It'd been a year since the Sir Gordon Richards of the mulga, Stumpy Miller, had stood high in the irons and wildly waived his stick in the air, after the seventeen hand colossus Thunderbolt, has strolled away with his fourth straight annexing of the Emu Gully Gold Cup. The horseâs trainer Aub Tanner knew that his charge was something right out of the box, he thought him more than just a country champion. Heâd been in the game long enough now to recognize genuine class when he saw it, and he saw loads of it in his home grown, mountain of horse flesh. Heâd won everything there was to win on the country circuit, but Aub had never given the horse his chance to strut his stuff in town. He had no doubt that Thunderbolt had more than the abilities of an open class city horse, but being an aged gent, heâd been content to just enjoy the more laid back atmosphere of the outback racing scene. But all of this was about to come to a shuddering halt. Thunderbolt, the pride of the West, was to be thrown into the proverbial deep end. Aub had originally planned to campaign his champ in Brisbane during the Winter Carnival. He knew, under normal circumstances, that his chances of getting a run in an event such as the Group 1 Doomben Cup, run over 2020m, was next to nil, but heâd figured out a way of possibly circumventing the problem. With the middle months often awash with rubbish weather, the Doomben Cup can sometimes be reduced to less than capacity numbers. With a bit of luck, he could sneak the horse into the field as a complete outsider. These plans though, were unexpectedly brought to nought by the intervention of one Col âCockyâ Cole, drunken champion bull rider and owner of 115,000 hectares of prime grazing land, known locally, as Stringy Bark Station. Cocky was a self made man. Heâd started his working life as a teenage roustabout in the far West, where men were men and some of the women were too, at least they thought themselves to be. God bless âem. Every station needs a woman who works like a man, but gives good sex on a Saturday night. It was one such woman whoâd set Cocky on the path to redemption. He quickly learned that he couldnât afford to keep the grog up to this hard drinking sheila, so he turned his back on his one true love and dedicated his life to the pursuit of obscene wealth. Anything and everything in the shire eventually got back to Cocky. Thunderboltâs track work was no exception. He was straight on the phone to his old mate Aub. And as he and the trainer were as thick as thieves, it didnât take long for the grazier to convince the horseman that maybe there were bigger and better targets on offer than the Doomben Cup. A deal was eventually struck whereby Cocky would cough up traveling expenses to the UK, if he could engineer a good old fashioned betting sting. He liked the thought of stripping an untold fortune from the betting houses, but what he really wanted was the fame that came with the hit. He wanted to be a household name. And so it was that the mighty, black horse and his motley entourage found themselves en-route to London, via Kuala Lumpur. Once released from quarantine, he was whisked off to Berkshire and ensconced in one of the leading stabling facilities in the area. The trainer, a thorough gentleman it must be said, offered Aub the services of a work companion for his charge, but the old man politely declined the proffered hand. He meant to go about his business with a minimum of fuss. He knew quite well that as a foreign campaigner, his horse would be the sinecure of all eyes. He was also well aware that he and the animal would be considered a bit of a joke. Heâd be just an ignorant bushy, and his huge black entire, little more than a glorified stock horse. That suited him just fine! Thunderbolt had left his native soil in fine fettle. Once out of and about again, it didnât take him long to work his way back to peak fitness. Stumpy was amazed at how well the horse took to work in the verdant countryside. All the horse wanted to do was run. He heard and saw everything, especially whoever happened to be working ahead of him. Stumpy had no end of trouble keeping his monster under control, but the more the horse wanted to take charge, the more his rider became convinced that something special was unfolding. Stumpy knew the horse better than he knew his own mother, but even he was amazed at how well the animal had progressed. As good as heâd thought the horse to be, he was now starting to believe that his mate had reached another level. He was thriving in his newly found environment. While Aub and Stumpy pounded their charge up hill and down dale, the grazier had quietly gone about his own business. With only days left before the designated target race, he had no time to fart arse about. First step was the spreading of small bets all over UK betting shops. With the initial odds on offer ranging between 150 and 500-1, he had to make sure that the sums invested didnât set off alarm bells in the fetid halls of bookmaking scumdom. If the audacious plot was to reach fulfillment, they had to tread warily. Next phase of the sting saw him working his way through a plethora of online betting houses, where he let loose in a big way. By race eve, heâs managed to force the horseâs quote down to around a triple each way price. The alarm bells were now running riot. People were running around like chooks with their heads cut off, wondering what the **** was going on. How could this upcountry excuse for a racehorse possibly beat a now more seasoned champion like Frankel, at Royal Ascot? The Prince Of Wales Stakes had drawn a miserable field of just four starters for the 2012 renewal of the esteemed event. Frankel, due to his magnificent Group One deeds, was to go to the starting stalls as the shortest priced favourite in a black type event, in the last fifty years. As far as most were concerned, he only had to turn up to win. Against him were Sri Putra, Seville and Thunderbolt, the downunder wonder. It was just a matter of Frankel jumping straight to the front and running the lesser lights off their feet. A full throated roar breached the stillness as the stalls shuddered, and spewed forth the combatants. As expected, Frankel exploded from the gates and charged straight to the front. Hot on his heels though was Thunderbolt, who crossed to the rail and sat on the leader. Sri Putra was hustled into gear, but didnât have the pace to match the those up front. Saville had no hope from a stand still, he immediately dropped to the rear of the small field. Settling line astern, they cruised through to the half mile like dreadnoughts on a war footing, their colours resplendent in the brilliance of the day, not unlike pennant flags fluttering in the rigging of those long lost, mighty monsters of the ocean. As with the battlewagons, it was just a matter of time before the equine big guns were brought to bear in a heated engagement. On this particular occasion though, the broadsides would be turned on one another. It was at this point that hostilities were opened when Frankel was asked to put the race to bed. As heâd done so often in the past, it was expected that heâd rip the hearts from his opposition with four blistering final sectionals. Heâd run home in sub forty six in the past, and now he was at it once again. With afterburners being ramped up, the great champion quickly put in a sectional of just over eleven seconds. Stumpyâs craggy face cracked like a split watermelon. Aub had told him how the race would unfold, and now it was happening. He clicked Thunderbolt into gear, and the black marauder jumped straight onto the leaders heels. Sri Putra instantly dropped the bit, he had no chance. And Saville, despite having his ears scrubbed off, found himself in the same leaking boat as Sri Putra. With Queally fully committed, he blasted the bold going Frankel through the next furlong in an amazing ten seconds flat, and as he did so, he took a quick look behind. Much to his chagrin, the wild eyed beast from the channel country was all over him like an ill fitting suit. Thunderbolt, his powerful neck arched against his broad, ebony chest, was threatening to topple the very foundations on which the sport of kings was built. Queallyâs heart leaped into his throat, and a hundred thousand people on the course, suddenly rent the air with a din that almost caused Eez to give up the drink. Two furlongs out, Frankel began to throw out signals of distress. As Aub had noticed in his review of the horseâs past, Frankel, when pressed, only had two furlongs of flat chat in him. As the champion began to put in the short ones that would in the end, lead to a furlong of eleven and a half seconds, Stumpy was forced to pull his mount off the tiring front runner. Once into open country, Miller let the Thunderbolt have his head. In a couple of giant strides, the scourge of Western Queensland racing, bolted past the now hapless Frankel. Through the final furlong, the black terror tore, his mission, the destruction of any horse that dared to stand in his way. With Frankelâs final furlong a pretty pedestrian twelve seconds, Thunderbolt smashed his way to the line, a most impressive winner. Pandemonium broke loose all across the course. Bookmakers were sobbing, little children who wouldnât shut up, were being roundly slapped by furious parents and worst of all, a vicious punch up had broken out in the Royal Box. Her Majesty had launched herself out of her amply padded, velour covered chair and rushed a startled Dame Edna, who had no recourse but to chin the old sheila, stopping her in her tracks. The purple haired Diva was last seen being manhandled from the scene of the altercation by a couple of burly Beefeaters. As she went, she pelted the rabble below with gladioli and called them nothing but cretins, for not having the brain power to spot a good thing when it was waived in front of their noses.
Put a chicken on the same side of the road as Stingray the Chicken Shagger and they'll cross pretty quickly[video=youtube;hNNWwoPXfko]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hNNWwoPXfko[/video]
