Mug punter. Couldn’t tell its head from its tail. Fairweather friend of the racing industry.
I’m guilty as charged. That said, I do enjoy Melbourne Cup day and you’ll likely find me and Wanda well and truly over-dressed with our snouts in the buffet at one of the local club functions.
It’s the one day of the year I wear a hat, and the one day of the year Wanda allows herself to walk bare foot to the carpark after a few too many bubble-infused fermentations.
Being the nice guy I am, I thought I’d help everyone out with an appraisal of the field. I do of course, know nothing about horses, pedigree, form, weight, jockeys, trainers, veterinary examinations, or any other nuance of racing. So for me, it’s all about the name.
Twilight Payment: Right about the time I once strolled up to the cashier to collect my “get out” place bet winner, but do you think I could find the darn thing. Checked every pocket and crevice in my attire. Even asked the friendly staff for a pair of scissors so I could cut the little bit of cotton that sews shuts some pockets on new suits. Not a great omen.
Incentivise: Everyone needs an incentive. For me, it’s not about the money. It’s all about being able to tell the story ad nauseum every Cup day from now until eternity about how I picked the winner, and the “form lines” that justified the decision. Positive signs.
Spanish Mission: With air travel starting to open up, Wanda and I have always wanted to spend a summer in a villa along the Costa del Sol. That’s our mission which is fast becoming possible again, so that’s why this is my top pick.
Verry Elleegant: Can’t spell. Dismissed.
Explosive Jack: That mongrel at the bowls club couldn’t believe either of his crossed eyes when I smashed the jack into the ditch to win the B-Grade pairs a few years back. Explosive enough to win a horse race? The way I remember it, quite possibly.
The Chosen One: The same mongrel who watched his B-Grade championship dreams driven into the ditch had such an arrogance about him that he’s probably have considered himself somewhat chosen for bigger and greater destinies. Never eventuated, so dismiss.
Delphi: Sounds like a cartoon, or a place a murder once happened. Forget.
Ocean Billy: I’m a fan of the ocean, but sounds more like someone else’s dream than my own. Not for me.
Selino: Sounds Italian, but could be Greek. No certainty.
Johnny Get Angry: While there’s nothing wrong with a little bit of anger in a competitive beast, I’m a little disturbed by the (a) next to the jockey’s name. Nobody wants an amateur on board during a race this big.
Knights Order: When I was a child, the Knights owned the local butcher shop. We’d order steakettes and crumbed veal schnitzel. Great childhood memories, so worth thinking about.
Persan: Should be spelt with an “o”, and nobody wants people running a race meant for horses.
Carif: Sounds like what a drunk person would be calling the decanter they’d been drinking their wine from. A little too slurred for mine.
Master of Wine: Sounds promising on the surface, but I’ve always had some doubts about anyone who thinks they can regard themselves a “master” of anything. The touch of arrogance might be a positive in some people’s eyes, but I fear he might have the race spent before it begins. Also might be a little light in its legs.
Pondus: This name has Latin routes, and has something to do with “weight” – not something I want influencing any of my picks in the big race.
Grand Promenade: Probably named after somebody’s street which is probably too small to bear any real resemblance to its title. Most cities have one somewhere – some bigger than others. Confusion reins (sic). Unpredictable.
Miami Bound: Exactly where Wanda and I were when the dreaded pandemic hit, dreaming about our three-week adventure through the Caribbean, packing bits and pieces into our bag which would for the duration of our holiday be perched in the back of a cruise ship cabin while we collected prizes from trivia hosts and unashamedly piled on 3kg thanks to five meals a day and pre-meal drinks. We’ve cancelled the trip. No hope.
Port Guillaume: Not nearly as exotic as it sounds. It might be a French horse, but its name has German origins and means something about a helmet. It’s connections are probably confident, but didn’t think things through.
She’s Ideel: Can’t spell. Dismiss.
Future Score: Reminds me of the sign in the pub that reads “Free beer tomorrow”. Anything that promises to score in the future must be dubious.
Tralee Rose: This has me thinking of the rolling hills of Ireland, their green lush colours beaming under grey-ish skies. And with a beautiful flower in the middle, being the rose. They say an important trait of a racehorse over long distances is to be relaxed. So I’m including this one in my exotics. I’ve no idea what that actually means, but it fits.
Floating Artist: Before Geoffrey went into the aged care home, he thought of himself as a bit of an artist. Then the doctors started giving him lots of drugs that he carried around in a little white container with compartments in it. I suppose for a while there, he was “floating”. But he wasn’t much good to anyone. Forget.
Great House: It’s what Wanda and I call the place we live. It’s modest, but it makes us happy. As far as omens go, this house horse is a shoe in.
Sir Lucan: Remember when Brisbane was gunning for World Expo ’88. One of the key men behind the event was Sir Llew Edwards. Surely, there were people saying, “If anyone can, Sir Llew can”. High hopes.
So there you have it.
My overall picks are:
- Great House
- Incentivise
- Spanish Mission
Remember to gamble and drink responsibly. Sounds like the title of a forthcoming column.
