Yes Richie you are indeed f*cked 

Richard Callander – son of the famous sportscaster and Kerry Packer sycophant K-K-K-Kenny – is, like his father, a well known kisser of his boss’s arse.

For a while it made the fat, motor-mouthed slug plenty, as his TVN role morphed into radio gigs, newspaper and magazine columns, and an all round public role as Mr Horse Racing; and even though he knew about 2/3rd’s of sweet f*ck all about anything, the hot air he sprayed left, right and centre obfuscated the fact and the mug punter believed the hype and regarded him as King.

But like coat-tuggers, urgers, racecourse touts and Lemon Drop Kids the world around, Richie gave out so many tips that he forgot which rein he had actually tugged, until the winners in the great racing broadcasting war – who turned out to be a horse named Sky rather than the nag named TVN that Richie had staked his entire bank on, turned around and kicked him fair and square in the arse, and all of a sudden the bombastic bullsh*t artist who had been given the dream inside run by his Dad’s mates looked around and found that there was no Raris P. Griggsby or Kerry Packer to save him.

crooooook

Rather than me give you the late mail on Richie, allow me to allow the greatest sportswriter who ever tramped the earth, my old mate Damon Runyon, to do so, and if you substitute the words ‘Richard Callander’ for the phrase ‘Lemon Drop Kid’ then you’ll know all you need to know about Richie in just four paragraphs.

On this day I am talking about, The Lemon Drop Kid is looking about for business, and not doing so good for himself, at that, as The Lemon Drop Kid’s business is telling the tale, and he is finding it very difficult indeed to discover citizens who are willing to listen to him tell the tale.

And of course if a guy whose business is telling the tale cannot find anybody to listen to him, he is greatly handicapped, for the tale such a guy tells is always about how he knows something is doing in a certain race, the idea of the tale being that it may cause the citizen who is listening to it to make a wager on this certain race, and if the race comes out the way the guy who is telling the tale says it will come out, naturally the citizen is bound to be very grateful to the guy, and maybe reward him liberally.

Furthermore, the citizen is bound to listen to more tales, and a guy whose business is telling the tale, such as The Lemon Drop Kid, always has tales to tell until the cows come home, and generally they are long tales, and sometimes they are very interesting and entertaining, according to who is telling them, and it is well known to one and all that nobody can tell the tale any better than The Lemon Drop Kid.

But old Cap Duhaine and his sleuths at the Saratoga track are greatly opposed to guys going around telling the tale, and claim that such guys are nothing but touts, and they are especially opposed to The Lemon Drop Kid, because they say he tells the tale so well that he weakens public confidence in horse racing. So they are casing The Lemon Drop Kid pretty close to see that he does not get some citizen’s ear and start telling him the tale, and finally The Lemon Drop Kid is greatly disgusted and walks up the lawn toward the head of the stretch.

Well there you go sportsfans, that’s the guts of the story of old Richie.

A con-man, a tout, a teller of tales, and a man who weakens public confidence in horse racing.

The type of man who will pull the wool over anyone’s eyes, as long as it keeps him in lemon drops or dollars to sate his sweet tooth or his salacious greed.

The sort of bloke that sells a four-legged lottery entrant that he part-owns with his mates for $200 grand, and then tells the fellas that they could only get $140 grand for the nag, and not only pockets the sixty large that he’s just ripped off from the blokes who thought that he was their mate.

And then, when he’s sprung, like a canary in a horror film, starts singing and screaming the failed fascist f*ckwit fraudster’s favorite Nuremberg defense, and shouting out from the rooftops that ‘They’re all doing  it too!’

But of course ‘they’ are not, for most people in the bloodstock industry, and indeed across the wide-brown land, are honest punters who do the best they can to scratch a quid and do the right thing by other sportsfans in the process, just as the Chief of the Federation of Bloodstock Agents Australia says, because it’s the truth.

Richie Callander is a crook.

A dirty, rotten thief.

A bloke who’d rob his own mother, then holler copper on her when he got sprung, and load her up and tell the traps to shackle the old sheila and drag her away.

Kevvie banned him from the Geebung RSL the minute the news broke.

There’s no need for a lawyers picnic down at the Bunger, because Kevvie knows a wrong gee the minute he sets eyes on one.

So at 6.01pm tonight – after we’d all stood and clutched our hands to our hearts and paid a minutes silence to the heroes who died to make the sunburnt country great – Kevvie said ‘Mates, Bungers,  Fair-Dinkum Men, Lend Me Your Ears’ , we did.

And as Kev proceeded to tell us the terrible tale of a bloke who’d give up his niece to the Nazi’s if it would earn him a quid, and metaphorically did, the shouts of outrage and derision became louder and louder; and when Kevvie moved a motion to ban the number 2 motion named Richie from the Bunger, every hand went in the air.

But before Kevvie could even say ‘Motion carried unanimously’ a hundred more hands suddenly appeared in the air, for the old princesses upstairs feeding their pennies into the pokies upstairs had heard the movement of righteous indignation, and the word had got around, and that thieving dolt was gunna regret and bloody pay.

daeabae

You’re outta here fat boy! The bunga’s too beautiful for you!

The air turned blue with the solid as a rock old-duck’s curses as they raced down the escalators to jump in the trench with their fellas and their mates, because scumbag scam-artist’s bullets don’t scare a Bunga Daphne or Delia, and sh*thouse bricks who want to sink true-blue battleships just to save their scurvy souls aren’t welcome in a land where lad and lasses know where they’ve been cast in the caste system, and would rather be shot in the head than sh*t all over their own.

Richie’s die has been well and truly cast, and he’ll never set foot in the Bunger again, and his inevitable warning off from racetracks across the wide brown land and beyond, and his near-certain spell in a cold jail cell won’t really mean a bloody thing, because he has already have suffered the greatest indignity that a lying, lemon drop loving, conman kid can ever suffer. 

For the term of his natural life the man who you wouldn’t have in your trench, even if you were paid a million quid to let him in, will never more taste the sweet nectar of a schooner poured at the Bung.

Trust me, it just doesn’t get any worse than that, and ain’t that the truth, and don’t you worry about that.