Be Careful What You Wish For Blood Suckers, Because You Just Might Get It
In the week since I wrote an article probing the inexplicably late arrival of Alligator Blood at the Gold Coast racecourse, crash or no crash, and raising issues about why the star colt travelled to the track on its own rather than with its stablemate engaged in the event 2 races before, the editor of this site Lucky Lingard has been inundated with emails calling me a Karmichael Hunt and claiming that I wouldn’t know shit from clay about Elephant Juice, history, 23-year-old junkies who rise from nothing to become premiership winners within 2 years at a track that was rife with wretchedness, trainers who repeatedly record winning strike rates in the 1 in 4 range, and half-clever folk who get tips about forthcoming troubles and lay forward defences.
Strangely, these abusive messages that may or may not have been intended to intimidate either Lucky, yours truly, or both – good luck is all I can say – all seem to have come from similar IP addresses, which either shows that the sender is a fucking idiot, or that they are too old and dumb to understand how computers world.
Whatever. Their loss is my gain.
One thing that appears abundantly clear is that the senders don’t realise that I used to live in Sydney and the Gong in the late 80’s and along with my sidekick Simon hustled pool for a living, so we could forge a bank to enjoy our afternoons at the track.
You meet a lot of interesting people when you travel around at night with pool cues trying to do the best you can, like to partake in a puff or snort or two on your travels, and wake up each day at noon and head for brekky at this race track or that, don’t you worry about that.
Not unless your name is Dave anyway.
Know what I mean?