Off and racing

Oh my God, I’ve found them: the handsomest, most well-dressed, most nicely haired men in Sydney.

They hang out at the races.

All this time, I’ve been looking for these blokes in the wrong spots. I’ve been poking around beaches and nightclubs and dingy gay pubs, while they’ve been having a flutter and getting thoroughly shit-faced at Royal Randwick.

At least, that’s where they were last Saturday, when I ventured there for the first time.

Picture it: thousands of these young men, dressed to the nines and above, decked out in their tasteful suits and porkpie hats and groovy pomaded hair.

With the best of them, you just knew that they had nice bodies under their elegant suits, and it was all the more sexy because none of it was on display.

I wasn’t the only one staring. My boyfriend was right there with me, his eyes popping behind his darkest sunglasses.

The day was a revelation for us both, a beautiful coming-together of three glorious vices: gambling, daytime drinking and perving on hot men.

Of course, it was also a particularly expensive day of revelation. Entry was $25 each, and after factoring in the costs of taxis, betting, alcohol and the life-affirming serve of hot chips at 3 -¦ I don’t even wanna tell you how much we ended up spending.

It was a long day, though, which was part of its charm. As the hours wore on and the amount of alcohol consumed went spastic-ballistic, the crowd got more and more messily entertaining -“ and in this the day felt not dissimilar to a marathon dance party.

The women threw off their shoes and lurched about, cracking on to any seemingly available guys (one even tried her luck with me), while the groups of men grew more rowdy and touchy-feely -“ with the girls, and with each other.

We survived until the end, my boyfriend up a bit and me down a bit, money-wise, despite the fact that our method of placing bets was the same. (We selected on the basis of the horse’s name, and its odds of winning, although looking back, I should have known that backing an animal called Fairy’s Kiss was never going to be a good idea.)

I ended up poor and pissed, but I’ve got to say I had a truly awesome day out. So stick a fascinator on my head and call me a princess, but I’m definitely going back.