Look luv I don’t want to as snarky or anything because as I mentioned in my earlier email I am of profoundly excellent character and and am a gentleman to boot, just like Little Dickie Morrison and his mates who hold those boys own Cox Plate luncheons.
Well sort of, not really. I prefer less Little Dickie’s and more large mangoes at my boozy race day functions, but then again I’ve always had a pronounced preference for well-conformed fillies over gross, weight carrying colts who require a lot of hard work to whip ’em into race winning shape and teach ’em how not to come in front early if they want to score the big one. Unless of course they’re a Vo Rogue or Might and Power, then I’d teach ’em to hold the lead and let all the TJ Smith style bone and muscled sit and sprint style stallions chase their arse.
Whatever happened to gender equity though Mel? Why won’t Little Dickie let you through the front door of his luncheon and allow you to see what’s going on inside?
Yeah I know, I’ve asked myself the same question. But what are these bloody boys worried about? It’s not a goddamn crime. Even veteran pants men like me are supporters of the same sex thing. In fact my good mate Mike Barrett – Mikey Bear to his mates like me, the bloke looking the goods in the middle of the picture beneath – is Australia’s leading activist on the issue, and I’ve been spruiking his tips for years.
Anyway, I’ve digressed and I apologise. Never could resist getting high on the horse, or high anywhere really. I blame bloody George Michael and those fluorescent “Choose Life” shirts with the cut off sleeves. We’re all just victims of our days on the old Albion Park Pacesetter’s Disco floor in the end aren’t we?
Back to business, now that Little Dickie’s is out of the way.
What’s going on with my membership application Melissa?
I know the brass knocked it back and used you as the messenger to tell me so, but I’ve subsequently asked a series of lawful and utterly reasonable question about this quite unconstitutional and thoroughly indecent branch stack-driven refusal to let me buy a badge, and no bugger’s answering.
Why the hell not?
I’m a bloody journalist, an internationally accredited and damn good one too. I throw my bit into the hat to help keep the bastard’s honest, and isn’t that what the counter-balances of democracy are truly all about?
Dead set Melissa – and make sure you say this to your boss Dave, the Whimpey bastard who’s happy to hide behind your skirt instead of stepping up like a CEO and a man and explaining himself and his red hot membership suspension decision to me and the membership of the BRC dreaming populace at large – I’m a decent bloke and a damned good asset to any racing club in the world.
For the love of a Coles Pub served cold Pizza, I’ve been a member of the internationally renowned Waipukurau Turf Club! And during my time we even managed to keep the committee sober enough for a week that we raced the full eight on the card one year!
Do you know how long the club had been trying to do that until I came along and showed the silly duck-shooting central north island Kiwis how to hold their piss over the sprint distance of the race-eve ball and then back up over the distance without any sleep the night’s next morning dawn?
If I were a wanker I could have asked for a medal and they would have cast me an extra one for the missus too. They offered Mel, trust me, but I refused. I’m a humble sort of bloke and I come to serve, not to pose and act the swell.
So be fair dinkum – or beseech Whimpey Dave to be anyway, if that’s at all humanly possible because I’ve got a question and I want the beneficial owners of the land on which the giants tramped to answer it so one and for all I might understand.
Why have you buggers bloody shut me out of membership of the club when I’m the only bastard on the course who’s ever turned a battling race club around?
It’s not just the Y-Puk racecourse in the middle of the sheep paddock behind the fish and chips shop next to the Mongrel Mob headquarters half way to the Wimbledon Pub along Racecourse Road that I’ve transformed into greatness either Mel.
I was a member of the mighty Manawatu Harness Racing club too, and you see can see from the title of Denise from Palmerston North and her poor dearly departed hubby Den’s book that we had our backs against the wall from the get go, just like we do here in Queensland today.
From the ashes of sweet f*ck all we sowed seeds, and from seeds we grew nascent buds, and resisted the temptation to smoke them, and the buds bloomed like beauties, and before the lazy bastards who’d tried to hijack harness racing and pinch our land knew it the great Blossom Lady was bolting around our pacing track, and like Forrest Gump she just kept on running, all to the Interdominion Final winning post.
She was trained by my mate Doods too you know. Stephen Doody, driver and trainer extraordinaire and prep man and good bloke beyond compare. Lived just down the road from my offal scoffing, ale-tasting, shag-mad, good bloke and bon vivant mate Shenno he did too old Doods.
It’s all a bit before your time Mel I’m sure, just as I’m certain you’d be processing those membership forms like a machine if only there were any to enter and approve. In usual circumstances I’d be recommending that you go and ask the boss, but unfortunately everyone understands that Whimpey Dave wouldn’t know an Interdominion winner if Our Sir Vancelot bit him on the arse, so there’s no point is there?
I’m not trying to be an arsehole but let’s all be honest about this, poor old poker machine peddling Dave couldn’t tell you the time that the Melbourne Cup jumped, let alone enlighten you about the dates of the three years in a row that Makybe Diva killed ’em in the Cup. I’m not knocking the bloke and suggesting that he’s a horse racing history free-zone, I’m bloody screaming it out loud because it’s true.
So if you want to learn a little about the amazing four-legged bodacious babe and absolute beauty Blossom Lady you’re going to have to go and have a quick word in the ear of the old bloke in the cheap suit wearing the very average priced and looking wig. Kev’s his name, Kevvie Seymour, and what he doesn’t know about harness racing you can scrawl on a postage stamp and throw away.
The old bugger’s a walking trotting pacing omnibus, and would you believe it he’s one of the richest blokes in all of Queensland and owns six-eighths of all the houses built on high ground around Albion Park too. Weird hey? Guess he’s just a fella who likes to wrap his rifles in muslin cloth and keep his powder dry.
Back to where I started though Mel, given this illustrious resume of mine – and bearing in mind I’m prepared to forego all the wonderful benefits of membership that the Eagle Farm track closure has denied – what I want to know once and for all is why the knobs that run the Brisbane Racing Club won’t simply allow me to sign the pledge, sling me a badge and and let me park the 1983 Nissan Pulsar in a members only reserved slot out on the Nudgee Road side of Doomben?
Why Melissa, why?
Why am I being treated like a bit of fluff stuck in the back pocket of Little Dickie’s ill-fitted shiny silver 80’s era suit pant strides, when all I want to do is have some fun, help revive the great sport of racing in Queensland, and make my own personal little contribution toward the club reaching its strategic 5000 member goal?
I realise I’m upset and I’ve been venting, and know it’s not fair to you Mel. You’re just a hard working, dedicated young Ladies Day attendee and wage slave trying to earn an honest living. No-one offered you a sneaky share in Bet Fairy did they Mel? And I’m certain you wouldn’t have taken it even if they did,. So none of this your fault sweetheart.
Spade a spade Mel, and no disrespect intended.
It’s time I was kicked upstairs.
The buck stops with the boss, not with the birds in the BRC admin office.
Tell Whimpey Dave to pull the whip, man up and give me a call. What’s the alternative? A Supreme Court injunction? A complaint to the CCC? A feature story sold to Fairfax? They’re all pretty damn appealing to me.
The truth and a fair dinkum explanation would be even more appealing. After all Whimpey Dave’s the CEO – it’s his bloody job to take the shots and fire some answers back. It’s his responsibility to explain to prospective new keen as mustard members why he won’t allow them on board the ship too.
Stardust, horse dung and twinkle time is all over. No-one believes in fairies anymore. Not unless you’ve got the Ubet linked app anyway. After all there’s no garden left for them to hide at the bottom at Eagle Farm anymore after all.
Impatiently I sit waiting; but not more for very much more.
Yours Above the Turf
Archie J.Butterfly Esq.
Sportsman, Gambler, Race fan, Researcher, Rooter, and Writer Extraordinaire
PS: Don’t tie your mast too tight to those fellas running the show right now sweetheart. Take the tip. I hear they’re headed for an almighty fall.