The breaking news in harness racing this evening is that Clip Clop’s main man in the gig Grant ‘Moses’ Dixon has been stood down indefinitely from training or driving pacers and trotters after storming out of reconvened Stewards Inquiry into his drive on Baron Jujon in the last race at Redcliffe on the Thursday before Christmas.

Now Baron Jujon – owned by Coorparoo automotive engineer John Mammino, who also owns a number of horses under the company name of Jonlin or Johnlyn – is by no means the classiest pacer running around in Queensland, as its 50 starts for 5 wins and 14 placings show, and given that it has never managed to crack the magical two minute mile mark in any of those half century of racetrack appearances we are very unlikely to to see it competing in an Inter Dominion anytime soon, not unless Darren Weir or the Tornado have a mi-life crisis and make a sea change by turning their attention and skills to training trotters.

But a C1 to C2 pace worth three grand to the winner run at a sleepy surburban triangle shaped track down the road from the Dolphins Leagues Club at twenty to six on a Thursday afternoon is hardly the Miracle Mile, and you would expect even a slow horse like Baron Jujon to be competitive provided it was driven in a manner that would give it a fair chance to plod home ahead of the bunch of other plodders in the race.

And therein lies the issue, because Baron Jujon wasn’t given a fair chance to win by its driver Moses, who had obviously used up all his Red Sea parting powers when he’d followed his wife Trista’s arse down the first half of the Albion Park straight the previous Saturday night and then summoned all his magic powers to part the waters and the horses ahead of him blocking his way and won himself a Group 2 race worth 40 grand in the process.

In fact Moses must have been plumb tuckered out because he just jagged Baron Jujon back off the mobile barrier at the start, kept going back until he was last,  and continued to sit in that inauspicious position until the field reached the home turn just after about the 300 metre point marked by the sign ‘Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter The Straight Still Sitting Last’.

Moses must have spotted his Auntie Aholibamah and his Uncle Esau the famous donkey jockey standing down at the rail having a domestic barney at about the time he passed the sign, and decided that he’d better wish them a Merry Christmas, so he hooked the Baron out a million wide and went via the cape to say g’day.

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Unfortunately though by the time he got there Auntie Ahol and Uncle Esau had pissed off back to the bar near the stables for another round of schooners of Reschs with Bundy chasers (theirs is a mixed state marriage), so Moses did what any thirsty bloke looking for a free drink would do and pulled the stick on the Baron and urged it hard so he could catch up with the rellies before they’d completed the shout.

‘What’s so wrong with that?’ you might ask, ‘Are these Stewards some sort of sobriety spruiking wowser Grinches trying to spoil Moses’ Xmas or something?’

No Virginia, they are not.

Quite to the contrary in fact.

The Stewards actually wanted Moses to get to the finish line quicker so that they could make sure that he didn’t miss out on the gratis Yuletide guzzle, and wanted to have a quick word with him to see if he saw Esau and the Asol next to him as he and the Baron passed the post at the bell lap and ask him why he didn’t start scooting the fast way home to the bar on the back of my old mates Brad and Big Jeroen the Demon Dunker’s neddy Arbit Major when it did the free shout shuffle and took off 3-wide at the 900m mark.

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That’s all it was, a friendly attempt by the Stipes to give Moses a Xmas tip on how to work his way to the front of the bar and avoid the queues, but old Moses must have had a crap Chrissy or something – I’m guessing that Trista didn’t buy him the jewel-encrusted Guess watch he’d been promised, which I would have thought was fair enough because she’s not earning at the moment but who knows what goes on behind closed doors – because when he arrived at the Creek today with seven steeds he had entered for the races and the Stewards invited him in to pick up where they had left off before Santa came, Moses by all reports blew up big time.

The word from the Spanish Garden at the Brekky Creek is that the Eye Fillet eating punters chomping on half cooked dead Angus cows could hear Dixon going off his head from their tables 100 metres away from the AP Stewards man cave.

One well known wag – old Happy Jack junior, who claims he was the great Diehard supporting moocher’s son, even though everyone knows that it couldn’t be true unless it was a virgin birth, because old Happy Snr was always too permanently pissed to pull a root – reckons he heard Moses shouting words to the effect of ‘What is bloody Archie Butterfly running the harness racing integrity unit these days is he!’, but if you believe anything Happy Jr says then you probably agree with Grant Stockwell’s dear old Mum and sincerely hold that the ice puffing bird basher’s an Angel too.

Whatever was actually said and done in the Suspension Salon though, the end result was pretty much the same.

Moses put on a hissy fit, refused to sit down and talk turkey with the Stipes, packed up his bat and ball – in this case his seven supposed starters for the day – stormed off and pissed off home to Trista, who under the rules of racing shouldn’t even be there because their marital bunk beds and the Dixon family stables sit on the same bit of dirt and disqualified sheilas like she is aren’t supposed to hang around such licensed haunts.

God knows what Moses was trying to achieve because its a fundamental obligation of every racing licensee to front the Stewards when they are summoned and to sit down and talk about whatever subject the racing guards choose, and all the ranting and raving and late scratchings and storming off in a huff in the world won’t change that ancient biblical racing rule.

So all Moses’ madcap show today has achieved is that Clip Clop’s main man in the trot training and driving game can’t do either of those things anymore or forever until he comes back to the Creek contrite and prepared to play by the rules of the game by being prepared and ready to have a chinwag to the chaps who are employed to police the great sport and keep it squeaky clean.

Until then though Moses is confined to cooking, cleaning, carrying the water bottles and clip clopping his horses around the circle of sand at home to keep them at the standard of health and fitness that everyone in Vegas expects animals to hold.

Do you know what though sportsfans? I reckon after his dummy spitting how dare you type turn today Moses is lucky he’s able to even do that at all.

I would have made him surrender his horses back to their owners and given him a six month spell to sit down and have a good think about his attitude to his sport and his preparedness to play by its rules in this brave new QRIC world in which his long-time mentor, benefactor and master Mr Clip Clop Kevvie Seymour is no longer able to protect him from the waves that pound the sands of suckers who cheat at the trots.

God Grant Moses the strength to part the seas once more, because he’ll need it if he has any aspiration to return to the top of the game. It looks pretty rough and choppy out there, and harness racing cheats are flailing in the dumpers all over town.

I guess that with the old grey lifeguard’s hands tied to the ivory tower by the ten arrests that have occurred in and around his royal palace we’re about to find out if Moses can swim, or if he’s going to sink to the bottom of the sea, or maybe even get swallowed by the swirling powers of the CCC.

Watch this space sportsfans, watch it closely.

You always hear about it here first.