Gee Gee the Galloping Goat formerly known as a Racing Minister has left the building
So the Brisbane Racing Club own this little patch of land between Kitchener and Nudgee Roads, bounded by Lancaster and Mein Street.
It’s called Eagle Farm, and it’s one of Australia’s most famous racetracks, or it used to be anyway. These days the track has no turf, only dirt, and after a succession of debacles the home of the Queensland Derby once graced by the great Kingston Town has become an international laughing stock.
Gee Gee, our five minute Racing Minister who has since left the building, climbed astride a fruit box at the start of August and declared with passion that we couldn’t afford to waste time with finger-pointing and blame- shifting.
Converted to English from the original House of Broken Dreamese what Gee Gee was saying was ‘We’ve really fucked up here – the Government, Racing Queensland, the Brisbane Racing Club – it’s all our bloody fault. Some d*ckhead even forgot to take out the proper insurances. But we’re all on an earn in one way or another and so the show must roll on, and by, without anyone noticing that it was us’.
The now former Minister and Italo – Churchillian inspiration declared that if we closed our eyes and looked away from the god-awful mess on the course proper where the grass used to be, we would see that her absolute priority was to ensure that the Eagle Farm track was operating at its optimum level.
Chairman comrade Nifty Nev of the plinth known as the BRC kindly spared us 73 seconds of his valuable networking-focused time and phoned in from the Executive Penthouse plunge bath at Raffles in Singapore to promise and declare that the successful refurbishment of the Eagle Farm course proper was his club’s highest priority, after he’d finished his bath, endured a one hour massage with an emotionless ending, cut his nails, washed and dried his socks, combed his hair back seventeen times, applied a liberal portion of Brylcream to the said receding mop, scratched his balls, picked his teeth, yawned, had a couple of drinks and a couple of hours kip, woken up and had a shower then a swim then a shower again, watched a few replays of Sky Heights runs in the Melbourne Cup, called his broker, performed six star jumps, had a quick turn in the steam room, taken all his gear off and assumed the lotus position.
For the first time in over a decade riven by ego driven intercine blue-red warfare it appeared in that magical moment that the Queensland Racing Industry finally had a united and determined leadership team, and that the long wait for a decent track to race on at Eagle Farm just like the old one but different had ended, and hope had arrived.
It was all just bullshit.
Five months later the course proper still looks like the Sahara and the winter carnival stands less than just six months away on the horizon, and every second is critical if we want the Straddy held at Eagle Farm and the 10 000 at Doomben in this our fast looming early winter of getting pissed and bent in the Lord’s year of two thousand and eighteen.
Sorry, that was a mistake.
Every second is critical if Racing Queensland and the BRC want the Straddie held at headquarters and the 10 000 across the road.
There’s no need for panic stations though sportsfans because for reasons that I am totally at a loss to explain they – the BRC and RQ – do not share our hopes and dreams. Growing green grass before the darling buds of may bloom and the Fred Best Classic field burst from the gates to kick off the carnival doesn’t interest them at all, and racing’s the furtherest thing in the world from their minds.
They just want to build lego castles, and soar the dizzy heights of the House of Broken Dreams, and wander the world exploring its wonders on first class tickets paid for by someone else.
I now pronounce that the Dream is Dead.
There is no Eagle Farm in the winter of 2018, and we’ll be lucky if we have one the year after either, or ever again at all.
Right now it should be all hands to the pump and 24 hour round the clock shifts from here until Straddie Day to make sure we’ve built a track to race on and that its the envy of anywhere in the world.
Instead its Christmas Movies and Macauley Culkin and picnic cardboard boxes and Nudgee Beach styled course propers all round.
The work to restore our 150 year old track must stop.
Slippery Sam and Mrs Adams can’t see Santa and the Elves on the Southern Hemisphere’s Biggest Big Screen while that graders ambling up and down the track churning up sand can they?
This work nonsense simply has to stop. Bugger the Straddie, those unwashed gambling vermin can wait their turn. It’s Christmas, and the savoir faire intend to celebrate in style by watching reruns of the Grinch doing what Grinch’s and greedy blokes like Clip Clip and Nifty do, steal away the kiddies horses, hopes and shining dreams.
I told you months ago that the Winter Carnival 2018 talk was nothing but hot air and helium filled bullshit balloons, and now the proof is writ large in giant images of Jim Carrey right before your eyes on the big screen, and this is what it says:
FUCK YOU RACEFANS (AND SHUT UP! THE MOVIE’S ABOUT TO START!)
Pass me the remote please readers.
The races are on Channel 78.