You’ve read, digested and understood the extract from the Australian Rules of Racing extracted and printed above have you?
The only thing you’ve ever read in your life is the form guide and the lift-out racing section in Friday and Sunday’s newspapers. Here’s the condensed version of the Forfeit List to make it easy for you.
You’re the train a bandy legged, fat barreled aged gelding who is about three years past its best, which was a win in an Esk maiden. Your mate at the Caboolture track tells you about this whizz bang gear he’s getting from India via a corrupt customs official and a couple of hard men in Melbourne, and offers you a whack for one of your horses.
This mate of yours is on fire at the moment and winning 1 in 4 of every races his horses start in so you say sure thing, thanks very much and rush down to Bunnings to buy a few metres of plastic tubing and a few other bits and bots that you filch because you’re on the bones of your arse and can’t afford to pay.
You do the business on the way to Bundamba in the six berth float with only 1 horse and you inside it, your camel runs out of its skin and wins by three lengths running away on the post. You haven’t had a cracker on it because you don’t have any and your credit’s no good, but you promise your hoop a huge sling when the seven grand prize money cheque arrives.
The minute it hits the letterbox a week or two later you dash down to your local grabbing your mate from his joint on the way, cash it in the lounge for 80% of the face value, order a round of beers with rum chasers, and before you know it six hours have passed by and you and your hoop are blind drunk and playing the bandits.
What happens between then and when you wake up naked on the front lawn the next morning is all a bit of a blur, and you feel that familiar old sick feeling starting to rise in your guts as you reach for your wallet. The sinking feeling’s correct weight because of you only find moths inside, and dead ones at that, and your jockey mate’s in the same boat and you’re both back exactly where you started, which is nowhere, but that’s par for the course and anyway, gee it was a bloody good night.
Two days later a letter arrives in the mail from QRIC. It’s bad news. They’ve swabbed the camel, he’s come up positive and the stewards have disqualified him from the race.
There’s another letter as well. It’s from Racing Queensland, and contains a demand that you pay the amount of the winning cheque back to the club, and they kindly allow you fourteen days to organise the ante, but it might as well be a century the way you’re traveling, and even they they’ll be lucky if they collect.
You don’t pay.
Racing Queensland plonk you onto the Forfeit List and suddenly you’re disqualified and unable to step onto any race track or training course in the country, under threat of huge fines and/or being warned off and you are totally f*cked, because now you’re not allowed to train or ride a racehorse anywhere, anytime, not until you pay the principal club the full dump of the dough you owe them anyway.
So that’s the idiots version of the forfeit list and how it is supposed to operate under the Australian Rules of Racing.
Good, now you’re ready.