Golden Post

When I was a very young lad of about 6 or 7 and my elder brother therefore 8 or 9, we went to the Goulburn Races as a family outing. Each of us was given 20 cents to bet on whatever horse we wanted. I asked of course what was the most likely outcome of the race and so the concept of a 'favourite' was explained to me. It seemed obvious to me that if everyone expected this particular horse to win, then why on earth would I know better. So upon the nose of "Golden Post" I placed my entire 20 cents for the win. My brother had much larger plans. I forget the name of the horse but it was long odds and well of course you know what I'm going to say. Golden Post won comfortably and I recouped my crisp and cool 50 cent piece winnings. Bernard's sole purpose for the next few hours was to remind me of how much he would have had had his nag beat mine. "Ï would have dollars now!!!" he would say. And my retort! " I HAVE 50 cents and you HAVE nothing!" That set the tone for the rest of my adult life for gambling. Well my life of non gambling should I say. True my biggest win of anything was a Bryant's meat pie on a radio station competition so I have not tasted the glory of a big win (just steak and kidney nomnomnom) but I dare say I'm fixed in my ways.
Last weekend at the invitation of a good friend I ventured off to the Scone Cup weekend. A road trip involving manly smells and unending consumption. Actually, I should have written the manly smells following the consumption because in real life, that's how it went down. Anyways, a 703 km journey the night prior with a stop in a small country motel. It was terrific as anyone that follows my twitter feed will attest. Upon arrival at Scone, the first order of the day was beers, then hellos, then bowling under a gorgeous country wide blue sky studded with clouds. The benefit of being with mostly air traffic controllers is that they use the correct names when identifying them. Apparently bunny rabbit or "Simpsons" cloud is not used in aviation circles. At the close of bowling (9 playing from one end is a sight to see I must say) the move to the bar was swift and decisive. So those driving could keep up with us passengers, we went back to the Golden Fleece Hotel Scone. These guys have held the same rooms for so many years, the minute they walk in the place after a 12 month break, the owner knows them by name. It is absolutely brilliant. Such a strong sense of tradition and mateship was a joy to become enveloped within. I have known these guys for about 20 years myself but as friends of a friend, did not consider myself core. Not until being with them for about 30 seconds and feel their warmth towards others all entering the fray with them. It was very cool to be included and I loved it. The obvious and relentless thrust and parry of humour, degradation and insult was intoxicating in itself. Men will be boys no matter what age or location but put them together in a pub, at the races, with money and booze and you can only imagine the conversation. It was the most fun I've had in ages.
The races the next day were at the Scone Race Track. Its a glorious  and expensive track apparently paid for with Packer dollars but is such a beautiful place to be, it would not have fussed me if the races had been on or not. Setting up a group syndicate and also individual bets was the call for the day. Now as I describe things to you, if you were aware of them before hand and think I'm just naive, so be it, but this was an eye opener for me so I shall continue.
The TAB has vans, fitted out with ABM (Automatic Betting Machines) and also houses 2 little old ladies inside to take bets the old fashioned way. This ABM was very easy to use, touch screen, accessed every possible dog, horse and trots on at that time and even gave change in the way of vouchers, never cash. Once your money went into it, that was how much you were going to gamble eventually, no change sorry! Not only was there the van, there was another, and a caravan set up the same way, and even a jeep Cherokee with a slide out pair of ABM on the back. There was no where you could not access these machines. The regular bookies with their large leather bags and 1980's digital tote board were still there but the most prolific gambling was the unseen. The mobile device gambling ap that saw lots of action. The serious gambler at Scone really did need to be with Telstra though. They were the only ones with a temporary mobile tower providing a nice clean signal for anyone wanting to access the web. Pity those with Optus or vodaphone, they were just left with the ABM's. Setting myself a limit of $20 per race was within budget and at only 8 races, left my exposure uncomfortable but not lethal. As it turns out, I was down $10 at the end so for a full days entertainment, I was OK with that. I didn't ask and have no idea what the 'serious' gamblers did in my group. I got reports of every win as you would expect, but not the losses. I was also surprised at how readily the gamblers were to adopt my 'funny and childish name' betting. Suffice to say, "Short Shaft" attracted our dollars as did any horse with a name reminiscent of any family member. The object of gambling is to have fun and that's what we were all doing. The fun just cost some of us more than others is all.
After the track and after a brilliant pub meal of lamb cutlets with 6 veg, the need to confront yet more gambling machines was put upon us. The Golden Fleece wasn't equipped with TAB or Sky so off to the pub with a wall made of LCD, CRT and ABM. It was here that the real impact/power of gambling was made obvious to me. I had no idea that dog racing, horse racing and trots were all coordinated such that one race started as the other finished. Not only they types of races but the locations as well. Dog race 1 at location X finished and then the gates open on the horses at Y then upon that race crossing the finish line, a large ute with wings tries to take off from trotting track Z. Horse race from location T may be injected there but then back to dog race 2 and X. It was unrelenting. No pause, no funny commentators to distract you, no advertisement, no rest. The screens pour out information in copious amounts as to who tips what, what bets are providing returns, what the next race is, the scrolling bar busily cites race results from non televised tracks! I did try to tweet to them but it never appeared. #whothefuckinventedthis is apparently not trending. The gamblers in the groups and also tons of others in the pub, stared glaze eyed into the bright pixels and through a drunken fog, extracted the information they required in order to make their bet. The ability to hold a beer glass upright was in serious danger of being lost but the ability to make a conscious decision on odds and returns was never lost. I did not see any signs saying intoxicated people can't bet, just intoxicated people can't get more intoxicated. It was an education I'm sure I probably should have had before my 46th birthday but even in my gut bursting, vodka drinking frenzy, the urge to join them in their gambling never hit. I simply wanted to go back to the quiet pub (the one NOT using plastic glasses) and finish my trip into stumbledom. That sounds harry potterish but its not. Oh maybe the potions can be regarded as magical yes.
I spent the weekend having an absolute blast and enjoyed every minute. Correction, the fart fog from Matt and Andrew at the golf club was most unpleasant. They know that too so we shan't prosecute the point any further. Apart from that, the jokes, laughs, drinks, food, company and education was worth every cent and if I'm included in next year's invitation list, I will be there with bells on. And if anyone wants me to bet up big, find a horse called Golden Post.

A new rule.

In a prior life I was a cub leader or if you are in the States reading this, a boy scout leader. I started because my eldest was a little lost and we thought the structure of cubs would do him well. I'm a doer pretty much so when I turned up with my son and the existing leader "Jahula" asked me if I was interested in helping out I said sure. Jahula had no kids of his own in the group but had been left holding the bundle as it were. Baloo was born. I trained for a while then took over by myself and was joined by another Dad "Rama" a year or so after that. I liked doing cubs though it was a lot of work. Spending time with my boy was of course the main driver. Its amazing how many activities we did that he particularly liked! There comes advantages with having your dad as the organiser. Camps was always a favourite. Noosa was the best annual pilgrimage north. We would take canoes and parents and other family and make it bigger than Ben Hur. I designed menus that would guarantee no left overs and word of the success at these camps grew to the point where we had more adults than children. After a busy day with kids, we pack them off to bed so we could have grown up time sitting around the fire sipping on red wine with some soft cheeses and dried figs. Yes alcohol was strictly forbidden by the rule book and yes I didn't give a rats ass because I never drank any so was always 100% sober for any emergency that might arise. No one ever had too much either so things went smoothly and despite the few little turd kids that wouldn't go to sleep when they were supposed to, we were a tight operating unit.
On a quick side note, talking about those turd kids, one night at about 2:30am I was patrolling the dorm trying to weed out the trouble makers keeping every one else up. Liam was one and I caught him red handed. As I was in the process of berating him and asking that he kindly refrain from making loud noises and keeping the other kids awake, one of the mums in her nightie, bleary eyed, emerged from her room to berate me! Apparently I should be keeping the kids quiet so she could sleep! I did consider tasering her then and there but thought better of it. You'd never guess who's mum it was though. Yes, Tamara was Liam's mum and the little shit was behind me so she couldn't see it was him. After she left, I spinned on my heels to look him in the eye. Fear filled his face as he knew what I had just had to swallow and I never heard from him again. Even at 8 years old, Liam could see the signs of a man on the edge.
The next day we loaded into a team of 4x4 for a drive up Rainbow beach and tobogganing down the sand dunes. I think we had 8 or 10 cars in a convoy, loaded to the gunnels with wild eyed kids, most having never driven on a beach before and all ready to test their recently constructed sleds. Its what memories are made of. Along the way at some point a young child collected one of those coconuts you see washed up on the beach. The nut made its way back to camp with us after the long day and was at one point left outside the boys dorm rooms on the second floor of the complex. It was quite an innocuous object. Not too large, not special or drawing any interest from anyone, it was inane and boring to be frank. It was just a coconut. That was until young Lachlan dropped it from the landing to the concrete slab below, just outside the main hall doors and kitchen windows.
As I write this I find my mouth filling with saliva and an intense need to purse my lips and suck my tongue. The memory of what followed is burnt into my olfactory. The nut smashed and the rotting pulp and juice sprayed perfectly in an arc about 3 metres radius. No one was anywhere near it luckily as we were in other areas of the complex doing activities or such like. But as we sat there, and the smell slowly entered our airspace, first subtly then as the concentrations or particles rose, it suddenly became impossible to escape it. I have never ever ever smelt anything as disgusting as that. Even the vet cleaning the anal glands of a dog (you will know that smell if you own a dog) cannot come close to this rotten nut. You tasted it in the air, it got in your throat, kids were crying, adults were panicking, it was a nut of mass destruction. We ventured close to the carcass but the stink was too much. But this thing was just outside the doors to the main area. It had to be cleaned up. I don't think I verbalised the word "FUCK" in front of the 8 year old cubs but I'm sure a caught a few of them uttering it under their breaths. The gaseous onslaught was just to intense to even contemplate correcting their language. Lachlan had long since escaped the scene and was cowering behind a tree. He knew the magnitude of this mushroom cloud. It burnt our eyes and made it difficult to focus. The smell was everywhere and all encompassing. He was retrieved safely but I know several of us wanted to hurt him, hurt him bad, real bad.
Tongs and plastic bags were used and rebagging and rebagging and rebagging but it was only a band aid. The juice had soaked into the surrounding ground. It lingered long and hard as if its life depended on contact with humans. It reminded me of that Denzel movie where the devil could only live outside a human for a minute.
After that day there was a new rule entered into the Justin Book of Rules (its a fluid sort of book, revised regularly but not yet available in print). Mum's get berated too.