It f*cking breaks my heart to write this story.
I love Crash Craddock, absolutely f*cking love him.
When I was fifteen and working as a copy boy at the Daily Sun on my way to becoming a cadet journalist Robert Craddock was my hero.
Back then he was just a young punk on the rise himself, a bloke who’d walked the boards that I and other shit kickers like Brendan Moo – yeah there were 2 of us with the same names – were walking, and Crash looked out for us.
The other Brendan wasn’t interested in the races, or sport at all really, so I used to cop all the contra QTC and BATC members badges, and the tickets to the cricket and the footy, and all the wealth of other free bounty and booty that Crash couldn’t hand off to his half a decade older mates, and by God didn’t I think he was wonderful for being so kind to a young kid who was copping plenty from c*nts like Drunken Dessie and absolute arseholes like Col Allen who somehow pulled hot chicks like Sharon B.
Crash was my hero, and that’s why I refused to believe the stories I’ve hearing for the past year or so since I started coming on the racing writer’s radar that he was Clip Clop Kevin Seymour’s man – then, now and always.
‘No f*cking way’ I told the myriad of sources who insisted that it was so. ‘Crash is the King of sports writing in Vegas, he could never be bought or sold’.
It seems that I was wrong.
It feels just like I did at age seven when I sussed out that Santa wasn’t real.
I don’t know what to do or say, and I just wish my Mum was still here so she could mop up my tears and tell me what to do and say.
My Crash, my Crash, why have you forsaken us?