Well sportsfans, it seems that poor old Billy Moore is deathly afraid of sharks, which is probably why he never played for Cronulla.
What the hell is wrong with the so-called Origin hard man though? My mate Bunger Johnson who trained Flashing Red to win a million Group 1’s is about 103 years old, and he swims with the single-finned bastards every day. To be fair though, I guess that given Bunger’s spare bed was the last place that Roger Rogerson slept outside of prison after being banged up for life, my old mate’s probably used to taking a dip with Sharks.
The author of the seminal two word tome Queenslander! Queenslander! Billy Moore obviously isn’t though, so I guess it’s lucky that he wasn’t invited to the cocaine-fuelled and $30 an hour paid bikini-clad teenage girl filled Magic Millions party put on by corporate bookie Pointsbet that I attended a few weeks back.
I was there under false pretences and sufferance of course, accompanying my 54-year-old mad punting mate The Eagle with the glamorous 23-year-old girlfriend he’d after some six seconds of deliberation he’d decided to leave at home.
We were only because after a Barry Crocker of a month on the punt the crazed gambler would ring up whatever bookie he’d been doing his arse with and declare that he was a compulsive gambler, and they were Karmichael Hunts, and demand that they shut his account down forthwith.
Of course there are twelve months in a year, and ten years in a decade, and only 121 licensed bookies, so that meant that by the time The Eagle hit his ten-yearly month-long winning run on the punt there was only Pointsbet left to bet with, and his amazing $1.2 million turnover in the space of 4 weeks for a whopping $3.56 profit had the ambitious young lads who front the outfit for the much-older bankers funding it deluded into thinking that he was a rich mug and an easy mark, rather than a desperate two days out of bankruptcy with a freshly cleaned credit rating and a pocket full of new cards.
Make hay while the sun shines has always been The Eagle’s refrain – that, and where there’s life there’s hope – so when Pointsbet offered him an all-expenses paid 3 day weekend in a 5-star pub for he and his partner as a VIP client, there was only one thing that a right-minded man like old Eagle could do.
He declared himself gay, and put me down on the RSVP as his partner.
It was bloody smart thinking really, because the 23-year-old girlfriend doesn’t punt, declines drugs, gets pissed on a single glass of Midori and lemonade, had a shy girl’s attitude to participation in the group sex sessions that I always seem to accidentally find myself falling into when away from Maggie and the rainforest lodge, and had a swimsuit modelling shoot coming up and was keeping herself trim by eating only air and spinach leaves, so what would have been the point of taking her?
There was none The Eagle decided without even needing to think about the extra fact that after doing his coke and sars and cancelling his Sportsbet account about six weeks ago he’d assured he’d sworn off the punt for life.
So that’s the back story of how me and my life-long punting buddy and new same sex lover headed out the door, ventured into the bitter winter frost generated by the young left at home with the three racing greyhounds lover, and headed down the M1 to the Goldie to enjoy a weekend of pain at the Pointsbet Magic Millions party alone.
Well sort of, anyway, because we weren’t really alone. There were about three dozen desperate punters who do their arse every weekend with one of the worst value bookies in the business at the party too, and one of them was even mad enough to bring his wife, which set several heads including mine spinning until I spotted her licking her lips while while simultaneously staring intently at a scantily clad, navel-pierced nineteen-year-old’s fake DD size tits and caressing her hubby’s crotch, and then it all became crystal clear.
Anyway, back to Billy and the bull sharks, and obviously cognisant of the large police presence at the track on Millions day, and eager to protect their VIP punters from being busted carrying the large swathes of coke that Pointsbet’s resident dealer had supplied them at the MM eve drug fuelled orgy the night before, the Pointsbet boys put on a special race day party at the canal-side mansion they’d hired expressly for the purpose, and laid on about forty marginally above legal age half-naked half-supermodels, a dozen big screens broadcasting the races, free food and piss for Africa, a tanker load full of more cocaine, and more bonus bets for the suckers in attendance than you could poke a stick at.
The piss, posh nosh, perve and peeve were all on the house, but for some reason related to juvenile idiocy and ideas gleaned from the Big Brother house down the road, even the most profitable poor-punting preferred clients in the history of punting had to earn their free bets the wet way, and how they had to earn them was by jumping off the boat ramp into the drink and dog paddling across the Broadbeach canal and back.
Now The Eagle and I have been going to the Coast races together since we were little kids conning kind grannies into putting on our 50 cent each way bets, and years later as teenagers we’d spent many a hundred hours between shuffles at the Jupiter’s Casino blackjack tables we’d snuck onto using fake ID’s staring out the window at the water, so we both knew that only a lunatic with a lust for getting their leg bitten off would even consider swimming across these bull shark filled canals, and being concerned citizens 15/11th’s pissed and as high as kites on coke we immediately alerted the Pointsbet profit pushers to the wanton folly of their ways.
“Oh no boys, you’ve got it all wrong, totally arse up” these spivs from down south whose only experience dealing with cesspools full of rotting limbs was taking their pink-collared Labradoodles for a sunset stroll along the banks of the Yarra replied.
“Bull sharks only bite people at dusk or dawn, and it’s nearly midday, so don’t worry our coked to the eyeballs and blind drunk channel crossing bonus bet seekers who can’t swim are as safe as the Bank of Greece out there”.
Greece was the word.
The Eagle and I took one look at each other and decided that cuckoo nests were for actors in Jack Nicholson movies not us, and without missing a beat we skulked away and exited stage left through the side door, swiping a book full of cab vouchers, a few magnums of Moet, the odd litre bottle of top shelf spirit or six, a couple of cartons of mixers, and about 300 oysters KP as we went on our merry way to the sans-Sharks Southport TAB.
The Eagle was supposed to grab a couple of bags of pure ice too, but of course the bloody idiot was putting busy on the iphone putting a bet on the first at Penola as we scampered with the loot and left them behind. Although I blew up big time, looking back I guess it was probably for the best because neither of us had a pipe.
Anyway, off we went and after The Eagle had 10 grand on Away Game at $26 in the millions, and I pulled out the seven clipseals full of Colombian that I’d swiped from the passed out in the doorway dealer as we’d left the party (note to youth: never consume your own product, particularly not in OD quantities), a great day and night and next morning was had by all, or by us and the supermodels we’d been dancing with and slipping lines to until dawn anyway.
As we returned to the 5 star pub at about 8am we ran into a bunch of bleary-eyed survivors from the Pointsbet party the day before, and couldn’t help but noticing that a few of them seemed to be bleeding like stuck pigs and appeared to be an arm or leg short.
The Eagle, still as high as a kite and loving the whole world, decided to give the bloody missing limbed bastards an early tip in the All-Star Mile to cheer them up.
“Get on Te Akau Shark” he told them with a nod and a wink.
“No bull, It’s canals above the rest”.
Five seconds later the Shark’s price had tumbled in from 20’s to 2’s on Poinstbet, before we’d even had a chance to place our bets. It didn’t matter though, for it turned out that The Eagle had dropped 50 grand on the Yonkers trots between the Moby and Snoop Doggy Dog extended remixes at the dance club and cancelled his account.
If anyone hears of a new bookie coming in to the market, can you give him a call?
Editor’s note: This is a slightly exaggerated tale based on a very true story. The Eagle doesn’t do coke, and the girlfriend is really 22.