Beware a wounded warrior. Why the Cox Plate is a Dundeel.

October 26, 2013

I’m always wary when a trainer reports a ‘minor niggle’.

Call me a cynic. Or someone who’s lost plenty over a few centuries, jumping at shadows.

To me, a horse with a hoof abscess, is like a footballer with a dodgy hammy. No-one ever knows just how serious it is.

Quite often, the flying fullback will have a tiny twinge. But it will still be listed as a hamstring strain.

Crook hoofs can be the same. An abscess sounds yuk. And while it is no doubt painful for dear neddy, it’s not usually life threatening.

Still, reports of such a scare can send punters scampering. We’re a nervous breed. The smallest of setbacks can spook us.

Last month in the Underwood, It’s a Dundeel ended Atlantic Jewel’s unbeaten run. The horse touted as the next Black Caviar.

It was a gutsy, awe-inspiring performance. And it bought me dinner that night.

Not long after, we were told about the abscess. It was enough to turn markets upside down.

Not for me. I refuse to be swayed. How many times do we have to be reminded – believe what you see.

He’ll step out on that treated hoof today, as Cox Plate favourite, after the scratching of the Jewel. I would have backed him anyway.

History tells us that unlike some other major races, the best horse usually wins Mooney Valley’s showpiece. I hear you throwing exceptions to me. I’m not listening.

It’s a Dundeel is the best horse in the race. Tough as grandpa’s mud soaked boots. He’ll be winning.

Friends with elephant-like memories will recall my fancy for 3 year olds in the Plate. One of the youngsters will always produce a grand effort. That could be Long John today.

Enjoy the spectacle, as jockeys take off at the 600, looking to create history. I think we’ll get the chocolates. As long as that hammy isn’t worse than they told us.

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Heroes who stink of smoke. Thank God for our volunteer firemen.

October 22, 2013

Thommo used to wear the funny overalls. He’d disappear, every time there was smoke on the horizon.

We didn’t get it. Why would a young bloke leave a pub full of cool drinks, to play with fire trucks and big hoses?

Our home town was surrounded by bush, so Thommo and his mates were always busy in summer. A few times I saw him after fighting fires. Covered in soot and ash, and stinking of smoke.

Eventually, we worked it out. Our friend was one of a special breed. Heroes, who risk their lives, to save others. From the most frightening of foes.

Time and again, they’d head into the scrub. Saving the day, before flames reached properties.

Their actions were repeated in towns across the nation. Men and women, from all walks of life. Standing as one, against the flames.

Talk to them, and they’ll tell you about the heat. Like a furnace. And even more terrifying, the noise. An unimaginable roar, heading up hills and down gullies.

Years later, another mate rang me, from his roof. He could see a bushfire coming towards his street. His girls had gone. He was armed with a garden hose, and a beer.

In the end, he didn’t need either. More good luck than good management. The fire took a different path. As these awful beasts sometimes do.

Then there are other times, when no amount of hoses or stubbies are enough. When the bravest of firefighters simply shake their heads. That’s what NSW is facing now.

There are fears massive fires will join as one. Almost unthinkable.

There is only one thing guaranteed. That the heroes in overalls will stand their ground. Follow their training. And do everything in their power to protect the communities facing danger.

At the opposite end of the scale, are the firebugs, and the looters. Lowest of the low. Whatever the penalties are, double them.

Thommo no longer fights fires. He’s done his bit. The younger ones are in charge now. But he will be anxious today, and tomorrow. Looking to the horizon. Thinking of his mates. And smelling smoke in the air.

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Why the world’s slowest tote operator owes me the Caulfield Cup winner.

October 19, 2013

It was like I was speaking Mandarin.

The woman at the tote machine looked down, then up, then down again.

She was confused, as if I’d just asked her to tell me the ignition sequence for the Space Shuttle.

In fact, I was after something far less complicated. Or so I thought. A simple bet.

The racecourse was Randwick. I had hoped that through her position in the racing industry, she had heard of it. Apparently not.

She shook her head. Where is it again? Sydney racing, I replied. Randwick. They’ve run a few decent races there over the years.

Precious seconds were ticking away. I could see the field moving in. Punters smarter than me were jumping into other queues.

Again, the shake of the head. I was sweating. They were about to jump, and I wasn’t on.

The horse I was trying to back was Hawkspur. I walked away, betless, mindful of the sign on her counter, warning customers that abuse would not be tolerated. I was obviously not the first sucker to get stuck at that window.

I watched on the screen, with no sound, and spotted the colours early in the straight. It made it that much more painful, to see the Waller horse fly home to collect the prize. Not that I needed a winner at that stage of the day. Much.

I so wanted my abuse to be tolerated. But I thought better of it. And because of that, the world’s slowest tote operator owes me big time.

This afternoon, I want her to take time out from botching other tickets, and cheer the Pumper home. It’s the least she can do.

This isn’t the finest Caulfield Cup field I’ve seen. As usual, I’m struggling to line up the genuine imports. A few others don’t seem to have lived up to their early promise.

If there’s one horse I’m worried about, it’s the Kiwi, Silent Achiever. Roger James has her cherry-ripe for this. One target all along. Perfect barrier. And a bloke by the name of G. Boss doing the steering.

I’d back both of them, but there’s no chance she’d get so many bets on. Tell me, where’s Caulfield again?

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Reporting live from the world’s biggest traffic jam. Welcome to the new Surfers Paradise.

October 8, 2013

Yes, I’ve been Missing In Action. But with good reason.

I have been stuck in traffic. Not just any traffic. I’m talking congestion that puts LA to shame.

It’s called Surfers Paradise. Officially, the greatest traffic bunfight in the history of motorised vehicles.

The tourism capital, doesn’t move anymore. Roads in and out are at a standstill, day and night. I know this, because I spent much of last week stuck. With blood boiling.

It’s a city gridlocked. No-one can get anywhere, anytime soon. Need some milk up the road? Set an hour aside. Fancy a dip at the beach? Leave at midnight, and you might get there before sundown.

People can’t get home. They now work from their cars, waiting for the lights to change.

Families have dinner in the back seat. Kids do their homework at the next intersection. I’m serious. There are drivers out there somewhere, who left to pick up the paper a month ago.

Cabbies are sending their kids to posh schools. They must be making hundreds every time the meter kicks in. Because they can’t get anywhere. They just sit and make small talk, while passengers re-finance their mortgages.

Bus timetables are out the window. They now run every four hours. Actually, change run to crawl.

They are building a light rail network through the centre of town. Look up Disruption in the dictionary, and there is a picture of this massive work site.

Every, single road is affected. Lanes are closed. Detours at every turn.

I honestly don’t know how locals are coping. The glitter strip is being strangled, choking on a mass of exhaust fumes.

It’s a classic case of politicians not thinking ahead. Years ago, the road network should have been expanded. Instead, those in power sat on their hands. Meaning drivers now sit on their bums, for hours on end.

They trams will fix it, they reckon. No-one will need cars. Look out for that flying porker. I’ll believe it when I see it.

The Gold Coast holds special memories for me. I lived and worked there for years. It’s where the girls were born. Many wonderful times.

It makes it even more painful to see the place grinding to a halt. I’m no tourism expert. But I’ll tell you something for nothing. Getting stuck for an hour in traffic each day in your board shorts is as damaging as any bikie brawl.

If you’re reading this at the lights, good luck. With any luck, you’ll be home for Christmas. Next year. Just in time to catch the new tram.

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Punters, cop an eyeful of this. You won’t see a better sort today.

September 21, 2013

I’ll be having a decent perv at the track today, that’s for sure.

Eyes for one, and one only. A leggy, athletic type. And I won’t be the only one.

Atlantic Jewel is a good sort in anyone’s lingo. How could you not be impressed?

So strong. Such a presence. They’ll be flocking around her.

In some ways, she’s crept up on us. Strange, for a superstar who hasn’t tasted defeat yet.

We knew she was good. Dazzled us this time last year. But she’s now in rare air.

The good judges are comparing her with You Know Who. The Mighty Mare. And this is where it gets a little uncomfortable.

When Black Caviar just kept winning, I didn’t think there would be another. I couldn’t imagine being so involved again. Especially so quickly.

But while BC is making wonder babies, Atlantic Jewel is crushing rivals in exactly the same way. They can’t get near her.

Sure, there have been others. I lost my heart to Makybe Diva. When she won the third Cup, I felt like carving our names into the nearest tree.

Truth be told, and this must not go further than these pages, my first love was from the other team. As a young impressionable bloke, how could you not fall for Gunsynd? And I would be lying if I said I didn’t think about Super Impose rattling home to win the Epsom, on the odd lonely night.

So where does this latest Super Sort rate? For my money, today is the big test. This is a crackerjack field in the Underwood.

She will have to be every bit the champion she’s being labelled to win it. Bossy has a huge wrap on Puissance de Lane. And I keep thinking of those slashing wins by It’s a Dundeel last campaign.

Listen to Michael Rodd, and none of that matters. She could be the best we’ve seen. How fickle does that sound, just months after my former flame smashed every record we had?

What a race it will be. And I’m loving the fact that it’s the final event on the card at Caulfield. Finally, some smart programming.

Can she make it ten from ten? Probably. The thing is, it’s no beauty contest out there.

We’ll be cheering, and whistling. Only the best sorts attract such fanfare. Get ready to roar. Racing has a new Queen.

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It’s my view, whether you like it or not.

September 17, 2013

Growing up, the view from my window was an outside dunny. And the orange tree, of course.

Hardly inspiring. Daunting in the colder months, knowing I would start the day rushing across the icy backyard concrete path.

At that time, the richest person I knew lived on the water. Her dad was the local bank manager, and the job came with a waterfront house.

They woke up looking across the Bay. Not an external crapper in sight.

When I mentioned the difference in our outlooks, my friend’s reply surprised me. Instead of gloating, she told me that the view never changed. It was the same every morning. No big deal.

The great league coach Jack Gibson echoed her thoughts years later, when asked whether he flew first class.

Nope, said Big Jack. No need. The view doesn’t change, and everyone arrives at the same time.

When we built our house, I was excited that we would have a view from the balcony. Across rooftops and trees, far from the bright lights.

It was the same spot I would sit with the girls, as summer storms swept through. When they got sick of such spectacles, I would marvel at the power of nature alone. Possibly with a cool drink.

The view has changed now. When I rise and shake off the cobwebs each morning, I’m lucky enough to look down a glorious river. And despite what my young friend once told me, it’s different every day.

At night, it’s even more spectacular. The pulsating city off to the left. Cliffs to the right. And all manner of marine craft jostling for spots down the middle.

For me, the highlight is the bridge. Our most recognisable structure, lit up beautifully each evening. As I work on these scribblings, it is glowing pink. And it looks a treat.

There is something about sharing a tipple at the end of the day and taking in the view. Conversation flows freely. The problems of the world can be solved with ease. Laughs are plentiful. Silence is that much more enjoyable.

I find myself drawn to my favourite chair out there, and just sitting. Watching, and thinking, and listening.

Ah, the serenity. There is something calming, listening to the buzz of a bustling city down below. Go figure.

You will have your own peaceful spot. If you have a chair outside, and something to look at, you’re halfway there. As long as it doesn’t involve flushing.

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Getting ready for a special birthday. Accepting that my little girl isn’t little any more.

September 10, 2013

When she arrived in this world, it was with a quiet cry. Nothing like the ear-splitting scream her big sister let out a few years earlier.

It was like she didn’t want a fuss. No need to be the centre of attention.

In the early years, she was happy to go with the flow. She would follow her sister around the house. And the yard. They were inseparable.

It didn’t take long for her own personality to come through. There was a determination about everything she did. She would get frustrated easily. Still does.

Her kindergarten teacher told us what a delight she was to teach. But there would be tears, if she didn’t get things just right.

As she got older, we were able to see so many beautiful traits develop. She adores family. She can fight like a warrior with her sister. But no siblings are closer.

No-one loves cousins more. She would get excited whenever there would be a visit. Still does.

She drove us nuts to get a pet. Make that pets. Dog. Cat. Guinea pigs. She has such a caring heart.

When she laughs, you have to laugh with her. She runs out of breath. Will fall down from a fit of the giggles.

She’s ticklish too. One touch and she goes into a frenzy. Dads get great amusement from such things.

She loves nothing more than getting everyone together to watch a movie. Expect to cop a blast if you try to leave the room. Unless you’re making her more popcorn.

She sings constantly. I wish the world could hear her like I do. The voice of an angel. But for our ears only. She won’t perform. I still hope that will change.

Rarely does a minute go by when she’s not doing some sort of dance move. In the kitchen. In the lift. Around the pool. Like her sister, she has a gift when it comes to grooving.

Of late, there have been difficult days. Changes at home. Tough times at school. But she is loved, so very much, by all those in her life.

There are many photos of her that I cherish. One is at about age 3, at work on a tiny ironing board. So incredibly cute. But with that determination on show.

Another is with her sister, a few years later. They are poking their tongues out at the camera, with big smiles. It hangs at my door, so I can giggle at the cheekiness of it all each morning.

Perhaps my favourite, is one of her asleep as a toddler. She is on my chest, and I’m sleeping too. She is safe and secure, with my arm around her. Never wanting to let her go.

It’s what Dads do. We want to protect our daughters forever. Even if they’re not asleep on our chests anymore.

Tomorrow, this gorgeous girl, is little no more. My daughter becomes a teenager.

She makes me proud, every day. She’s taught me so much. About love, and caring. And family.

I count my blessings, to have two daughters, who are so beautiful in every way. What a lucky man.

As of tomorrow, Daughter Two becomes Teenager Too. Happy birthday Hannah.

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Vote One – anyone who can help us get back to sleep.

September 3, 2013

It is rare for me to revisit the same topic twice in a matter of weeks on these pages.

And no, Black Caviar doesn’t count.

One version is usually enough to have my dear readers nodding off over their corn flakes.

This week, however, that’s what we’re trying to achieve. My recent piece on being unable to get a decent sleep, hit a weary, eye-drooping nerve.

I can’t remember such a response. Possibly because I’m sleep deprived. Anyway, a few of you let me know that I’m not alone.

For those who missed it (and I’m taking names and numbers here), I outlined waking up at 4.15am. Pretty much every day. And I hate it.

I recalled how as a young man, I could sleep at representative level. Not any more.

The next day, I had blokes at work telling me the same thing. Similar vintage. Different time slots.

One wakes at 3. He has no idea why. He’s taken to watching early, early morning television.

An old school friend tells me her eyes open at 3.30. Every day. Reckons she does some of her best accounting work in her head, as the rest of the world snoozes.

Someone else stares at the ceiling, from the early hours. Thinks of a thousand problems. Doesn’t solve any of them. Then has another go the next night.

A former colleague is wide awake at 2.30. Without fail. It’s hardly worth going to bed.

I had a 4.25 morning over the weekend. Yep, a 10 minute sleep in. Part of me wanted to celebrate. But I didn’t have the energy.

If what you’re telling me is right, we’re a society that can’t sleep. Everyone is so busy. i-phones and i-pads rule our lives. We shut them off at night. But there’s no button to power us down.

Compare our nocturnal woes, to the sleeping habits of The Teenager and Daughter Two. It’s like they’ve stolen my slumber gene.

A few weekends ago, after a hectic week of school and dance, they set about having a sleep in on a Saturday morning.

We’d watched a movie the night before, and got to bed late. They gave firm instructions not to be disturbed.

It’s fair to say I could have had Pink and her band performing in the apartment, and they wouldn’t have stirred. The zzzzzs were almost visible.

I went and picked up the paper. Did the washing. Cleared the kitchen. Sang loudly. Banged pans, as only Dads can do. Nothing.

We hit midday, and they were still snoring. If I hadn’t shaken them soon after, they’d probably still be under the doona.

I think this tells us two things. One, they need more sleep during the week. And two, it’s an age thing.

The problems of youth can’t be enough to keep them awake. That must kick in when we get older.

Together, we’ll keep looking for answers. Feel free to send them my way. In the meantime, I’ll keep blogging about the same thing. If you’re not asleep by now, you certainly will be after the next one.

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A lesson in love, after all these years. Two friends showing the rest of us how it’s done.

August 27, 2013

We worked together more than twenty years ago.

I was a kid, with little idea about anything. Somehow, they still befriended me.

He was the radio station’s sports man. Followed in the giant footsteps of his mate Darrell Eastlake. He was our rugby league caller too. Accurate and passionate.

She looked after station promotions. If we were involved in something, she was in the thick of it. Possibly the funniest woman I’ve known. A delicious laugh with a razor-sharp wit.

We caught up last weekend. Like so many of my colleagues of the time, we’d lost contact over the years. They were in town, and made the effort to get in touch. I’m so glad they did.

I organised to meet at a pub with a view. I saw them before they saw me. Sure, time had changed both. Older, and a little slower, like other retired couples. I could have sworn they almost walked in step.

After hugs and handshakes, the stories came thick and fast. We laughed lots. It was a time when after-work drinks happened every night. And some afternoons. Even a few mornings. Long before Human Resources departments were involved in our lives.

As we sat there, I noticed things about them. One would help the other finish a story. She buttered his fruit loaf without breaking sentence. He organised the sugar for her cup of tea.

Things were not always so easy. I remembered back to when they got together. Both had gone through painful break-ups. A difficult time. It took years. But they were meant to be.

Over a second cuppa, she told me about some of their struggles. He sat quietly, letting her tell the tale of their life. I had no idea how tough things had been.

However, each story came with a laugh. No seeking pity here. It’s just how life plays out. They were survivors, who had each other. What else mattered?

She said they talked, constantly. First thing in the morning. Last thing at night. Everywhere in between. They are still genuinely interested in each other.

They giggle, lots. Even when there’s not much to smile about. They didn’t need anyone else around to have fun. They have always enjoyed doing the most basic of things together.

I asked if there was a secret. Simple, she said. Find your best friend. And be with them for life.

They were running late for another catch-up, but didn’t seem to mind. He told of their fascination with the car’s ‘talking navigator’. A woman’s voice telling him where to go. Another one. They both laughed at that.

We promised to keep in touch, and we will. I watched them walk away, and they were talking as they went. He was carrying her coat.

Two people, still happy after all this time. Best friends. With no need for anything outside of each other. Yep, she’s right. It’s that simple. Love always wins.

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An important online security warning. Why bumbling dads need to be protected too.

August 20, 2013

There are those out there willing to take advantage of the innocent. Tech-savvy types, ready to make fun of the unaware. They’re called daughters.

Yes, these delightful young ladies, with perfect manners and sweet smiles, have a secret agenda to humiliate poor old Dad. I hear some of you muttering that’s not a particularly difficult task. You’re not helping.

Like most of their age, The Teenager and Daughter Two are immersed in the world of social media. But not the ones you and I know.

Forget Facebook and Twitter. They barely rate a mention. It’s all about Snapchat and Instagram. And a few others I can’t fathom.

For those who remember black and white television, let me explain. As best I can. Instagram is all about photos, with smart comments. Snapchat is the delivery of photos and videos with smart comments, that disappear after ten seconds. Are you still awake out there?

I don’t understand the attraction. But then again, I still take Daily Doubles. For teenagers, Snapchat is the perfect way to communicate. Minimal effort required. Just a few words. Let the technology do all the work. And then it’s gone.

Armed with their new i-phones, my daughters are ready to capture anything, at any given moment. A squadron of friends is doing the same thing, waiting to swap whatever comes their way. The more ridiculous the better. And when it comes to ridiculous, Dads are hard to beat.

When we’re in the car, music is played at a decent level. The perfect place to trap an unsuspecting driver. And it’s taken me weeks to realise.

Their cunning system is as follows. One will take the front seat, and find a song that they know I like. As I launch into a version that may or may not be pitch perfect, they begin recording. Secretly, with the phone casually pointed in my direction.

Sometimes, I may be doing daggy dance moves while driving. They find this amusing. Apparently, so do their friends.

It came to a head on the weekend. My sneaky offspring slipped a favourite Christmas carol into play. I’m battling city traffic and red lights, and suddenly Mariah Carey springs into action. ‘All I Want for Christmas is You.’ What was a man to do?

I launched into it with great gusto. The judges are still deliberating on whether I hit the high notes. All in all, I was happy with my performance.

That was, until the giggling began. They couldn’t help themselves. Nor could hundreds of others. Thousands maybe. I was being shared around the globe. Well, South Brisbane anyway.

There’s every chance I have my own YouTube channel, and don’t even know. Someone could be getting rich from my unique sound.

Where are the i-phone police when you need them? Dads have rights too. I’m sure I read that somewhere.

Let this be a warning to all fathers. You are now a target. Do something remotely silly, and you will be a star. Sons and daughters will see to that.

I’ll be toning down my car singing in future. And my crazy arm waving. You can’t trust anyone. Especially family. And Mariah Carey.

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