You Can Put Your Money On It

Newcastle Herald

Saturday November 1, 2008

BEN QUINN

Neigh, followed by a snuffle and a shake of the head.

That was an impression of a horse, acted and directed by

my two-year-old son, Darcy Spencer.

The reason I bring up my sons horse impression is because horses

are bigger than Phar Laps heart right now. And thats bloody big.

For a few weeks from the end of October to the middle of November,

those four-legged marvels with meaningful names (Makybe

Diva, Richard Cranium, Brown Dirt Cowboy) and mighty

motors (Makybe Diva, Might And Power, Kingston Town)

dominate centre stage on the Australian sporting landscape.

Right now its carnival time in Melbourne town, ramping

up towards the one and only thoroughbred

race that truly stops a nation, the Melbourne

Cup, which will celebrate its 148th edition on

Tuesday.

If you doubt the two-mile handicaps claim

to the title of Worlds Most Magnetic Horse

Race, you shouldnt.

Colonel Sanders with his wee beady eyes

still sells fried chicken when the Kentucky

Derby is run on the first Saturday in May.

Most Frogs are too busy eating croissants

and wiping dog dump off their adidas trainers

to give a stuff when they duel for the Prix

de LArc de Triomphe on the first Sunday in

October.

Oil production does not cease for a second

in the United Arab Emirates when sheiks and

shonks fl ock to the Dubai World Cup in late

March.

Rumour has it most of the British royal family

couldnt give a toss of a polo horses tail

about the carnival at Ascot; Queen Liz and

co only turn up in their diamonds and pearls

because it would be terribly impolite not to.

But in Australia, on the first Tuesday in

November, everybody stops and everybodys

an expert.

I fair dinkum reckon more Aussies would

know the fi rst Melbourne Cup winner

(Archer) than the fi rst Prime Minister

(Ned Kelly). Fair dinkum.

The Poms offer $4 million for their

entire five-day carnival. The Melbourne Cup alone is worth

$5.5 million.

Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Thatcher.

From our population of approximately 20.5 million, an estimated

20,499,999* will have a bet and stand shoulder to shoulder for

about three-and-a-half minutes.

I remember my fi rst Melbourne Cup collect, 1983, like it was a

quarter of a century ago.

My old man, Mr Doubtfire, had five bucks on the nose for each of

his three boys. I chose Kiwi because I dug the New Zealand frontrower

Kurt Sorensen. The horse duly saluted, keeping me stocked

with Chokitos, Whiz Fizzes and honeycomb bands for the family

slingshot for a month.

The first Tuesday in November is the one day of the year when

every mug is equal.

High rollers, desperadoes and once-a-year flutterers who wouldnt

know a horses arse from a horses head clutch their betting stubs

for grim death and dream of retirement to tropical islands where

Brian Wilson-era Beach Boys tunes play on the jukebox all day and

the only drinks they serve are heavy on rum and come in coconuts.

In short, its the loudest nationwide observance of a moments

silence in the history of mankind.

Fluke a mystery trifecta at rough odds and youll be laughing all

the way to the bank. My middle brother, The Prop, snared the 1999

tri when Rogan Josh won, Central Park was runner-up and Zazabelle

and Lahar dead-heated for third. He won about 20 grand and

bought a lipstick red Nissan Pulsar (a flash rig that I would inherit

many years later), shouted myself and our youngest brother, Ramon

the Spanish Pimp, a limo ride to Sydney for a night on the squirt,

and spent the rest on bills, turps and massages.

This time around Ill be investing a mustard on mystery trifectas

and a redback on the great Bart Cups King Cummings, providing

he has a runner. Barts wrinkles dance tauter than James Brown, his

eyebrows have their own solar systems, and hes trained the Cup

winner 11 times. One cool dude, El Barto.

Im not sure whether a champion will emerge or the race will be

won by a dud destined for the dog-food factory, but of this Im certain:

ladies across the country will sport the most ridiculous hats.

One more thing: never get a haircut the day after the Melbourne

Cup. Most hairdressers will be in no fit state to cut a Vegemite sandwich,

let alone brandish scissors.

Too much champagne, you see.

* Statistic supplied by the writer and his

chief statistician, Big Hank.

© 2008 Newcastle Herald

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