This story appears bizarre, but it’s been told to me by a number of credible and independent sources and each swears that it’s true.
When Dale Monteith prepared his much vaunted report on the second installment of the disaster movie trilogy “The Farm Track F*ckup Part II – 21 Tonnes of Chicken Turd” he was highly critical of the BRC’s machinery purchasing decisions.
Monteith noted that the club had placed orders for all manner of flash expensive John Deere equipment, but had failed to purchase fundamentally necessary maintenance machinery such as ride on vacuum mowers and Rakovacs that are used to clear debris (leaves, twigs, grass clippings, etc) from the course proper so that it may regenerate and grow in the full light of the sun unimpeded by foreign matter on the surface.
Annexure 7 to the report (above) listed the equipment that the club had either purchased or ordered in the past 12 months, and while there are none of the much-needed vacs on the list you will notice that there are four units of machinery called John Deere 3036E’s (with Loaders) on the list.
The picture at top and the one below are what they look like, and so far so good because as you can see the machines can be safely operated around horses and are often used to move straw, hay and feed bales from the delivery point to the stables.
Now why the BRC would want to be moving such things is somewhat of a mystery, because one would have thought that such exercises as feeding the thoroughbreds stabled at the track would have been the sole responsibility of the horse’s trainers, but no doubt there are many good uses that the tractors known as Gators could be put to by the BRC maintenance staff and I am sure that they are.
Three of them anyway.
You see the fourth Gator never quite made it into the maintenance machinery pool, because once the well-known boys toy aficionado, poker machine manager, staff eliminator and part-time CEO Whimpey Dave spied the new tractors he decided he just had to have one.
There was no particularly good reason that an office-based, shiny suit and snakeskin leather boot wearing wannabe cowboy posing as a Chief Executive would possibly need to have a personal tractor for his exclusive use, but when you’re the boss and the Chairman’s personal cherry bomb chucker you don’t need to explain yourself to any bugger except God, and so Whimpey D issued a decree that one of the Gator’s was his, and so as it was told it became, and the boss man took delivery of a new toy.
Now for weeks we were getting all manner of people ringing in on the tipline and regaling us with sightings of Whimpey D scooting here there and everywhere around the Eagle Farm track on his little Gator, usually letting the throttle out to max and flying around at the little fellas top speed of 50 clicks an hour, although what he was doing was anyone’s bloody guess, and a topic of much speculation.
The only thing that everyone who saw the whirl of rhinestone, brylcream and snakeskin fly by on the Gator agree on is this that Whimpey D sure did stop behind a whole lot of trees, and that just about every time he did a plume of sweetly pungent smoke would float out from the woods and across the track, and the reason all remembered it is because the smokey smell reminded them of the days when Eagle Farm used to be covered top, heart and core (THC) in grass.
Like I said, this went on for weeks and eventually the curiosity died and the sight of Whimpey Dave burning around the turn out of the straight and into the back at tea breaks and lunch became such a familiar sight that nobody really noticed it anymore, at least they didn’t until the day it didn’t happen anymore.
No-one remembers what day of the week it was – some say it was a Tuesday, others think it was the day after, one wag even reckons it was a Saturday which made his mates fall down laughing ‘cos everyone knows the Whimpey dawg goes surfing at the Goldie on race days – but to a woman and man the memory of the wails that emanated from the boss’s bunker at the first tea whistle are etched upon everyone’s mind.
They call it the day the Gator said Seeya Later.
Whimpey Dave had lost his new toy.
I’m sorry sportsfans but is my melancholy duty to inform you officially that, in consequence of the persistence of Whimpey Dave in his invasion of Coneland, dementia has declared war on him, and as a result the Gator is gone.
Disappeared off the face of the Farm and the face of the bloody Earth.
Whimpey D can’t remember where he put it. He swears black and blue that the Gator was in the roped off car park outside his office bearing the gold plated sign reading “Reserved: Whimpstar”, but the rope is still in place and the iris-read lock remains unmolested, so the general consensus is that the CEO’s just grasping at straws.
Reports out of the Farm are that ever since the Gator vanished in a puff of sweet green smoke poor old Whimpey D’s been walking up and down and over and around the course all day long looking for his lost tractor, but it’s nowhere to be found and it seems the CEO’s days of windswept drags down the dirt track home straight are over forever.
It’s all gone to pot for our favorite pothead sportsfans, and it’s a bloody modern day tragedy. Fourteen grands worth of torqued-up tractor’s gone down the goddamn gurgler and no bugger knows where it’s gone, and not even the race-fix reeking buggerer in the big box upstairs holding the Carl Zeiss up to his meat pies can find it.
The only good news to come out of the whole sordid Gator affair is that it gives mad punters like me another chance to have a bet, because the bookies have framed a market on whether the BRC will break the habit of a lifetime and do what they didn’t with the train wreck track by actually claiming insurance on the Gator.
Word is that you’ll have to what Kenny Howard warned the Bantam not to after he’d spent too long between races in the champagne bar and run up stairs, or take the tomato sauce at least because the form analysts rate Whimpey D a tens on shot to call AAMI and make a claim to get his tractor back.
As for getting grass back on the Eagle Farm track?
Sh*t sportsfans, we wouldn’t want to spoil the dawg’s dirt drag racing track would we? And anyway, as long as the CEO’s sitting in the big leather padded chair and Slippery Sam’s still living up behind the back straight there’ll always be plenty of grass at the Farm, don’t you worry about that.
See you later tractor gator!
Good luck and have a winning day.
And just say No.