Head-bobber

I am thoroughly enjoying Shane Templeton’s series of nostalgic stories, and particularly enjoyed Richo’s piece (8/6) on 1953, Bart Cummings and the Queen’s coronation, all of which I recall as if it were yesterday.

This spirit of nostalgia has prompted me to write about my wedding day, just 55 years ago last month. There were many of my punting pals and relations at the time, being aware of my penchant for the "deadly double" — the Opposite Sex and the Punt (never simultaneously of course) — who were offering long odds about the union lasting longer than five years.

They were very nearly correct. In fact it was lucky to survive half an hour as the following little story will reveal.

The wedding took place at "Headquarters" — St Patrick’s Cathedral in East Melbourne. At the time I was employed in a job that required me to travel consistently throughout Australia and New Zealand, and the week of the wedding saw me in Sydney, faced with the prospect of finishing work on the Thursday night, and then an arduous drive to Melbourne in the one day, Friday.

I say arduous because in 1958, equipped with only a dubiously reliable, six-year-old four-cylinder Ford Consul, the Hume Highway being a single lane in each direction and no town bypasses, to do it in a day was considered quite a feat. Most people included an overnight stop in such a journey.

On the Thursday night I received a most distressed call from my bride, who had just returned from the wedding rehearsal conducted in my absence, with the news that my best man (the son of a prominent main-ring bookmaker) had tried very hard to have the ceremony on the Saturday postponed for two hours!

I called my BM to seek an explanation, and he told me he had information (via his old man) there was a lay-down misere certainty in the first at Caulfield, dtime to run at the same time as the Wedding. His unsuccessful attempt to get a postponement of the ceremony was designed to enable him to get to Caulfield, get on the good thing at the opening price and return to the cathedral in time for the wedding.

I was quite impressed by this information. In 1958, before the TAB, with prizemoney quite paltry, most connections relied on the punt to get a quid out of a win. And stewards at the time were equipped with only a good pair of 10x50 binoculars, sharp memory of what they saw (or thought they saw), betting and other information and their combined experienced noses.

Therefore it was not unusual for "arrangements" to be made to affect the result of a race. There was no sophisticated surveillance, tracking films, instant videos or swabbing. To have such knowledge prior to a race was a goldmine.

My enthusiasm for the news was heightened when I took a glance at my Sportsman and saw a most unfashionable but well known "money" rider had been engaged for the good thing. Even this far down the track I desist from mentioning names.

In the hurly burly of packing up, having a few farewell drinks with my workmates, and then the early morning start to my long drive, the news of the certainty, whilst not forgotten, was dismissed as impossible to include in my busy schedule for the next 36 hours.

It was well after dark when I made it to Melbourne and the eastern suburb where I was staying the night.

I was picked up next morning by my best man. On the drive into the city he mentioned he had sent his money to Caulfield along with his father’s commission. When I expressed regret at not being involved, especially with a fairly expensive honeymoon on the Gold Coast ahead of me, he advised me of a well known SP with whom he enjoyed a good relationship who may offer me an acceptable fixed price if I was interested.

The prospect became more attractive when I discovered the SP was based in a well known public house only a stone’s throw from the cathedral.

We certainly shocked the morning regulars in the public bar as the two of us in dinner suits (for the photos, you know) descended on the SP in his "office" in a discreet corner adjacent to a side door in the event of an "emergency".

Having obtained an acceptable fixed price (I think it was 9/4 or 5/2) — generous, I thought, when I knew it was going to be an "off the map" job — I put on enough in cash to ensure that if beaten we would perhaps only be able to make it to the Fawkner pub for the honeymoon.

In those days there were no credit cards, ATMs or eftpos. The only legal tender was cash, cheque or account, and unless you had established credentials, SPs rarely dealt in the latter two.

I was of course flush with my salary, holiday pay and a wedding gift from my employer — all paid, as was customary in those days, in cash in a brown pay envelope. A good 80 percent of my holdings were left in the "safe" hands of said SP.

The day was sunny, but freezing, with a strong wind blowing up the hill from the MCG right into the cathedral. Best man, myself and another groomsman took our place in the front pew, with a clearly visible side door hooked open so as a pal of the best man could give us the "mail" on the result. He was stationed outside the door with a portable radio. (No transistors or ear pieces in those days, just battery-operated portable radios about the size of a lady’s make-up case.

Out came our dear Irish priest, who immediately began complaining about the cold and said: "I’ll just close the door, lads, to keep out the wind."

"Oh no, Father!" exclaimed the best man. "Paul is feeling a bit faint and needs plenty of fresh air."

"Now what’s wrong with yer, laddy?" said the dear priest. "There’s not a thing in the world to be worried about."

"You don’t know the half of it, Father," I replied.

"Now what do you mean by that? Oh, look — don’t worry, here’s the bride and her father arriving at the front door, right on time. God bless them. Come on, lads — over to the altar."

Bugger! Why couldn’t she be late? Aren’t brides always late?

As the three of us stumbled to the altar, eyes fixed on the side door rather than where we were going, it became obvious that the good thing and the bride were going stride for stride — one down the aisle, the other down the straight about 10 kilometres away.

I will never forget the image of that unknown pal of the best man with a mop of ginger hair and matching moustache, sporting a big toothy grin as his head appeared around the corner of the door with a big "curl the mo" sign. Thank God. Let’s get married!

Later, after all the usual procedures, my new bride and I boarded the limousine to take us down Collins Street to the then prestigious but now defunct Hotel Australia. On the way I asked the chauffeur to just stop off at the corner pub for a few minutes. The bride "woke up" to what was on in an instant.

That’s when the fight started, and those who had laid the long odds about the marriage not lasting five years nearly cleaned up in 30 minutes!

Over the years we have both mellowed, particularly She Who Must Be Obeyed, who accepts my punting as a relaxing, relatively harmless pastime, and has even joined me in the days when I would be a regular at the track, and on several international racing tours.

These days, she and the rest of our family leave me alone in my study every Saturday with my TV and computer logged into my favourite corporate website, as my bride philosophically recalls the advice given her at the wedding reception by my racehorse-owning uncle.

"My dear, I think you will both do well, so long as you realise and accept you will always run second to a racehorse."