The day I went to the beach with Princess Diana.

October 18, 2011

When reporting on Royal tours, one should dress appropriately.

Apparently, that doesn’t include pink shorts.

It was 1988, and I had been given the role of covering part of Princess Diana’s trip to Australia.

A very small part. Just a few hours. On Terrigal Beach.

The newsroom policy at the time was to have me out on location as much as possible. Possibly to maintain the sanity of colleagues back in the office.

Being radio, there was no need to be dressed up. In my mind at least. And given the totally inadequate nature of my wardrobe, that was just fine.

I did lots of work wearing shorts. From courts to council meetings, and the local league match of the round. Pretty much any job that took the boss’s fancy. No one seemed to mind.

We were issued with shirts, that had the station logo proudly emblazoned on the front. What we wore below the waist was up to us.

So it was that on the morning of this historic visit, I dressed like any other day. Daggily. Possibly without the use of an iron. White station polo shirt. And those pink shorts.

All I can tell you is, it was the eighties. Pink was in for blokes. Or so someone said.

Not that I wasn’t excited. Charles and Di were here as part of the Bicentennial celebrations. Images of their trip to the sand and surf  would go around the world.

I had been given clear guidelines on what was needed. Waffle on a bit about what the Royal visitors got up to. Talk to some gushing locals. And stay out of the way of those who knew what they were doing.

It’s true that there was no-one else in the press corp wearing pink shorts. I’m pretty sure it gave the Fleet Street lads something of a laugh.

The guest of honour was striking. Everything you’ve ever read and more. I still remember that yellow dress. And the shy, dazzling smile. But I have only the vaguest recollection of Charles that day. I dare say the rest of those on the beach might be the same.

She had her photo taken with some Aussie lifesavers, looking resplendent in their budgie smugglers. They managed to take the spotlight away from my skinny legs.

I’d like to think Diana noticed me. After all, she was a fashion expert. If anyone could appreciate my unique dress sense, surely it was her.

If she did, she kept it to herself. No so much as a mention in any of the Royal biographies.

It’s a long time ago, and my memory has faded with time, but I’m pretty sure we didn’t need special security passes.

There were thousands of people there, all enjoying the spectacle, pretty much going where they wanted. Some even came out of the surf to catch a glimpse.

How different it will be this week, when the Queen comes to visit.

Security will be stifling. There’ll be screening areas, and sniffer dogs, and heavily armed officers at every turn. A different time.

Royal watchers will be out in force, happy to be herded like cattle into secure zones. Flags will be waving. But it won’t be the same as that wonderful day with Lady Di.

For starters, Her Majesty won’t have her photo taken with anyone in Speedos. Actually, that might be a good thing.

If you’re part of the crowd, keep an eye on the media gang. Let me know if you spot a reporter game enough to wear pink shorts. Male, not female. After all, these fashion trends come and go. Diana would be proud.

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Mixed emotions on Caulfield Cup Day. Where have all the local stayers gone?

October 15, 2011

Caulfield Cup Day brings with it mixed emotions this year. One of our great races. About to be won by an international.

I’ve lost count of how many are running. Must be close to half the field. Some have their overseas trainers with them. Others have been adopted by our own.

The hot favourite, December Draw, was hand-picked out of Europe. Mark Kavanagh is listed as his trainer, but the horse is Australian as Scary Spice.

Anthony Freedman might win a Group One with Lucas Cranach. He’s from Germany. Try doing the form on his last four starts. You’ll need an interpreter.

The Poms are doing their best. At least Luca Cumani is a regular. Manighar and Drunken Sailor are genuine hopes.

John Moore wants to take the Cup back to Hong Kong. His topweight Mighty High has a bloke named Beadman on top.

There are others. Unusual Suspect comes from the U-S. There’s even a trainer here from North Yorkshire.

Nothing new, you say. The overseas raiders have been coming for years. Get used to it.

But this is different. They might be champions, these visitors. But only the hard-core punters know them.

Will there be passion in the cheering this afternoon? If you’re on the winner, of course there will be. But as an event? Not likely.

You can’t blame our top trainers for looking elsewhere to find a Cup hope. The industry has moved that way. It’s becoming harder and harder to develop a home-grown stayer.

The breeders know where the money is. Few want to wait for a horse to develop over ground. Two year old sprinters. Not six-year-old stayers.

You won’t hear the race clubs admit it, but distance races aren’t sexy anymore. Except that big one at Flemington on the first Tuesday in November.

As owners, we used to dream of Derbys and Cups. Many still do. But it’s becoming harder and harder to place distance horses through the rest of the year.

It’s a vicious cycle. The fewer stayers coming through, the fewer races that get programmed for them.

So we get to the Spring. A famous Group One race worth two and a half million bucks. And it’s full of imports.

Not everyone thinks that’s a bad thing. Some high-profile players believe it adds to our reputation. Helps to build prizemoney and prestige, they reckon.

Maybe so. It’s just hard to cheer for a horse you hadn’t heard of a fortnight ago.

I still love seeing Bart winning our big races. Or Gai. The Hawkes boys. Moody and Waller and Heathcote. With local horses. And Aussie owners, booking out a Chinese restaurant to celebrate.

I can’t see it happening today. Although I’m willing to take on December Draw. Not for me when he’s never had a go at the distance.

I’ve told you before how I struggle to line up the international form. So my tip  means even less than usual. But I do have a fancy.

Manighar is quality. I heard Luca give him some huge wraps a few months back. With that movie star Oliver up, and a track that won’t be too wet, I think he’s a big chance.

This may be influenced by the fact that I backed him at 40 to 1 at the start of the week. As much as it pains me, I’ll be cheering a Pom.

Have a good look at the field this afternoon. And get used to blokes here on passports taking more of our Cups. It won’t be too long before they’re the only ones running in them.

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Does my beer gut look big in this? Shopping tips for a large fashion klutz.

October 11, 2011

The sales assistant reminded me of Mr Humphries from “Are You Being Served?”

If you’re too young to remember the comedy classic, let’s just say both were confirmed bachelors with immaculate fashion sense, and measuring tapes.

He had ignored me for the best part of half an hour. Not that Mr Humphries was busy. The giant department store was all but empty. Peaceful, except for one pesky customer.

I was searching for a decent shirt. A little number for the races. Anything but green, which we all know is unlucky at the track.

There are plenty sitting on coathangers at home, but few that I can wear a tie with. This is because someone has been sneaking in at night and shrinking my collars. I can’t get them to fit around my ever-expanding neck.

After searching the bargain tables, I found a few that seemed to work. By that I mean they had gigantic neck sizes. I asked if I could try them on. Just to make sure they wouldn’t strangle me. Mr Humphries was having none of it.

He wouldn’t take them out of the plastic. A waste of time. Instead, I was to try on the Sample Shirt. A garment that may or may not have been worn by every rugby front rower in town.

Unlike others in the family, I’m not one to challenge shop staff. Usually, I submit meekly to their demands. But not this time.

Resisting the urge to string him up by his tape measure, I informed Mr Humphries that I REALLY wanted to try this one on. And he would just have to live with it.

It didn’t work. This mature gentleman in perfectly pleated pants called my bluff.

“It won’t fit you,” he said calmly. “You’ve been looking in the wrong area. Those shirts are Slim Fit. It’s your girth, you see. I’d be happy to find you something more suitable.”

Yes, he actually said the word girth. Right there on the shop floor. As if I was being saddled for the last at Eagle Farm.

Any struggle ended right there. A points victory to the man with the name badge.

After trying on his stinky Sample Shirt, which happened to fit perfectly, I followed meekly to the Wall of Width. Together we chose a colour that he liked, and the deal was done.

To his credit, Mr Humphries spotted a tie that was a perfect match for my new purchase. He seemed quite proud of his work. It was like he had done me a favour.

Indeed he had. I ended up with a shirt that I could actually breathe in. And my new routine of sit-ups began the following day.

I won’t be shopping alone again in a hurry. That Men’s Fashion Department is a brutal place. Especially when Mr Humphries is free.

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How you can be part of Team Black Caviar. Just cheer like a dizzy schoolgirl.

October 8, 2011

Have you ever been part of sporting history?

Were you there the day Cathy Freeman ran the race of her life in Sydney? That life-changing, golden lap.

I have mates who were. Magical, they called it. Bordering on a religious experience.

What about the tied Test at the Gabba? Back in ’60. Were you at the Vulture St end for the final over? The great game’s greatest game.

It was the biggest crowd ever. Around 400,000 that day. That’s if you believe everyone who said they were there.

If only I’d been around back in 1930. Phar Lap achieved the impossible. And then some.

He won the Cox Plate in a canter, then lumped more than 62 kilos to win the Melbourne Cup. He also won three other races that Cup week. Four wins in seven days. All that, after being shot at on the morning of Derby Day.

The cheap seats at Flemington would have been just fine. Anywhere, just to witness such perfection.

The huge crowds cheered themselves hoarse, over a horse. Most had nothing in their pockets. It didn’t matter. Big Red lifted their spirits like no politician could.

I reckon I heard a similar sound a few months back. The day the roof nearly lifted off Doomben. What might now rank as my greatest racing moment. The day Black Caviar came to town.

I wrote about it that night. Basking in the glory of a magnificent win in the BTC Cup.

“This was one, furious, magnificent roar. The stands shook. Form guides quivered. Chills multiplied. Just before 4 o’clock, on Saturday May 14, sporting history wasn’t made. It was amplified.”

And so she’s back. We’ve been counting the days. Officially rated the world’s best. The mighty mare with the ability to make the most grizzled racegoer giggle like an X-Factor fan.

You don’t need me to explain what’s in store today. But I will, because it’s so damn exciting. Win number 14 is a few hours away.

They’ll be hanging from the rafters at Caulfield. When she surges past the post, with Luke Nolen sitting quietly, possibly doing the crossword, Black Caviar will equal Phar Lap’s number of consecutive metropolitan victories.

If you’re lucky enough to be there, savour it. Every sight and sound. Especially the sound. File that roar away.

The rest of us will be watching from afar. At the track, and in pubs and clubs. We’ll be loving it too.

If you’re at home like me, gather the kids. And Grandma. Let them feel that exhilaration. They don’t need to be race fans. That’s the beauty of it.

Enjoy today. Embrace a champion, and the wonderful, all-Australian cast around her. Play your part in sporting history. We all have a role. Cheer like crazy. You might never get the chance to do it again.

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Memories of schoolboy survival. Why the back of the bus was a dangerous place.

October 4, 2011

Forget having your head flushed down the dunny. It was the bus that terrified me on the first day of high school.

I thought of this, as The Teenager whined to me about her travel habits.

Granted, she embarks on a fair trip. It goes via the absolute longest route, as buses tend to do. And she has to get up early to catch it, which is difficult for one who believes there should be no resting before midnight.

She could catch a train. I drive past the station every morning. But because her friends prefer the road trip, it’s a more social occasion.

Her complaint was more about other passengers. Apparently, ‘weirdos’ find the bus a handy way to travel. I assume this includes anyone over 25, those in suits, and the unwashed.

If only she knew. Back in the day, we risked life and limb just to get on board. Terror for a 12-year-old.

This wasn’t a private school. Public and proud. Rough and tumble. We knew no different.

The bus company had advised that it would no longer carry boys and girls on the same vehicles. Too dangerous, apparently. So while young ladies compared nail polish on one bus, we walked the gauntlet on the other.

Older boys were always up the back. For early morning fun, they would belt the tripe out of the Year 7 kids. A ritual that had gone on for ages.

From day one, we were warned NOT to get on first. Do that, and you were a sure thing to be pushed all the way to the back seat. And that meant you’d be fighting in the opening bout.

The trick was to let someone else get on, while you fumbled for your bus pass. It was always overcrowded. With an ounce of luck, you would end up in relative safety, jammed up the front.

It didn’t always work. So you took your lumps. Character building apparently. I can’t remember anyone complaining. I guess we thought the consequences would be far worse the next morning.

The bus bouts were a good incentive to ride your bike to school. It took a while, but I finally convinced mum it would be safe. If only she knew that dodging morning traffic was a breeze compared to backseat beltings.

My second-hand bike was a beauty. It had high, up-turned handlebars. I thought that was incredibly cool.

What wasn’t cool, was when those handlebars broke. As I was rocketing down a hill. I looked like a trainee unicyclist, waving the former steering device madly in the air.

I crashed, of course. Laughter echoed around the neighbourhood. I had to push my now bent and buckled machine to class, minus large chunks of skin.

A few years later, life became easier. While others had bus battles and bike bingles, I cruised into the car park in my trusty old Kingswood. There’s something very special about a Senior driving to school.

My new mobility had other advantages. It gave me lunchtime options. And every now and then, that involved a quiet flutter.

As ludicrous as this sounds, I would drive a few minutes down the road, to the local TAB. In my school uniform.

It all went well, until the Friday I bumped into a geography teacher, cheering home a favourite. Nothing was said. We were both caught out. He didn’t tell, and neither did I. The education system was different back then.

No need to let The Teenager in on any of this. She has her own problems. Until she gets her licence, she can stick to the bus, weirdos or no weirdos. She’ll be fine. As long as she stays away from the back seat.

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Attention Coach Potatoes – I’m here to help. Your official guide to sporting glory this weekend.

October 1, 2011

It’s been circled on the calender for months.

The ultimate weekend. Forty-eight hours of grand finals and Group Ones.

If you haven’t warned the family, do so now. Strap yourself in. But be warned. This weekend isn’t for the faint-hearted.

I know what you’re thinking. What about handing out some tips from years of grand final weekend abuse?

Consider it done. Here’s my survival guide. Feel free to share with your mates. Just don’t blame me if it lands you in strife.

Saturday Oct 1st.

Morning: Ask loved ones to provide a hearty breakfast. You can enjoy it over the papers. The family is required to provide peace and quiet at this time.

10.30am. Get the scratchings. Double check multi-bets. This can be done with coffee or tea. No alcohol just yet. Unless you’re at the track. If so, you should be on your third by now.

11.30am. Consider yard chores. Don’t think family responsibilities can be ignored this weekend.

11.35am. Shout yourself a cool drink for all that hard thinking. Now assume the position in your comfy black chair.

12.10pm. Randwick on Epsom Day. Race one, and it’s the fillies having their first start. Back your favourite trainer at odds and hope you can jag some play money.

12.30pm. If you haven’t already, check snack supplies and beer fridge. There’ll be no time later. In an emergency, send a friendly family member to the nearest bottle shop/convenience store.

1.25pm. Sport Change #1. We’re off to the Rugby World Cup. That time-honoured clash between the Wallabies and Russia. Bad luck is guaranteed if you miss the national anthem. You’ll be standing, of course.

2.15pm. Sport Change #2. Get your tight shorts on. It’s time for the AFL grand final. And another crack at the anthem. Not my game. But I love their passion. Watch the crowd shots before the first bounce. These fans live and breathe their sport. A bit like Queenslanders.

Now, a word of warning. You need to display some remote control expertise here. Don’t get caught up in the excitement at the MCG. The Group Ones are about to start at headquarters.

3.20pm. Back to the races. After the three-year old stayers strut their stuff, it’s Epsom time. That famous Randwick mile. The highlight of my day.

Remember the play money you snared earlier? Get it on Sincero here. When he wins, stand again, and cheer his knockabout jockey Chris O’Brien. No-one is more deserving of a wrap this weekend.

Late arvo-ish. You now must swap between the remaining Group Ones, the finish of the footy, all with an eye on the Perth quaddie. This is for experienced players only.

With stacks of cash, announce to the family that as a celebration, you’ll be kick-starting the BBQ. Of course, they are responsible for salads, breads, sauces, potatoes and their own drinks. And the washing up. Won’t they be grateful.

Now, off to bed. We have a big day tomorrow.

Sunday Oct 2nd

Morning. Check last night’s bets, including the Perth quaddie. Inspect Sunday paper to ensure there wasn’t a late protest that may provide a surprise dividend.

9.00am. Suggest romantic interlude with loving and supportive partner. Be prepared for constructive criticism.

9.00am and 20 seconds. Return to papers. Do form for another day of racing.

9.30am. (Qld time from here on) Race One at Flemington. Yes, it’s Daylight bloody Saving in the southern states. You have no idea who to back, but it’s always great to have them running so early.

10.40. Race Three .. The Bart Cummings. You must watch this race in honour of the great man.

For the next hour or two, a nap in your comfy chair is acceptable. It goes without saying that no-one is permitted to change the channel.

1.00pm. Your first taste of NRL grand final day. The North Queensland Cowboys are in the Toyota Cup decider. Cheer them loudly and proudly. But not for long. Because….

1.05pm. We’re back to Flemington. Race Seven .. the Group One Turnbull Stakes. Some Cup hopefuls in action here. The very smart December Draw will be saluting.

From here on, times become flexible. You may need to increase your fluid intake. Rugby league lovers know what I mean. There’s nothing like grand final afternoon.

Mates and neighbours will join in. Strangers too. The family will have no problems with you opening your arms, and your esky, to supporters of the great event.

Now, you’re on your own. Enjoy the game, and in an ad break, reflect on how much you’ve achieved in the past twenty-four hours.

One more thing. If you get to do all of the above, can you let me know how it goes? Sounds like a fantastic weekend.

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The model family. Except for Dad. He’s got a head like a smashed crab.

September 27, 2011

I accept that I won’t be mistaken for Brad Pitt anytime soon.

It’s never been an issue. Not everyone can be blessed with dashing Hollywood looks.

These days, it’s fair to say that I’m built more for comfort than speed. Maturity, at least in appearance.

It was never a problem when I worked on the wireless. I feature in the Wikipedia entry titled “Great head for radio.”

Don’t tell anyone in the TV world. They haven’t seemed to notice yet. Even behind the scenes I have the potential to frighten small kids and animals.

The reason I feel compelled to outline these cosmetic shortcomings, is that the women in my life are the complete opposite.

They are all good sorts. And it seems others are noticing.

The Teenager is tall, elegant, and gorgeous. That’s a Dad Description.

Daughter Two as well. Another rare beauty. Dad Description # 2. We’re told they have a young, natural look. This, apparently, is a good thing.

Both did a school holiday course a while back, on the basics of deportment. It was run by a leading model agency. They must have been professional, because it cost me a small fortune.

Over a week, the young ladies are shown such things as how to walk tall, and why it’s poor form to spit on the footpath.

It concluded with a formal evening, and as I munched on what must have been the world’s most expensive sausage roll, I had to admit that they both looked stunning.

I thought that would be the end of it. Wrong. There were photos planned for the following week. I pondered a second mortgage. And still more surprises were ahead.

When The Treasurer took them to the studio, a funny thing happened. The photographer decided the girls’ mother should be in the shoot too.

She does have past experience in the modelling world. One year, she was known as the Tuggerah Lakes Mardi Gras Queen. At a younger age. Not that she’s old now. Anyway, let’s move on..

It was decided in the studio, possibly by someone with a pony tail, that the three of them had Something. Together, they had The Look.

Advertisers are constantly searching for The Look. They want happy, smiling families, to show off cars, or cough medicines, or new homes.

After some snaps were taken of mother and daughters, it was suggested that they could be used in commercials. This excited them greatly.

There was, of course, a problem. The happy, smiling family was missing someone. Me.

Forget the fact that I would rather stick bamboo sticks under my toenails than sit in on a photo shoot. This family still needs a father.

The girls explained that the agency would use a replacement dad. It was noted that this didn’t seem to concern them greatly. I could tell by the laughter.

I’m not getting too worried yet. They’re still waiting for the phone call. When it comes, I’ve promised to support my model family. As long as I get a cut of the takings.

I’ve told them I want a say in who plays the part of me. And the ground rules are clear. First and foremost, he can’t be too good-looking.

My stand in needs to be believable. A little older. Maybe carrying a few pounds. A form guide in his pocket. Reading glasses. And bad dress sense. Now, where can we find someone like that?

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The perils of change. And replacement jockeys. Another way for punters to do their dough.

September 24, 2011

I loathe change.

Call me a creature of habit. And proud of it. At home, and work, and on the punt.

Giggle if you like. I don’t mind. I’m old and I can take your barbs.

I just think there’s something to be said for routine. And nowhere is it more important than the sporting arena.

My heart sinks when a halfback pulls out of a footy team. There goes the game plan.

Watch a decent cricket side when a new wicket keeper comes in. Nothing is smooth, no matter how talented the gloveman might be.

In the racing game, I would suggest that change should be avoided whenever possible. Or you’ll end up with loose change.

Late switches? Disastrous. Avoid like the plague. If it involves a jockey, run from the room and wave your arms in the air.

You know where I’m heading here. Although we’ve gone around the block to get there. Smart Missile today at Caulfield. Minus an injured Glen Boss.

His replacement is one of the world’s best. Brett Prebble is a gun. I’d back him anywhere he’s riding. But not today.

Here’s my theory. Based on absolutely no scientific evidence. Horses get to know their jockeys. They relax just that little bit more with a buddy up top. Especially the good ones.

Think Greg Childs and Sunline. Nolen and Black Caviar. Boss and Makybe Diva. Cassidy and Might and Power. They go better for those they know.

I can hear you chortling. Yes, they were champions anyway. Yes, they had other jockeys ride them. But you’re missing my point. And yes, I have one.

Smart Missile, the 3-year-old with a mind of his own, will be looking for Bossy this afternoon. His voice, and his touch. Instead, he’ll get Prebble. A bloke who was in Hong Kong yesterday.

I can hear you screaming examples to prove what a fool I am. Well, save your breath. I have my own painful story.

Yes, this policy has brought me unstuck big time before. Guess who the jockey was? G Boss.

It was the 1995 Golden Slipper. In the weeks before, I’d been following an unpredictable Freedman colt at long odds. Flying Spur.

He drew the inside gate in the Slipper. Jim Cassidy had the ride. At the time, no-one was riding better than the Pumper.

I’d declared him to anyone silly enough to listen. A major collect was looming. Until disaster struck.

The Pumper was outed the day before the big race. The infamous Jockey Tapes affair. Replaced by a young bloke from Queensland.

It was too much for me. As much as I thought the horse was the best in the field, I couldn’t bring myself to embrace the late change.

You know the rest. Flying Spur, with Boss riding for his life, saluted at 25 to 1. Beat Octagonal. I watched the tragedy unfold in a Cairns pub. And cried.

Did I learn my lesson? No. And over time, despite that horrible mistake, I reckon results have averaged my way, whenever change has been in the wind.

So, no Smart Missile for me today. It will be Woorim’s day. With his trusted jockey, Damian Browne, up top. Snug as a pair of old boots. First Group 1 for Rob Heathcote. Start chilling stubbies at the stables now.

I’m happy for you to tell me how wrong I am. Just not right now. I’m reading the papers. And you can’t change routine.

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A childhood spent outside. The beauty of having a big yard and a slobbering dog.

September 20, 2011

As a kid, I lived my life outside. Nothing much of interest happened inside. The backyard was my playground. It’s what we did.

Every minute of daylight was put to healthy use. And some moonlight. Mum would call more than once to get me inside for dinner.

People of my vintage tell these stories. The younger generation delivers a collective yawn and advises that we don’t ‘get it’. Which is often the truth.

Something beyond dispute, is the quality and importance of the backyard. The ancient times of my youth is a clear winner.

Blocks are shrinking. More and more places have no yard at all.

Our family moved a few times during my childhood. We lost our first house. Dad’s building business crashed. The bank made him sell the home that he’d built for us. It knocked him around.

For a sports-mad youngster, there was a bonus. Our new rental place, humble as it may have been, had a ripper yard. Complete with Hills hoist and outside dunny. It was long and spacious. The yard, not the outhouse.

During winter, Dad and I would spend hours throwing the footy around. Catching, and kicking, and commentating on future glory. Mum would call fulltime and drag us up the back steps.

But it was summer when our outside arena came to the fore. It was an ideal backyard cricket ground.

Over our fence was a dirt lane, and then a spare block of land, overgrown with grass and weeds. Just the sort of wide spaces that encouraged lusty on-side shots.

We positioned the stumps at the far end, so the batsman had to be careful in his decision-making. To the right, was the dunny, and Dad’s shed. If you hit in that direction, you had to make sure it was along the ground.

The value shot was to the left. Anything loose from the bowler would be dispatched over the fence, into that spare block.

Dad would bowl over after over, in fading light. He’d still be in his work clothes, after toiling on a building site somewhere. But he would send them down, without complaint.

I think back, and wonder how I ended up such a crap batsman in adult years. It was certainly not through a lack of practice. Possibly a lack of talent.

Someone else loved that yard, and those endless summer arvos with bat and ball. Our dog, Tess.

She was a beautiful black border collie. I can’t remember where we got her, or how we paid for her, given money was so tight. But we adored her.

She lived for our cricket games. Our best fieldsman by far. She could catch. And importantly for the weary bowler, she could chase.

Whenever I’d whack one deep into the spare block, she’d be galloping after it. Thanks to her efforts, it was rare for us to ever lose a ball. It would come back covered in dribble, but that was a small price to pay.

After Dad’s death, we moved a few more times. Nowhere was quite like that backyard.

Now, I have a yard that is tiny by comparison. There is a rusting swing set, and a trampoline that doesn’t get used much anymore.

Our dog Coco is only a little bigger than the tennis balls Tess used to chase. I get home after dark, so there’s no bowling to be done. The girls hate cricket anyway.

There is hope, however. Daughter Two is now playing touch football. Finally, a reason for our family to own a footy. And to get outside.

This weekend, we’re going to spend some time in our yard. A short break from laptops, phones, and i-pods.

If we had been given access to so many gadgets all those years ago, maybe we would have stayed inside too. Or maybe not. Tess would never have forgiven me.

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Tips on how to survive a day trackside with a bunch of thirsty non-punters.

September 17, 2011

There’s nothing like a day at the track with mates who wouldn’t know a favourite from a frog.

Non-punters. I actually know a few. It’s my life mission to corrupt them.

For starters, they never have their own form guide. Which means they want to borrow mine. And as we all know, that’s awful luck.

They aren’t interested in Perth. They want to get a cab after the last, instead of seeking out the final get-out stakes somewhere in the Southern Hemisphere.

They get bored easily. Unless you find them a winner. So the key is to secure decent tips, and keep their fluids up.

I’ll be doing just that today. With three great old mates. Our annual get together. We’re all very excited.

One is a reformed punter. Much more responsible these days. Or so he tells us.

The other two bet on Melbourne Cup Day, and whenever they get stuck with me.

Where I grew up, we all played footy and punted. And enjoyed cool drinks on hot days.

Sadly, not everyone had such a privileged upbringing.

There are folk out there who haven’t embraced our love of the punt. Such a shame.

The things they must be forced to do instead on a Saturday arvo. Golf. Triathlons. Gardening. Computer games. What a waste.

I first met this lot in Cairns many years ago, on the coaching staff of a footy club.

After fun and successful times, we moved on, and elsewhere.

After a few years apart, a pact was made to get together every year, for a few giggles. And so we have.

Our weekend always includes a trip to the track. That was my idea. They agreed, only because I told them how easy it was to make money while drinking cold beer. Yep, they believed me.

Over the years I’ve dragged them to Randwick, the Gold Coast, the Cairns Cup, and a few places in between.

For some reason, we never win. Ever. I keep them interested with group trifectas, and doubles, and tips from the most reliable of sources. For absolutely no return.

Of course, they blame me. And declare how lucky they are to only go through these torture sessions once a year. Unlike their host.

It takes a steady flow of refreshments to ease the pain. Until the next morning.

This year will be different. Mark us down as good things at Doomben today.

We’ll pool some money, because that’s what happens when blokes with no idea want to back things.

Stewards have been advised of a change of tactics. A monster quaddie is on the cards. And yes, I’ll have to explain what that means.

Keep an eye out for us. Four old blokes looking uncomfortable in ties. One putting the bets on. Three others shaking heads.

Feel free to offer us tips. Just be prepared to spend some time explaining what they have to do if I’m not with them.

Like me, you should be doing your bit to educate a non-punter. Get them out to the track. Text them some tips. Make them think you win plenty of cash every weekend.

Just one rule. Don’t let them touch the form guide. It’s hard enough to find a winner, without that sort of cruel luck.

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