The inside word: What Kim Whats-her-face said when she heard about Black Caviar’s big day at Flemington.

The Hollywood hand maidens exchanged nervous glances. This wasn’t in the script. Trouble was brewing.

Their girl was a star. Apparently. Los Angeles royalty. The PR types from all those big companies had been begging for her to appear at this race meeting down under.

It took some convincing. What with the reality TV show. Oh, and a marriage. Sort of. How lucky would they be, these Australians at their fancy racing carnival?

Now she was here. With a mood darker than her flowing locks.

The star looked up from the notes they’d assembled for her, and drew breath. This wasn’t going to be pretty.

“Like, what do you MEAN, that like, some HORSE will be, like, more popular than ME?”

The highly paid helpers tried to soothe their meal ticket. Giant doses of spin were needed, fast.

“Kim, honey, you know that could never be the case. Your face is on billboards around the world. You have your own line of handbags. A horse could NEVER be more popular than you.”

Another chimed in. “Kim, darling, what are you thinking? It’s a smelly horse, that doesn’t even have a line of perfume. And from what I’m hearing, her arse is ENORMOUS!”

They were on a roll. “Kim, sweetie, once you’re frocked up and waltzing around the racetrack, they’ll forget all about some freakish mare.”

The star wasn’t being distracted. She knew what she’d heard. From one of those pesky Aussie journos.

“Like, that horribly dressed man said that this horse has, like, never been beaten. And that she is, like, the best in the world. And that thousands come to, like, cheer her, and, like, wave flags for her. Tell me NOW, like, is he telling the truth?”

There was a shuffling of feet in the penthouse. The truth could end a career.

The silence was crippling. They were saved, by a loud knock. Room service. All sprouts, and tofu, and yoghurt. With a young Aussie steering the tray.

“Hey, aren’t you that American sheila from the TV. The one with the crazy family that wouldn’t work in an iron lung?”

The assistants were stunned. No-one spoke like that to their princess. But the boy was on a roll.

“So you’re off to Flemington today, to see our Mighty Mare, eh?” (Yes, he was a Queenslander). “She’s the best thing since sliced bread, our Black Caviar. We adore her. Today will be 16 straight. With the eyes of the world on her. How special is that!”

Finally, the helpers jumped from their comfy lounges, and hurled the excited race fan into the corridor. But it was too late. The damage had been done.

“Like, that’s IT”, Kim said coldly. “Get me out of here, like, NOW. There’s no way I’ll be a support act to a goddamn horse, even if her arse IS bigger than mine”.

So was the tale of an American reality TV star almost making it to Flemington. On the day Australia’s wonder horse will add to her amazing record. Before a crowd that will match Cup day. Kim won’t be among them.

And that’s a good thing. No overseas stars needed today. The biggest star of all will do her thing, on the turf. And every single person on course will be screaming her name.

Trust me Kim, you made the right decision in going home. Most of those at the track wouldn’t have known your name.

And here’s a tip. Your helper got it dead right. The mighty mare’s behind IS enormous. And, like, we’ll be cheering it all the way home.

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