Drive-through days

If I keep writing to Your Say I will have to go on the payroll as a regular contributor. But may I say it is all the fault of Winning Post that I keep writing. I personally find it very difficult not to find some article, either by a regular contributor or a reader writing to Your Say, that does not jog my memory or strike a chord on a subject about which I may have some definite ideas or opinions, prompting my letters.

For instance, the wonderfully nostalgic memories of John D. Nott, (More Say 29/9) on his great memories over the years of the various ways he has seen employed to gain entry to a racecourse for the cheapest price, if possible zero. It sent my old memory tumbling back to the 1950s, when there were all sorts of colourful characters, sharp as a tack and quick to grab an opportunity to save five or ten bob for an extra bet on that "good thing".

There must be so many readers out there — my vintage — who could give us nostalgic stories of a bygone golden age of racing, when pitting one’s wits against the unsophisticated security of the times was regarded as the norm. Paying to get in was a last resort. I encourage my senior punting colleagues to let us know of your experiences, not only of "getting in for nought" but any other personal nostalgic tale, and allow us to bask in the memories of those romantic days.

Following on from John Nott’s memories, I recall that after my father died when I was only 13, I was incarcerated in a Christian Brothers boarding college in Sydney to relieve my doting mother of the task of trying to control my raucous out-of-school-hours activities. I was lucky to escape expulsion for running an SP amongst the boarders, but eventually talked my mother into allowing me to leave school.

Before finding a career, I led a dubious life "knocking around" from job to job and frequenting places like Kings Cross, which although bohemian, risqué and permissive, was not riddled with the evils of today.

One of the colourful characters I encountered in the early ’50s was a bookmaker, Pat, who employed me as a driver, general gofer and clerk. I had learnt to pencil along the way.

For younger readers "pencilling" was the art of recording, by hand in pencil, all bets, identifying each by a ticket number and then calculating and balancing the bookmaker’s ledger in the days when the only computer was between your ears.

Pat, a suave middle-aged gentleman, was the master of "front". His strong doctrine was: "Always dress well, keep yourself neat and tidy, your shoes polished and act as though you’ve got a million quid. Always rattle coins in your pocket, and if you don’t have coins rattle keys."

He use to work the bush circuit of western and north-western NSW. He insisted on his staff always being dressed in suits, collars, ties and hat (fashionable in those days) despite the often searing heat, whilst he himself, with large bushy moustache, was always in a three-piece suit and Homburg hat, smoking a large Cuban cigar.

He owned a prestige car (a shiny black Humber Super Snipe), which I use to drive and which was the centre of attention as we drove into town the day before the races and parked conspicuously in the main street.

You must remember in those days, less than 20 percent of Australians owned a car, let alone a Super Snipe, and such a car created much interest among the local bushies.

Pat appeared to have a quid, although I may have fallen for his "front con", as did most others. I had my doubts about the legitimacy of his apparent wealth, as he never missed the opportunity to get an edge to save a few bob no matter how small. He hated paying for himself and staff to gain admission to the track.

A ploy that he used with considerable success, and that I have seen replicated years later, was to have me drive the car with all of us in suits and hats to the vehicle entrance to the track, which more often that not was also the general admission gate.

"Just keep the car rolling, son. Whatever you do, don’t stop," Pat would instruct as we approached the entrance. He would then produce a square piece of white cardboard, on one side of which he had printed one word in large black letters, "PRESS". This he would place on the dashboard so as to be clearly visible through the windscreen.

The usually elderly gatekeeper, no doubt a volunteer, would see the "press car", note the four well dressed passengers. If he didn’t wave us through, Pat would give a cheery wave, grin and "G’day, mate, Busy?" whilst I kept the car in motion. Before the gatekeeper could make up his mind we were in and gone.

Occasionally I could see the gatekeeper in the rear mirror look after us uncertainly, but he soon became too busy with the next vehicle or pedestrian arrivals to give us a second thought. It was incredible how no one ever questioned the arrival of four pressmen in a luxury car, apparently covering a meeting that would hardly rate a listing in the "missing friends" columns.

This is only one of many such little stories I can tell of lurks, perks and other amusing stratagems used by the smarties, the needy and the greedy, particularly in the bush, before the days of computers slammed the door.

I’m sure there are many such other nostalgic anecdotes that other senior punters can recall and should relate. Before I write again, come on fellas — let’s hear your stories.