Only one place in Melbourne offers a magical aroma that combines sugar, horse shit and capitalism. Oh, how I’ve missed the Royal Melbourne Show. After a two-year Covid-induced hiatus, my beloved is finally back.
For many Melburnians, the show is a childhood favourite that quickly falls out of favour once they hit their P-plates. Not me. The show has remained my annual obsession each and every year of my four decades, my enthusiasm never wavering. I’ve never shown a partner such commitment.
But having fun takes work – and ruthless planning. That’s why I have a spreadsheet with a detailed itinerary of the perfect show day, honed from many, many visits – up to three a year. I know how to get to each ride, exhibit, show and competition well ahead of the crowds. I know the best times, the short cuts and how to score the best discounts. It’s so diligently arranged, so perfect, I could cry. But I don’t – that’s not on the schedule.
It’s imperative to arrive 20 minutes before the gates actually open (tip No 1), and then head immediately to the show bags pavilion (tip No 2), which is inevitably a shitshow by 11am. By then, of course, I’ve already studied the show bags guide in detail (tip No 3) and made a comprehensive list, arranged by grouping show bags that are sold closest to each other (tip No 4).
Told you, I know what I’m doing.
Despite the fact that several preservatives kickstart my asthma, I don’t care. This is the Royal Melbourne Show, damn it, and I intend to purchase and digest copious amounts of dubious-quality lollies. There’s also the Star Wars and Marvel show bags, which I won’t even pretend I am buying for other people. But the crowning glory is the $2 Bertie Beetle show bag – I tend to grab the little blue plastic bag and yell “Bertie!!!”
Was this what wiping the Spanish Armada off the map felt like?
What it feels like is sweet, sweet victory. Literally.
The thrill rides and carnival games are where I really shine. After shoving my show bags into a locker (tip No 5), I approach the biggest and most popular rides first, with barely a queue in sight. Having come to the show on an empty stomach (tip No 6), I can spin, dip, and allow myself to be thrown around like a wet puppet. As I am tossed upside down on the “Freak Out”, I feel the stress leaching out of my body.
The only ride I refuse to go on is the haunted house, where people dress up like ghouls and randomly jump out and scare you. Sorry, but I don’t need to pay $9 for that – I’m a woman who lives in the world, that’s my reality.
When the fatigue starts to hit – which I have scheduled for 2.15pm – I sit down to watch my favourite competition, woodchopping. None of it makes sense, yet I’m hypnotised by the dull, rhythmic thump of metal slicing into wood.
Next comes the dogs. I’ve never been interested in seeing them compete, but I do love watching them chilling out in their beds, greeting visitors like they’re King Edward IV. I make sure to say hello to all of them, except the standard poodles, because I know they think they’re better than me.
On the way out comes one of the quaintest parts of the show – the art, craft and cookery pavilion. Generally, I like to walk around the glass cabinets of fruit cakes, noting those awarded prizes and trying to work out why those cakes won because – quite frankly – all fruit cake is disgusting.
Heading home, my haul will typically include 12 show bags, a wig, blow-up hammer, two fake tattoos, several bouncy balls for my dog, a container of cold chips, four poorly constructed plush toys that I won playing carnival games and a bunch of pamphlets on government services. There’s also a bucket of fairy floss that I have no memory of buying.
I will feel fantastic.
The Royal Melbourne Show is expensive, constantly overcrowded, smells at times like a perforated intestine and is exhausting. You’ll also probably consume as much plastic in one day as the average Tuvalu citizen does in a year.
But I love it, and will defend it to anyone who speaks against it, probably with the plastic sword I just purchased.
