Once upon a time, in a land of treeless plains and great stony deserts, there lived a rather nondescript person who was saddled with the name of Bruce. I guess for some, it's not so bad a monika, but his parents dearly loved him and trusted in his intestinal fortitude, for their faith in him was manifest when it came to their belief in his abilities to peacefully carry the burden of his name, all the way to the grave. By the way, Bruce is not dead, in fact he's a middle aged and rather well to gentleman of the Australian racing scene. But enough of what he's become, this story is more about the travails of his long and dangerous escapades that have delivered him to where he stands today. Bruce used to be a bookmaker. He initially plied his trade in the Sydney, interstate ring. For those unaccustomed to the make up of the Australian on-course bookmaking scene, this ring is a separate piece of ground on the course, set aside for the punters who wishes to do battle with fielders who cover runners in other states. This precinct is generally considered as a second class ring. If a bookie wants to move from here to the main ring where most of the major action takes place, he has to make it known that he has balls. Bruce must have been born with gonads the size of boulders. Out little potboiler begins early in the 1980s, before Bruce had yet to expose the full magnificence of his stones. One afternoon while fielding in that lesser ring at Rosehill, a mountain of a man, one with a brooding presence, pulled up in front of a bookie and asked for $40,000 on a 1-2 favourite on a hurdle race in Melbourne. The bookmaker declined, so the Big Fella moved onto the next man on a stand, who just happened to be our hero. Bruce took the bet and kept the money. Little did he know though, that by accepting that wager, he'd bought a ticket on one of the wildest and most terrifying rides of his life. The Big Fella was a force of nature in his own right. He'd been addicted to the punt from early childhood. While still in his early teens, he'd managed to run up a five thousand pound debt to an illegal bookmaker, a feat that rightly made his father rather livid. Dad paid the bill, but in those days when a car cost less than a thousand pounds, it isn't hard to see why father spilled his lollies. But the Big Fella was by now, more than just an inveterate gambler, he was a man with immense talent when it came to amassing huge sums of money. Upon the death of his powerful father, he's inherited a 110 million dollar empire which he then turned into a 7 billion dollar juggernaut, through some breathtakingly, audacious, financial decisions. Anyways, that initial $40,000 losing wager, set in train a duel that would in the end, over a five year period, see bets soar into multiples of a million. The love of the punt in the Big Fella was such that on one occasion in a major Las Vegas casino, he ordered that the entire floor be emptied, then using multiple black jack tables, he played every hand at US$250,000 per deal. I less that three quarters of an hour, he's won $US 28,000,000. Things didn't always go his way though, for on another occasion, he dropped all that and more. But this isn't a tale about just the Big Fella, it's also about Bruce. He's the real hero here. His pockets were not endlessly deep, like those of the Big Fella. If Bruce stood on the proverbial land mine, it was all over red rover. As anyone who loved the punt would know, betting limits are sometimes hard to keep under control. And if a source of money seems endless, then chasing lost cash really isn't an issue. The problem for people like the Big Fella, is not so much finding the revenue, but finding someone who'll accept the ever increasing amounts that needed to find a home. Bruce made it his business to take in as many of the little waifs as possible. Over time, and through mutual consent, the bets grew in magnitude until they reached the million mark. And in the process, Bruce managed to build a proverbial orphanage for the vast sums that came his way. The Big Fella, although losing, was happy because he'd found an outlet for his passion. And of course Bruce was deliriously happy as he was now working a rich vein. But nothing in, life lasts forever, and so it was for this long, drawn out exchange. It was always destined to come to a sudden and bloody end. And when it did so in the Autumn of 1987, it left a gaping wound that bled like a stuck pig. It was Golden Slipper day, and as anyone would expect of an obscenely wealthy, race loving person, the Big Fella just happened to own a horse in the big one. Unbeaten in three race starts, Christmas Tree was considered as big a chance as anything else in the race, and his owner decided to throw his considerable weight behind his charge. Of course Bruce, who'd long ago been promoted to the main ring, was there to answer the call. $2,000,000 passed hands. Christmas Tree, ridden by the great Mick Dittman, came with a withering run when it was all over. With that two gone west, the Big Fella left the course that afternoon, $7,000,000 in the hole. On the surface Bruce barely turned a hair, but deep down he must have been fairly pissing himself with laughter. A couple of weeks later, it was Sydney Cup day. The final day of the Autumn Carnival. The Big Fella was again there to do battle. By now the jousting had risen to $5,000,000 per lunge. And it was Bruce still doing all the damage. Come the running of the two mile Cup, the Big Fella had girded his loins. Crack three year old Myocard became his weapon of choice. A $3,000,000 injection of funds saw the youngster's price tumble into odds on. As a result of this massive tilt, the Big Fella's own horse Major Driver blew from 4s out to 7s, sending alarm bells ringing throughout officialdom. Into the straight proper, it quickly became apparent that the heavily backed Myocard, was in for a hammering and another seven figures was about to be flushed. To add insult to injury, the Big Fella's horse Major Driver managed to snatch the G1 event. To say that the man was rope-able was a gross understatement. It's hard to imagine any other owner of a black type event winner would have vented his feelings in such utter fury. It took them ten minutes to coax him out of the grandstand for the presentation ceremony. This was almost the final nail in the BIg Fella's coffin. He' had enough. He stormed into the betting ring and confronted Bruce. Over the several weeks of that Carnival, our intrepid fielder had managed to clip the behemoth for a massive $28,000,000. A figure later confirmed by AJC betting supervisors. Upon pulling up in front of Bruce, the Big Fella demanded that the limits be raised to $10,000,000 per bet. As there were only three races left, and not being a man to shirk a load, Bruce acceded to the request. It was the biggest mistake of his life. The Big Fella hit three straight winners. In no time flat, Bruce had gone from $28,000,000 in front, to $2,000,000 down. He'd seen a light ant the end of the tunnel, but sadly for Bruce, it wasn't sunlight he saw, but an onrushing train. Two days later, he handed in his licence.
Maaaaayte, drive across that border and I'll share a XXXX with ya, strewth, tie me kangaroo down sport. PS; I abhore gambling PSS; and Gamboling.
Bruce still made some serious cash of that 5 year period, but when the **** hit the fan and he dropped all of his carnival winnings plus an extra 2, he decided it was time to put up the shutters. It was a still a plus for him over the 5 years, but the final 3 races that day must have torn out his heart.
So what you're saying is giving Huawei the contract to install 5G in the U.K would be a terrible idea as the Chinese Government would have total control of our infrastructure and personal data?
