October
AugustNone shall pass
The punt giveth and (more frequently) the punt taketh away: blessed be the punt.
But a punter’s exes also taketh away, and thus must be contained wherever possible, as much as possible.
A recently retired regular racegoer many years ago regularly gained ingress to racecourses of all denominations, with just a jaunty air and a confident step, and perhaps a knowing nod to the gatekeeper.
But a tightening of procedures brought about a need for deeper thought lest a paid admission would — heaven forbid — cut into his punting bank.
Back then, if a punter squandered say $5 at the gate, this was of course 10 units less to expend on quinellas or the daily double.
Fifty-odd years ago trainers’ badges had an extended life and so could be passed on if a trainer passed on or if a replacement was issued.
But with the tightening of procedures, badges and passes acquired a finite life of just one year.
An oft-thought-apocryphal story from this era, but one whose veracity I can personally attest, occurred when a notorious nark on the gate at Yarra Glen racecourse challenged our protagonist for a closer inspection of what was, in fairness, an exceedingly elderly badge.
After forcefully declaring that the badge was possessed of no validity whatsoever, the gateman was clearly rebuffed by the riposte from our hero.
"Listen, mate, if it was good enough for Fred Hoysted it’s good enough for me."
The great Fred had passed away many years previously.
The multiplicity of types of badges and passes militated in favour of those seeking free admission, as commonly back then the gates were manned by club volunteers or retiree casuals, not really familiar with the variety of passes — or the dodges of punters.
Indeed any badge, preferably with a nice enamel finish and presented with a fast flourish, would pass muster — even extending to the Tailwaggers Club badge much favoured by Kevin the Clocker.
Which brings to mind a day at Moe races when, getting off the race train together after the usual card game, Kevin walked with Bert Bryant and other mates to the main gate and entered through the turnstile first with his spurious badge.
Bert, directly behind Kev, realised he had arrived sans his press pass and tried to explain his predicament to the official.
Kevin leaned over to the gateman and said, "This bloke tries that one on at every track we go to — don’t fall into him!"
With that the gateman locked the turnstile, leaving Bert red-faced with apoplexy as he tried to argue with the guardian of the gate, now well and truly emboldened.
Much to the delight of the Clocker, the president of the Moe club — I think it was Charlie Ruthberg — had to be summoned to vouch for Bert lest the first race be delayed.
After badge and pass rorts were stamped out, another ploy became popular. An early arriver would make a beeline for the gate office and, if he had scruples, would claim the owners’ tickets for a scratching.
If devoid of scruples, he would claim the owners’ tickets for an actual runner in a later race, hoping he had beaten the real owners to the track.
To return to the nark who so jealously and zealously guarded the gate at Yarra Glen, after what was sadly a very long career at that post, his retirement came due.
It was reported, and recorded so in the minutes of the club, that in lieu of a gold watch for long and meritorious service he requested a most be constructed around the course, complete with moat monsters.
Rutherglen (Vic)