Momember This?: It Is Really Hard Being A Drunk Girl At The Ekka Races

| January 6, 2015

Source: reddit

Words By Samara Nilsson

AFTER a couple of years hiatus I decided that maybe it would be okay to go to the Ekka Races, if you haven’t partaken in the merriment before, honestly it isn’t a bad day, especially if just getting spastic on dingas and Smirney Blacks with a fascinator from Kmart is your thing. I wouldn’t really call it a race day though, more of a festival with the occasional horse running by.

I might take a moment to say I haven’t had the best run in previous years with the Exhibition Day races. I won’t go into the details because they would probably render me unemployable, but yeah, the races are definitely an old foe of mine. So this year, in a lame attempt to defer intoxication in public, we came late. It was 2:30pm when we were walking through the gates and the streets were literally littered with bodies. It was like a rare glimpse into what the zombie apocalypse would look like, maybe if it happened close to the Smirnoff Black cannery.

Soon enough the effects of alcohol started to take effect. You know you’re getting a bit under the weather when you start trying to work out the logistics in your head of how to get yourself close enough to Timmy Trumpet to give him the old flirt eyes, or in my case, just blankly stare at him until he feels so weird and perplexed that he either a) talks to you or b) runs away, win, win either way.


Timmy Trumpet.

Bloody hell, Samara.

I am no fashionista, but holy hell I saw a lot of gunts. I totally get this whole ‘show a slither of your belly and have a longer hem line, because that is classy as fuck and Kimmy K does it so that makes it cool’, but eh, if you don’t have the body for it, don’t do it. What is the most devastating thing about it is that these girls have absolutely nothing wrong with their figures, but a few wine-ohs in and they are looking like a sausage with a split in it. Eh fashun.


Source: Pedestrian TV

Aside from the people not dressing for their shape debacle, this year there were a lot of really well dressed people, I kind of wanted to say “You go Glen Coco” to a few of them. Things are really looking up Brisbane.

If you have read any of my previous work you would know how much I effing HATE the logical nightmare playsuits that are. Anyways, due to some pretty lace, navy sleeves, I fell deeply into the playsuit rabbit hole and decided to take the gamble. Even after taking a metaphorical dump on playsuits, I thought maybe I could patch things up with my arch nemesis. I say this every time, and I will say it again. Never. Fucking. Again.
I think due to the aforementioned article waging war on playsuits. I believe that the fashion God just wanted to give me the middle finger to me for going against my better knowledge. I got stuck in a putrid port-a-loo (what the fuck is the go with people putting poo places that is not the toilet bowl? Really? REALLY? Sit down and poo for crying out loud!), trying to zip up my shitty playsuit and BAM door opens, turns out while I was doing the weird playsuit dance, I bumped the door lock latch and some dudes, opened the door (Why in God’s name did they do that?) and saw me naked struggling at life to get my clothes on.


I came out and one of them yelled, “I saw yar tits”.

Fucking, fuck my fucking life. If anybody knows the about four guys, wearing 2009 Roger David that saw a naked chick, please do me a favour and kindly shit on their doorstep.

Also, by the effing way mate, who the hell still wears Ray Bans with florescent coloured arms? Where are you from? Deception Bay? Christ.
I should probably mention I wrote those last two paragraphs semi-boozed in the ATM line. I felt it was critical to the story to include the drunken paragraphs. As you can imagine, I was pretty passionate about my dislike for these fellows.

Fast forward two hours and my feet fucking hurt. However when you are fighting the fact that genes have rendered you hobbit sized, and you are rocking a 6.5 inch stiletto from Zu it is to be expected. So walking around trying to find the mother effing bus we were supposed to get on was a pain in the arse. Walking any place was not an option, so my friend just casually walked up to an empty bus (with driver) and acted all official, told him off for not doing his job, made a massive crowd ‘form a fucking single file line’, filled up the bus and we were off driving to our next location.


What a legend.

Which of course, being a drunken girl I thought was the most hilarious thing ever. No one else did. Seriously drunk girls need some sort of allegiance, or maybe just a walking group or something, because we are a delicate, lovely species that just wants to eat a cheeseburger and laugh at our own jokes. Mostly our jokes are shit. Our feet generally hurt and we just want to tell every chick in the toilet “you are so fucking pretty”.
Finished up my night burning up the d-floor with some bearded dude who I thought was like the Channing Tatum of bearded men. Which, of course he wasn’t. Champagne filter, gets me every time. Thank god for liquid courage because my sore AS feet from about two hours earlier were totally forgotten. I am 90% sure I looked like I was wearing something from Lena Dunham’s wardrobe in Girls, but yeah, whatever I was a golden God.
Needless to say, I am genuinely scared of what I might get tagged in the next few days.

Ekka races, you have done it again.

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