Category: The Punt

Archie Dreams About the First Day of the Adam Hyeronimus Stewards Inquiry in His Sleep

So Mr Hyeronimus, you and this Paine character are cousins are you?


And what does he do

Works in the stables, straps, rides a bit of work

Who does he work for?

Gai. Or he used to anyway. His Dad still does. He’s that crazy gut in the fruity suit who came running through the mounting yard like a pork chop on Slipper day, and and tried to hump Adrian Bott’s leg.

Oh, that idiot. Is her your uncle?


Says a lot. Who do you ride most for?


Who’s her hubby?


And her son?


What do they do?

Dunno. Live off Big Bill’s money?

Yes they do, or more correctly Bill’s and his half of the loot he and his brother stole from widow of the third Waterhouse brother, but enough of that. Now to this cousin of yours and the work he does mucking out boxes. Pays alright does it?

Nah, terrible. He only clears about a grand a week. I get that for 5 rides.

Is that why over the course of the last 4 years you’ve slung him a poultice? To help him out?

Nah, that money was mine. He was just holding on to it for me.

But Mr Hyeronimus, in the online reference of all these transactions you typed “Savings” or “Gift”?

Oh, that was just code for ‘hang on this one for the pub crawl on Sunday night’ – that’s the Gift one – and ‘Don’t give me this until the next morning when I’m sober, and make sure you walk me straight down to the bank’.’

The money was in the bank though son, do you really expect us to believe that?

Believe what you want boss. It’s true.

Piffle boy. Absolute tripe. You were giving it to your cuzzie bro to punt with weren’t you? To punt for you?

No way squire! I don’t punt. I’m a jockey, I’m not allowed to.

Well look here, at the bank statements. You give in to Paine, he transfers it into a different account of his, and then he whacks it into Sportsbet. Why would he be doing that if you weren’t punting?

Because he’s a dumb arse, gee. That’s why he shovels horse manure for a living. Think about it for a second. Who the hell with half a brain would be betting with Sportsbet? Their prices are unders, their boosts are crap, they don’t have extra head or bet back, there’s no backup or best fluc, and their website’s a joke. If it was my money it would be going straight into Neds, no question at all. Any intelligent person’s would.

You’re a hundred percent correct on that Hyeronimus, but we don’t rate you as any Einstein either, and no doubt that Shannon from Neds would have you pegged a mile away. He’s the smartest bloke in racing, bar none. So we don’t buy your story. It was your punting bank for sure, wasn’t it, and cousin Blake was your bowler.

No way! No. No. No. I would never do such a thing. I don’t punt.

You do know that we have your phone don’t you jock?

One of them.

And your bank records.


Alright. Let’s talk Limbo Soul.


Wednesday 22nd of February 2017. Rosehill. Race 2.

Oh yeah. How’d did it go.

It won.


Wow indeed Hyeronimus. Congratulations on the ride. It was backed from $20 into $3.20.

Gee that’s a big go.

Big price too for a horse that came out and ran 5th in a Group 2 next time out against Tulip and Alizee. Would you agree?

If I was a punter I might Chief. But I know nothing.

Do you know Sally Snow?


TAB Head Trader. Boss of price setting. Used to work for R. Waterhouse. He’s a mate of of her Dad’s from the Fine Cotton days. She calls him Uncle Rob.

Nah, never heard of her.

These bets your cousin is putting on for you aren’t the real thing here are they Mr H?

Waddya mean?

You’re just tacking on to the big money. Doing a bit on the side, over and above your sling.

I don’t getcha?

Limbo Soul was backed from 20’s in 9-4. You had a lousy 500 bucks on it. Where did the real money come from? Whose money was it?

I don’t bet sir, wouldn’t know.

Now I want you to watch this video.

Pretty easy lead wasn’t it?

Sort of. Yeah.

Brenton Avdulla took the second favourite Memento straight out the back?


You and Avdulla are mates aren’t you?

Sort of.

You sure?


Where do you reckon we got the idea to have a look at your phone from?

No way!

Way. Now watch Avdulla’s ride. He goes back, he goes to the fence, and he doesn’t really try does he?

Nah, he’s just a victim of bad luck.

Sure Mr H, sure. Let me show you a few freeze frames.



That’s your old mate (ha ha) Avdulla coming up on the inside. You are about 3 or 4 lengths in front of him. But he’s not looking at you. He’s looking across. At what?

Dunno, you will have to ask him.

We already have.


Here’s another one. See Avdulla’s hands? What do you think he’s doing?

Um. No comment.


No comment hey? Roll it forward, and here we are at the 250 mark. What do you think that Avdulla is doing with his reins and hands?

No idea.

Aren’t you a jockey Hyeronimus?

Well sort of. Maybe not for much longer.


Now we are at the 200. Mr Avdulla is not very keen is he?

Probably just having an off day. Animal welfare and all that.

It’s a bit hard for him to spot you that much start isn’t it?


How did yours come up at $21 in the opening betting market again lad?

Sally Snow wound it in for Rob.

I beg your pardon? Could you say that again?

Um, ah, er, um. Zeljko’s bound to be on the job. You know, that Russian bloke. World’s biggest gambler.

He’s Tasmanian. And he bets on percentages and rebates, not boat race kid.

I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met him.

Most people haven’t. Now let’s have a look at the ride of Josh Parr on Za Zi Ba shall we?


It’s the one in the white with black cap.



No coming around the turn Parr has enough room to steer a bus through that gap, doesn’t he?

That’s a matter of opinion. Maybe a semi-trailer, but I’d not sure about a bus.


For some reason though Mr Parr decides to steer the third favourite to the inner, doesn’t he?

Probably got blinded by the sun boss.



Indeed. Let’s have a look at Mr Clark on Mahaja. Would you agree that there was plenty of room for an accomplished international Group 1 winning jockey to pop in?

Dunno. I’ve never ridden overseas. No-one will gave be for some reason.


Would it surprise you to learn that Mr Clark elected to stay wide rather than pop his horse in one off the fence.

Nothing surprises me in racing anymore.

Us either Hyeronimus us either. What about this ride of Glyn Schofield’s? He’s in the one in the blue, inside the one on the red and yellow.



What about it?

Put yourself in jockey Schofield’s shoes for a moment Mr Hyeronimus. What reason would there be for you to take a sustained look to your left and behind, when clearly there is room for a run for the roses both right in front of you, and around the heels of the horse in two-tone green?

Animal welfare, for sure. That or rider safety.


Would you expect Mr Schofield to go up in the irons and ease, when there is a gap six miles wide to sail through?

Maybe he’s afraid of water.

Or perhaps Sir, he just prefers Snow?

No comment.

Do you know Deputy Chief Steward Birch socially?

Never heard of him.

He’s the man here to my left.

That mug? Nah, only time I’ve ever seen him is up at the Landsborough Pub when he used to be putting bets on as a runner for Steve Fletcher.

Thank you Mr Hyeronimus.

Thank you Sir. is quite a useful resource they tell me.


See you tomorrow.

Inquiry adjourned until 9.00 am Tuesday.

Meet Peter Lawrence – The Oldest Young Man in Racing – And the Second Most Honest One Too


Gee Peter Lawrence, our Robbie Waterhouse’s man in Byron Bay, must be old.

So old that he his mind is slipping, and he loses track of the time, and the years, and all the porkie pies that he tells.

Don Scott was a very famous punter back in the day, the leader of a group of dodgers called the Legal Eagles.

He retired from the professional game in 1974.


That’s 46 years ago by my count, so assuming that he was of legal age when he began doing the form with the Don, Peter Lawrence must now be at least 64.

Doesn’t look it does he?

Must be a good plastic surgeon the old bookie has, that and the Botox.

I don’t know how a bloke who can’t count can make a living as a professional gambler though.

Pete says he’s been on the punt for 40 years.

But aren’t there only 4 years between 2016 and 2020?

There are on my abacus.

And 20 + 4 = 24 on it too.

Oh well, our old mate’s in good company with Rob Waterhouse.

They say if you whack two bent lumps of wood toghether in a lathe and twist them, they might even come out straight.


If You Pay 3 Grand For a 3 Piece Lounge Suite at Harvey Norman, Gerry Can’t Just Give You the Armchair, Can He? – So Why Can Corporate Bookies Do It?


A retired rails ring bookie of famous repute contacted us this afternoon about the $1.4 million seven-leg multi footy bet story, and he raised a very interesting point.

Now before I start, let me say that the $1.4 million potential payout for the punters $3000 outlay was fair dinkum. That was the bet that was taken.

But what the retired bookie pointed out – and he is correct – is that the terms and conditions of the TopSport bookmaking company, like that of its competitors, prescribes a maximum payout on any bet.

In the case of TopSport that maximum is $100 000 for bets – including multis – that are placed on the internet, and $200 000 for wagers placed over the phone, unless there is pre-approved agreement between the client and the company to pay out a higher figure.

Now I know for a fact that TopSport have and do agree to payments higher than the prescribed maximum, and that they would have paid this bet, so what follows is not a shot at Topsport, who are a reputable and reliable firm, but rather an illustration of a general flaw in the betting laws.

So the $1.4 million dollar man who ended up with nothing but an Easton Wood inspired chill may well have done a deal that allowed him to get paid out 7 figures if his eagle has landed, but let’s assume for the sake of the argument that he hadn’t.

Imagine if the North Melbourne coach hadn’t played a crippled Ben Cunnington, and the Kangaroos with a fully fit 18 had been able to hang on to get beaten by less than 40 to land the punter his huge speculator, and then Topsport had cut him back to the maximum payout detailed in the terms and conditions.

The punter would have been paid out only (only?) $100 000 if he’d placed the bet on the net, and $200k if he’d done it over the phone.

Here is the question.

The punter had $3000 on at odds of 456.66 to 1.

But the stake to win $100 000 is only $214.30, and to win $200 000 it is $418.60.

How then – in the hypothetical circumstances – would be it be conscionable for the bookie to accept a $3000 wager that it never had any intention of paying if it landed?

If you pay $3000 for a 3-piece lounge suite at Harvey Norman, Gerry’s sales people can’t just give you the armchair can they?

So why can a bookie do it, if they choose to?

Just a bit of food for thought, that’s all.


Salt Water Dreaming


Yes he has.

Daryl Hansen has robbed the banks of punters.

QRIC’… had made the matter out to be “much larger than it is” he insisted …. “I have not cheated.”

“I have been charged with a very minute breach of the racing rules – what I have done is purchase saline drenches from an unlicensed person,” Hansen told Racenet.

“I have bought them for years and years. There is no prohibited substances in them, there is no performance enhancing substance in them. They are given after gallops – two days pre-race”.

“I have not cheated.”

That is totally and utterly untrue.

Or most of it, anyway.

Hansen did buy saline drenches from Denis Holbeck.

So did John Zielke.

But it wasn’t all they bought.

Remember me telling you about the traffic lights when I gave you the drench recipe last week?

Well I got one thing wrong.

The go light wasn’t green.

It was clear.

All clear.

It was the saline drench.

The one you hit the horse with 2 hours before the race to stimulate the action of the drugs you had given it before, and to flush them out.

I wonder if Zielke and Hansen had been hearing funny noises on their phones in the months before they were charged, or experiencing strange things like MMS messages taking a while to send, or phone numbers they rang giving off messages that the recipient of the call was unavailable, or that their phone was disconnected?

I wonder when they called again straight away if their calls went straight through?

I wonder if anyone else in their family or household had the same problems with their phones?

I wonder if I doubt it?

I wonder if they ever saw a van with blacked out windows parked down the road from their houses or stables, right in between the spot where they made their calls and sent their messages from, and where the local phone tower that picks up and transmits the calls is?

I wonder if they are that dumb that they truly believe the misinformation that has been deliberately spread about what the coppers do and don’t know?

It was only salt and water they say.

My guess is that if they tell that story at the CCC secret hearings they might be called to soon – if they haven’t been already – then they might be seeing plenty of salt and water, and putting it with their porridge too.


How Can You Mend a Broken Heart? – Highway Robbery – Part 1 – The Hook – an Archie Butterfly Exclusive

Do you remember when you were little and you believed in dreams?

It was Santa who put the toys in your stocking, and the Easter Bunny who set the eggs for the hunt, and the tooth fairy who left a dollar under your pillow when one fell out.

The world was wide back then, and you looked forward at the future and all you could see were straight lines and stars.

Then one day you got a bit older, and started to ask yourself questions about these fairies and fat men and bunnies, and before you knew it you were realising that it was all just fantasy, and fluff and white lies, and then you asked your Mum and she admitted it, and you smiled and shrugged and felt old and smart, and from that moment on you knew that life was glittered with tiny little lies.

I believed James McDonald when he got done a few years back for having a thousand bucks on his winning ride Astern.

I believed him when he said that he’d made an error of judgement.

I believed him when he said it wasn’t that bad because he had bet on his own horse not another in the race.

I believed him when he said that all he had on the horse was the single thousand.

Well sort of, anyway.

I like J-Mac, and I love his skill as rider and admire the way he can float in the saddle of a horse like MJ soaring through air on his way to the hoop.

When I was living in New Zealand I had seen McDonald as 15-year-old kid riding at the bush track at Waipukurau just up the road from our farm, and I’d rushed home to ring all my mates back in Australia that I’d just seen God, in the flesh, right in front of my eyes.

I backed him and backed him and backed him, that season and the next, and won nearly enough to buy another farm (of course I later knocked that on the head, and knocked the one I had off too – easy come, easy go; if you live and buy by the punt you can’t really complain when you lose by it and still wake up breathing, can you?).

I wanted to believe J-Mac, so I did.

I cast aside all my doubts about why he’d get a shady racecourse dodger to put on his bet, or why the dodger had won $125 000 yet J-Mac only four, or why the dodger was willing to get warned off rather than hand over his betting records, or how when another horse looked like running past him it suddenly veered sideways left and ran to the outside fence, or why the Group 1 winner J-Mac stood up in the irons and celebrated like he’d won the Cup as they passed the post in a lowly $48 000 affair.

I believed because I wanted to believe.

But I was kidding myself.

Leopards are leopards.

They don’t suddenly step out of the nest one day as snow white turtle doves, fly into the forest, grow legs, spots, a tail and teeth, maul a gazelle and eat it, wipe the blood from their paws and faces, then run off to the tree again and turn back into a dove and fly up to the nest.

Leopards don’t change their spots, and crooked jockeys who associate with shady characters and bet large sums on horses don’t either.

There is no Santa Claus, or Easter Bunny, or Tooth Fairy.

Our parents lied.

I don’t believe J-Mac anymore.

This is the Stewards report into J-Mac’s ride on the favourite Keen Power in the 3rd race at Randwick a fortnight ago.


This is J-Mac’s ride, the last part of it anyway.

Before this point he’d begun with them from barrier 10, jagged the fave back to near last in preference to looking for a spot, run up into a traffic jam on the turn, and sat there like a stunned mullet instead of following the others out wide.

On a track on which the inside was clearly off, one of the world’s finest jockeys goes inside instead of out.

Look at his eyes.

Look at his eyes.

Can you see anyone else’s?

No, and you won’t in the pictures to follow either, and that’s because J-Mac is the only one looking.

The other ones have already done their jobs.

What James Mcdonald is looking for is Brenton Avdulla, and he’s spotted him.


Avdulla has just miraculously extricated his mount from a pocket on the turn by simply steering it up inside the amateur rider with no ability Nash Rawiller, a man with a very clean slate, and he didn’t even have to jostle.

Hugh Bowman on the horse in green with the yellow hoops has kindly looked after his no-hoping galloper’s welfare by easing back to allow Avdulla the space to come through underneath the timid Rawiller.

It was very nice of him you would have to agree.

Suspend your disbelief, I will show you all this in the next story.

Avdulla surges toward the lead.

McDonald watches.


Why is J-Mac looking to his left, when he is steering the favourite in to his right?

Are you that silly you don’t know?

He’s measuring the distance, working out when Avdulla is far enough in front that he come out and chase him and make it look like he’s serious, without actually having a hope in Hades of ever catching catch.

J-Mac is one of the best jockeys in the world remember.

Kieren Fallon was once too.


J-Mac goes back to the inside, where no jockey all day wanted to be.

There is a gap in front of him that you could drive a truck through.

But McDonald steers the favourite in behind another runner, and up its rump.

And then he looks at Avdulla again.


J-Mac keeps steering the favourite in.

All the while he’s looking.

Looking, looking, looking.

At Brenton Avdulla.


Safely tucked in an up behing the horse in the black and white, McDonald pauses for a stride or two to reassess the distance between he and Avdulla.

Still he’s looking.

He’s always looking.

Billy Slater used to too, that’s why he never dropped a ball.

Slater could calculate the physics of where to catch it, where to run, and how fast he needed to do it to split the gap.

It’s why he was such a brilliant player.

James McDonald can do it too, in the blink of an eyelid, just like Billy.

It’s why he is such a great jockey.

But James isn’t calculating how, where and how fast he needs to go to win.

He’s working out what he needs to do to lose.

With honour of course, and so it appears the opposite of what is so.


Eventually J-Mac decides he’s left it long enough, and pulls out into the gap that has been there forever and goes.

He does it slowly though.

Then, finally, he sits down and rides.

For a couple of strides at least.

The bird has flown you see.

And the Eagle has shit.

When the Eagle Shits "Pay Day" Men's T-Shirt | Spreadshirt

There is no Santa Claus.

I suspect that there is a race fixing ring in Sydney though, and it’s run from the top, and through the cream.

It break my heart to say this.

But I suspect that James McDonald just might be a cheat.

to be continued …….



How Do You Mend a Broken Heart – Highway Robbery – Part 2 – The Stewards Know it Too – But Don’t Get Blinded by the Sun Bouncing Off the Snow – an Archie Butterfly Exclusive

I suspect that jockey James McDonald is cheat.

The Stewards do too.

They are all over him like a rash.

The sudden stipes focus on McDonald is no accident, or coincidence.

It’s all about snow.

And mobile phones, and gambling, and double dealing, and ducking for cover, and throwing wolves dressed as lambs to the lions.

When you’re out of the trenches and running, and the bullets are flying, it’s every man for himself and may the best man win.

“Look out for Number One. If you don’t, no one else will” the Brain famously said.

“If a man is dumb, someone is going to get the best of him, so why not you? If you don’t, you’re as dumb as he is.”

This is about is two competing teams, and who are going to be the last men left standing.

It won’t be James McDonald.

Don’t you worry about that.

This is the Stewards report from Randwick today.


This is what J-Mac did on Threeood.

How did he ever imagine that he would get away with it?

Who does McDonald owe?

And why on earth does he think he’s not going to have to pay?


They come round the turn, and J-Mac is back near last on the $2.90 favourite.

Look familiar?

It should, because it is.

Guess who is up front, getting away with murder?


Do you reckon J-Mac is going to come to the outside when he should?

Is the Pope a Jew?


McDonald steers the fave away from clear air, and back in behind them.

Right up the pack’s arse.

Strange tactic isn’t it?

He stays there too.

That was the 400 mark you saw above.


This one is the 300.

The one below is the 200.

J-Mac is still there, doing nothing.

Or doing a whole lot, if you know what I mean.

I don’t suspect that J-Mac is a cheat anymore.

I know he is.


We are past the 150 pole now.

He’s still there.

J-Mac doesn’t want to go.


Because he knows if he does, his horse will beat Avdulla’s.

McDonald doesn’t want that.


We are well inside the hundred now.

J-Mac awakens from his long slumber, and hooks the fave out.

It is far too late to catch Avdulla on the leader, just as the great jockey with the clock and distance calculator inside his head knew it would be.

D’uh stupid.

That’s why he waited so long.


The fave steams home under double wraps.

It gets beaten by as far as you’d expect, but should have won by panels.

Sadly for whoever the Brain is, Avdulla does too.


That’s racing, and the reason that Ben Currie’s fraud charges are a crock, and bound to collapse in a heap.

You can fix races, but there’s always some bloke that you left out of the fix who is trying.

Maybe anyway.

Wasn’t it weird how Jason Collett was able to push out under Hughie Bowman so easily on the eventual winner.

Why, it was just like Avdulla did on Nash in that Highway Handicap two weeks ago, and do you know the funny thing?

A Gerry Harvey owned horse was involved in both.

I’m sure it’s a mere coincidence.

The only thing for certain is that James McDonald has just thrown away his whole bright glittering career.

Did you know that his missus works as a tipster for the corporate bookmaker Beteasy?

Funny that.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow,

Or swing the spotlight away to melt the snow anyway.

Everywhere you look you see bright lights and stars.

Never let them blind you.

Murder games ... | Life and style | The Guardian


How Can You Mend a Broken Heart? – Highway Robbery – Part 4 – The Brain – an Archie Butterfly Exclusive

Born in New York City in 1882, Arnold Rothstein was a businessman and kingpin of New York’s Jewish mob. He’s also legendary for trying to fix the 1919 World Series in what’s known as the Chicago Black Sox Scandal. One thing that stands out about Rothstein, a.k.a. Big Al, is that he wasn’t just a brutal mob boss, but rather someone who understood the intricacies of business and ran the mob like a corporation.

“[He] had the most remarkable brain. He understood business instinctively, and I’m sure that if he’d been a legitimate financier he would have been just as rush as he became with his gambling and other rackets he ran,”

said Meyer Lansky, a.k.a. the Mob’s Accountant.

Thanks to his business acumen and mathematical brain, Rothstein accumulated a fortune worth an estimated $10 million, or approximately $140 million in when adjusted for inflation.

But long before he became New York’s richest and most important crime figure, Rothstein was a high school dropout trying to make his way through gambling. That being said, let’s discuss Rothstein’s backstory, his gambling abilities, rise in the crime world, underground casinos, and demise – including how he was shot after a high stakes poker game.

Unlike many mob kingpins, who started out on the streets, Arnold Rothstein was raised in an upper middle class family in Manhattan. His father, Abraham, was a successful merchant whose honest reputation earned him the nickname “Abe the Just.”

Arnold veered from this path early on since he got poor grades and was more interested in gambling as a child. Math was the only school subject that Rothstein excelled in, and it served him well in betting.

In a piece called Arnold Rothstein and the 1919 World Series Fix by Victoria Vanderveer, he was asked when he became a gambler.

“I always gambled. I can’t remember when I didn’t,” Rothstein responded. “Maybe I gambled just to show my father he couldn’t tell me what to do, but I don’t think so. I think I gambled because I loved the excitement.”

Arnold resisted his father’s authority and resented the attention his parents gave to his older brother, Harry, who was studying to become a rabbi. This is one reason why Arnold refused to stop shooting dice after his father caught him and scolded him for it.

After dropping out of high school, Rothstein didn’t have the bankroll to pursue his true passion of gambling.

This forced him to take up a career as a cigar salesman. But as Leo Katcher describes in a biography on Rothstein called The Big Bank Roll, Arnold never lost sight of his true goal.

“The cigar salesman made a good living. He lived frugally, did not dissipate,” writes Katcher. “Each week the roll in his pocket grew a little thicker. He knew he could never attain his ultimate aim by simple economies, but these could start him on his way. He didn’t like long range projects. He was essentially a short term, quick turnover man.”

Eventually, Rothstein sold enough cigars and saved enough money to accumulate a $2,000 bankroll. Worth over $28,000 today, Arnold felt that he had enough to become a professional gambler and quit his salesman job.

It didn’t take Rothstein long to experience success in his new career as a professional gambler. He was willing to bet on anything as long as he felt like the odds were in his favor.

Rothstein’s ability to quickly calculate odds and work through complicated math made him a fortune. And like a shark smelling blood in the water, Rothstein would take advantage of any weak minded gamblers he came across.

“Look out for Number One. If you don’t, no one else will.” Rothstein said. “If a man is dumb, someone is going to get the best of him, so why not you? If you don’t, you’re as dumb as he is.”

The HBO show Boardwalk Empire portrays Rothstein as a patient man who was willing to wait as long as it took to find a favorable opportunity.

“I’ve made my living, Mr. [Nucky] Thompson, in large part as a gambler,” Rothstein said. “Some days I make 20 bets. Some days I make none. Weeks, sometimes months in fact, when I make no bets at all because there simply is no play. So I wait, plan, marshal my resources and when I finally see an opportunity and there is a bet to make, I bet it all.”

Through his combination of patience and mathematical abilities, Rothstein soon became a millionaire through gambling.

He carried large amounts of cash with him so that he could cover any favorable bets that arose. Said to always have at least $20,000 cash on him, Rothstein earned the nickname The Big Bankroll.

By age 28, Rothstein moved to Manhattan’s Tenderloin district, which was known for brothels, underground gambling, and corrupt officials.

Rothstein fit right in and quickly opened an underground casino in the Tenderloin. The high end casino was a big success, generating over $10,000 a day in the 1910s.

This allowed Arnold to continue investing in more casinos and brothels. He also bought a large stake in a racetrack at Havre de Grace, Maryland, where he’s believed to have fixed races and gained insider information.

Through a wide network of informants that he paid very well, Rothstein received tips on horses and races that the average bettor didn’t have access to.

While never convicted, Rothstein is believed to have orchestrated the infamous Black Sox Scandal of 1919, where Chicago White Sox players were paid to throw the World Series.

When the heavily favored White Sox lost to the Cincinnati Reds 5 games to 3, speculation became rampant that the mob boss fixed the Series.

One version of the story suggests that former bantam boxing champion Abe Attell acted as a middleman between Rothstein and the White Sox players.

Another version claimed that gambler Joseph Sullivan approached Rothstein about a scheme to fix the World Series. Arnold quickly rejected the offer, but later reconsidered after hearing Attell’s proposal.

As writer Michael Alexander concludes, Rothstein thought that he could work with both Sullivan and Attell while still covering his own involvement.

Whatever the case, Rothstein, now known as The Fixer, was called to testify before a grand jury in Chicago. Arnold assumed the identity of an innocent businessman, chastising the courtroom for viewing him with prejudice.

“Gentleman, what kind of courtesy is this? What kind of city is this?” Rothstein questioned. “I came here voluntarily and what happens? A gang of thugs bar my path with cameras as though I was a notorious person, a criminal even.”

Aside from lecturing the grand jury, Rothstein also said that he had nothing to do with the Black Sox Scandal.

“The whole thing started when Attell and some other cheap gamblers decided to frame the Series and make a killing,” Arnold told the courtroom. “The world knows I was asked in on the deal and my friends know how I turned it down flat. I don’t doubt that Attell used my name to put it over. That’s been done by smarter men than Abe. But I was not in on it, would not have gone into it under any circumstances and did not bet a cent on the Series after I found out what was under way.”

It helped Rothstein’s cause when signed confessions by White Sox players Eddie “Knuckles” Cicotte, “Shoeless” Joe Jackson, and Claude “Lefty” Williams disappeared.

Katcher writes that the prosecution tried to get the players to repeat their confessions on the stand, only to have them plead the Fifth Amendment.

With no confessions, the state didn’t have enough to indict Rothstein, and they were forced to deny that he had any involvement with the scandal.

Arnold did admit that he won less than $100,000 from betting on the Reds, but Katcher claims that the sum was actually $350,000.

In addition to being accused of fixing horse races at his Maryland track, Rothstein is also believed to have cheated at the 1921 Travers Stakes.

Owner of a racehorse named Sporting Blood, Rothstein allegedly paid trainer Sam Hildreth to help him drive up Sporting Blood’s odds.

Hildreth entered a champion horse named Grey Lag, which pushed Sporting Blood’s odds up to 3 1. Based on additional information that the horse with the second best odds was off her feed, Rothstein bet $150,000 on Sporting Blood to win.

Grey Lag was scratched from the race shortly after this, and Sporting Blood went on to win, earning Rothstein a $450,000 profit. Much like the Black Sox Scandal, nobody could prove that Rothstein did anything wrong.

The Former King of the Brisbane Rails Gets the Bacon But Misses the Price – Never Mind Son, Little Fish Are Sweet

You just can’t keep a good man down, and you can’t keep a bad man down either.

I don’t think the Former King of the Brisbane Rails ring is either, even though I love the bloke like a tube of Daktarin when you’ve got thrush. He falls somewhere in the middle, on the good side in my ledger, but not in everyone’s. On the average consensus of opinions – most of them jaundiced – the King falls somewhere in the middle.

Well it seems that you can’t keep the average down either, for after a quiet period spending his time in splendid social isolation with two laptops and three other patrons standing 50 metres apart at the trots, followed by a long period stuck indoor with her indoors, the King is back, and today at Doomben he strode the stage resplendent in his gown of gold woven purple ermine and a crown full of jewels.

They say when his horse Sofie’s Gold won the second at Doomben yesterday the King might have won a few more too, but I know that this scandalous gossip is not quite true.

Yes, the classy six-year-old mare who has grown a leg since the King took Archie’s advice and told the trainer to put a Butterfly bit on it was backed for plenty, but I’m not 100% sure that the King was the one taking the top odds.

In fact, my mail is that the client list of the secretive but highly respected Sunshine Coast clocker, video man and form analyst The Concreter might have got there first.

I don’t pay for the cement man’s service – I can’t bloody afford the vig – but he does slip me the odd early tip for the Brisbane races on a Wednesday night, and Sofie’s Gold Class came with 5 stars attached to her name, and a couple of ticks too.

The Concreter has a good bet but not a great one – it’s hard to have one on when you’re an animal welfare tragic and keep taking in horses that can’t give you a return because they’re being rehomed and can’t run – but some of the people who subscribe to his very exclusive tip list are, and the word is that they knocked off the top odds and got plenty.

I’m sure the King won’t be too worried though. After all, he’s used to unders, he used to dish them out all the time back in the days when he was twiddling knobs and yelling out insults to punters from high on the number 1 stand.

And as old Uncle Terry always said, little fish are sweet.

Big fish are sweeter of course, but you can’t have everything, and at least the King got the prizemoney.

I wonder if Mrs King might get a sling this week on top of her $100 grocery, petrol and living allowance?

Nah, don’t be silly.

Open a crack and a swarm will come through it, just as the King used to say.

Well done old mate.

Great ride, great training performance, great early snatch by the Concreter.

LG, life’s good.

Giddy up!

The Story of a Mug Punter’s Life

So my dog trainer and mate JC (Johnny Catton) has his kennel star in the Listed Super Sprinters race over 520 metres at Albion Park tonight.

Jasper the Jet’s it’s name.

I know it’s flying because I have two eyes, and because JC told me so.

I also know that it flies out of the boxes and will definitely lead.

I’m winning on the trot punt last night big time, so every time I get a collect I throw a bot on Jasper, and by the time I go to bed at 8 o’clock this morning I have backed it to win ten grand.

Sadly, but not completely unexpectedly given that there have been no lead up races, and therefore there is no form, I knock both the winning and the bank off at Royal Ascot, and there’s nothing left in the piggy, so unless Jasper wins I’m faced with begging the trustees for a sling if I want to have a bet on the weekend.

It’s a 5 dog race.

Hooked on Scotch is drawn 1.

It’s a Victoria, and is one of Australia’s best dogs, but it has had 6 months off the track through injury, and is only starts back into its return. It has won two of them at the provincials, but got thrashed in town, and is a dog who even at it’s best preferred wide boxes, so it’s a huge lay here.

Oh Mickey is named after the trainer’s hubby, my mate the greyhound guru Mick Zammit, who is one of the nicest blokes that you would ever meet. No shit in him at all.

Mickey is Queensland’s best sprinter, and definitely on it’s way to the top, but it’s the sort of dog who takes 5 strides to get into gear, and JC’s boy the Jet will definitely ping and cross him. When he does he will baulk him, and shoot a few lengths clear, and by this time I figure Hooked on Scotch will be hitting his gear and getting off the track where he likes it, and it’s 6-5 against that he will clean him up.

That leaves Jasper the Jet a mile in front and home.

Mick Zammit’s wife Selina has another one in the race out in 8, Stinger Noir. As a youngster I thought this dog was going to be anything, and according to Mick on the training and trials tracks he still does, but for mine Stinger is a couple of lengths shy of the best, and these are the best in Queensland at the moment running here. He might come across with Jasper, but there is no way that he will be able to keep up with a Jet.

The only other one in the race is Shakey Diesel in the 2.

It’s only a fair beginner at Albion Park, and got beat 8.75 by Jasper, Mickey and Stinger 4 starts back. Since then it’s won at lowly Bundy, led and got run down in a heat of the b-grade Rocky Cup, and then won the final.

Shakey’s a 100-1, and although he might sneak a run through under Whiskey when it goes wide, and is a sneaky for the trifectas and First 4’s, it can’t win.

Famous last words.

Jaspers pings and leads.

Whiskey runs off and collects Mickey.

The 100-1 shot sneaks up inside Whiskey when he goes wide on the first turn, and lobs in second.

Stinger follows Jasper across and lobs third.

Ho, ho, ho!

All my form study has paid off, and now the dream is about to come true.

Down the back I jumping up and down like a pogo stick, pumping my fists in the air, and screaming my head off and the house down.

Then they hit the point of the final turn, and suddenly the rainforest falls silent.

The despised outside has suddenly started bridging the gap on Jasper. Shakey Diesel is gaining ground, and gaining it fast.

My legs start shaking.

They spin the turn into the straight and Jasper has still got a length and a half on him, but Shakey’s coming like a train.

My head starts spinning.

50 metres to go.

Jasper’s still in front, but the Diesel is still motoring.

30 to go he;s in front … 20 to go he’s in front …. 10 to go he’s in front…..

The 100-1 shot lunges, and nails him on the line.

It could only happen to me.

If you didn’t know the game you’d be looking for a rope and a tree, but that’s racing.

It’s the story of a mug punter’s life.

Can anyone spare a poor boy a dollar?

Just Imagine That I Was a Drug Traficker Looking For a Money Launderer, and You Were the Smartest Scamming Punter at the Track – 15% Plus the Rebates – An Archie Butterly Fairy Tale About the Punt, Punters, Bookies, Dirty Dough. Laundries and Snow of All Different Kinds

eski's fishing - YouTube

I want to take you into the realm of imagination and fantasy for a few moments.

Just imagine that you a really good punter, a smart maths man who is good with people and very trustworthy, and a recreational coke addict and a bit of a cad as well.

A bloke bowls up to you at the track one day carrying a horse’s head, and says “G’day fella, I’m a major drug trafficker who makes a million bucks a week off a ten grand investment, and a gamble that I won’t get busted by the cops and spend twenty in the can. But I have a problem. I’m on the dole, and if anyone ever decides to take a close look there is no way in the world that on an income of $300 a week plus rent assistance I can justify my 30 inner city apartments, my flash luxury vehicles, my eating out at the best restaurants in town every night, and my taste for antiques and first class, five star world travel”.

“What I need is a dry cleaner to wash my dirty cash clean, and I hear that you are the man. So here is a proposal for you. The take out on the tote is about 15 cents in the dollar, and if you back them at the right time you can get the corporate bookies to bet you at about the same percentage too, and with the plan I am about to put to you they will never cut you off –  the corporates that is – because overall you will lose a little bit with all of them. Not a lot, but when it comes to the turnover numbers I’m about to suggest to you, it will add up to a very tidy profit for them, and they will walk over broken glass to keep your business, even though the ones I don’t already have in my pocket, and because we won’t be triggering their built in hot one alarms, none of them will have a clue what’s going on. They will just assume that you are a lovable loser, and you might even get a whole of VIP benefits like trips to Hong Kong and Royal Ascot, and corporate tents for Africa at events like the Grand Final and The Cup thrown in too”.

“So this is what I want you to do. I want you to wash my black million bucks a week and make it snow white. I’m prepared to cop the 15% knock on the dough and get it back as a lily white $850k. It’s a whole lot easier than trying to slip through the probity process to get a casino license over here in Australia, and in the long run probably a whole lot cheaper than paying Chinese punt junkies to fly over and pump cash through the $5 a push pokies 24/7, 365 days a year and a 366 on leap years too”.

“This is how I want you to do it. Back every horse in a race to win the same amount. Say you’re pumping a hundred large through all the outlets on a Saturday arvo metro race. Back every starter to win $85 000, which is my 100k less the TAB or bookie’s 15%. Then give me back the 85 large, along with a winning ticket for the same amount, or a loan repayment or court ordered settlement – say for defamation damages or something like that – and anything you can make for yourself over the top for you is cream”.

“You’re a real clever dodger – I saw how you manipulated the dogs pool that night to pull off the super small pool best tote price manipulation sting – so I don’t need to tell you this, but because it’s my money and I’m the big man in town I’m going to anyway”.

“What you do is funnel half of the 100k per race through the TAB. You do half of that in your own name, backing as many losers as you do winners, and cop the 4% to 8% rebate on turnover that blokes who load up 25k on  race every race five days a week do, and what you can make their is yours. Remember we are turning over a million a week, so that’s 40 to 80 grand a week less expenses straight into your sky rocket, without risking even a cent of your own”.

“As long as I get my 850 clean for every milliano I lay out, I’m sweet and Bob’s your uncle. You have to do the bowler betting and bank accounts end, and all organise sending all the cheques and online transfers to my spaghetti string of companies in Malta, Gibraltar, Switzerland, PNG, Tonga and the Isle of Man, and they have to be in numbers adding up to under 10 grand per shift, just to ensure that the authorities don’t get interested”.

“Here’s the cream though. On top of your 40 to 80 ton, you also get to keep anything that you shave on the odds by getting your inside people at the TAB and the corporates in senior market setting and trading roles to fiddle with them, and you can keep the bet backs whenever you want to lay them too. All I want is the 850 G a week, and not to get busted, and the rest of it’s all yours”.

“The one thing you have to do is not stuff up, or keep your trap shut and don’t lag any bastard if you do, and after that I don’t want to know about the rest. Just because I’m a nice bloke, and because I get it for 6 mexican pesos a key, I will throw in a a dozen grams of primo coke fresh off the plane from South Africa as a sweetener too. You can snort it, or sell it, or stuff it up your boyfriend’s arse if that’s what pushed your buttons. I don’t wanna know. All I want is my clean 85 in the dirty hundred”.

“You will get rich, I will get richer, and if you don’t say yes I’m going to fly an old bloke who looks like your favourite grandfather over from Greece, Albania or Italy, and he’s going to cut off your balls, slit your throat from ear to ear, hang you upside down nude off Tom Uglys Bridge, then cut the rope and feed you to the fishes”.

“What do you reckon. Are you in?”

What would your answer be?

I know what mine is.

Yes sir, when do I start? And what do I wear to work?

It’s all just a fantasy of course.

And a bent punter’s wet dream.

Gee Archie has a vivid imagination doesn’t he?

You get that when you grow up on the track.

Just ask a certain Deputy-Chief Steward somewhere.

He will give you the drum.

Don’t you worry about that.