner Verry Elleegant I would have covered my foolish gamble and taken home a hundy. 

Kiwi jockey, James McDonald rode an extremely elegant race. He pulled the dark bay mare out from the pack at the 500m mark and bolted down the field to win by a whopping three and a half lengths. The pairs’ first Melbourne Cup win. Woohoo

But that’s gambling for you. I guess I’ll have a flutter nek year. Unless I lose my password. 

My Mum Was a Slave To Elizabeth Arden

Not my mum. Farrah Fawcett

My mum was a slave to Elizabeth Arden. I grew up on the smell of Eight Hour Cream and its multitude of cosmetic services and cure-alls. During my corporate life, I spent a fortune on their hard-sell, age-freezing promises. I slathered their expensive unguents, most often on not really perfectly clean, nor seldom exfoliated skin, to no avail. Over my thirties, I grew crows feet and laugh lines and tram tracks (two vertical lines between my eyes) and brown spots just as the New Zealand sun and my genetic make-up planned. Then I gave up on EA and their marketing hype. And moved on.

However, an approaching middle-middle, middlest of middle-age birthdays 55 (and a gift voucher) drew me in the Elizabeth Arden counter at H & J’s department store, on a cool yet sunny Wednesday morning this week. Ten minutes later out I marched with EA’s ‘Ceramide Premiere Intense Moisture and Renewal Overnight Regeneration Cream’. All 50 mls of it, for the price of a one way Jet Star seat-only ticket from Queenstown to Sydney. Along with a pottle of EA Ceramide capsules that I chivvied out of the keen-but-I-don’t-work-on-this-counter-Jo-will-be-in-soon sales assistant. All the while, my entire neck and the backs of my hands glistened with the Prevage serum I'd greedily purged from the testers. As you do.

I couldn’t wait for night to fall. When I would cleanse, exfoliate, tone and massage, in upward motions, my new wonder pharmaceutical in cream form onto my face and neck. Women-friends please be reminded here to anoint the back of your neck as you do the front! I’ve omitted this small action my whole life. Up until I sat in talk after talk at a recent writer’s conference and studied the backs of female necks realising, bother it, so had everyone else.

That night I slept as I usually do. Waking at intervals. Not because of night sweats. Because. No. I don’t get them any more thanks to HRT. (That’s another story.) I wake because of partner disturbance eg. SNORING. Or my own mind mulling something over and over and not shutting itself up. In the morning, I caressed my checks in the dim dawn light. They felt smooth. Hydrated. As promised. But was I regenerated?

Later that morning, I caught my reflection in my Mac desktop on the black Spotify screen. I was listening to This is Billie Eilish. God, I love her. Anyways. Fuck me. I had regenerated. Oh yes I had revivified alright. I had spawned overnight some added extras. Hells Bells. It appeared I had gained creases. Two extra lines, aka wrinkles ran beside my deep nasio labial folds, like double pleats on the wool skirt I made in Manual back in 1979. Waaaaaaaaaa. I screamed. They heard me in Invercargill. And baaaaaed back. I'm not making this up.

But. No. Really. What’s. One. To. Do. Aside from eat Bluff oysters, tis the season, and hold one’s chin back with thumb and forefinger in thoughtful writer's pose for the rest of one’s life. While telling EA very firmly, this test-group-of-one is through.

All this nonsense and foolish splashing of gifted-cash on impossible hopes. Along with ageing disgracefully. Drink up. And attending a Barre Warrior class thinking I’d actually be able to walk the next day. Lead me to want to pen one of those Jane’s Must Have Cosmetics Hacks. So I did. Some of these potions were advised to moi in the first place. They, therefore, have cred.

1. For the most fun in a tube. And recommended by Lorde’s mum, poet Sonja Yelich @sonjayelich1, as the best in the business this:

Sexy Mother Pucker. Cautions: this lipgloss will almost immediately plump, buzz, tingle and zing.

And it does. Soap & Glory’s bestselling extreme plumping lipgloss is available from Kmart. I bought mine in the US about five years ago and it’s still buzzing and plumping. I’m not sure if you can get it in NZ. But it’s worth a try. 

2.benefit BAD gal Bang! Mascara Recommended by gorgeous daughters, Lily 20 and Eloise 18.

BBG Bang! promises: Bigger, Badder volumizing. And the bestest thing about this mascara is that it does both the above without ugly clumps. And I’ve been on the lookout for decades. (Around $NZD26.00)

3.LiLash Purified Eyelash Serum. Recommended by the lovely ladies at Spring Spa, Queenstown.

I’ve been doing a bit of lash farming lately. I’ve done this before with disastrous results. But this time I used LiLash . And well look, mate, I’m just your average doe-eyed matron without the red bits. Batter-mine! Babes. (Around $NZD100 but I use a single stroke above the top lashline every 2nd night. At this rate, one tube will last me a year.) 

4. Sukin’s Body Contouring Crème Recommended by yours truly.

Finally, a body lotion that does the trick and more for around $17. I live in zero humidity and this rich cream is good for all over ze body. It absorbs like a dream. I doubt it will cure my bat wings, but hydration is key in these parts as winter approaches. Slap this on and those elbows and knees will squeal.

And for the record once I finish my pot of gold Ceramide Premiere, I’ll be going back to my old fave Antipodes, Avocado Pear Nourishing Night Cream. It smells divine, hydrates a treat and won’t break the piggy bank. (Around $NZD55, but if you wait for the 'Buy 2 products, get the 3rd free' and have a Living Rewards card. Winning!)

Happy International Women's Day y'all!
Jane xx

Fear of Mountain Flying

We’re hurtling towards ground earth in a winged-tin-can, amid the ebb and flo of an unpredictable southerly when the wind shear* attacks. Full whack. We’re forced sideways. And back. Up a little. Down. Under pressure. The wings shudder. It’s not your regular turbulent sensation. Nor a skittery cross-wind. This low to the ground. Runway approaching. It’s what the actual fark … can a jet-air-plane survive this? Are we breaking up, chief?

Daughter 16, clutches my hand. Our palms glued by sweat. Two sets of knuckles whiten. As does my hair, several more shades of pale. Bugger.

Then. I feel the nose raise. I blurt out like a child at a carnival with a helium balloon, ‘We’re going up!’ I’m that relieved. I think of the captain in the cockpit, making that split second decision. Abort. Abort. After experiencing all of the above, in close-up 3D. Speaking to his first officer. Then both of them ramming those levers back. Full throttle. We climb. Jet engines scream your safe. Powering up. Up. Up through the cloud layer back into clear pale blue.

The air hostess sat facing backwards on the jumpseat attempts to look calm. Her face does not lie. And her voice quivers through her telephone-intercom. Oddly at a time when you’d expect to get the most instructions, like those repeated meal choices for the frightfully-dim-and-hard-of-hearing. You get not much.

‘As you will note we have been unable to land in Queenstown … and the captain is going about. He will make an announcement … when he can.’

Guess he’s defogging his Aviators while his co-pilot talks to the tower. The woman in front pokes her head into the seat gap and asks, ‘You okay?’ I nod. I think to tell my daughter about Air NZ’s great safety record. (Currently ranked number 2 in the world). But we’re in the mountains. The first sight I saw when the Tasman sea turned to land was the snowy peak of Mt Earnslaw nestled in the razor sharp backbone of the Southern Alps. Instead, I remember being at my Nana’s house, 42 Guthrie Road, Havelock North, when the Erebus crash came on the TV news. I also remember the two stuffed bambis that sat aside the gas tiled fireplace at the house over the road, that always made my child self ask. Why?

Meanwhile, we seem to be flying about in heaven. It’s so calm up here. Just fluffy cloud carpet and blue. My new happy place.

The plane levels and I’m willing it to continue on. It seems to be heading south anyway. South and away from the thrill and danger of the adrenalin capital of New Zealand. Who wouldn’t rather an overnight roadie in a smelly bus. Than DEATH. We’re in a holding pattern.

Daughter 16, seat-chats to her bestie three rows ahead. I luv you. You ok? Fuk. Freaky. I’m so scared. I don’t think we can land. Tell Jane I luv her. I luv you back Mol ... Tell Tania I luv her.

Tell everybody I love them.

I need a distraction. I put on headphones and tap Listen - NZ Music Week pops up. Scribe. Che Fu. My toes bop. Jon Toogood’s voice comes on and tells me to play the Adults, full volume. I obey.

The captain interrupts, ‘Due to wind shear I had to abort the landing and go about. We’ll see if the plane behinds us gets in. Then we’ll have another attempt.’

I want to shout back, ‘Hey I’m good with a night Christchurch. Or where evs. Totally cool. Shall we just bring this baby in tomoz ...’

Meanwhile jet engines slow. We’re descending take two. Really???? In for another landing attempt? I think about dying again, just a little bit. I want to practice the brace position. But I can’t appear lily-livered and cause my teenage charge more alarm. I’ve always wondered if I could get my actual head and upper body to hug my knees in the seated position. There’s always the head to the chair in front. Why didn’t I watch the safety video more closely? The nearest exit may have to be the one behind me. The nose may be smooshed at this rate. Daughter and I link arms. Interlace ten fingers tightly. The plastic armrest digs in, I don’t move. I push my head into the headrest, uncross my legs and place my feet hip width apart, squarely on the floor. I look out the window.

All the passengers are silent. Waiting to be held in the wind’s erratic force. Hearts pounding. Mouths dry. It doesn’t happen. We lower. Lower and land quite smoothly. No-one claps. Or screams. I kiss my daughter. ‘We’re home.’ And text my husband. ‘FM we landed.’

As I exit flight NZ830 Sydney to Queenstown, 30 April 2017, a tall, sandy-haired, ruddy-faced (possibly due to captain-stress) captain steps out of the cockpit. I tell him, ‘Thank you, Captain. I’ve lived here for 24 years and have never done a touch-n-go in a jet before.’ And laugh like a woman who’s diced with death and won.

--> The captain looks quite bewildered himself. He doesn’t scratch his head, but he says. ‘I’ve never had to do a go-about here before either.’
Fingers crossed that was a oncer for both of us. 


-->

*"Wind shear - variation in wind velocity occurring along a direction at right angles to the wind's direction and tending to exert a turning force."

#Prince - I was there

If purple is the colour of royalty … anyone who was anyone was out at the violet infused Aotea Centre, Auckland last night to see the King of sexy funk himself –Prince.

It really was like being invited to ‘court’. There we stood, sheep in our yellow PRINCE wristbands frocked and ready. Well I wasn’t frocked, but Aja Rock was, a mini mini cream lace shift over a scrap of a skin coloured slip. Beside her a bevy of dark haired beauties and black t shirted men. I’m sure I saw that guy who used to be married to Mrs Auckland, Sally Ridge. He was talking to a guy with one of those severely shorn sided moptops, white trainers, jeans and oddly - black tails. It was thin pickings, but then that ginga cowboy comedian glanced in my direction and smirked. Blonde hair always catches the light.

Once seated I scanned the circle. No one notable. Beside me a cheerful lady from the Tron and her friend from Waiheke, who’d teased her long black hair into a fro and was asked by the people seated behind her – not to move it. Beside The H was a lady from Christchurch who sensibly brought her opera glasses and wept at his closing ‘Nothing Compares to You’, almost hyperventilating. ‘I’m just channeling the moment,’ she said reassuring the aunties she wasn’t about to pass out.

But honestly to be part of an audience teased, serenaded and heralded into an endless choir of wonky backing vocalists, chorus after chorus was spellbinding. Should we really be here, I kept wondering while wishing the stupid lady in the row in front would take her loud conversation and her wine refills outside.

Prince was obviously enjoying himself. Tremendously. Sat on the edge of his padded piano stool his left hip splayed towards the audience, his zippy white shoes flashing their red Perspex wedge heels to the beat. ‘My Daddy gave me rhythm and his daddy gave him rhythm …’

I’m no fem music journo (they're aren’t many of them it seems) but boy can he play piano-like-guitar. Each note accompanying perfectly his almost alien wide and uber satisfying vocal range. Ahhhh, cream get on top. You don't have to be beautiful to turn me on.

As the show warmed, he jumped up and strutted, flexing his fingers, hand slapping those fortunate enough to be near the stage to actually see his face. There was no crass video screen in the acoustically intune ASB Theatre, this was a royal performance. We serfs in the circle were afforded his perfect purple bowl-shaped fro silhouette. It bounced and craned as he caressed note after note, off the lower left-hand wall.

‘The thing I love about music is no matter how your day has gone – you put some music on and everything is right,’ Prince the preacher man told us. ‘Self preservation,’ he repeated several times. ‘Look in the mirror and sing this song to yourself tonight!’

A bunch of at least 40 red roses wrapped in white card sat under his grand piano. During the show fans passed more bunches to officials. Some twits shouted, ‘Stop it’, with the emphasis on the stop, when he sang his sexy seductive bits. At times, I cringed and just hoped this room full of New Zealand would behave.

It really felt like a privilege to be there. It was a live in the moment moment. No selfies could we take. No scratchie recordings for the memory files. No even a pic of the stage unless you wanted a burly security guy's torch flashed in your face.

In one of umpteen encores he played Kiss. It sounded a whole lot better than the Love Sexy LP I’d been belting out at home annoying the cat and making the teenagers run for their rooms. I was thrilled I knew the lyrics. Prince even gyrated his tiny black lycra covered hips in a slow circular motion as he sang, ‘Maybe we could do the twirl.’ Swoon.

Prince may have once considered himself the king of lovers. So be it. I did love that wimpish stilettoed lady killer in high waisted pants as only a fan can, but I think I like his grown-up self more.

The Purple Prince of pop simply played-for-us. Wooed us with every pared back note. A twenty song, two and a half hour set. Sometimes with the house lights on when he wanted to see his court sway.

When he picked up his diamante cane we knew he’d finally finished.

‘We were here,’ I said to the aunties as the last of us filed out. ‘We were here.’