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OPINION:
In September last year, I told you how I had too much to drink one night and me and a mate bought shares in a couple of race horses. I told you that they were the greatest purchases ever, and that I was confident of becoming a billionaire.
A couple of Fridays ago, the first of them raced in what can only be described as the greatest debacle of all time. I know, I know – nobody saw this coming.
I’m going to call the horse Taffy, his stable name rather than his racing name, as I’m gripped with a mighty fear that you, my dear reader, may fall foul of that terrible gambling disease and put money on him when he races again.
Taffy was racing at Addington in the fifth. It was a field with a number of more experienced horses and he was drawn out wide. He was paying $42 to win. So, of course, I put $200 on him. I mean, how could I look him in the eye and expect him to feel like a winner if I didn’t have confidence in him? And boy-oh-boy was I confident. Largely because I know absolutely nothing about horse racing.
On the Friday of the race, I told everyone I bumped into that he was racing. I gathered together a merry group of friends to go to the track. We were merry because we’d started drinking mid-afternoon. By the time I got to the stables I did what tipsy people do and I kissed Taffy and told him I loved him. Taffy responded by acting as he should toward a tipsy person leaning in for a kiss. He tried to bite me.
Fair enough, I said to myself, he needs to focus on the race and I should have sought consent. I left the stables and headed to the race track bar. I was just in time to put a bet on the first race of the day. I figured I’d have a flutter on that, but I couldn’t work out the TAB app that I had downloaded earlier that day – again the drinking – and so failed to put $10 each way on number one. Of course, number one came storming home and I’d missed out on $60. Was this as bad as things were to get? Not on your nelly.
Race two goes by, race three goes by, then four and all of a sudden out ran the horses for race five, including that beautiful, but altogether un-kissable, beast we call Taffy. As the horses were warming up on the track, my friends and I massed on the finish line. Where else would we be to watch such a glorious finish? The start of a racing dynasty, the first step in my journey to billions.
We struck up a conversation with a really lovely old bloke next to us. He had a share in a horse in the same race. He was quietly confident. His horse was the favourite. I looked at him as one looks at a child at Christmas. You know, happy for their silly delusions.
Then they were off!
The details of what occurred next are not important, so let me cut to the chase. Taffy did not win the race. Taffy did not even come close to winning the race. Taffy was so far behind the pack that it’s entirely possible Taffy still hasn’t finished the race.
Remember that Santa-Claus-believing bloke next to us? His horse won.
It was at this point I began to rethink a series of decisions that got me to this very moment. Terrible, terrible decisions that all involved alcohol. I began to connect the dots in ways hitherto unrecognised. I wondered what it all might mean and went and got another drink.
I turned to Matty, my partner in crime in this venture, and said to him something I will never forget. Should we buy another horse, mate?
He replied: We have another horse, Jarrod.
We did! Arnie. God bless Arnie, I said. That fine beast of a horse is a real winner!
This despite the fact Arnie is yet to race.
But he is going to. In just a couple of weeks. Trust me, he’s a sure thing. Matty and I are going to be billionaires.
· Dr Jarrod Gilbert is the Director of Independent Research Solutions and a sociologist at the University of Canterbury.
