In a day and age, where the tentacles of the mass media spread to the farthest reaches of the planet, where there can be no escape, it's all too easy to be lulled into a false sense of superiority about the world in which we exist. Everything is bigger, faster and safer than its predecessors. Where once a clogged artery meant death, today it just means a short period in hospital after a bypass or stent. Worst case, if the heart is all but crapped out, we'll just bung in another. We live in an amazing time. People sit in cars that exceed the speed of sound and men walk on the moon. Sure some of us are on record as lamenting the past, but in reality, how many of us would return to it? I know I wouldn't. Black and white televisions with poxy small screens, no phone in the house. Not for me the walk to the corner to make a call. And who in all honesty can put up their hand and confess to loving a quick dash to the outside dunny on a cold, rainy night? The romanticism of the past is all fine and well, but I'd rather have the practicality of the present. What the ****? Romanticism is just a state of mind anyway. And my mind allows me the option of sentimentality when ever I choose to exercise it. I love now. If people saw me going back into the past, they would see me chucking a pinkie, kicking and screaming, and being dragged as I went. But this doesn't mean that history isn't full of momentous events, which can install in us a sense of awe. So, what has all this to do with racing? Well I'm glad you asked, at least I hope you did. It all has to do with the punt. For me, I've always felt a bit strange that the bets we see attributed to a race, for the most part, seemed pretty small. A lot of them are in sums of less than a thousand pounds. I keep thinking. Is this all there is? Where are the serious punters? I suppose they must be out there some place. Maybe they just want to keep a low profile. Of course some of the mega onslaughts find their way into the media. The deeds of one Barney Curley being a prime example. Yellow Sam was run in adverse conditions in an effort to lessen his weight for the target race at Bellewstown, where the course was almost devoid of outside contact. With the only phone in the hands of a Curley cohort, what ever happen on course, stayed on course. Ten minutes before the off, the phone handler called half a dozen contacts who in turn contacted ten to twenty others who were stationed in betting shops across the country. Yellow Sam managed to get home by a couple of lengths, and Barney Curley's 15,000 pounds suddenly turned into 300,000. A sum equivalent to about 1,700,000 Euros today. A magnificent sting, by any standard. But does this brilliant effort of a modern age, represent a the pinnacle of all plunges? In this case, is today's effort bigger and better than anything that's gone before it? Not even close. I have no idea where the top of the tree is, but it most certainly doesn't reside in Mr. Curley's back yard. I can't be sure that it belongs in Druid's Lodge either. But if not, it must be in the neighbourhood. For those who know nothing of Druid's Lodge, it was, and maybe still is, a stable complex on the Salisbury Plain. In its time, it has been the centre of some of the largest betting onslaughts in the UK. At the turn of the last century, from about 1900, for a decade or so, those who stood behind the Druid's Lodge establishment, were referred to as the Confederacy. The Confederacy were heavy hitters. They were led by an Old Etonian gold speculator named Percy Cunliffe, a monster of a man, some twenty stones in weight. And a miserable bastard at that. Another was Wilfred Bagwell Purefry, a breeder of flowers and racehorses. He was also heavily onto a company called Autostrop Safety Razor, one of the leaders in the burgeoning field of whisker stripping. Captain Frank Forester, an Irish Master of the Hounds, Irish vet Holmer Peard and another Etonian Edward Wigan made up the rest of the crew. Together they and all who worked for them, were known locally as the Hermits of Salisbury Plain. And for good reason too, the place was like a prison. So covetous of their privacy were the masters of the establishment, that they had all outgoing mail censored and staff were bedded down behind padlocked doors at night. What happened on the plain, stayed on the plain. In early 1903 they launched their first heavy barrage. A full broadside that would send bookies running for cover in years to come. A horse called Ypsilanti had been bought by the Confederacy from the American crook Richard Croker, after a nice win. They had then taken out the 1902 Chesterfield Cup before being set for the 03 Kempton Park Great Jubilee Handicap, a race that would cement their place in racing folk lore. Confederacy money came from everywhere. Ypsilanti's price was smashed from 25-1 into 7-2, ripping from bookmakers, a sum equivalent to 4,000,000 pounds today. As significant as this coup was though, it was just a precursor to a couple of plunges that could only be described as breath taking in their audacity. These two massive onslaughts would be carried out in successive years, on the back of the same animal, the filly Hackler's Pride, in the same race, the 9 furlong Cambridgeshire Handicap, run over the straight Newmarket course. She would be one of only 6 horses to do the double since 1839, and the only one to net her connections somewhere in the vicinity of 20,000,000 pounds in today's terms, from the punt. Two tranches of about 10,000,000 each. The first assault in 03 was an absolute master piece. It seems that Hackler's Pride may have had just the one run in Ireland, but of that I can't be sure. Knowing that she had ability, Holmer Peard stepped in and bought the filly on behalf of Captain Forester, who in turn passed her on to Percy Cunliffe. Once safely in the hands of the Druid Lodge Confederacy, Hackler's Pride was then subjected to half a dozen runs in conditions that weren't in her best interests. While not exactly criminal in their behavior, they were certainly duckers and divers of the first order. So much so, that by the time their target race, the Cambridgeshire Stakes, hove into view, her form was abysmal. The handicapper had little option but to pitch the filly into the race with a miserly 6 stone 10 pounds on her back. The Confederacy wanted to leave as little to chance as possible. To that extent, they even contoured a patch of turf, on the deserted high ground of Salisbury Plain, to mimic the characteristics of their appointed course, the Rowley Mile at Newmarket. Hackler's Pride made good use of it, she worked the house down. All they needed now was someone made of just skin and bones to take the seat. They had just the man in young Jack Jarvis, the apprentice from Ireland. As an interesting sidelight, Jarvis would go on to have an illustrious career in his own right. After giving up the saddle, he'd turn his hand to training, with much success. He'd train for the Royal family, win three 1000 Guineas, three 2000 Guineas, the Epsom Derby twice, a St Leger, an Ascot Gold Cup and an Eclipse. He would be the first man in the twentieth century to be Knighted for his services to racing. When it came to the punt, it wasn't just a matter of entering Hackler's Pride for the Cambridgeshire Handicap and hurling fists full of cash at it. After the massive Ypsilanti tilt, London bookmakers, understandably, were in no mood for more of the same. The last thing they wanted was again to have their arses reamed by the feared Hermits of Salisbury Plain. What they wanted, and what they got though, were two different things. What was called for here, was the old three card trick, or in this case, the three horse trick. If a lone stable representative took to the course, then there was every chance that its price would be posted on the safe side. But if the Hermits went in on multiple fronts, then hopefully they might be able to stick in the knife before the victim even knew he was in danger. This though, is where the story becomes a bit murky. Most reports on the proceedings mention nothing of the other two runners entered by the Confederacy, they merely make mention of the enormous plunge unleashed by the yard. But another states a rather strange turn of events. According to this communique, there existed at the time, a rather odd betting arrangement, whereby if a stable entrant was declared a non runner, all bets on the animal were transferred to the other stable representative. The report stated that the Hermits hit all three runners, sending the London bookmakers into apoplexy. Then when they unloaded, the stable scratched the other two runners, which then saw the bets unloaded onto Hackler's Pride. It all seems a bit too fanciful for mine, but as I know nothing of those days, I can't entirely rule it out. I think I prefer to believe that they just hammered the filly who went into the race as a 25-1 shot. By the time the field jumped away, the price of Hackler's Pride had been belted down to 9-2. She stepped away as the favourite. With a ten million pound return riding on the outcome, the field was turned loose on the famous Newmarket course. The flying Hackler's Pride left the start with a wing on every foot. Making light of the postage stamp on her back, she charged straight to the front and defied them to run her to ground. Down the Rowley mile she scampered, in an effort to make every post a winner, and as she did so, the groans of the London bookmakers grew ever more intense. Ridden to perfection by Jack Jarvis, Hackler's Pride left nothing to chance, she coasted to the line with a handy three lengths up her sleeve. So easy was the win, that a leading publication of the day, said the three lengths may well have been thirty three. She would return the following year, where again she'd be backed off the map, and again be too good.
Is this about the Celtic boys club *****phile ring and subsequent 50 years of cover up by the club, it's board members, the Scottish main stream media, the police and judiciary, the SFA and the Scottish government? If it's not then I'm far too busy to read such a long winded post.
He thinks man has walked on the moon. ' nuff said 1990's BBQ sausages clearly had been loaded with BSE
Mott the Hoople and the Game of Life (yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah) Andy Kaufman in the wrestling match (yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah)
