The new way to impress girls and become a star. Be a goose on YouTube.

June 26, 2012

Not that long ago, you needed special talents to be a showbiz celebrity.

Elvis. Sinatra. The Beatles. Madonna.

Youngsters didn’t get a look in. Unless you were Shirley Temple or Rin Tin Tin.

How times have changed. In our instant world of social media, nobodies have the chance to become somebodies. The era of the self-made celebrity.

Give an outrageous interview at a crime scene, and they’ll write a song about you. Shine in a bikini while hooking a sporting hero, and you’ll wind up with your own tv reality show.

Then there are those who don’t need any of that. Just a computer, and a smart-arse attitude.

A little while back, the girls introduced me to the latest YouTube sensation. Young blokes from Melbourne called The Janoskians. Odds are you’ve never heard of them. But they’re making a generation of kids laugh.

You won’t have seen them on tv. No songs on the radio. They don’t need to. Because they’ve created a juvenile empire online. A YouTube channel has more than 100-thousand subscribers. Their crazy antics have attracted 20-million hits. Yep, 20-million.

Kids can access their stuff at the kitchen table. On the bus. By the pool.  At any time of the day or night.

They take the piss out of anything, and everything. They are stars for a generation of youngsters. Even though the rest of us wouldn’t know them from Adam.

They find humour in train carriages, by embarrassing unwary passengers. In lifts, performing makeshift collapses in front of shocked strangers. They’ll pinch some poor shopper’s hot chips in the local food court. Side-splitting stuff. Caught on camera.

It’s designed to shock the oldies. Make us shake our heads at the children of today. Which makes them heroes in the eyes of kids everywhere.

They’re the ultimate in cool. Even though they don’t actually do anything on stage or screen.

I saw their popularity first hand on the weekend. A special appearance, at one of Brisbane’s biggest shopping centres.

The girls pleaded with me to take them. The ultimate in autographs. It will be no surprise to learn that I had no idea what I was getting into.

We arrived an hour before the meet and greet began. To find a thousand fans jammed into the carpark.

My girls and a friend joined the giant queue, while issuing strict instructions that I should disappear. Nothing cool about having Dad in the line with you.

I moved to a spot they couldn’t see me, and got chatting with a security guard. He looked stressed. Protecting Obama at a dockside pub would have been an easier task than trying to contain this lot.

He told me that the first girls arrived at 2.30. In the morning. Without parents.

When the five lads eventually showed their pretty faces, the collective scream was ear-splitting. The organiser gave fans their instructions. Videos were fine, but no photos. Step up, get your autographs, and move on.

That’s right. There would be no singing, or dancing, or joke-telling. Just five kids sitting at a table, armed with thick black pens. Enjoy your thirty seconds.

My guess is that the final crowd totalled around 1500. Not one of them complained. They stood, and shuffled forward. And screamed, if one of the young stars happened to throw a look their way.

I saw young girls crying as they left the stage. Actual sobbing. Clutching a poster with child-like scribble.

After exactly three and a half hours, The Teenager and Daughter Two had their autographs. And videos. Within minutes, they were on Facebook, telling friends about their intimate brush with some real-life celebrities.

So did every other girl there. An therein lies the secret of The Janoskians. Every online post is a plug. Every shared video makes them a little more popular. Next time they visit, the crowd will be twice the size.

It turns out that these young clowns are actually smarter than we think. Just don’t let the fans know. It’s so much easier to be cool when you’re playing the fool.

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It’s Black Caviar night. Memories of the big events that made us get out of bed.

June 23, 2012

There’s something special about watching big sporting events in the middle of the night.

Ashes tests. Kangaroo tours. World title fights. Wimbledon finals. And great racing. All celebrated under the moonlight.

In the old days, we’d stay up for the duration. Fuelled by cool drinks, as operating hours were extended by kindly club managers. Now, it’s an alarm clock, slippers and strong tea.

Tonight, anyone who’s ever won a quid at a racecourse will be glued to the box. And plenty of others who’ve never opened a formguide. Midnight ratings will go through the roof.

Yet another chapter in the Black Caviar story. This time she’ll be winning on the other side of the world. In front of Poms in top hats.

We all feel as if we’re on this amazing ride with her. Have done since that first victory. Even from afar, we’ll cheer like lunatics.

The difference this time, is that most of us will be waving the imaginary whip while wearing flannelette pyjamas. And we’ll be back to bed as soon as Peter Moody collects the cup.

Years ago, Dad would wake me, so we could watch the Kangaroos taking on England in the Old Dart. We’d huddle around the black and white tv. I’d have a Milo, while he sipped on a sneaky ale.

They were brutal encounters. When the Poms could actually play. We’d have the lights out and the volume low, so Mum wouldn’t wake up.

One of my great late night memories is the Second Test at Old Trafford in 1990. Ricky Stuart’s longest run, that led to Mal Meninga’s greatest try. In the final seconds of the game.

Future Origin coach to Future Origin coach. When Big Mal planted the ball down and broke their hearts, lounge rooms all over the land erupted. It was one of the game’s great moments.

I recall the night it was standing-room only at the local leagues club, when Jeff Fenech fought for his world title against that punishing little Thai bloke.

They recorded record bar sales that night, as we went with the pair of them round for round.

It was well into the morning when Jeff proclaimed his love for us all, and we made our way home on unsteady pins.

Another night to remember was Pat Cash’s Wimbledon triumph in 1987. Although if truth be told, those memories are a little blurred.

We’d descended on a friend’s house, after a particularly boisterous Sunday night. Someone decided we should have one for the road. Maybe two.

We stumbled upon coverage of The Man in the Headband doing his thing. Pat’s heroics kept us up way longer than was medically sound. But it did provide an excuse for snoozing at work the next day.

It will be a much more sedate affair tonight. The girls will be sound asleep, so I’ll watch the Mighty Mare alone. With a nice cuppa. And  a biscuit.

But don’t be fooled. The cheering will be just as loud as anyone in a pub or racecourse bar. Getting up at midnight lets you do that. Go the Mighty Mare.

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Parents who cheer the cheerleaders. How we’re all caught up in the sport of the future.

June 19, 2012

It takes a special woman to get away with wearing a huge pink hair bow.

If the lady in question is, shall we say, of an age, then it’s an even greater challenge.

Our compere at the World Cup Cheer tournament cared nought about such observations.

She was the happiest hostess I’ve seen in many a day. Or, more to the point, heard.

No-one else got near that microphone. Mother Pink Bow was everything cheerleading is. Loud, colourful, and vibrant.

Her helpers had them too. More pink bows than Mardi Gras.

Until recently, I didn’t even know cheerleading was a sport. Sure, I’d seen colourful routines at half time in the footy. But this is something else.

My first taste of the cheer world came through Hollywood. If you’re the mum or dad of a dancing teenage girl, you’ve seen one of the ‘Bring it On’ movies.

The franchise has spawned flick after flick. I think they’re up to number nine. And I’ve sat through every single one. Several times over.

For those who prefer Clint Eastwood on the big screen, let me explain. The films are about high school cheerleaders. Usually from a disadvantaged school, on the wrong side of town.

After some early cat fighting, they unite as one, and do incredible cheer routines, to overwhelm the rich kids with two left feet.

They’ve been going forever. The next installment will be based in a nursing home. A bunch of purple rinsers will throw away zimmer frames and do a routine in the common room, infuriating the old blokes who won’t be able to see the soapies on tv. ‘Bring it On – But Not Until After My Afternoon Nap.’

Anyway, I digress. It IS indeed a sport. One of the fastest growing in the land. And The Teenager loves it.

She’s been training like a demon. Some of the sessions go three hours. Our little girl has never been fitter.

The routines are part dance, part gymnastics, part pep-rally. Incredibly fast, choreographed to the second, set to a mash-up of modern music. Which is sometimes drowned out by the screaming crowd.

There are 30 members in her team. One of the bigger groups. Uniforms are bright, to match the spirits of those taking part. Smiles are compulsory.

In this section, there were more than 60 different teams competing. Even accounting for my bad maths, that’s over 15-hundred girls in action.

Some run, some jump, and others are thrown into the air. They’re caught, most of the time. It’s dangerous, high-flying stuff. Even more so, when you consider some of those doing the flying were watching the Wiggles just a few years ago.

As an old footy-head, I’ve been yearning for the girls to be in a team sport. You can’t beat the spirit and bond that comes from accomplishing a goal with a bunch of mates.

One team even had a mascot. A dad, of course. Bouncing around in a hot, sweaty outfit, complete with giant head. The things we do.

The auditorium was packed. There must have been 2-thousand people there. More than some Sydney NRL games. And here they were, these high-kicking kids, showing nerves of steel.

As I watched the routines roll across the afternoon, interrupted only by Mother Pink Bow telling parents not to take photos (for the safety of the kids – how sad), I was also struck by how confident these kids were.

I’m tipping school bullies would be giving this lot a big miss. And that’s a wonderful thing. Skyrocketing self-esteem, from hard work and loud music.

There’s room for everyone, too. Girls large and small. Heavy and tiny. And a couple of lucky blokes, who get to do the lifting.

It’s not often you find a new sport. Now that I have, I’m hooked. Just like The Teenager. You’ll find us at the next competition. I wonder if they have those pink bows for dads?

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Coloured suits and sneaky visitors. Unlocking the secrets of Ipswich Cup Day.

June 16, 2012

How do you beat Stradbroke Day? Bumper crowd, perfect weather and a hat full of winners.

Yet here we are,  just seven days later, getting ready for one of Queensland’s biggest funfests.

Ipswich Cup is like nothing else. I have no idea where they put all the people. And no-one goes without a cool drink. Or seven.

It also features Australia’s highest percentage of racegoers wearing brightly coloured suits, super hero costumes, and animal prints. Don’t ask me why. Must be an Ipswich thing.

As challenging as it is to keep up with these fashion leaders, there’s a more daunting task at hand. Backing a winner.

Ipswich poses some major hurdles. To be brutally honest, I rarely find success there.

It’s such a tricky track. Tight and turning, with a short straight. Just 300 metres.

You have to be up on the pace. Hard luck stories are common. Mostly mine.

If your jockey is down on confidence, or experiencing a run of outs, tear up your ticket now. Everything has to go right to be saluting here.

Cup Day throws up even greater problems. Big fields for most races. And those sneaky visitors.

It’s a bit like going to Sandown after Melbourne Cup week. You have to work out which horses have been set for the day.

Plenty of visiting trainers hang around after the Stradbroke, to make the trip west. Some have red-hot chances. Others are just delaying a return to the southern chill.

They have runners across the day today. And a few in the Cup.

Gai has Kinnersley, coming off a trial win and some solid form at Rosehill. Michael Moroney is back with Shenzhou Steeds. Believe me, he doesn’t travel for the frequent flyer points. There’s even a runner from Tamworth.

They’ll need to be good to catch one from across the ditch. Ginga Dude has been unlucky all carnival. Solid efforts behind Stradbroke Day stars Lights of Heaven and Solzhenitsyn.

The Kiwi has matched strides with some of the best in the land for a few seasons now. The question is, can he carry the hefty weight, and handle the track?

I reckon he ran. We might finally jag a winner.

Don’t be too concerned if you miss out. Today is all about fun. Especially if you’re in a lime green suit. Some things never go out of fashion.

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Why kids know everything and parents know nothing. Lessons on how to let them find their way.

June 12, 2012

It’s hard for a child to accept that parents may have actually achieved something in a former life.

There is no possible way any of us could have had ability of any sort, way back then.

It’s all so different now. And we don’t get it.

As much as they love us, they refuse to believe that we could run, and dance, and kick goals.

They want proof. Unless it’s on YouTube, it doesn’t matter. Grainy old photos just add to the notion that such events were held in prehistoric times, and therefore don’t count.

Daughter Two has been preparing for her annual Sports Carnival. Not training, mind you. Preparing. As in clothes, and hair decorations, and streamers.

It must be said, she will look the part. In the best tradition of the world’s greatest athletes, she’s been visualising this day for months now. If the paparazzi attended primary school events, she would be on the front page.

As House Captain, it’s a big deal. She has a steely determination to dominate. The school oval will be a sea of Firetail Red. It’s her hope that the others will be left sulking in a far corner.

She’s also keen on winning her pet events. Attending to her social media rounds after school makes it impossible to do any extra practice, however she remains confident.

We were discussing how she should approach the sprints, and the relay, as we do at this time each year. I suggested a strategy that I thought might be helpful in bringing down her arch-rival. At which point, I received ‘the look’.

Most parents will understand. This is when we are made to realise just how little we know about the world.

“Dad”, she said. “It’s simple. You just run as fast as you can, try not to fall over, and see what happens. I don’t need a plan. Anyway, it’s DIFFERENT these days.”

Of course it is. When I was running they used sundials for stopwatches and hessian sacks for singlets.

I reminded her of the 800 metres, held last week. She performed magnificently, finishing second, thereby qualifying for the district competition. Even though her game plan was to sprint as hard as she could, stop mid-race in case she had to vomit, and run again.

Daughter Two defended this approach, declaring that the winner had done exactly the same thing. She just didn’t stop as long.

I then made the mistake of recalling, modestly of course, my own school athletic career. There are state medals hidden in a box somewhere.

I would have continued, had there not been an outburst of laughter from all those at the table. They have seen me struggle to run to a ringing phone. Who needs tips from him?

Probably just as well that the conversation ceased. I know what the next question would have been. “Did you run at the Olympics?” There is no middle ground with this lot. You’re either the very best, or an also-ran.

Like football. If I dare suggest that I played at a ground we see on tv, I know what’s coming. “Did you play State of Origin?” No, the selectors were happy with the other 30,000 players in front of me.

Mention that you trod the boards in the same thigh-slapping musical we’re watching, and it’s “Were you in a movie?” Sadly, no again. Funniest Home Videos doesn’t count.

It stretches to homework too. It was suggested that The Teenager should run her French assignment past me. Her reply was by way of a polite giggle. “Do you really think Dad will understand what I’m saying? It’s in French!” Touche.

I know it’s a phase. In and around the teenage years. When they were small, we were their heroes. And when they get older, hopefully, they’ll believe the clippings.

Might be best that I keep quiet for a bit. It’s all about love and support. And there’s oodles of that. In the meantime, if they find themselves in need of late-night karaoke hints, I’m their man.

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My Stradbroke punting disaster. Breaking the golden rule in picking our big winner.

June 9, 2012

It was a modern-day racing tragedy.

Two men, who should have backed a big winner, but didn’t. And took turns at kicking themselves.

We were only ever going to back one horse on Stradbroke Day last year. For months, we’d spruiked Sincero. Told our mates, and colleagues, and long-suffering families.

We giggled to each other about how clever we were. About the odds we’d pinch early. How we’d be ordering the specials at Chinese that night.

You see, we had secret info. My Great Mate was on the inside. He knows Sincero’s regular jockey, Chris O’Brien. They’re good buddies. The hoop rides for him down south.

The camp was supremely confident in the weeks before. This would be a raid that the Queenslanders wouldn’t see coming. Except we knew.

Then, two things occurred. Two shattering, confidence-sapping events.

Sincero flopped in his lead up run to the big race. Thrashed. The bookies wound his price out. We got nervous.

Then there was a change of jockey. O’Brien was no chance of making the weight. Our man was no longer in the saddle. Replaced for the grand final.

What happened next still haunts me. Some blamed it on our big Friday night. Too many brain cells lost.

Others thought we were just plain dills. Unable to follow a punting plan through. Not worthy of winning.

Hard to argue with any of that. Because on that Saturday, we stood in the Eagle Farm stand, and changed our minds. Just like that. Put our cash on something else. I can’t even remember what it was.

You know the rest. The black colours swept to the front. Two hearts sank. We both knew .. three hundred metres out. Home in a canter.

Those around us expressed shock at the ease of the win. “Who would have backed that?”, they asked. If only they knew.

It pains me to admit that I have form for going off the Stradbroke winner. In 2004, I had walked onto the track ready to launch into Bob Thompson’s colt, Thorn Park.

Similar circumstances. Declared it weeks before. Tipped it to all and sundry. And then, minutes out, changed my mind.

I can still see where I was standing. A tote line, in a fancy corporate tent. With too much time to think.

I had just been given a tip. For a donkey that would jump from a barrier so wide it was positioned in Racecourse Road.

I looked at the blinking odds on the TV above me, and got greedy. A juicy price, for a galloper being tipped by a judge way smarter than me.

And so I changed my mind. Just like that. You know the rest. The yellow colours swept to the front. Daylight second. For a punter, there’s no lower feeling.

I forgot that bitter lesson last year. Never again.

So, here it is. The golden rule for backing the Stradbroke winner. Stay solid. Stick with what you’ve liked for weeks. Don’t be swayed by others.

So what have I liked for weeks? The Snowden flying machine, Mental. An absolute special. Except for one tiny detail. It hasn’t made the field.

Instead, it will win a race earlier in the day at ridiculous odds. And leave me guessing again in the big one.

There’s no hope for me today, but it’s not too late for you. Back your own judgement. And if you a spot a bloke in a tote line, staring blankly at the TV above, throw him a tip. I need all the help I can get.

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Telling old blokes where to go this weekend. Please, tell us. We need to know.

June 5, 2012

It’s our big weekend.

My great mate and I are counting the days to our annual celebration of all things Blokey.

If you were reading my ramblings at this time last year, you know what’s ahead. And to both of you, thanks for sticking around.

For everyone else, here’s a brief rundown of what we do.

He’ll fly in on Friday morning, with a thirst you could photograph. We’ll gather with some wonderful lads later in the day, and head to Brisbane’s annual Bernborough Club lunch.

It’s the traditional warm up for Saturday’s Stradbroke Day. One of the great racing gatherings. Cool drinks will settle the dust.

When the tables are cleared, we’ll bid farewell to some of the industry’s finest, and make our way to one of the nation’s most famous pubs.

He loves the Caxton. He gets it. The history of the place, just a decent drop kick from the wonderful stadium up the road.

We’ll watch Friday night footy there. Remind each other how good we were all those years ago. And tell anyone within earshot that the game’s just not the same.

Nothing too late, mind you. We have to preserve our ageing bodies. Because the highlight of the weekend is still ahead.

Eagle Farm on Stradbroke Day is something to behold. The highlight of the Winter Carnival. A few bets. More cool drinks. We’ll celebrate by telling stories we’ve heard a thousand times before. And there’ll be laughter yet again. True mates.

When the races are done, we’ll do what we’ve always done. A Saturday night feast of Chinese.

Same place, year after year. You may laugh, and call us predictable and boring. The staff probably do too. We’ll change when you can find me a better Crispy Beef dish.

I know what you’re thinking. This is all too perfect. There must be an obstacle ahead. Well, you guessed right. Help is needed. We have no idea what to do next.

When blokes are just a trifecta away from turning 50, where do they go to listen to ‘our’ music? You’re laughing at us again.

It’s a legitimate concern. Who is catering for the old blokes out there? Doof Doof and DJs who go by just a single name are useless.

Pubs where the techno beat drones on until sunrise will never host us. Clubs where rap artists spit venom across the dance floor are another world away.

We want a place where we can rest our beer on the table, and listen to some good ol’ boys belting out The Eagles, Credence Clearwater Revival, Fleetwood Mac, the Steve Miller Band and Joe Cocker.

Later on they can throw in a bit of Powderfinger, and The Doors. Maybe Dragon, The Angels and Mental as Anything. And of course, the hits of the great J.R. Cash are welcome at any time.

I don’t think it’s too much to ask. Old farts need to be entertained too. We won’t cause any trouble. Just some foot-tapping, and off-key warbling.

Your suggestions are welcome. Unless you’re a DJ rapper who wears gold chains, and goes by the name of Slide. For everyone else, take pleasure in telling us where to go.

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Dressing for success on Oaks Day. Fashion secrets to make any racing bum a winner.

June 2, 2012

I’m not one to notice fashion at the track. Good or bad. Mine, or anyone else.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy for you to get dressed up. Ditch the thongs and find some sensible shoes. But there are other things to concentrate on. Like finishing the day with bus fare.

Oaks Day is one of those great occasions, where lots of non-racing people head to the races. Stylish women who might not see a horse all afternoon. Refined men who toss the form guide away to get to the theatre guide quicker.

And that’s just fine. The fashion parades, and the young fillies and stallions, add to the fun.

Of course, we need to find the winner of the Oaks. Pretty clear-cut I reckon. But first, tips that are even more important. What you should be wearing.

If you’re lucky enough to be in a fancy box today, well done. You’ve obviously grovelled to the right people. The aim now is not to blow it, so you get another invite next year.

For the blokes, it’s pretty simple. Dust off your best suit. Iron a decent shirt. Check that you can do up the top button. Believe me, those collars shrink each year.

Never wear new shoes. Shine up your old favourites. Grab some comfy socks. You’re now set to sprint through the betting ring to snap up the best odds.

There’s another advantage to this strategy. If you have to walk home, branded one of the day’s great losers, at least you won’t get blisters.

Don’t wear a tie that has a cartoon on it, or a flashing light. No-one has ever had a successful day on the punt with Bugs Bunny hanging from their neck.

Unless you’re a member of a Royal Family, or you’ve just had scalp surgery, don’t wear a hat. Those close to you saying it’s a winning look, are secretly making a documentary on your worst fashion moments.

You might think that I wouldn’t dare give fashion advice to the ladies. And you would be right. Not that they would listen to me anyway. I have enough trouble remembering to put a belt on.

My Kiwi friends are not known for their sartorial elegance either. They’ll be required to check in their fleecy overcoat at the front gate.

What they do know, however, is how to train winners in the Queensland winter. If it’s a distance race, double your bet.

They’ll pinch the Oaks today. John Sargent has trained Quintessential to the minute. She’ll be saluting, with my Kiwi mate Damian Browne in the saddle.

A word of warning though. Go easy if it gets too wet. One of the few New Zealanders who doesn’t grow a leg in the mud. That could bring Miss Artistic into the picture. That’s right. Another Kiwi.

So there you have it. Everything you need to make the big day a success. Making money and looking good, all in one afternoon. Unless your tie is flashing. If it is, good luck with that walk home.

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The Eyes have it. Or not. Why does getting old mean I can’t read the menu?

May 29, 2012

Not that long ago, I could see all. Perfect vision. Unlike George Costanza, I was spotting letter boxes, not raccoons.

At my age, this was a rare thing. My friends were all needing help. In restaurants, and at work. Someone was dimming their lights.

It’s one of the things I now notice at funerals. Blokes you haven’t seen in years, wearing glasses to read the program. Looking older, just like that.

Everyone around me was getting reading specs. Of course, I teased them no end. As mates do. Until my day arrived.

Actually, it was my night. I’ve read the form guide on a Friday night for the best part of 30 years. Sad, but true. But this particular evening, I hit a snag.

Things were blurry. Eyes itchy. Was it Race 4 or 5? Had this nag won first up, or second up? I was either having a stroke, or my peepers were giving out.

Thankfully, it was the latter. Not long after, I was sporting my first pair of glasses.

The girls gave me great support. As soon as they stopped laughing. Colleagues told me earnestly how nice my frames were. I was chuffed by this. Until I realised that this is code in the optical world for ‘You look like my nerdy uncle.’

Any self-doubt disappeared, when I found how much they helped. Words jumped out at me again. No more headaches. I may have looked like Mr Magoo, but I could see.

There’s history here, too. Mum, bless her, battled serious sight problems up until her death. That awful condition, Macular Degeneration. Towards the end, she was unable to do her beloved crosswords and puzzles. So cruel.

The condition wasn’t without a laugh though. On one of her visits, we decided to have a seafood lunch. At the counter of the local fish shop, I asked her what she fancied. After some serious study, she announced that the large prawns looked delicious. They were indeed. Except they were lobsters.

Another time, we were at a Christmas concert. One of the big churches had organised an elaborate festive show. Complete with dressed up kids and camels.

Mum thought it was wonderful. She hugged the girls, who were much younger then, and pointed to centre stage, where the desert beasts had just wandered through with a crowd of helpers.

“Look girls, there go the Three Wise Men,” she exclaimed with excitement. They were, in fact, the blokes picking up the camel poo. That’s not to say they weren’t wise. Just not terribly blessed.

I’ve been tested for the dreaded disease, and so far it’s all good. Not even a hint that it could be around the corner. But there are other dramas.

Until recently, I had only used my glasses at work, and when reading newspapers or books. Everything else was fine. Not any more.

I’m struggling when it comes to preparing meals. The print on the packages coming out of my freezer is unreadable. Obviously the work of sadistic people in a Chinese lasagne factory.

Seriously, can anyone actually read that stuff? I can’t. After getting my microwave times wrong the first six times, I’m now wearing glasses in the kitchen.

The lighting in restaurants I go to is obviously on the blink. It’s kept so low you need ropes and handrails to find your table. This must be the reason I can no longer read the menu.

Can’t see a thing. So I go with ‘I’ll have what he’s having’. Which is fine, except if the fellow to my right is a fan of pickled herring.

The glasses now accompany me to any lunch or dinner engagement. I’m told it even looks sophisticated, whipping them out of my top pocket, to have a crack at the plonk list.

I’ve come to terms with my condition. There are plenty of others just like me. Don’t laugh at us. Your time is coming.

If, however, you are putting off the inevitable, remember these golden rules. Take care if the prawns look too big. And never applaud men who walk behind camels.

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Your chance to pat a champion. And help him retire in style. Why we all love Chief De Beers.

May 26, 2012

Imagine if Matt Hayden had scored all his test centuries at the one ground. Hundred after hundred, at his beloved Gabba.

What about if Dawn Fraser had only won gold in the one pool? Picture Cathy Freeman streeting the opposition time and again, at just the one stadium.

I hear you. It could never happen. Unless, of course, you were Doomben’s favourite galloper.

Racing fans know the story of Chief De Beers. The Chief. I’ve heard it a dozen times, and it still amazes me.

The great horse won twenty races. All at the one track. Something we’ll never see again. He was simply unbeatable at Doomben.

Send him to Eagle Farm, or anywhere else for that matter, and he lost a leg. Yet a few hundred metres up the road, they couldn’t get near him.

Why would that be? I’ve heard plenty of theories. From old punters, and sports psychologists, and modern-day horse whisperers. And none of them have a clue.

I reckon it was all about being comfortable. We do our best work in a happy place. Maybe it was the view from his stall.

He was even happier, when the Doomben 10,000 rolled around. The great sprinter won it twice. With the crowd cheering his name all the way down the straight.

The best horses can take ownership of our biggest races. Makybe Diva made the Melbourne Cup her own. Super Impose was forever linked to the famous Doncaster Handicap. Won it back to back. From impossible positions. Find one on YouTube, and watch it again. Simply breathtaking.

The Chief did the same thing for the 10,000. The mere fact that the race was at Doomben gave him a few lengths start. Today, old timers will recall the link with a smile.

When they retired him, the Chief became an equine copper. The most famous of police horses. Patrolling the streets, always just in front of his four-legged colleagues. Old habits die hard.

A policeman I know reckons that whenever they used the Chief to patrol late night party districts, violence from drunken yobbos would reduce. Someone in the crowd would know the Chief’s story. A crowd would surround him, and tempers would calm. They weren’t game to cause strife on the Chief’s watch.

He left the force last week. It’s a young horse’s game now. I’m hearing he received a golden hoofshake, involving buckets of carrots. Every one deserved.

He’ll be back at Doomben this afternoon. Special guest at the track he made his own.

You can go and pat him. Get a photo. The old boy will love that. And when he parades for the crowd, cheer like there’s no tomorrow.

When the great day is over, the Champ will leave his favourite place, possibly for the final time. And he needs a new home.

His fans at the Brisbane Racing Club club are on a mission. They’re raising money, to allow the Chief to spend his final days at the Living Legends facility in Victoria. A 5 star retirement village for racetrack superstars.

He’ll be the first Queenslander to be retired there. Sharing paddocks with the likes of Might and Power, Saintly and Fields of Omagh.

You can help him get there. They’ll be raising money today at the track. If you have a win, give a little back to help one of our best.

Racing thrives on tradition, and memories. The exploits of Chief De Beers will be remembered for generations to come. Especially at Doomben. He only needed one place to shine.

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