by Haynes, Jim
JH
THE GROG-AN’-GRUMBLE STEEPLECHASE
HENRY LAWSON
Although he wasn’t a ‘horsey’ type by any stretch of the imagination, even Henry Lawson found time to spin a yarn about the unscrupulous locals who made it near impossible for outsiders to succeed at race meetings in the bush. He named this parochial little town ‘Grog and Grumble’.
While yarns about training horses to stop for bottles, or return home after being sold, may seem far-fetched—Lawson went one better in this yarn about a horse who was trained to stick out his tongue in close finishes.
’Twixt the coastline and the border lay the town of Grog-an’-Grumble
In the days before the bushman was a dull ’n’ heartless drudge,
An’ they say the local meeting was a drunken rough-and-tumble,
Which was ended pretty often by an inquest on the judge.
An’ ’tis said the city talent very often caught a tartar
In the Grog-an’-Grumble sportsman, ’n’ returned with broken heads,
For the fortune, life, and safety of the Grog-an’-Grumble starter
Mostly hung upon the finish of the local thoroughbreds.
Pat McDurmer was the owner of a horse they called the Screamer,
Which he called ‘the quickest shtepper ’twixt the Darling and the sea’,
And I think it’s very doubtful if the stomach-troubled dreamer
Ever saw a more outrageous piece of equine scenery;
For his points were most decided, from his end to his beginning,
He had eyes of different colour, and his legs they wasn’t mates.
Pat McDurmer said he always came ‘within a flip of winnin’ ’,
An’ his sire had come from England, ’n’ his dam was from the States.
Friends would argue with McDurmer, and they said he was in error
To put up his horse the Screamer, for he’d lose in any case,
And they said a city racer by the name of Holy Terror
Was regarded as the winner of the coming steeplechase;
But he said he had the knowledge to come in when it was raining,
And irrelevantly mentioned that he knew the time of day,
So he rose in their opinion. It was noticed that the training
Of the Screamer was conducted in a dark, mysterious way.
Well, the day arrived in glory; ’twas a day of jubilation
With careless-hearted bushmen for a hundred miles around,
An’ the rum ’n’ beer ’n’ whisky came in wagons from the station,
An’ the Holy Terror talent were the first upon the ground.
Judge McArd, with whose opinion it was scarcely safe to wrestle,
Took his dangerous position on the bark-and-sapling stand:
He was what the local Stiggins used to speak of as a ‘vessel
Of wrath’, and he’d a bludgeon that he carried in his hand.
‘Off ye go!’ the starter shouted, as down fell a stupid jockey—
Off they started in disorder—left the jockey where he lay—
And they fell and rolled and galloped down the crooked course and rocky,
Till the pumping of the Screamer could be heard a mile away.
But he kept his legs and galloped; he was used to rugged courses,
And he lumbered down the gully till the ridge began to quake:
And he ploughed along the siding, raising earth till other horses
An’ their riders, too, were blinded by the dust-cloud in his wake.
From the ruck he’d struggled slowly—they were much surprised to find him
Close abeam the Holy Terror as along the flat they tore—
Even higher still and denser rose the cloud of dust behind him,
While in more divided splinters flew the shattered rails before.
‘Terror!’ ‘Dead heat!’ they were shouting—‘Terror!’ but the Screamer hung out
Nose to nose with Holy Terror as across the creek they swung,
An’ McDurmer shouted loudly, ‘Put yer tongue out! put yer tongue out!’
An’ the Screamer put his tongue out . . . and he won by half-a-tongue.
THE HORSE WHO COULDN’T GET HIS SHOES ON
The greatest racehorse of all time, in my humble opinion, was Carbine, who won thirty-three of his forty-three starts and was only unplaced once, when suffering from a badly cracked hoof. He won fifteen races in succession, and seventeen of his last eighteen races.
Carbine was bred in New Zealand. His sire was the English Ascot Stakes winner Musket and his dam, Mersey, was also imported from England.
After five wins in New Zealand, he was sent to Melbourne for the VRC Derby in 1888 but finished second when his jockey, New Zealander Bob Derret, dropped a rein in the tight finish.
Urged on by astute Melbourne trainer Walter Hickenbotham, VRC committeeman Donald Wallace bought Carbine for 3000 guineas.
Walter Hickenbotham took over training Carbine and, after a third in the Newmarket Handicap and a second in the Australian Cup, he went on a winning spree, taking first place seven times from eight starts as a three year old, at distances from 7 furlongs (1.4 kilometres) to 3 miles (4.8 kilometres), including the Sydney Cup, in which he carried 15.4 kilograms over weight-for-age.
As a three year old, Carbine won four races in four days during the Sydney Autumn Carnival in 1890, including the Sydney Cup on the second day. The next day he won the All-Aged Stakes over a mile and the Cumberland Stakes over 2 miles and, two days later, he won the AJC Plate over 3 miles.
While in training for his four-year-old season, Carbine cracked a heel so badly that he could not race without a special binding of beeswax and cloth and a special bar shoe.
He ran a brave second to Bravo in the Melbourne Cup of 1889. Carrying 63 kilograms to Bravo’s 54 kilograms, Carbine’s damaged hoof opened up during the race and he was beaten by a length by the son of Grand Flaneur.
Two days later, with his hoof repaired, he won the Flying Stakes over 7 furlongs (1400 metres) but, two days after that, he ran last in the Canterbury Plate over 2 miles (3200 metres) when the binding on his hoof completely fell apart. It was the only unplaced run of his career.
With a good rest and his hoof patched up again, Carbine returned to racing in March 1890 and won three of his four starts in Melbourne before heading to Sydney for the Autumn Carnival.
As a four year old, Carbine went one better than the previous year. This time he won five races at distances from 1 mile to 3 miles in seven days: the Autumn Stakes, on 5 April; the Sydney Cup, carrying 61.2 kilograms; on 7 April; the All-Aged Stakes and the Cumberland Stakes on 10 April; and the AJC Plate on 12 April.
Carbine then won another eight races before racing into immortality in the Melbourne Cup of 1890, carrying the biggest winning weight in history, 66.5 kilograms.
Carbine raced seven more times for six victories. His narrow defeat came in the All-Aged Stakes at Randwick. His hoof was so bad that day that shoes could not be fitted, so he raced without shoes and ran second to Marvel on a slippery wet track.
Unperturbed, Walter Hickenbotham took Carbine back to his stall, persevered and finally managed to get shoes on the champion, who promptly went out a few races later and beat Marvel easily over 2 miles in the Cumberland Stakes.
After a short successful career as a sire in Australia, Carbine was purchased to stand at Welbeck Stud in England as a second string sire to the famous champion St Simon. Because he was so good-natured and placid, Carbine was bred to daughters of St Simon, who had a savage temperament.
In spite of being only ‘second fiddle’ sire at Welbeck, Carbine became one of the most successful sires in racing history. His Australian son Wallace was one of the greatest stayers and sires in Australian racing history and between 1902 and 1906 Carbine sired 138 winners in the UK.
Carbine’s son Spearmint won the 1906 Epsom Derby and was a great success at stud.
One reason Carbine was sold t
o Welbeck Stud was that there, on soft English soil, he didn’t have to wear shoes!
Carbine died in 1914 at the ripe old age of twenty-nine. His blood has been present in the pedigrees of over fifty Melbourne Cup winners, including Makybe Diva. Phar Lap was Carbine’s great great grandson.
Not bad for a horse who couldn’t get his shoes on.
JH
FLYING KATE
ANONYMOUS
If you think Henry’s Lawson’s yarn about the horse trained to poke out his tongue is well beyond credibility, here is the most outrageous racing yarn of all time. It’s about a mare so good that she raced while she was in foal and then . . . oh, look, read it for yourself and find out! It’s by that well-known Aussie poet A. Nonymous.
It makes us old hands sick and tired to hear
Them talk of their champions of today,
Eurythmics and Davids (yes, I’ll have a beer)
Are only fair hacks in their way.
Now this happened out West before records were took,
And ’tis not to be found in the guide,
But it’s honest—Gor’ struth, and can’t be mistook,
For it happened that I had the ride.
’Twas the Hummer’s Creek Cup, and our mare, Flying Kate,
Was allotted eleven stone two;
The race was two miles, you’ll agree with me, mate,
It was asking her something to do.
She was heavy in foal, but the owner and me
Decided to give her a spin,
We were right on the rocks, ’twas the end of a spree,
So we needed a bit of a win.
I saddled her up and went down with the rest,
Her movements were clumsy and slow,
The starter to get us in line did his best,
Then swishing his flag he said, ‘Go!’
The field jumped away but the mare seemed asleep,
And I thought to myself, ‘We’ve been sold,’
Then I heard something queer, and I felt I could weep,
For strike me if Kate hadn’t foaled.
The field by this time had gone half-a-mile,
But I knew what the old mare could do,
So I gave her a cut with the whip—you can smile,
But the game little beast simply flew.
’Twas then she showed them her wonderful speed,
For we mowed down the field one by one,
With a furlong to go we were out in the lead,
And prepared for a last final run.
Then something came at us right on the outside,
And we only just scratched past the pole,
When I had a good look I thought I’d have died,
For I’m blowed if it wasn’t the foal.
I HAVE A DREAM!
While we are roaming the realms of pure fantasy, here is a racing yarn that I have heard years ago but cannot corroborate.
The scene was suburban Melbourne a few years back. A bloke bumped into a neighbour on the tram going home.
‘Hello, Bill,’ said the friend, ‘where have you been?’
‘I’ve been to the races,’ Bill replied.
‘You don’t usually go to the midweek meetings, do you?’ said the neighbour.
‘No,’ said Bill, ‘I only went today because I had a very vivid dream early this morning. I saw sunshine through fluffy clouds and a voice kept repeating “number seven . . . number seven . . .”. So I looked in the paper and there was a horse carrying saddlecloth seven, coming out of barrier seven, in the seventh race at Sandown, at seven to one. So I went to the track and put $777 dollars on it.’
‘What happened?’ asked the neighbour.
‘It ran seventh,’ replied Bill.
JH
FLASH JACK’S LAST RACE
A.B. (BANJO) PATERSON
Here is another yarn from the pen of Banjo Paterson. This incident took place not far from where Banjo spent his childhood. He went to school at Binalong, not far from Jugiong.
It was at the hamlet of Jugiong that an event occurred, which is perhaps unique in turf history.
It was a publican’s meeting, which means that the promoter was less concerned with gate money than with the sale of strong liquor.
The unfenced course was laid out alongside the Murrumbidgee River and one of the Osborne family, graziers in the district, had entered a mare which was fed and looked after on the other side of the river.
Off they went, and the mare made straight for home, jumping into the river and nearly drowning the jockey, who was rescued by a young Aboriginal boy.
Meanwhile, Mr Osborne, under a pardonable mistake, was cheering on another runner in the belief that it was his mare.
Then there came a splashing sound at the back of the wagonette and Mr Osborne, looking around, was astonished to see his jockey.
‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here? Where’s the mare?’
‘She’s home by now,’ said the boy, a bush youngster known locally as ‘Flash Jack from Gundagai’.
‘And I’m going home, too,’ he added, ‘I’ve had enough of it. In the last race my moke fell in front of the field and there was me lying on the track with nothing but horses’ heels going over my head for half an hour and this time I was nearly drowned. I’d sunk four times when that black boy came in after me.
‘I’d like a job, Mr Osborne, picking up fleeces in the shed if you ain’t full up; but Flash Jack has rode his last race.’
ASK THE HORSE
A.B. (BANJO) PATERSON
Banjo Paterson was a successful amateur jockey and knew most of the great jockeys and trainers of his day. As a journalist with the Sportsman newspaper, he spent much of his time studying the racing game and even wrote a detailed treatise explaining betting and other aspects of the complex world of racing. Here he is reminiscing about a famous old trainer, Sydney’s Bill Kelso Senior.
Bill Kelso was an old-time trainer, a very direct-spoken man and if you didn’t like what he said you could leave it.
I was doing some amateur riding and falling about over steeplechase fences and, like a lot of other young fellows, I began to fancy myself as a judge of racing. So, one day I asked old Kelso, ‘Mr Kelso, what will win this race?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell you something. Do you know what I was before I went in for training?’
I said, ‘No.’
He said, ‘I was working for a pound a week and I might be working for a pound a week still, only for young fools like you that will go betting. You leave it alone or get somebody to sew your pockets up before you come to the races.’
Well, it wasn’t very polite but it was good advice.
The committee had him in once to explain the running of the race, before the days of stipendiary stewards. It took them a lot of trouble to get the committee together and they sat down, prepared for a good long explanation.
‘Mr Kelso,’ said the chairman, ‘can you tell us why your horse ran so badly today?’
‘No, I’m afraid I can’t,’ he said, ‘you’ll have to ask the horse. He’s the only one that knows.’
THE TWO FALCONS
Here are two trivia questions for you:
When did Falcon run third and eleventh in the Melbourne Cup?
When did Falcon run third but didn’t finish third in the Melbourne Cup?
Confusing? You bet it is, but it’s true.
The Melbourne Cup of 1866, won by The Barb as a three year old, was a controversial race. There were two horses named Falcon engaged. One of them, from Sydney, also trained by The Barb’s trainer, ‘Honest’ John Tait, finished third behind The Barb but the judge would not declare a third place, as the colours carried by the ‘Sydney Falcon’, yellow jacket and red cap, did not match any of those of the entries given to the judges on the official race card.
Tait had substituted a red cap on his second runner to differentiate the colours from those carried by The Barb, but evidently he didn’t notify th
e judge officially. The following day at four o’clock, the stewards declared ‘Sydney Falcon’ had been placed third, but many bookmakers refused to pay out on the horse, arguing that only the judge had the power to ‘place’ horses officially.
So Falcon, from Sydney, ran third according to the stewards but wasn’t officially third according to the judges and Falcon, from Melbourne, ran eleventh—officially!
JH
TOO MANY TIM WHIFFLERS!
Before the registration of names was properly controlled, different horses often raced with the same names. There were three Tim Whifflers in the Australian colonies in the 1860s, one was an imported stallion who sired the 1876 Melbourne Cup winner Briseis and the other two Tim Whifflers both raced in the Melbourne Cup of 1867. ‘Sydney Tim’, trained by Etienne de Mestre, won the Cup and ‘Melbourne Tim’ ran fifth.
JH
ROBINSON CRUSOE
In 1876, the steamer City of Melbourne ran into a savage storm taking the Sydney horses to Melbourne for the Spring Carnival and all but one were washed overboard and drowned.
One of the Sydney champions lost on that sad night was Robin Hood. According to the great trainer Etienne de Mestre, he was the best horse he ever trained.
In a shocking display of poor taste, the bookmakers of Melbourne held a party to celebrate the tragedy and rejoice at all the money they had suddenly gained, for the Sydney horses who perished had been well backed to beat the local Melbourne horses in the big Spring races.
The one surviving horse had already won the AJC Derby but was, strangely, as yet unnamed. He was appropriately named Robinson Crusoe and went on to be a champion and a great sire.
JH
A POST-CUP TALE
C.J. DENNIS
All true ‘racing tragics’ know the sickening feeling that overwhelms a punter when he has done the form and chosen his horse but for some inexplicable reason changes his mind at the last minute, only to see the horse he originally chose logically and painstakingly win at good odds.
C.J. Dennis was the Aussie poet who best captured the voice and feelings of the common man. Here is his yarn about the punter who picked the Melbourne Cup winner in 1928, the Sydney three year old, Trivalve, and was talked out of backing him at the last minute. It brings a tear to my eye every time I read it!
