Time for a little Romance on Caulfield Cup day.

October 17, 2015

The first thing they teach you in Punting School is .. Stick.

If you like something, don’t drop off.

Stay with whatever caught your eye all those weeks ago.

If you happen to be the Dunce of that school, (hand goes up), chances are you forget this golden rule on a monthly basis.

You may remember my Flying Spur tale of woe. The day I not only broke the rule, I smashed it into a thousand tiny pieces.

Before Flying Spur was a mighty sire, he was a flying youngster.

I’d watched from up north, as Lee Freedman plotted a course all the way to the Golden Slipper.

There was something about this flashy bloke that caught my eye. The horse, not Lee.

Days out from the two year old classic, he was doing nothing in the market. The smarties didn’t want a bar of him. That didn’t worry me. Another Golden Rule is not to be scared off by big odds. We’ll discuss that another time.

Anyway, I was confident. We would fill our boots on the back of Flying Spur.

That was, until race morning.

I woke to the news that our champion jockey Jim Cassidy had been given a stretch by stewards. It was the infamous Jockey Tapes Scandal. Pumper had been innocently giving tips. And was now banished. On the morning of the bloody Slipper!

I staggered as if shot. This could not be happening. I strained my ear to the radio, to hear that one of racing’s greatest, had been replaced by some kid I’d never heard of. A young bloke called Boss. I think they said his first name was Glen.

Just like that, I was off. The bet I’d been drooling over was cancelled. No way could this no-name handle the frenzy of the world’s most intense dash for juveniles.

There would be no Sticking. Instead, I backed something else. It may have been called Donkey. And watched, as Bossy sent Flying Spur to the line for an easy win. It paid over 20 bucks. I contemplated becoming a nun.

Anyway, if nothing else, we learn from our mistakes. Even costly, gut-wrenching ones like that.

And so, to the Caulfield Cup. And the point of this rambling. I have been taken by Rising Romance since she ran second last year.

Something about the run has stayed with me. The way she hit the line. It was like someone had scribbled ‘follow me’ across her sizeable rump.

I’ve followed her this campaign. Ignoring results. Knowing the Cup was the aim.

Today is pay day. I reckon she’ll rocket home and line our pockets. D.Lane is a patient rider. It’s what we need in the rough and tumble at Caulfield.

Stick to what you like. I can’t make it any clearer. Although I do have one question. What’s Bossy riding?

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The Broncos, Tina Turner and a snoring coach.

October 4, 2015

There were socks and undies in that Sydney hotel drawer, but no grand final tickets.

It wasn’t for a lack of looking. Granted, we were gazing through A Grade hangovers, but surely we would still be able to spot two gleaming tickets through Smithy’s large white Bonds.

We were in Sydney, to watch the Broncos win a grand final. Way back in ’93, when Alfie was leading the way, and Powers sat on the front of their jerseys.

You might remember it. Tina Turner was there. Belting out a few tunes, and cuddling the Brisbane boys. So I’m told. Because we didn’t actually make the game.

It was a bunch of rough heads from North Queensland. A footy trip from Cairns, led by a former Origin player. Who demanded to hold the tickets.

It had been fun, up until the empty-drawer moment. A few beers. Plenty of laughs. I may have even had a punt.

On the morning of the grand final, we treated ourselves to a hearty breakfast, to prepare for the big day ahead.

The boys made their way to respective rooms, to tidy up as best they could, and grab their tickets.

They were waiting out the front for us. Unaware that on Level 6, panic had set in.

Smithy decided there had been a theft. The only explanation could be that a maid with a long criminal history had snuck in, and guessed that he would have hidden the tickets with his jocks.

I suggested that it may have been more simple. That as a former forward .. he may have lost them. Leaving us ticklet-less. And laughing stocks. He did not take this suggestion well.

By now, the boys were making their way onto the bus. A search party was sent to our room. To find us in a blazing row about various levels of stupidity.

Blame then shifted to others in the travelling party. Perhaps the thief was among us. This was met with howls of protest. And laughter. They were in. And we weren’t.

We jumped on the bus anyway, hoping that we might find two tickets under a seat. We didn’t. The laughter was now a little over the top.

We arrived at the Football Stadium, and watched our dear friends disappear through the gates. They were telling strangers, and pointing at us. If Twitter had been invented at the time, we would have been trending.

As kick-off loomed, we accepted our fate. There would be no grand final miracle. We would not see the Broncos, or hear Ms Turner.

By now, we didn’t have the energy to blame the other. The hopelessness of the situation seemed to accelerate our already crushing hangovers. Instead of heading to the nearest pub, we decided to go back to the crime scene.

A two thousand kilometre trip .. to watch the decider on a small hotel room tv.

As we hit our respective beds, I wondered how things could get worse. The answer came, in a bone-rattling snore.

The tour leader, exhausted from the ticket-tragedy .. had fallen into a deep sleep. And that was the grand final of ’93. Victory on tv, with a soundtrack of snoring.

We laugh about it now. Sort of. No doubt he’ll blame me at the reunion. Now you all know the truth. Just in case it makes Twitter.

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Barefoot footy and stinky headgear. This is why you should be cheering for the Cowboys.

September 29, 2015

There were tears in Townsville when they lost the last one.

Even the bushies were wiping eyes. Before heading back to the bar at the Leagues Club.

No point dwelling on it. It’s only a game. Two pots thanks love.

The Cowboys faithful had dared to dream. A grand final after ten years. So close.

Reality hit, as the Tigers were presented with their medals in Sydney. Premierships are so bloody hard to achieve.

This club is different to any other. Not bigger, or better. Just different.

When the fans go to home games .. it’s not your normal bus trip. Try four hours each way. And then some.

There are tiny towns dotted through Western Queensland .. where they gather in the pub each Saturday night, to cheer the Cows.

The discussion will turn to the forecast. Any rain out your way? There’s a new Flash Harry PM eh? And with small talk done, they’ll move on to the important stuff. Is JT’s groin stuffed?

Head into the Cape, way up north, and you’ll hear kids laughing. In that cheeky North Queensland way. There’ll be a footy close by. The game could resume at any time. Shoes optional. Don’t fall for his dummy.

That’s how it was every arvo in Hopevale. Not sure if google maps does street view there. Fiji is closer for some of you.

A little bugger named Matty Bowen starred in those never-ending battles in the front yard. Years before be became a Cowboys legend.

The supporters are different too. Not better or more passionate. Just different.

Success on the footy field, gives so many hope. In communities where lifestyle problems make a game of footy seem insignificant. In towns where day to day dramas are much more serious than Michael Morgan’s ankle.

But when the Cowboys are winning, life gets a little sweeter. Maybe it WILL rain soon. If JT can do it, then maybe I can too?

And so, to the bloke who inspires them the most. So much rests on the skinny shoulders of this proud indigenous Queenslander.

Don’t dare call Thurston a hero. He doesn’t want that. He’s a wonderful footy player, who knows life could have taken a very different turn, had he not been inspired to use those God-given talents.

Every time he gives that sweaty, stinky headgear away, another kid goes to sleep, dreaming big.

The beauty of this grand final is that Queensland can’t lose. The powerhouse that is the Broncos, will have the other half of the state delirious if they send Hodgo out a winner.

The Broncos expect it. They’ve won before, and they’ll win again.

I hope it’s not their day. That the Supercoach is denied. I want to hear an almighty roar in the North.

I want farmers to have a little sleep in, because of their celebrations. Just this once.

I want the front yard games to start early, and finish later, with the kids commentating on the match-winning try.

I want a generation of young North Queenslanders, to see that hard work does pay off. That one day, they’ll be giving away the smelly headgear.

Here’s to wiping away a few tears on Sunday night. Before the bushies head back to the bar. With bloody big smiles.

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Locals reveal their secrets, on how to back a winner at the Cairns Amateurs.

September 13, 2014

The best racecourses get you excited at the front gate.

Walk into Eagle Farm, and tell me you’re not tingling. Randwick too. You can’t help but breathe in the history.

Cairns does it to me every time. The walk to the entrance, reminds me of everything that is wonderful about the tropical north.

So it will be today. There will be a swarm of us, ready for the fun that is Amateurs.

Some, it must be said, will be dusty. Many of those dressed to the nines, will be showing remarkable powers of recovery.

Just hours ago, they were dancing up a storm at the Amateurs Ball. Screaming Shannon Noll’s name as if he was a short-priced favourite three lengths clear.

They will be sweating pure champagne. Such is the sacrifice that must be made for the North’s premier racing event.

Of course, it’s all well and good to be in the social pages tomorrow, but the priority today is to find a winner or three. Luckily, I’m here to help.

After shaking off the black-tie cobwebs, I’ve been able to canvass some experts in the field, to guide you in the right direction

The bloke two stools up at the early-opener told me we must follow that wily veteran Frank Edwards.

He may have been giving that advice for half a century, because that’s how long it seems Frank has been winning races up here.

But age shall not weary him, so don’t be afraid to get on today.

Another veteran hoop will be in action, and as sure as I’ll be late getting a winning bet on, he will win a race.

Robert Thompson could salute on a rocking horse. He’s been coming up here for years, showing the youngsters how it’s done. He might be the one to finance your lobster tonight.

What we don’t want, is to be following jockeys who were bopping to ‘What About Me’ last night.

They tell me he’s a fair dancer, but Chris Whiteley will be saving his special moves for this afternoon. My Gold Coast mates rate him at the top of the tree. Follow him with confidence today, even at odds.

Here’s hoping those three have us excited when we’re walking out of the gates too.

And one final piece of advice. If a woman in fancy headwear tips you something based on names, colours or lucky numbers, follow her. Funny things happen on Amateurs Day. That’s the beauty of it.

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In this town, the Amateurs beat the Pros. Another race meeting you just must attend.

September 6, 2014

Everyone has their favourite race places. Days you never forget.

The biggest events. Tracks that come alive. Where you don’t mind being part of the crush.

There are a few race carnivals that are compulsory, at some stage in your life. Must-do days before you turn your toes up.

The Melbourne Cup carnival, obviously. And not just Cup Day. For the true sports fan, Derby Day Saturday has to be included.

You have to do at least one Golden Slipper. And two Darwin Cups. You’re not a true racing fan if you haven’t done Stradbroke Day. Summer isn’t complete without a stroll through the Magic Millions crowd on the Gold Coast.

But there’s one meeting that stands above all others, when it comes to pure fun. Where nothing surprises. Look closely, and you’ll see that the rules on the back of your entrance ticket state clearly that cool drinks must be had.

Like all great sporting events, the magic of the Cairns Amateurs starts way before you waltz through the front gate. There is a genuine buzz across town. It’s excitement, North Queensland style. And I never get sick of going back.

The first lesson newcomers receive, is about the true title. Drop the Cairns. It’s Amateurs. Like Madonna, it’s all that’s needed. Too hot in the north to be wasting words.

Amateurs is much more than two days of racing. There’s the fashion, and the wonderful tropical food, and the flash Friday night ball.

Look a little deeper, and you’ll find the heart of the carnival. The reason it has been so successful for so long. At a time when so many race clubs struggle to understand their crowd.

The Amateurs brings folk together. People from across the vast north of our land, mark it on the calendar months before. Some travel for hours. Others days. So they can catch up with old mates.

Sure, the southerners are a wake up now. Flights are full. The locals spot them a mile off. Sweating through their suit jackets.

There will be a variety of headwear. Fascinators from Melbourne. Akubras from Mareeba. You might spot a nice little number with bobbing corks.

When it comes to enjoying a tipple, there is nothing amateurish about the Amateurs. No surprise there. Something has to settle the dust. The beer will be cold. Rum actually flows from the bubblers. Actually, I made that bit up.

The girls will enjoy a fizz, and a nice drop of white, and pick more winners than me by going on names and colours.

Some will have their shoes off by Race 3. Bless them. There will be dancing in some sections before the quaddie begins. No-one will blink twice.

The Amateurs has the perfect blend of bush and bling. This is no Country Cup. The corporate areas will be bulging. Big money. Starlets. And the odd punting journo.

No race meeting anywhere has more laughter. There is a giggle to be had at every turn. Even my plentiful losses somehow seem less painful.

It’s on next weekend, and I’ll be there. Catching up with old friends. Meeting new ones. And working on keeping my shoes on.

If you’re within a 500 kilometre radius, you should go too. I kid you not, you’ll run into someone you know.

Add it to your list. Flemington, Rosehill, Eagle Farm, Cairns. Has a nice ring to it.

(Disclaimer: Your humble author will be a guest of the organisers this year, eating and drinking everything in sight, and filling out a pile of losing tickets for the cleaners to deal with on Sunday).

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A refresher course on the Golden Rules of Punting. If only I could remember them.

August 30, 2014

Here I am again. Appealing to those remaining brain cells to get their act together.

The Spring Carnival is all but upon us. And I have no idea what to do.

The most successful punters have rules, that they stick to solidly. The rest of us muddle through, trying to recall what didn’t work last year.

Time and again, I get it wrong. Because I remember nothing. None of the clever practices that may have picked up a dollar. And none of the crazy decisions that left me with no bus fare.

It means I make the same mistakes, time and again. And it drives me nuts.

What do I do with a heavy track? We only get one a year in sunny Queensland. And when it arrives, I’m at a loss.

Lightweights? Mud-loving sires? Greys? Or is it greys carrying a postage stamp with an Irish dad?

Can a champion win first up? Do I back the best regardless? Does class always beat arse? Do I ignore trainers saying their meal ticket is only at 70%?

What about apprentices? What did I decide all those years ago? (Actually, this one I remember. Take 3 kilos off, put 4 kilos on).

Someone told me something about favourites in big races at the start of the Carnival. It was either they always win, or they always get dusted. We may have been sharing refreshments at the time. If it was you, please, put me out of my misery.

I came up with an incredibly clever theory about the Cups, foreign horses and lead-up races. It made so much sense, I jotted it down on a coaster. It’s never been seen again.

When do Sydney horses win in Melbourne? First week, or last week? It’s one or the other. Someone must know.

You will have your own punting theories. Take a tip. If they work, tattoo them on your forehead.

As punters, we live and die by rules. It’s time I got serious, and started making a record of them. Financial success depends on it. Pass me that coaster.

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We’re back on track. Time for racing to light up in Queensland.

August 23, 2014

Yes, it’s true. I’ve been out for a spell. In a decent paddock, being fattened up for the Spring carnival.

You’ll be happy to know that little has changed since my last scribbling. Pockets remain empty. Quaddies are elusive as ever. The Sportingbet boys are enjoying overseas holidays thanks to my inability to find the most basic of winners.

Anyway, enough of the hard luck tales. Too much exciting stuff happening in racing for bottom lips to be dropping.

They’re ripping up my beloved Eagle Farm any time soon. A world-class track is on the way. What a difference it will make. Short term pain for long-term yeehaa.

We’re finally going to get some decent prize money in Queensland. That sigh of relief you hear is from the hundreds of owners who pay the bills.

For an industry that talks in billions, it’s hard to believe that owners have been picking up what amounts to loose change for so long.

Change is in the air. So here’s something else for the power brokers to consider. Let’s call it a light bulb moment.

Regular (and long suffering) readers will know of my love of the Gold Coast Turf club. Fun central, every Saturday. But it could be so much better.

Pretend you’re at the bar. Ok, some of you probably are. Anyway, look out across the straight, past the winning post, and what do you see? The amazing skyline of Surfers Paradise.

Few other tracks have such a backdrop. A little piece of magic, each and every time a winner salutes.

Now, hold that thought, and imagine the same scene at night. A dazzling array of lights. Equal to any night racing venue around the world.

What a coup it would be, if the Gold Coast could race under lights. Punters joined by party-goers, on their way out to hit the tiles on the Glitter Strip.

The concept could be sold through Asia. Tourism bosses would be drooling. Reckon the Chinese wouldn’t love it? We could write the campaign in ten seconds on the back of a coaster and it would still be a winner.

Yep, there would be an initial outlay. Make the spend now, and then sit on the pile of gold that night racing on the Coast would attract.

Racing needs new ideas. Something for everyone. Tracks have to be proper entertainment precincts, not just a few tote windows and a keg of XXXX Gold.

The industry here in Queensland finally has the right people making decisions. They now need money to play with.

A new super track at Eagle Farm, and night racing on the Gold Coast. There’s a winning quinella. I can feel my luck changing already.

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So much more than a talented young jockey. Why the loss of Nathan Berry hurts so much.

April 5, 2014

He celebrated the way you want them to. Showing that victory meant something.

Nathan Berry has just won the Magic Millions. Easily. The young bloke had been up against some of the nation’s best hoops. And left them in his wake.

He waved his arms, and gave a yelp. Showed off that million dollar smile. Somewhere between rock star and choir boy.

The Gold Coast faithful lapped it up. It wouldn’t have surprised if he’d just stepped from the Broadbeach surf. He could have been their poster boy.

Confidence without arrogance. A young man sports administrators dream of.

He fulfilled every commitment asked of him that day. Every interview. All with that cheeky grin.

How painful it is, that we won’t get to see it again. We lost Nathan this week. Not from a fall. But from a rare illness, that most of us still don’t understand.

When he become crook in Singapore a few weeks back, it gained little attention here. Some thought it was from wasting, the curse of all jockeys.

But it was so much more. Something so insidious and invasive, Nathan stood no chance.

In the days before his death, the support through racing circles was overwhelming. Social media came to the fore. He must have felt it, surely, in that hospital bed so far away.

Racing folk are rare beasts. They are quite capable of tearing each other limb from limb, over the merits of a change in riding tactics. But when trouble strikes, they unite. And when a family is hurting like Nathan’s is right now, they reach rare levels.

Tributes on Facebook and Twitter have been overwhelming. Such a genuine outpouring of love, and respect, and sorrow.

Jockeys, trainers, punters, journos. Millionaire owners, and one dollar punters. As one, they’ve sent a message to Nathan’s loved ones. You are not alone.

We want his twin brother Tommy to know that we are trying to share his pain. Of course, we can do little to ease what must be unbearable heartache. Two young men with the world before them. Now there’s just one.

I never met Nathan. But I feel like we were mates. Just like the rest of his followers on social media. We saw pictures of his victories. Laughed at fun the boys would have, on their rare nights out.

We shared his wedding day, from our phones and I-pads. Saw the love between two special young people. Just a few months ago.

Some things don’t make sense. A young man who you would be proud to have as your son. From a family that base everything they do, on love and respect.

It’s Golden Slipper day, and we’ll have a punt, because that’s what we do. Tommy still wants to take his ride in the great race. Could you do it? Such courage. Because Nathan should have been there too. Riding Unencumbered. The horse that he danced on after that Magic Millions win.

Even if Tommy’s mount Valentia gets up for Gai, there’ll be no real celebrations. Just sadness. On so many levels.

Keep the tributes coming. Remember Nathan in your own way. For me, it’s the happiest ever winner of one of my favourite races. Which I’ll never be able to watch the same way again.

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Celebrating the sound of a generation. A special trip to see the band that shaped our young lives.

January 14, 2014

I first heard them in Steve’s garage. He’d turned it into his pad. It was the coolest place I knew. Except for Smithy’s garage. That had been turned into his pad. He had a fridge.

At sixteen, we were easily impressed. We thought we were so hip. If only we knew.

While our clothes may have let us down, my mate’s choice in music was impeccable. We dined out on The Beach Boys, and Australian Crawl, and Steve Miller band. The Mentals and the Doors were on high rotation on his ripper record player. The neighbours knew all about it.

One afternoon, he introduced me to another band. One that would send me soaring to places I’d never been.

They were a bunch of good ol’ boys with a unique country rock sound, out of the US West Coast. The Eagles.

What I recall from way back then, was the amazing harmonies. And guitar work that dazzled.

We would buy their new albums, and give them priority airtime in the garage. Any female visitors snuck in were stuck with Don Henley and Glenn Frey as well as us. Fair to say, few of them shared our devotion. Or stayed past song one.

Hotel California. C’mon, sing it with me now. You all know the words. Take It Easy. Life in The Fast Lane. And The Long Run. Our favourite.

As we got older and went our separate ways, those melodies stayed with us. Lines that bonded us. And described our journey.

We would catch up whenever we could, and dust off those tunes over cool drinks. We knew most of the lyrics. And would belt them out.

Others shook their heads. Our boys are an acquired taste apparently. That’s ok. Each to his own.

A few years back, they dragged their millionaire butts to Brisbane. What a treat. I got to do a story on my idols.

Cameraman Lukey and I managed to snag seats. What a show. Luke is the coolest kid in the class. I thought he might have fallen asleep. Instead, he loved it. Knew every song.

They made a DVD from the Melbourne concert. I have played it one thousand times. Usually late at night. With glass in hand.

They’ve been going for more than forty years this mob. And now, I’m going to visit them. Off to LA to see them in concert. Possibly for the last time. They could be in rocking chairs.

If you’re an American, going to the Friday night show at The Forum, keep an eye out for the excited Aussie. I’ll be easy to pick. Off-key, and mangling a lyric or two. It didn’t matter in Steve’s pad. I’m sure they’ll let me off.

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Important advice for anyone buying a horse at Magic Millions tonight.

January 11, 2014

The business of buying a horse is a serious one. It’s not a job for any idiot.

Unless, of course, the said idiot has spent the day having a ball at the Magic Millions. Then, anyone can have a crack.

I have ventured to the sales several times after the big race day. Like everyone else there, things have gone a little shabby. Ties end up a tad crooked. Girls are looking to throw their shoes.

It’s so tempting. All that magnificent horse flesh. Just waiting for a buyer. The one we’re drooling over, could be the million dollar winner next year.

Normally mature folk start talking syndicates. Sums are done, that will make no sense tomorrow. It all seems so easy.

I’ve told the story before of Singo buying one deep into a Saturday night, on the strength of the Queensland brew. Breeding meant nothing. It was just fun. Of course, the damage would be repaired come Sunday morning.

I could very well end up in that field of dreams tonight. Yet again. So here are the rules we will abide by.

First and foremost, don’t listen to any rules. If we went by the book, no-one would have owned Black Caviar or Makybe Diva.

Don’t even think about launching a bid, without a bucket of giggle juice on board. There are international gurus spending zillions while drinking sparkling water. How is that fun?

Pick a horse with a big arse. Nothing else matters. Spend way beyond your budget, if the filly reminds you of Beyonce.

Do nothing unless you’re surrounded by mates. There is every chance you’re about to make a huge mistake. They must be part of it.

At some stage, someone will say you’re all kinds of crazy. You will be told to walk away. Make sure you get them to sign a waiver, as you secretly buy that More Than Ready colt. It could be worth thousands in January next year.

If we’re swaying side by side when the last lot appears, I’ll consider joining forces. As long as you’re on the rum, with your best buds, drooling over a great big booty. And I’d appreciate if you could get the bill. I’m good for it, I promise.

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