YOU want my racing advice?
First, make sure you ask me which horse I'm backing. Then, take that animal out into a paddock and shoot it. Because it is now officially cursed.
Sour grapes you say? Well I say get bent.
The latest chapter in my punting career was written at 3.04pm on Tuesday. Race seven at Flemington. The bloody Melbourne Cup.
It was with sage-like wisdom that I put my money on Daffodil. (The name sounded cool and the jockey had pretty silks.) But from the moment I handed my $4 over to the TAB, it was as good as gone. I should have seen the signs. The TAB lady told me it was a 'good choice'. Well know this, TAB lady: you will pay for your lies.
Not even the horde of paralytic teenagers staggering about could cheer me up as Shocking stormed home.
True, it was awesome to see Our Corey ride the winner. But I probably would have enjoyed his victory even more if I went home to a bathtub full of $50 notes. Even enough winnings to buy a can of Coke would have been acceptable. But as it stands, I was forced to drink the warm dregs from various beverages I found scattered on the ground. Gutted.
The first, last and only time I won money on the Cup was Jezebeel in 1998. And that was because my mum picked it out for me. That's not to say I'm unfamiliar with the TAB setup. Why, many hours of my blissful childhood were spent locked in the family sedan while my dad put his bets on at the Top Pub.
"Now you wait here Alex. I've got to go and win back my wedding ring before your mother notices."
"But Dad, it's 45 degrees in here. Can I have an ice cream?"
"Look, I'm not made of money alright?"
These days I try to completely avoid going trackside at any race meeting. I'm a walking equine death sentence. I truly thought it would be different this year...
I went down to the exhibition area to watch the handlers parade their horses around before a race. I made the mistake of complimenting one particular beast on its strong hindquarters. The owner froze upon hearing my summary. Ashen-faced, she sighed in defeat. The horse was immediately withdrawn. You know where it is now? Glue factory (probably).
Even the entries I am randomly allocated in the office sweeps aren't safe. This year I drew Zavite and Harris Tweed. Poor buggers. They never stood a chance.
Maybe it's horses in general. We don't mix well, even when they're not racing. Take for example this incident on Tuesday.
I was over at the stables trying to impress some girls by feeding a young colt grass off my hand.
"Contrary to popular belief, they actually based The Horse Whisperer on my life," I said, feeding the animal another tuft of clover. You know what happened next? The trainer came over and beat the bejesus out of me. Apparently racehorses have a very strict diet.
The beating left me bruised physically and emotionally. I needed comforting before I would be able to watch the big race. So I confided in the most caring man I know - our photographer Scott Calvin.
"Alex, I have only one piece of advice for you," Scott replied, fixated on a form guide. "And that is to make sure you put all your money on Master O'Reilly."
"Why's that?"
"So I can count it out. You're a goddamn voodoo doll."
That's when the penny dropped. An idea hatched. A scheme to ensure future victory. Pay attention now: this is a plan that could mean riches for both you and I.
Next year, I will put $1 on every single horse in the Melbourne Cup. Except one. All you have to do is back that steed. When it wins by 10 lengths, we'll split the dough.
If you're interested, come down to the track and find me. I'll be the guy with his head in his hands.
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