What a vile species we are. Not satisfied with mistreating and murdering one another, we let other species die in our pursuit of entertainment and spectacle.
The overworked term tragic is used to cover all contingencies, the slaughter of civilians, the rape of children, and the untimely deaths of two magnificent animals, Admire Rakti and Araldo, after yesterday’s Melbourne Cup. Or as the Guardian reporter puts it, “the race was soured” by these deaths.
What is sour as a barrel of lemons is the sight of animals enslaved for human gratification. I loathe bloody horse racing, and I especially loathe the Melbourne Cup. I was unfortunate enough to be passing a television when a close up of Admire Rakti’s last collapse appeared on the screen. The horse was clearly distressed in his stall, then slowly his poor legs buckled, and I watched, sickened, as he sank to the ground for the last time. It was fucking awful.
There’s something badly wrong with us. Sadly, this isn’t news, and on the continuum of bloody awful things people do, a dead horse isn’t at the high-end.
You look at the Melbourne Cup spectacle and you think, Christ, these humans, their stupid little “fascinators,” their ugly, ill-fitting clothes, their spine-destroying heels, red-faced men squeezed into suits and tight cravats, drooling and drunk, all of them screaming at horses running round in a circle, what the fuck?
All that was missing was Gerry Harvey ranting about how many horses in the Melbourne Cup aren’t Australian anymore, and damn me if we didn’t get that as well.
My friend included me in a sweep. My horse? Unchain my heart. Fucking bloody Jesus, I said. Kill me now.