You can’t write the truth about the trots any more it seems.
I guess you never could really, not the dark hidden bits anyway, things like the tubes and the go slows and the fixes and a whole lot more.
Truth turns you into poison they reckon, or at least that’s the word currently floating around the track, spread by fellas who are running around calling me toxic, and threatening to burn my car if I ever dare come to the Redcliffe or Albion Park tracks.
Well I have a message for the tough guys who are so dumb that they’d even think about saying this sort of crap about me, let alone speaking it.
I’ve been going to Albion Park since 1968, when I was in my mother’s womb. Some of my fondest memories centre around that track, and Rocklea and Ipwich and Toowoomba, and the Coast in its various iterations, and Marburg and Maryborough and Rocky and the Willows, and even Cairns and Mackay and Charters Towers and all those other places up from the Tweed up down and in between.
Burn my car you dickheads.
I only but cheap ones anyway, always insure them for a fixed price.
How’s your own personal injury insurance going just in case I catch you? You up with the premiums? I hope so.
The only way to stop me going to the trots is with an elephant gun, and if you are gunna produce it and push go, then make sure you don’t miss, that’s my only advice.
You as good as the cheating swine who burned trainer George Brown’s car out with him in it in the 70’s?
I doubt it, and since those days we’ve introduced this weird little thing called CCTV.
The only poisonous people in this game are the ones who cheat, and their mates who stick up for them.
This type aren’t just poison, they are toxic, and their tough guy words that make them look absolute fucking idiots can’t hide it. In fact they cast a spotlight on it, and a mirror too.
Harness racing is at the precipice.
The sport has shrunk so much that few are left, and many of them are related.
All you have to do is look at the numbers, and you will realise that the trots are spiralling down without a parachute, and a concrete grave is staring it straight on its fast-falling face.
Everything is wrong with the game in Queensland.
A Dickhead Chairman who doesn’t give a fuck and doesn’t come to feature meetings has sold us and our track down the river, just for a calling job to pay for his punt.
There are hardly any trainers of any consequence left, and the hobbyists are disappearing by the hour.
We used to have dozens of tracks.
Now we have just three, if you don’t count the dual use one or twice in a years.
Attendances are nil.
The bookies have fled.
The tote’s only there because we all love the good ladies behind the window who have such loyal service to the game like we have, and we’re prepared to cop a hit to prop them up until they call their own innings closed, and so we bloody should.
Six straight years of deficits, nearly $30 million in loss.
Attendances zero, or close to.
Plans to arrest the now terminal decline nil, other than a restructure of the membership classes so the elite can keep control, even though there are only about 300 of them still holding a card, and only a couple of dozen are under the age of 50.
How the hell did we get to this dark place?
We were poisoned.
Poisoned by self-interest.
Poisoned by cheats.
Poisoned by petty little people with an earn on of their own, who wanted to keep it all to themselves, and pass it on to their heirs immemorial.
I’m poison am I?
Burn my car.
I’m too busy to care, and have a lot of tips and info to read, stuff from real high placed sources, little ones with cameras on them that fly even, and to the naked eye look just like little birds in the Sky.
Burn my car.
Haters and liars and mugs and cons and wreckers.
I love harness racing.
You’re killing it.
I’m going to burn you.
Editor’s note – metaphorically speaking, of course