by Haynes, Jim
I ’ad the money in me ’and!
Fair dinkum! Right there, by the stand.
I tole me wife at breakfus’ time,
Straight out: ‘Trivalve,’ I sez ‘is prime.
Trivalve,’ I sez. An’, all the week,
I swear ther’s no one ’eard me speak
Another ’orse’s name. Why, look,
I ’ad the oil straight from a Book
On Sund’y at me cousin’s place
When we was torkin’ of the race.
‘Trivalve,’ ’e sez. ‘Is chance is grand.’
I ’ad the money in me ’and!
Fair in me ’and I ’ad the dough!
An’ then a man ’as got to go—
Wot? Tough? Look, if I ’adn’t met
Jim Smith (I ain’t forgave ’im yet)
’E takes an’ grabs me be the coat.
‘Trivalve!’ ’e sez. ‘That ’airy goat!’
(I ’ad the money in me ’and
Just makin’ for the bookie’s stand)
‘Trivalve?’ ’e sez. ‘Ar, turn it up!
’Ow could ’e win a flamin’ Cup?’
Of course, I thort ’e muster knoo.
’Im livin’ near a trainer, too.
Right ’ere, like that, fair in me fist
I ’ad the notes! An’ then I missed—
Missed like a mug fair on the knock
Becos ’is maggin’ done me block.
‘That airy goat?’ ’e sez. ’E’s crook!’
Fair knocked me back, ’e did. An’ look,
I ’ad the money in me ’and!
Fair in me paw! An’, un’erstand,
Sixes at least I coulder got—
Thirty to five, an’ made me pot.
Today I mighter been real rich—
Rollin’ in dough! Instid o’ which,
’Ere’s me—Aw! Don’t it beat the band?
I ’AD THE MONEY IN ME ’AND!
Put me clean off, that’s wot ’e did . . .
Say, could yeh len’ us ’arf a quid?
NO CHANCE
It was a country race meeting with small fields and only a few bookies fielding on the six races.
Just before the last race, a handicap with five starters, a well-dressed ‘squatter’ type cockie approaches one of the bookies who has come up from the big smoke to the meeting.
‘I want a hundred on Blue Peter,’ he says, ‘what are the odds?’
‘You can have ten to one,’ says the bookie and the bloke is quite happy with that and hands over the money.
Five minutes later, the cockie is back, having visited the other five or six bookmakers fielding that day.
‘Do you still have Blue Peter at tens?’ he asks.
‘Look, mate,’ says the bookie, ‘you can have twelves if you like, but I have to tell you, I don’t think he has a chance.’
‘That’s okay,’ says the cockie, ‘I only want the bet, not the advice.’ And he pulls out another hundred and gets his ticket.
Just as the race is about to start, he is back again, ‘What price Blue Peter now?’ he asks.
‘Mate, you can have twenty to one but I have to tell you, I own Blue Peter and we brought him up for the run. The horse is running off weight and being trained for much longer races—he hasn’t much hope at all in this race. I’ve already got two hundred quid of your money, I don’t want to rob you blind!’
‘That’s okay,’ says the cockie, unperturbed, ‘I’ll have another hundred at twenties.’
The bookie shrugs and writes the ticket.
The five-horse field is despatched by the starter and, in a very slowly run race, Blue Peter wins by two lengths.
The bookie is stunned; he pays out and says to the cockie, ‘How the hell did you work that out? We only brought the horse up here to run him into some condition! I told you I owned him, and you still knew he could win, what did you know that we didn’t?’
‘Well,’ said the cockie, stuffing the money into his pockets, ‘I knew that I owned the other four runners.’
JH
WRONG DIAGNOSIS
The Western District of Victoria is a great area for racing. This story was told to me by a great old yarn spinner at Port Fairy, near Warrnambool. He swore it was true but couldn’t give me any names or details.
It seems that an old cocky once turned up at a jumps meeting with a tough old steeplechaser, but with no jockey to ride it. As the lad he had engaged for the ride didn’t show up, the old trainer approached one of the professional city jockeys and asked if he would take the ride.
The jockey looked the old bloke up and down with a bored expression on his face and said, ‘All right, Pop, I’ll take him around for you I suppose, the moke I was booked for has been scratched and it will warm me up for the important races later in the day.’
As the old bloke legged the jockey aboard, he whispered urgently, ‘Now, listen carefully, this horse will win easily if you remember one thing.’
‘I’ll do a good job on him, Pop,’ the jockey said impatiently, ‘don’t worry, I do know how to ride, you know.’
The old trainer persisted, ‘This is important, listen. As you approach each jump, you must say “one, two, three . . . jump!”. If you do that he’ll win.’
The jockey was already moving the horse away from the old trainer as this advice was given. ‘Sure, Pop, it’ll be all right, don’t you worry,’ he called back over his shoulder.
Of course, the smug city jockey took no notice of the old trainer’s advice. Away went the field and the tough old chaser was up with the leaders as they approached the first fence. When the horse made no preparation at all to jump, the jockey desperately attempted to lift him. The horse belatedly rose to the jump, struck heavily and almost dislodged the startled ‘professional’.
This incident caused them to fall right back through the field, the horse being lucky to stay on his feet and the jockey using all his skill to stay in the saddle. The jockey’s mind was now racing to remember the old man’s advice and, at the next jump, he succeeded in calling out, ‘One, two, three . . . jump!’ and the horse easily accounted for the fence.
The jockey repeated the process at each jump and the horse jumped brilliantly, making up many lengths, but just failing to catch the winner at the post.
On his return to the enclosure, the jockey was confronted by the old trainer who said, ‘You didn’t listen to me, did you? You didn’t say “one, two, three . . . jump” at the first fence.’
‘Yes, I did, Pop,’ lied the jockey, ‘but perhaps I didn’t say it loudly enough the first time. He didn’t hear me, he must be deaf.’
‘He’s not deaf, you bloody fool,’ replied the old trainer laconically. ‘He’s blind.’
JH
WHEN BUSHRANGERS STOLE A MELBOURNE CUP WINNER
In 1864, a large group of valuable horses was taken by bushrangers from the Lee family’s farm near Bathurst and driven south. One of the family, Henry Lee, followed them to Monaro where police apprehended them and all the horses except one were recovered.
The missing horse was a black colt foal that the kindly, horse-loving bushrangers had left with a farmer at Caloola when it went lame and could not travel. The loss was reported in the press and the farmer returned the foal to its rightful owners a few weeks later.
That foal grew up to be The Barb.
The Barb was a small jet-black horse who became known in the press as ‘the black demon’.
In 1866, the AJC introduced new races at Randwick to rival those run in Melbourne and, in the true spirit of inter-colonial rivalry, the Victorian colt, Fishhook, was purchased for a record sum by famous Victorian racing man C.B. Fisher, and sent to Sydney to win the AJC Derby.
The Barb trounced Fishhook and The Barb’s trainer, ‘Honest’ John Tait, decided to take him to Melbourne and rub salt into the wounds by winning the Melbourne Cup.
The Barb would go on to win the Sydney Cup twice, once carrying the biggest winning
weight in the race’s history, 10 stone 8 pounds (67 kilograms). He was virtually unbeatable at weight-for-age and was unbeaten as a five year old. He travelled successfully to win the Melbourne Cup at three and took out the VRC Port Phillip Stakes and the Launceston Town Plate in Tasmania as a four year old. The Barb went on to win sixteen of his twenty-three starts.
And all because the kind-hearted, horse-loving bushrangers spared him as a foal and left him with a farmer at Caloola to recover from lameness. The bushrangers, incidentally, were arrested, convicted and served prison sentences.
JH
FATHER RILEY’S HORSE
A.B. (BANJO) PATERSON
This is one of the best ever racehorse yarns. It has everything required of a ripping yarn, a cops-and-robbers chase, an impossible scheme that miraculously works out, cunning plans and deceptions, underdogs triumphant, a ‘ghost’, tongue-in-cheek humour and a huge dose of Irish sentimentality. Banjo was a genius at telling a good yarn!
’Twas the horse thief, Andy Regan, that was hunted like a dog
By the troopers of the upper Murray side,
They had searched in every gully—they had looked in every log,
But never sight or track of him they spied,
Till the priest at Kiley’s Crossing heard a knocking very late
And a whisper, ‘Father Riley—come across!’
So his Rev’rence in pyjamas trotted softly to the gate
And admitted Andy Regan—and a horse!
‘Now, it’s listen, Father Riley, to the words I’ve got to say,
For it’s close upon my death I am tonight.
With the troopers hard behind me I’ve been hiding all the day
In the gullies keeping close and out of sight.
But they’re watching all the ranges till there’s not a bird could fly,
And I’m fairly worn to pieces with the strife,
So I’m taking no more trouble, but I’m going home to die,
’Tis the only way I see to save my life.
‘Yes, I’m making home to mother’s, and I’ll die o’ Tuesday next
An’ be buried on the Thursday—and, of course,
I’m prepared to meet my penance, but with one thing I’m perplexed
And it’s—Father, it’s this jewel of a horse!
He was never bought nor paid for, and there’s not a man can swear
To his owner or his breeder, but I know,
That his sire was by Pedantic from the Old Pretender mare
And his dam was close related to The Roe.
‘And there’s nothing in the district that can race him for a step,
He could canter while they’re going at their top:
He’s the king of all the leppers that was ever seen to lep,
A five-foot fence—he’d clear it in a hop!
So I’ll leave him with you, Father, till the dead shall rise again,
’Tis yourself that knows a good ‘un; and, of course,
You can say he’s got by Moonlight out of Paddy Murphy’s plain
If you’re ever asked the breeding of the horse!
‘But it’s getting on to daylight and it’s time to say goodbye,
For the stars above the east are growing pale.
And I’m making home to mother—and it’s hard for me to die!
But it’s harder still, is keeping out of gaol!
You can ride the old horse over to my grave across the dip
Where the wattle bloom is waving overhead.
Sure he’ll jump them fences easy—you must never raise the whip
Or he’ll rush ’em!—now, goodbye!’ and he had fled!
So they buried Andy Regan, and they buried him to rights,
In the graveyard at the back of Kiley’s Hill;
There were five-and-twenty mourners who had five-and-twenty fights
Till the very boldest fighters had their fill.
There were fifty horses racing from the graveyard to the pub,
And their riders flogged each other all the while.
And the lashin’s of the liquor! And the lavin’s of the grub!
Oh, poor Andy went to rest in proper style.
Then the races came to Kiley’s—with a steeplechase and all,
For the folk were mostly Irish round about,
And it takes an Irish rider to be fearless of a fall,
They were training morning in and morning out.
But they never started training till the sun was on the course
For a superstitious story kept ’em back,
That the ghost of Andy Regan on a slashing chestnut horse,
Had been training by the starlight on the track.
And they read the nominations for the races with surprise
And amusement at the Father’s little joke,
For a novice had been entered for the steeplechasing prize,
And they found it was Father Riley’s moke!
He was neat enough to gallop, he was strong enough to stay!
But his owner’s views of training were immense,
For the Reverend Father Riley used to ride him every day,
And he never saw a hurdle nor a fence.
And the priest would join the laughter: ‘Oh,’ said he, ‘I put him in,
For there’s five-and-twenty sovereigns to be won.
And the poor would find it useful, if the chestnut chanced to win,
And he’ll maybe win when all is said and done!’
He had called him Faugh-a-ballagh, which is French for ‘Clear the course’,
And his colours were a vivid shade of green:
All the Dooleys and O’Donnells were on Father Riley’s horse,
While the Orangemen were backing Mandarin!
It was Hogan, the dog poisoner—aged man and very wise,
Who was camping in the racecourse with his swag,
And who ventured the opinion, to the township’s great surprise,
That the race would go to Father Riley’s nag.
‘You can talk about your riders—and the horse has not been schooled,
And the fences is terrific, and the rest!
When the field is fairly going, then ye’ll see ye’ve all been fooled,
And the chestnut horse will battle with the best.
‘For there’s some has got condition, and they think the race is sure,
And the chestnut horse will fall beneath the weight,
But the hopes of all the helpless, and the prayers of all the poor,
Will be running by his side to keep him straight.
And it’s what’s the need of schoolin’ or of workin’ on the track,
When the saints are there to guide him round the course!
I’ve prayed him over every fence—I’ve prayed him out and back!
And I’ll bet my cash on Father Riley’s horse!’
Oh, the steeple was a caution! They went tearin’ round and round,
And the fences rang and rattled where they struck.
There was some that cleared the water—there was more fell in and drowned,
Some blamed the men and others blamed the luck!
But the whips were flying freely when the field came into view,
For the finish down the long green stretch of course,
And in front of all the flyers—jumpin’ like a kangaroo,
Came the rank outsider—Father Riley’s horse!
Oh, the shouting and the cheering as he rattled past the post!
For he left the others standing, in the straight;
And the rider—well, they reckoned it was Andy Regan’s ghost,
And it beat ’em how a ghost would draw the weight!
But he weighed in, nine stone seven, then he laughed and disappeared,
Like a banshee (which is Spanish for an elf),
And old Hogan muttered sagely, ‘If it wasn’t for the beard
They’d be thinking it was Andy Regan’s self!’
And t
he poor of Kiley’s Crossing drank the health at Christmastide
Of the chestnut and his rider dressed in green.
There was never such a rider, not since Andy Regan died,
And they wondered who on earth he could have been.
But they settled it among ’em, for the story got about,
’Mongst the bushmen and the people on the course,
That the Devil had been ordered to let Andy Regan out
For the steeplechase on Father Riley’s horse!
ROUGHNECK
It was Oakbank, 1978. It was a small field for the Great Eastern Steeplechase that year as the track was quite heavy and the weather was wet over Easter.
The atmosphere was a little dampened and the ground was soggy underfoot but it was still Oakbank, the great Easter Racing Carnival in the Adelaide Hills.
In 1978, most of the already small field either fell or retired. Oddly enough, it was mostly the front-runners who fell or dropped out.
Of those left standing towards the end, three were way back in the field and one, a tough little chestnut gelding with the totally appropriate name of Roughneck, ridden by veteran jockey Peter Hely, was left way out in front.
What a fizzer of a race, you might think. How can four horses scattered over a mile of racetrack with one half a miles in front be of any interest?
You might think that.
You might also think these things demonstrate why jumps races hold little interest and are an anachronism.
You’d be wrong on both counts.
You might think, in a race like that, there’s no real contest.
You’d be wrong again.
There was no cheering, no roaring of the crowd as Roughneck cleared the fallen log, came down the hill, entered the straight and approached the last two jumps.
There was just an uncanny quiet.
You see—Roughneck was just about out on his feet. He was visibly exhausted and laying in badly.
At the second last, he clipped the jump and almost went down, just about touching his nose on the turf. He regained his footing but staggered sideways as the entire crowd caught its breath.
