The sprog’s been a bit upset lately, and it’s not just because the fool read her work roster incorrectly for the 3rd week in a row, and now has had to cancel her weekly date with the boyfriend (well she’s only 16 and we have big plans for her future – we need them, someone has to pay the bills – so homework comes first, and once a week’s better than none isn’t it, as I remind her every second day when she tries it on).

Now don’t get me wrong, after she got up early this morning and washed, dried and ironed her clothes, then had the usual flurry of last minute panicked activity before rushing out the door arriving at work with just seconds to spare, and then my mate who employs her at the cafe called me pissing himself laughing saying ‘she’s done it again’; and then she slunk back in 15 minutes later with her head hung low to the dulcet tunes of Britney singing ‘Oops I did it again’ – which I cruelly had blasting on repeat on the stereo  – she was more than somewhat distressed, as evidenced by the two hours of wailing followed by the next 2 hours of lying on the bed face down in a catatonic state interrupted only the sobs every 5 minutes that you could set your watch by and rely on with 1oo% accuracy.

The poor sprog’s self-inflicted distress was – in between races  -troubling me, and for some odd reason I started thinking about her decade-long oft-expressed belief that she was hard done by because her mates at school all had songs written about them, and poor old she was the only one who didn’t.

Molly had Molly Malone; Maggie had Maggie May, Rhiannon had, well, Rhiannon; and Ruby not only had Ruby, but Ruby Don’t Take Your Love to Town too. I have tried several times to explain to the sprog that Molly Malone is all about a dead fishmonger’s daughter, and Maggie May about a bird who stole old Rod’s heart away and then did the dirty on him, and that Rhiannon’s about a bird who racked off too.

But do you think she’s listen? Ha! You obviously don’t know her is you just said yea.

And as for Ruby? Well taking your love to town and shagging every bugger on legs while your Vietnam Vet hubby’s stuck at home in a wheelchair, and then coming home smelling of someone else’s Old Spice and laughing at the legless bloke’s not quite the done thing in Geebung – our birds would do it on the QT, and have a shower afterwards, cos Kevvie doesn’t cop any disrespect to blokes who served their country, pins or no pins – and I’ve tried a million times to explain that to the Sprog too.

But that young sheila’s just like her pig-headed bead-twirler of a mother, and once she gets an idea in her head – one like the fact that she’s rostered on for a Sunday shift, not a Saturday stint – then there’s just no convincing her that she’s got it all arse-up, no matter how much logic you may try to apply. And so despite all my explanations, for donkey’s years now she has still been brooding on the fact that every bugger’s got a song except her.

Until now that is sportsfans, because desperate to appease the butt-headed fruit of me loins pain this arvo – and equally as desperate to shut her up so I could concentrate on the form and hear the bloody races – I grabbed a shovel and went digging for a song that bears the little lamenter’s name.

As you all know punters, when Archie seeks, Archie bloody finds, and within no time at all the goods were duly delivered and the wailing stopped. And despite the knock put on her namesake in the tune, the damn thing has been playing at 169 decibels all afternoon long, and I still can’t concentrate on the form and I haven’t been able to hear a single race call since a quarter to three.

Gave my heart to Isabella
She’s bad news but I’m no better
Gave my heart to Isabella
Now I wish I never met her

Some days it seems that you just can’t back a winner no matter what you do to try to appease the cruel punting Gods. She’s bad news alright that Sprog named Isabella, don’t you worry about that.

But praise the Lord of the Track that she’s working tomorrow, and doesn’t finish until after Beautide blitzes ’em in the Interdominion at about three, that’s all I have to say.

Now all I have to do is somehow scrape up a few bucks to back the good thing.

So if you’re passing through Geebung tomorrow at any stage and happen to see a mad looking bloke wearing a Hawaiian shirt standing out the front of the RSL with a Brisbane Broncos cap on the ground in front of him who’s reciting poetry, throw a few bucks in his hat for good luck will ya?

God bless ya!