The Fairytale

by H. G. Nelson

  The cream on top of the big mountain of cake: the twelve barrier slots in the race could be bought and traded. This was something new. This icing on the race cake meant that at every step of the process someone had to pay through the nose.

  Do the maths. Twelve wealthy individuals, cashed-up partnerships or racing enterprises, shell out minimum $600,000 a year for a slot. All owners have a lifetime option on a slot. The carrot that dangles, well, the first four past the post all snare a million or more for slot holders. Even the horse that smelled the field all the way gets a collect. In the 2020 Everest the last horse collected $450,000.

  Money attracts big players and big names, like blowflies to a stable stall in summer after the champ has taken a mid-morning dump. Everest intrigue and the money runs all year behind the scenes. It stirs the publicity pot, but at the pointy end the race itself is over in the time it takes to breathe in and out five times. It has only been run a few times, but according to the grind of racing’s publicity machine The Everest is the future. And it is here now!

  Money attracts big players and big names, like blowflies to a stable stall in summer after the champ has taken a mid-morning dump.

  Race promoters know this race is what the younger set want in an afternoon track side. They have noted the collapse of the Big Day Out music concept and figure watching a race with a glass in hand is a great option. Never mind that to the untrained eye The Everest looks exactly like every other race run in Australia every day of the year except Good Friday and Christmas Day.

  The racing think tank in a light-bulb moment realised young, fit Australians do not want to be part of anything that smells of geriatric boomer. They have swallowed enough of that Old Spice stench to last a lifetime. They want the aroma of their own horse race floating past their nostrils. They want a winning scent they recognise as their own.

  The ‘yoof’ want a place where they can drop anchor for the afternoon, swallow a mojito cocktail or a case of Penfolds Grange, sink the slipper into a few certainties and have a soft landing when they fall about legless at the end of the day.

  On Everest day the soft spot on the track where a pissed punter can flop is the lawn out front of the Members’ grandstand. They do not want to be bothered by the fossil set who pretend they know what Australian adolescents want. The old codger community are clueless – look where Australia is today, and it is all because of them.

  Youngsters don’t need fuds and OAPs telling them what they can and cannot do. Their outdated ‘we know what is best’ blather is a violation of young Australians’ human rights. Remember, if you are under twenty in the twenty-twenties, if it did not happen in the last five years it simply did not happen.

  They certainly do not need another long trip to Flemington. Randwick is the place to look good, roam about in extravagant footwear, see mates and drop a bundle. It is now. It has the light rail running past the front door. It’s Woo Hoo! Who knows how lucky you might get after the sun sets!

  The Everest is a disruptive race that has even changed the language of punting. The old language used by grey-beards and has-beens who cannot use a punting app is now associated with big losers, dud bets and never ever stabbing a winner. The new language from the TAB’s ‘World of Punt’ is summed up with the phrase ‘long may we play’. It makes everyone a winner, even if they drop the lot on a day of fourths and go home without a shirt and trouserless. It does not matter because they have been playing all day and not wasting their money punting.

  The ATC brains trust keeps banging on about how disruptive it is. As racing supremo Peter V’landys said during a probing The Project interview:

  Waleed, my very good friend, if you don’t get it, buddy, it is checkout time. You must be nearly cactus, hogging space in an aged care facility that others could use if you don’t see what we are trying to do.

  Let me put it bluntly. Bugger off, granddad! Let a winner slip into those underpants stained with excitement . . . Waleed, it’s the new language, it’s the new idea. It is The Everest . . .

  The race has disrupted the equine landscape completely. The races that precede The Everest and offer an insight into the form of horses entered to bag the fifteen million large are the VRC Sprint, which is now widely accepted by everyone under the age of twenty-five as a joke. Most serious punters, too young to have a driver’s licence, laugh when anyone mentions the TJ Smith as a reliable form guide to anything except a one-way ticket to aged care. No one has thought seriously about the TJ since Steven Bradbury snared gold at the Salt Lake Olympics. The next two biggest sprint lead-up events are the Concorde Stakes and the Premiere Stakes. They are now the butt of YouTube gags by teenage race-going stand-up comics.

  Even The Everest trophy talks to kids. The shiny bright bit of bling handed out to connections is a magnificent statuette of a stallion rearing on a frozen peak surrounded by a ring of precious metal. At last count, 8714 large diamonds were superglued to the horse. These carefully placed rocks allow the image to sparkle from every angle in the spring sun.

  This gem-encrusted gewgaw of success weighs fourteen kilograms. It was hand crafted by the necklace and earrings genius Nic Cerrone. Nic knows the horse and what young Australians want in an engagement ring. After all this bloke is an international superstar in the world of precious rocks. He has even made time in his busy schedule to visit the Vatican in Rome and natter on with the Pope about updating the papal trinkets and tiaras range. The Everest trophy is a great addition to the golden mile of Renaissance racing masterpieces.

  The Everest trophy is a great addition to the golden mile of Renaissance racing masterpieces.

  Imagine the merchandise possibilities that this diamond rearing horse generates. There is already an avalanche of Everest-inspired Christmas gifts. Everest-themed bedside lamps, bunny rugs for the littlies with a matching set of flame-proof pyjamas, cake tins, steering wheel covers, eskys and earrings. The Everest store is a bottomless gold mine of licensing deals that is only limited by the racegoer’s imagination.

  Politics is never far from the track. No federal or state politician, minister or premier is without a tip in the lead-up to The Everest. Even if they admit they know nothing about the racing world, and most know bugger-all, they will stump in to do the breakfast television round offering their selections and some wry smiles about how Australia would not be Australia without The Everest. This race knocks down all barriers.

  The promotion from the political class was important, but the race has to generate its own outrage. It has to generate copy and provide an endless supply of long-running issues for the tabloid press, digital channels and social media. There was an excellent early foray into the world of off-track marketing that unleashed public outrage and got all-important social media traction for free. It involved everyone.

  In Sydney, from the low valley of Circular Quay and the foothills of the Museum of Contemporary Art, the nation looks east towards the Himalayas represented by the sails of the Opera House. As the sun sets and the twilight glow glimmers, on that one night of the year a horse-mad nation sees the barrier draw of The Everest projected on those magnificent Opera House sails. It was an inspired move. It broke the promotional mould. It was a startling collision of sport and culture and cash. This was Peter V’landys’s brain wave, the whizz kid from Wollongong, who pioneered The Everest as the race that pays for itself.

  People were outraged when The Everest’s first draw was plastered all over the Opera House sails. People understandably took to the streets in angry protest. Talkback radio and tabloids went berserk. It was considered a crime against humanity and art by opera lovers. Carmen and Rigoletto will never be the same. The critics demanded heads should roll. Bunnings was sharpening the blade.

  At that moment in history, it would have been much easier if opera and racing had seen a way to walk together into a bright future. The Everest and Rigoletto wheeze should be a two-way street. Australia is big enough and is rich enough.

  What was the last great horse-theme
d opera? Is this nation so devoid of talent that the story of Melbourne Cup winner Subzero or the life of the Cups King Bart Cummings could not be turned into a four-act opera? The Fine Cotton fairytale, a very funny saga of racing blokes who thought they could get away with painting a horse and running it in the first. Sadly, everyone heard about painted pony and went the plonk, so the collect was very skinny. This simple tale would make a top comic turn with tunes.

  Australia is home to some of the best songwriters and musical stars on the planet. Horse stories write themselves. There is a start, heartbreak, a middle down in the dumps and a bright blast with a big ending. The operatic journey is populated with so many characters both good and evil. Everyone gets a chance to have a blast in B flat.

  These two great strands of Australian cultural life need to start singing from the same hymn sheet. What if the Australian Opera staged ‘A Night of the Horse’ on the eve of The Everest? There would be queues ten deep to see a crowd-funded programme of horsey tunes with musical theatre stars meeting the racing community halfway. Both promoting the big race. Imagine Chris Waller, Damien Oliver, Rachel King and Jamie Kah making up a musical foursome while top jockey Hugh Bowman conducts the Sydney Symphony Orchestra. The night could climax with the finalists in The Annual Everest horse song competition sung in a sumptuous setting before the announcement of the winner, the presentation of a cash prize and free tickets for The Everest race day.

  These two great strands of Australian cultural life need to start singing from the same hymn sheet. What if the Australian Opera staged ‘A Night of the Horse’ on the eve of The Everest?

  But there are other options. The Theatre of the Horse at Randwick, home of The Everest, needs to be rebadged as a Centre of Equine and Operatic Excellence. It’s a venue with great acoustic properties and plenty of space backstage. Purists will shout about opera invading Royal Randwick and devaluing a great sporting venue, and all that jazz. But bugger the fuds, let’s dance!

  Imagine racegoers on Everest eve being thrilled by a night of horse glamour and horse tunes. On a warm spring evening when the flowers along the running rail are in full bloom, romance and harmony are in the air. Everyone’s a winner. The musical programme selects itself: George Jones’ ‘The Race is On’, Spike Jones’ ‘Beetlebaum’, ‘I’m an Old Cow Hand from the Rio Grande’, ‘Up on Cripple Creek’, from The Band’s second album, The Pogues’ ‘Bottle of Smoke’, then finishing up with an all-cast finale of tearjerkers, ‘My Rifle, My Pony and Me’ and ‘Ghost Riders in the Sky’.

  It is a lost opportunity to jab Melbourne in the eye yet again. They might have the Australian Open, the AFL Grand Final, the F1 and the MotoGP at Phillip Island, but tipping the horse into the Australian Opera will be Sydney’s alone. A night out Melbourne cannot pinch.

  This obvious synergy between opera and horse flesh would go a long way to normalise the ‘long may we play’ concept. University-conducted surveys have established that Australians will bet on any competition anywhere. From MasterChef finals to the Moonee Valley Cup, from Australian of the Year to cakes at the Royal Easter Show, from federal and state elections to Supercars, Australians love to have a crack. In all these top events the TAB drenches the punter with exotic options, from each-way bets and quinellas to trifectas, quaddies and trebles, the variety is mind-numbing.

  With big-time opera and the musical theatre thrown at the race promotion, let us not overlook the Archibald Prize. This portraiture art prize has thrilled Australia for over a century. It is now time for the horse to take centre stage on this vast cultural canvas. For far too long, the great and the good Australians no one has ever heard of have been tapped as the subject matter in the Big A. The prize committee should mandate that only horse-related subject matter will be accepted in the Archibald for the next decade. Imagine the show featuring jockeys, owners, trainers, punters, colourful racing identities plus very nice pictures of horses. What a great challenge!

  The prize committee should mandate that only horse-related subject matter will be accepted in the Archibald for the next decade.

  The TAB could be roped in to run the punting side of the equine Archibald, with bets available on the winner, plus odds and evens and pick fours. It is all there. All NSW racing boss and international art aficionado Peter V’landys has to do is put a rocket under it and light the wick.

  Our betting agencies are world class at crow-barring money from a punter’s wallet. Remember two decades ago, only the racing codes gave Australians a wide canvas of sporting investment options. Today no sport can exist without a return from the ever-expanding punting dollar. The nation has come a long way and culture is now part of the wallet-opening action.

  All Australian punters want from the wagering industry is the opportunity to have another go. If gamblers lose in a photo finish, what they want is another race to chase winnings to fill the gaping hole in their wallet caused by the last.

  Australian turf scheduling is such that if punters drop a load on a big one, they don’t have to wait long for a chance to get square. Another race will be along in minutes with another winner. It would be madness to miss the jump in the next.

  On every track there is the doyen of local tipsters, a Clarrie the Clocker type bellowing, ‘Sport, in this next race at Strathalbyn there is an absolute certainty, it’s fixed at twenty to one and has great blood numbers. It goes super first up after a spell. The horse has eaten everything in the bin for the past week. Its barrier trial last Monday was out of this world. Oh no, you would be mad if you did not go hard!’

  In 2020, year one of COVID, The Everest ran at 4.15 pm Eastern Daylight Time. By the time you watched and calmed down after the excitement of winning, it was 4.18 pm. The next race in Australia jumped at 4.19 pm at Ascot. Like rust, racing never nods off. If punters dud out in the feature, they only wait two minutes for a chance to get square.

  All racegoers accept that horses do not get that much from the racing industry. Not every horse can be a winner. It is often just another day. Ho hum! Wake up in the stable early, then a ride in the back of the horse float, followed by a bit of a jog out to the barriers; the crowd is back and being silly. Then into the barriers with a lot of other horses and ‘Set and racing’, the run, the crowd cheering the result, a hose off, then back in the float, another hose off, a bin of oats, salt lick and an early night back in the stable stall.

  It’s the punters who add a mad element to the caper. Hoping their win or each-way selection covers the outlay and a bucket of chips and a refreshing beer. But it is a simple mathematical truth that for every big win, there must be hundreds of losing tickets, otherwise the whole shebang would fall over. Everyone is reminded of this fact whenever they look in the car park. It is the bookies and jockeys who have the flash set of wheels, the BMWs, the Mercedes, the Porsches and the Teslas; and lucky punters, well, they often travel to and fro on PT.

  But it is a simple mathematical truth that for every big win, there must be hundreds of losing tickets, otherwise the whole shebang would fall over.

  After every race, there is a brief moment to reflect on the lines tacked on to the end of every gambling ad. ‘Remember to think of those who rely on you for support’ and ‘Bet with your head, not over it’. Fancy sticking that as a final line on punting ad copy.

  There is the international interest in The Everest, from the wide world beyond. The 2020 million-dollar sprint was beamed into sixty-five countries. Punters in Hong Kong, Japan, Korea, Turkey and France saw the race live. In Russia, President Vladimir Putin suggested it would be ‘anti-Russian’ not to watch it.

  Everyone overseas loves the race and its wild emphasis on youth. Dumping the Dad’s Army contingent has breathed new life into the horse industry across Asia. The generation of ancient geriatrics has for years held back racing in Turkey and Korea where they associate the Colonel Blimp racing set with boat loads of losers. The idea that the winner in 2020, Classique Legend, was trained by eighty-two-year-old trackside legend Les Bridge freaks
them right out. They don’t know what to do with that snippet of biographical information.

  For two minutes, millions of people across the planet downed the tools, tuned in to our national anthem, the introduction of the jockeys, all the action behind the barriers, and settled back for the 1200 metres of sprinting mayhem at Randwick before moving on with the rest of their lives.

  The people of Vladivostok are captivated by The Everest and everything the race says about Australia. This eastern Russian city is in a wonderful time zone for live coverage. The mayor, Viktor Cherepkov, is a racing man. He has declared a public holiday across the region on Everest Day. The far east edition of Pravda publishes a form guide with a cut-out-and-keep sweep page. Many Russian business establishments run sweeps with a divvy-up of the pot for first, second and third, and a booby prize for the poor sod who drew the conveyance that plugs home last.

  Last year across the thirteen time zones of Russia, regardless of the hour, people took the live feed from Channel Seven in English with Bruce McAvaney hosting the coverage, before going upstairs to Darren Flindell’s call of The Everest with translation from SBS TV’s Russian department.

  In response to interest from around the world, the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade has put together racing delegations and equine trade missions led by movers and shakers from all three Australian racing disciplines. It is a hands-across-the-water exercise. The ambition is to throw a petrol bomb on the glowing embers of horse racing in places like Russia. DFAT wants to fire up an out-of-control blaze on the steppes, producing flames that can be seen from the clocktower at Flemington.

  In response to interest from around the world, the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade has put together racing delegations and equine trade missions led by movers and shakers from all three Australian racing disciplines.