Another
Melbourne Cup has just been won. One of the most coveted
eighteen carat gold cup trophies in the modern world has
just been presented to the proud owners along with two smaller
replica trophies for the trainer and the winning jockey
who, in essence, is the pilot of the comparatively hue animal
under him and guides his steed past the flashing lights
of the winning posts. Most of these jockeys do have at least
some control of the horsepower they are in charge of, but
there are others who are so minute in every sense of the
word the horse doesn’t even seem to feel the tiny
human on its back and simply carries the rider who clings
like a leech in the general direction that the automatic
barrier gates have swung open to propel it out into.
About three decades ago, I had the good fortune of meeting
one of these little guys in person. Without the slightest
exaggeration, let’s call him P.B, was so little that
he could cross to either side of his mount without actually
walking around the horse. The top of his head cleared the
horse’s underbelly by a couple of centimeters. It
was very amusing to watch P.B strolling through the centre
of four hooves smiling broadly with that cheeky grin of
his. In his hand, he held a whip that was certainly “longer”
than he was and I am certain that it did not take much more
than a yard of “satin” to furnish him with his
entire “riding kit” P.B. now “rides”
for the greatest trainer of them all and I am not talking
about Bart Cummings. His “race track” is now
“out of this world” and P.B. must be spreading
his wise cracks around a “celestial” audience.
This was one of the most famous stories he entertained his
audience with while he was on this planet. He always has
a “stooge” sitting at the rear of the venue
when he spun this one. “I was booked to ride in the
last of Flemington (where else?) I was the “bottom-weight”(what
else?) I was bodily lifted into the saddle by my mates (how
else?) I then clung on for dear life as this bloody nag
thundered along the straight, suddenly took a right and
bolted into the bushes surrounding the track where he put
on the brakes and pitched me headlong into this bloody big
tree” P.B. warmed to his theme as the audience sat
with their mouth open, hanging on to every word. “I
ended up unconscious and was taken by ambulance to the hospital
in a fatal coma”. P.B. stopped talking for effect
and the “dag” sat the rear sang out “and
then what happened mate?” P.B. came back with the
punchline “what do you think happened, you bloody
idiot?, I died” the entire audience fell about with
laughter and I will never forget this guy. What has all
this got to do with the Melbourne Cup? Well, P.B. won three
of them in the 60’s, one of them at odds of 2001.
“The most famous horse race in the world bar none”,
“the race that stops a nation”, everything stops
for the Melbourne Cup, “remember, the first Tuesday
in November,” “clichés, phrases, adages,
call them what you will. I have ever “coined”
a new one to start off this “writing” but I
do not intend repeating everything written. Suffice to say
that the Melbourne Cup has been spoken about, argued about
and raved about since “Phar Lap” was just a
gleam in his sire’s eye. Because this article has
to be condensed I had to call on the assistance of my eldest
son Michael and he graciously agreed to “fill me in”
with the most important facts of the great sporting event.
Some of them, anyway. The very first M.C. was held in 1861,
won by a superb racehorse named “archer”. The
Victoria racing club was formed in 1864 in mythology, one
of it’s heroes named Ajax defined lightening. Why
he defined it is not clear but the “Sinhalese”
name for lightening is “Phar Lap”. I rest my
case. The Sinhalese pronounced is “Par Lap”
because there is no “F” in the Sinhala language.
To detail stories about the M.C. I will have to write a
book but “archer”, Bart Cummings, “Phar
Lap” and Flemington have already been mentioned. Add
P.B. to this lot and watch out for “future writings”. |
