So a bloke I know backs this thing at the races the other day and it gets slaughtered by the kid on top.

The kid’s a claiming apprentice – I won’t name the rider because we were all young once and made mistakes, and we all need time to learn – and his or her ride was an absolute Cedric Rocker, not quite an all-time great but certainly on the shortlist for the Clip Clop Kevin and Kay Seymour Sponsored Junior Cedric Ride of the Year award, cup and tasseled sash presented by Kay, and probably third favorite to win it.

My mate blows up big time. He’s not saying so, but he’s obviously thrown the school fees that were due in February on the jockey kid’s mount, and courtesy of the murder the fees are now gone and his kid won’t be able to graduate with her expected OP1 and the Dux award next week unless a miracle happens and a couple of grand falls into his lap.

This is not good, and the bloke’s not happy, and he lets everyone in the popular licensed punting venue know, and the people smoking outside as well, and the punters walking down the street, and the sportsfans all across the block, and the neighbours in the next suburb too.

“That stupid kid is a slaughterman” the bloke declares, and then asks the world out loud “How Can a Hoop Who Has Outridden His Claim Ride so Bad?”

“He hasn’t outridden his claim cobber, he’s still got three kilos” a quietly spoken bloke in an ill fitting suit with a whole bunch of wires sticking out from the top pocket asks.

Later people will claim that the questioner is an undercover copper from the Police Racing Squad. They will be proven correct.

An argument ensues, and wagers are placed at all manner of wildly over the odds prices. Wives and children whose lives are sworn upon are put up as collateral to cover 86.3% of the EBITDA value of the bets.

The bloke I know is never wrong, at least in his min anyway.

“Bugger this” he says “I’m calling Racing Qld and we’ll settle this crap once and for all”

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He picks up the phone and dials. It rings twice and then a bird answers.

“Racing Queensland, You reconstruct ’em, we f*ck ’em”

The bloke says “G’day Luv” and then gets straight to the point.

“What’s that little criminal’s weight claim? How much is his allowance?” he asks.

The sheila from Racing Queensland pauses and thinks for a second, and then asks him if he’d mind if she put him on hold for a second, and disappears. Before he can even reply my mate finds himself listening to Daryl Braithwaite’s version of Horses on tyhe hold music, and hears it 27 times in a row before eventually the bird from RQ comes back on the line.

“I’ve spoken to my supervisor Sir and Mr Sowerby directs that questions relating to weight, times, claims and allowances should be directed directly to Centrelink” the sheila immediately states without even asking old mate if he enjoyed the interminable wait. She begins to read out the dole office’s direct call centre line number, but is interrupted by the bloke.

“No! Not government allowances and claims luv!” he bellows.  “Apprentice Jockeys wights and claims and how much they can ask for sweetheart”

The bird on other end of the phone cuts the bloke short.

“You’re harassing me!” she shouts, and hangs up.

This is a true story, and only a fortnight old.

Dead set.