The tragedy of losing Simone. Why we must never forget.

August 17, 2013

It’s been a few weeks now since racing lost Simone Montgomerie.

There were wonderful tributes at the time. The kindest of words, for a talented jockey who was anything but a household name.

Those headlines have now faded. Her colleagues are back riding, many still with heavy hearts.

She lost her life, doing something she loved. On Darwin Cup day. Before the locals, who had adopted her as their premier rider.

There are few jobs where you might lose your life before clocking off. Jockeys face that reality every day. Every ride. Every furlong.

When Simone died, the outpouring of emotion from those in the racing game was overwhelming. Genuine distress. From people who knew and loved her. And others who’d never met her.

Social media came into its own. The industry shines at such awful times. Participants who can bicker about the state of the track and the price of a pie, come together as one.

There were so many impressive gestures. The Darwin club donating the Cup prizemoney to Simone’s family. Tommy Berry giving up his winnings for a day. Clubs around Australia naming races in her memory. All that money, going to a foundation to help her daughter Kodah.

I’d never backed one of her runners. In fact I’d only ever seen her in action a few times. But in the days after her death, like so many others, I felt close to her and her shattered family. From a distance, we wanted them to find some kind of peace.

It also made me think about all the other jockeys, who take those same risks. Hoops I know, personally, and through Facebook and Twitter. Hard working, fun, courageous people.

It’s so easy for us to bag them, when things don’t go our way. We want perfection, every time. Our pockets talking. But when we see a fall, no matter how minor, we hold our breath.

Life moves on, of course. The trick now, is for us to never forget Simone. A mum who didn’t make it home. We owe her that much.

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Conversations with myself at 4.15am. Is anyone else out there not sleeping?

August 6, 2013

I could have snoozed for Australia.

Seriously, I had representative potential as a snorer. I could drop off anywhere, anytime.

Mum would all but use a large stick to get me to school. It annoyed her each and every morning.

Horrendous radio shift work didn’t worry me. I’d sleep all day. Or all night. Take your pick.

In later years, I’d be in dreamland before my head hit the pillow. And eyes would not open until that alarm was blaring.

So what’s happened? Why can’t I sleep a full night anymore? What’s with waking up in the dark?

I think back to some record-breaking efforts in the land of nod. I once slept for a full weekend. If it happened today, I’d be getting a medal from an FM radio station.

It was after a cruise on the Fairstar. The Funship. Let’s just say that as young men, sleep was well down on the list of priorities.

We saw the sun come up, as we sailed into Sydney Heads. Cool drinks had been consumed at a fair rate. For eleven days. Slumber was counted in minutes, not hours.

I caught the train home. Walked in the front door late Friday afternoon. Gave Mum a cheap Suva carving. And went to bed.

I pulled the covers up at around 5pm that day. And I slept the sleep of the dead. Saturday came and went. Sunday morning was lost too. This was a Guinness Book of Records snooze. Mum was ready to call an ambulance.

I emerged from my darkened room, with a two-day growth, on Sunday afternoon. Gave her a kiss, and promptly went to the pub. The boys were waiting for me. They were impressed. As only 18 year olds could be.

Forget sleeping 40 hours. These days, I struggle with 40 minutes.

A mate told me he heard someone on talkback say that all blokes will eventually wake up at 2am. It was a comment with absolutely no scientific fact behind it. But that matters little. He now wakes up at 2am. Every morning. And can’t get back to sleep.

My magic figure is 4.15am. No matter how tired I am, that’s when my eyes open. Day after day.

I don’t want to be awake. 4.15 is a time for bakers and breakfast radio hosts to be up and about. Not me. I want to be dreaming about my speech as a winning owner at the 2018 Melbourne Cup.

But I can’t get back to sleep. Not until I’ve thought about stuff. A long list that could surely be dealt with at a more respectable time.

I start going over the wonderful things I want to do with my life. And the people I want around me. Special people. I question why things take time. Or happen so quickly.

The bleary-eyed problem here is, all this could be done later. When the sun is up. Or going down. Not at 4.15.

I’ve tried lots of things to get back to sleep. Someone told me to imagine placing my over-active brain in a shoebox, so that all thought ceases. Sounds good, until you see how small my shoebox is. Something else to worry about.

Maybe it’s a temporary thing. A phase, where minimal sleep is sufficient. I might be days away from lapsing back into those marathon snooze sessions.

In the meantime, I’m catching up on my rest wherever I can. At the dinner table. Driving to work. At the checkout. Cat naps to recharge. You won’t even notice.

If you ever need to pass the time at 4.15, I’m your man. We’ll be sleep-deprived together. Just place your tiny shoebox next to mine.

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My mate the racecaller. The bravest bloke I know.

August 3, 2013

We hear lots about bravery. Too often when talk turns to highly paid footballers doing what they’re paid to do.

I usually keep such terms for discussions about our troops. Or cops. People putting their lives on the line for the rest of us.

But I’m making an exception today. I want to give you an update on a bloke most of you already regard as an old friend.

Wayne Wilson was the voice of racing up here. For me, and thousands of others.

As I travelled around Queensland over many years, he was the one who told me whether I’d won or lost. Long before I was lucky enough to meet him, he dictated how my weekends would pan out.

It was not long after we got to know each other, that he became crook. You wouldn’t have known at the time. He didn’t miss a beat on the track. Bringing a Class One alive, and nailing another photo finish.

Bloody cancer. For a while, it didn’t look good. But Wayne had other ideas. He fought it, like a tiger. Explored other treatment options. And eventually came good.

When he decided it was time to retire from the caller’s box, he hatched a plan to do other things on course. Interviews and analysis of each race, beamed around the track.

I don’t know if I’ve ever met a person with more passion for the racing industry. Watch him on race day, and he can’t walk two steps without being collared by someone. A trainer, or a punter, or an official. All friends.

It was his young bloke who told me he’d become sick again. We’re workmates, and great mates. I admire how tight father and son are. They laugh, constantly.

But this was no laughing matter. The dreaded disease had come back.

Can you believe, Wayne and I had surgery on the same day? The racecaller and the punter, both under the knife within hours of each other.

Compared to what he’s gone through, my surgery was like having a band-aid removed. It’s fair to say he’s lost count of the bits they’ve taken out and shifted around.

I spoke to him the other day, and he sounded as if nothing had happened. Was more interested in how I was going. And that voice, was the same as I’d heard on my radio a thousand times.

He’s doing well. That positive attitude continues to shine through.

We promised that we’d both get out to the track again soon. A little celebration of what we’ve overcome.

The problem, of course, will be that I won’t get near him. He’ll be swamped by well-wishers. And he’ll talk to every single one of them.

He’ll be tipping me winners for a long time to come. My brave friend, who refuses to give in. Wayne, thanks for being such an inspiration.

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Gentlemen, drop your pants. It might just save your life.

July 30, 2013

I’m on a mission for blokes to drop their daks. I want to hear the clang of belt buckles on the floor.

I want to be the Ambassador of Strides Down. Think of me, and you’ll think of trousers sitting around ankles.

Not in front of Woolies, mind you. No bare bums near the checkouts. We don’t want to scare the kiddies. This is for the medical centre only.

Regular readers will know where I’m heading with this. Newcomers, stay with me. I promise there will be no weirdness ahead. Well, no more than usual.

The reason I want men to be in a state of undress, is so they can get their prostate checked. Yes, I’m banging this drum again.

I beat prostate cancer. Most of you know that. I received the news that I was free of this dreaded disease a few weeks back. A blood test that came back clear. I can tell you, they were the sweetest of words.

It makes you hug those you love, and not want to let go. It makes you cry, when you thought you’d fought off the tears. And it makes you want to celebrate. I did that too.

But my surgeon, The Genius, said something else that day. He said I needed to spread the word. Take a stand, and get the message out there.

About an hour before he made me smile, he’d been dealing with a bloke who had nothing to smile about. His cancer was advanced. He’d been late getting checked. His future was grim. He was 47.

You see, this is not an old man’s disease. More and more men in their forties are being diagnosed. Like me. And the bloke who’s thinking of what might have been.

They tell me 40 is the new 30. And that means most men continue to think they’re bullet-proof. Visiting the doctor is a sign of weakness. So they don’t.

The stories don’t help. Everyone has heard jokes about the snap of rubber gloves in the doctor’s surgery. For most red-blooded Aussie men, reason enough to head in the other direction.

That’s what we have to change. Because that simple, painless, sixty second examination, saves lives. And keeps families intact.

I’ve come to realise that the best people to change the thinking around prostate examinations, are women. Wives, girlfriends and partners.

Females are smarter at this stuff than we are. They get that early diagnosis is vital. So girls, I’m enlisting you to help.

Don’t let up on your bloke. If he’s 40 or older, he needs to be checked. Regularly. No excuses accepted. Book the exam yourself if you have to.

Already, I’ve had female colleagues tell me that they’ve done exactly that, as a result of my battle. Mates, too, have been jolted into action. Getting checked, to avoid what I’ve been through.

I’ll remind you on these pages every now and then. Spread the word yourself. Tell your Dad, or your brother, or your favourite uncle.

Let’s get those pants hitting the floor. And when it’s done, tell the doctor that you would usually wait to be taken for dinner and a movie before such activity. He wouldn’t have heard that one before.

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Finding the perfect PubTAB. It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.

July 27, 2013

On the surface, having a punt in a pub should not pose too many difficulties.

There’s not much to it. Make your selection, fill out a ticket, place you bet, assume the position and get ready to buy the beers.

I should declare here, that I do have some experience in this field. Over many years. If there was a University of Pub Punting, I would at least be a Professor.

There’s nothing better than relaxing with friends in a place that gets it right. And there’s nothing worse than getting stuck in an establishment where the TAB operator doubles as the footpath sweeper.

You’ve all been there. And it’s a proven fact that it’s all but impossible to win in such joints.

One of my pet hates is when there’s no volume on the monitors. The joyful sound of the racecaller is muted. We must rely on the memory of the colours our good thing is wearing. And hope that our ageing eyes will stay in focus.

Some pubs only have one tote machine. Inevitably, it will be manned by a lovely lady, who was around when Phar Lap was a two year old. She will take her time. Especially when you have four blokes standing in front of you with seconds to spare.

I have been in establishments where the genius in charge decides it’s a good idea to have poker machines on the edge of the TAB area. It’s all gambling, after all. Nothing like those reels spinning while you’re trying to hear Greg Miles. If the sound is turned up.

I place bets on my you-beaut phone these days, but there are still times when I want to fill out a ticket. Maybe a sneaky trifecta or a little saver.

So often, I cannot find a sharp pencil. There will be exactly 1000 identical writing sticks, with not a hint of lead. Ink in the pens ran out the day Kingston Town went back to back.

Why is this? Is it a private joke, that publicans talk about at their annual conference?

One final annoyance. And it’s not usually the fault of the pub. Those places where the resident loudmouth takes centre stage.

He has two modes of operation. The first is to talk extremely loudly, while you’re watching a race. The second is to scream as if stabbed, in support of something he’s had one dollar each way on.

If someone would let me run a pub, he would be the first bloke I’d ban. Jack The Ripper could be at work behind the pool table, and he’d be allowed to stay ahead of this goose.

For all my complaining, there are plenty of places that get it right. The little pub down the road from me has a great feel every Saturday arvo. Plenty of room. Plenty of volume. Plenty of pencils.

My favourite surf club on the Gold Coast has the biggest screen you’ll ever see. You can be parking the car and you’ll still see who missed the start. Somehow, a losing afternoon is made a little more bearable with a view of the ocean. Only just, mind you.

Feel free to let your own publican know what you want, and what you don’t like. We suffer enough as punters. Fom my experience, they take such advice in the best possible way. Just don’t expect to hear a race for the next twelve months. And start bringing your own pencil.

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The game’s just not the same. Words of footy wisdom from blokes who know.

July 16, 2013

We always end up on the same table when we’re back at home, at our original pub.

No-one organises it. It’s just what we do. Perfectly aligned to the bar and the small screens.

It doesn’t take long for the stirring to begin. It’s a tough school. The wrong shirt or a dodgy haircut is enough for some unified bagging.

The talk turned to footy, as it usually does. Timely, with one of the great Origin games on the way.

There are hundreds of games between us. Lots of blood, sweat and broken bones. With a few cool drinks sprinkled in between.

Half of those at the table turned to coaching after playing days. These blokes know the game. Some have sons still involved.

The races weren’t even done when it became clear this mob was unhappy. Everyone saw a problem with the modern game. A few of the boys have even stopped watching on a Friday night.

We went around the table, and everyone had their say. Voices of real fans. I wish I’d made a recording, and sent it to the NRL.

Weird Harold hates the wrestle. In his day, he was a tough forward, who tackled, and was tackled. Always around the legs, as we were all taught. He can’t stand blokes grappling, and being kept upright, to allow defensive lines to re-group.

We all agreed. The Cannonball tackle, where a third defender comes in and hits a player’s knees while he’s being held by others up top, makes me sick. It goes against everything we were ever taught.

Smithy bought a round, and we went quiet, thinking about why this great game keeps getting tinkered with.

Coffs broke the silence. He thinks they’ve got the defence all wrong. He can’t stand slide defence. When it doesn’t work, wingers keep scoring in the corner, game after game. Boring, he reckons. Get back to defenders attacking attackers. Coaches over-coaching. It’s one of the reasons the game is short of playmakers. He would know. There were few better with the footy in his hands.

They both can’t stand how technology has slowed things down. The mind-numbing delays, when video refs are trying to make a decision.

It makes the game so much slower. Teams are unable to create pressure, while a director is rewinding yet again. And pressure on the footy field can bring the best of teams undone.

Richo hates how they form scrums today. Anyone can stick their head in there. They amble over, with any number on their back. No-one pushes, or attempts to win the ball over. Drives him nuts.

Bez doesn’t say much. Just stands, and nods. We’re assuming he’s not happy either. He would come off the field, covered in dust. Without the energy to say anything. Nothing much has changed there.

I agreed with all their gripes. I think the game is best when there are minimal stoppages, and the skills of the athletes are on show. I want big blokes to get tired, so little blokes can create magic. Fast men being put into holes. That’s what kids will copy in the backyard.

It’s still a wonderful game. We agree on that. Just stop changing the things that make it great. The speed, and the strength, and the skill, and the toughness.

Let’s hope the Origin decider is all of those things, and more. Keep an eye out for Cannonball tackles. Boo if you see one. And for Richo’s sake, let’s hope we don’t have a winger packing into a scrum. It might be the end of him.

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The Little Girl with the Big Eyes, who didn’t want to dance.

July 9, 2013

There was something not quite right. A problem on stage, about to unfold before us.

We were watching a bunch of kids, all around four or five, dressed in bright colours and glitter, carrying pom poms.

They were about to perform some sort of very basic routine. Having seen dozens of similar pieces at various dance and cheer competitions, it would usually be my cue to doze off. But not this time.

Most of the girls were smiling and laughing. One was waving madly at grandma. The crowd had a giggle at that.

But further up the line, someone wasn’t smiling. A little girl, with dark straight hair, and large, wide eyes. Terrified eyes.

It’s common to see a little one apprehensive at these events. There are thousands of people watching. It must be daunting at the best of times.

Usually, after a slow start, they get into the spirit of things, and have some fun. Or they burst into tears, and run in the direction of mum.

Very rarely, do they freeze. So completely that all the eyes of the audience have nowhere else to look. That’s what was happening here.

The music started, some bubble gum pop song, and the other girls started doing their thing. Running, and jumping, and pom pom-ming.

But the Little Girl with the Big Eyes was doing nothing. Stuck solid, on the spot, right there on the stage.

At first, we could see the funny side of it. It was kind of cute. A girl all dressed up, with nowhere to go.

As the routine went on, it became harder to smile. The Little Girl with the Big Eyes couldn’t move. Not a muscle. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t doing anything. Just standing, looking out to the audience. Possibly for someone to save her.

If her dance partners had noticed her plight, they weren’t letting on. They were too busy performing. It was almost as if the Little Girl with the Big Eyes didn’t exist.

Someone bumped into her, as the steps ventured in her direction. Still, not a movement.

Towards the end, the girls had to join hands. But their circle had a broken link. The Little Girl with the Big Eyes couldn’t reach out. So they formed it without her.

By this time, we just wanted it to end. It was painful. Something that should have been fun, had become a torture session. And we were paying spectators.

The music stopped. We cheered, partly for the other kids, but mostly for the Little Girl with the Big Eyes. Please, give us a smile. Show us that everything is ok.

But she didn’t. Couldn’t. It was over, four minutes of hell, and still she couldn’t move. Her tiny friends ran gleefully from the stage. Leaving her alone. On that same spot.

Finally, mercifully, a woman ran on and scooped her up. I swear her arms and legs were stiff. It was like bundling up a little statue.

We exhaled. It was over.

I don’t know where she was from. Or where mum and dad were. I just hope the Little Girl with the Big Eyes was given the biggest ice cream there is that night. And that someone explained to her how dancing should be fun.

I hope she danced in her bedroom that night. Maybe even sang into a hairbrush. And forgot all about that stage. Somehow, I doubt it.

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Ho hum. Wake me when the big races are back on.

July 6, 2013

That sigh you hear is from a punter.

As Judy Durham reminded us some time ago, the Carnival is Over.

Group races are a distant memory. We are in what is known as the Quiet Time. That agonising gap between Brisbane’s winter carnival and the Spring.

The carnival here actually stretches a few extra weeks, with great fun at the Ipswich and Caloundra Cups. Not quite Flemington, but right up there in the Good Times Stakes.

Trainers and jockeys book holidays. A week or two in the sun somewhere, away from those chilly pre-dawn mornings. Can’t blame them really.

Don’t be fooled by the sunshine this morning. It’s winter, where the days are short and the tracks are wet. Those who can be bothered to go to the course arrive late and leave early.

It’s not hard to find a table. Service at the bar is a breeze. You might be there on your own.

The beauty of racing most weeks is that there’s a highlight, somewhere in our great damp land. You’ll usually find a Group race or two. Your home town will have a decent program, and then you can unload on the feature.

Have you looked at the form guide today? It’s slim pickings.

The highlight, as far as I can see, is the listed Queensland Cup. Two miles, which is a rarity in Brisbane these days.

Sure, it’s worth a bit of cash, but the field won’t be included in a Calcutta anytime soon. A few might need a lift to complete the final furlong.

Melbourne has a host of Series Finals. I have no idea what that means. Possibly an excuse to use a fancy title, to make it look as though it’s a big day. Trust me, it’s not.

In Sydney, they’ll plough through the mud yet again. The shorter jockeys are being given the option of carrying snorkels.

The pick of the day might be in the Golden West. The listed Belmont Oaks at least looks a bit competitive. And I bet the sun will be shining.

The crazy thing, for all the doom and gloom I’ve documented above, is that we’ll still be in action today. As mediocre as things might be, there has to be a winner in every race.

Back a few of them, and Saturday will rival Flemington in November. That’s the thing with punters. We’re a fickle lot. There’s nothing like a collect or two to brighten up the most depressing day. Today, make that three wins.

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A right Royal celebration. How I helped the Queen party after Royal Ascot.

June 22, 2013

My phone rang seconds after they crossed the line.

I knew who it would be. The Royal Britannia call alert confirmed it. Her Majesty just can’t help Herself.

“Did you see, did you see?”, the Queen asked, going close to losing that dignified tone we know so well.

Indeed I did Ma’am. I had watched her flying filly Estimate cross the line to win the Gold Cup.

The cameras told it all. High in the Royal box, they captured the smile of a successful owner. It doesn’t matter who you are, that thrill of victory is impossible to hide.

Those around the Queen forgot about protocol. There was jumping, and yelling. Like any winning camp.

I reminded Her Majesty she was supposed to present the cup. Was there a Plan B?  Of course there was. One of the children was down there somewhere. There was no way she was missing out on this. The first Monarch to win her own race.

Mid-sentence, the call ended. That happens often between us. More than likely a security issue. Some bloke from MI5 cutting the line to Brisbane yet again.

You might not be aware, but the Queen loves racing in Australia. And I happen to be her main contact. There are frequent calls and texts.

When Beartracker won at Eagle Farm a few years back, the Royal congratulations were swift. ‘We are happy for you. Wish we’d taken the 10s last night.’

The messages weren’t so positive during Pintuck’s well-publicised battle with wet tracks last year. Apparently Prince Charles had taken a liking to the giant gelding, and was losing plenty of the Royal inheritance. ‘We are not amused. Find a dry track or you might be visiting the Tower. Permanently.’

Try telling that to the trainer. Rob Heathcote just shook his head, and made mention of the evils of rum.

As I pondered that strange conversation, the phone rang again. The presentation was finished, and Her Majesty wanted a chat. It’s what winning owners do.

I asked if she was going to have a tipple in the committee room? “One would love to, but these pesky cameras are still following me. It will have to be a cup of tea. Tell me, what did you do after the Bear’s great victory at headquarters?”

“Well Ma’am, funny you ask. They were serving the beer in seven-ounce glasses. So we had seven. Then they told us we had to go, because race two was about to start.”

“So you won the first race? One can imagine how that day ended up.”

As usual in such conversations, I played down our shenanigans. It’s not the done thing to let the Queen know you were singing The Gambler as they were coming back to scale after the last.

“Your Majesty, make sure you enjoy the moment. Soak it in. Remember us after Pintuck’s one and only win. We thought there would be plenty more. Now he’s a prancing showjumper. And we haven’t been back in the committee room.”

Security were obviously worried, because the line went dead once more. It was time for bed. I was happy for a fellow owner.

It showed that racing is not about the money. Last time I looked, the Queen wasn’t short of a quid. But nothing could buy the excitement of that victory.

The joy of racehorse ownership, on show for all to see. If only Her Majesty had been allowed to break into a bit of Kenny Rogers at the end of the day. I’ll explain it to her on our next call.

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An empty glass on raceday. Could this be the secret to successful punting?

June 15, 2013

In times gone by, it’s fair to say I’ve enjoyed a cool drink on a warm day. Sometimes, even on a cooler afternoon.

Those who’ve been following closely will know a medical hiccup has slowed me down in that regard of late. The big dry continues.

Several of my favourite activities would usually be carried out with an icy cold one. Or two.

There is no way a BBQ can be cooked without a beer. I believe it’s actually law. Here in Queensland anyway. Those in other states should make their own checks.

A day on the punt is no different. It’s what we do. At the track, brews will be had. The girls will find a decent chilled bottle. A win late in the day will send us to the top shelf.

At home, there are few finer things to do on a Saturday arvo than to raid the grog fridge while watching them run around. Break out the Smith chips and gherkin dip and you have the dictionary definition of Relax.

But professionals in the ranks will tell you there’s a downside to all this. That such consumption can lead to impaired judgement. And empty pockets.

It’s a theory I’ve always dismissed. Usually loudly. After the third shout.

Now, I’m not so sure. The last few weeks have shown me a very different way to approach the art of finding a winner.

I’ve been punting while sipping water. At one stage, there was even a cup of tea involved. Like one of those cardigan-wearing gents who arrives at the track at 8am to get the best table.

On each day, I’ve won late. Last race winners. Even a few trifectas. And not a hard luck story to have the most basic whinge about.

Can it be a co-incidence? For the first time since the great Bart was a silver-haired boy, I have cash at the end of the day.

I’m not missing races I have good things in. No ridiculous late changes from texting tipsters with less idea than me.

Because I’m stuck on the lounge, the winnings are staying in my account. Not being splashed over the bar somewhere. Or re-invested on the 1 dog later in the night.

Of course, it could all come crashing down today. In a perverse sort of way, I hope it does. I need an excuse to get back to normal in the weeks ahead. There’s a beer in the fridge with my name on it. I’m counting the days. Winning just isn’t as much fun, when you’re celebrating with Bushells.

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