Friday 19th July 2013 Klawervlei

Klawervlei had kindly invited me without Roy to come down to Cape

Town for their farm sale. Many trainers from around the country had accepted

Robbie Hill's family back home

the invitation to come down to the farm for a get together that

resembles an Irish wake in spring & just a few weeks before

armeggedon. We left the sunny confines of KZN and arrived down south to wintry wet conditions. Our driver, who could have been Waiho Marwing's clone, in his limited wisdom had decided to take the scenic route out to the farm. We set off in good spirits with my co-travelers consisting of Prince (Robbie Hill), the only Pakistani trainer in

Robbie Hill having a smoke

South Africa, Alison and Kevin Wright exiles in waiting from Zimbo, Gavin Van Zyl, and Jane Thomas looking forward to her first emancipation tour. The initial drizzle quickly escalated into a full blown monsoon as our vision was restricted to roughly twenty yards or so. In his limited wisdom again, Waiho had decided to take the bulk of us to our guest house. He found a side cutting to the right off the main road and suddenly we were off the beaten track and going down a district road that would have not looked out of place in downtown Tripoli during the recent uprisings. The road narrowed down to less than a single lane as we circumcized a stagnant festering lake until we reached a dead end at which point Prince started displaying the first signs of severe cabin fever. The somnolent Cognac he had quaffed

prior to departure had started to wear off and his nascent displeasure

Robbie Hill at the Karachi Academy

combined with nicotine withdrawal symptoms only seen in baboon cigarette addicts at an East European animal research station was steadily bubbling beneath the surface. Waiho did a thirty seven point turn before he made his way back to the highway barely avoiding a fully laden pantechnicon from the nearby SADF munitions compound & traveling downhill at speeds way beyond safe.

Jane Thomas looking for a drop toilet

As our fourth sedentary hour approached and we set off in hope of beating the sunset, Jane Thomas, who had finished two liters of over priced bottled water, started appealing for a toilet somewhere soon, very soon. With legs crossed for once like a fresh koeksister, she implored Waiho to find a latrine, even if it was a second hand drop toilet, as Prince joined in & vociferously demanded a smoke break. The tension, palpable as it was, was briefly broken by the news of the Wrights' horses running first and second in the Borrowdale feature.



We eventually arrived at the stud around four and a half hours after

Dean Kannemeyer

disembarking to be warmly greeted by barman extraordinaire, Matthew Sham, who has the finesse of an enebriated blacksmith. The upstairs pub was full and the TV was switching between the Ashes and the rampant Sharks as George Clooney braaied all forms of animal off-cuts for the sozzled carnivore diners. One of our country's greatest young cricket stars, David Miller, was a guest as well as his father, Andrew, who also doubled as auctioneer. David is the real deal in more ways than one and when Dean 'I'll Have Another' Kannemeyer realized who he was, he promptly posed for a photo alongside him looking like Sammy Davis Jnr at a Vegas cabaret. 

Michael Roberts, donning an apron, had provisionally taken over the barman duties as Matthew did renditions of Flower of Scotland and Ireland's Call, and to appease the numerous skaaps in attendance, did Ruiperd with the diminutive Roberts joining in for the chorus. Klawervleis two front men, John Koster, and Grant Knowles, have done a great job of ensuring that all visitors are warmly cared for and I spot one of the quiet gentlemen of racing, Ricardo Lerena, savaging the remnants of a charred chicken in the corner. He catches my eye & nods appreciatively at me.

When it is eventually time to retire to our respective hamlets, I

thankfully notice that Waiho is not around. Jane is being ushered to

her van with a degree of vociferous coaxing by Knowlsie, somewhat akin

Muis Roberts as himself

to the loading of a reluctant feature race favorite, as Michael Roberts gets a bout of the giggles. Our guest house is a renovated set of stables once owned by a successful racehorse owner. I am ushered into Jungle Warrior's stable and Michael Roberts gets Numeral's. He  catches me stealing his chocolates off his pillow and promptly manages to lock me in my stable for the night.

The next day we were greeted by a chill usually seen on the outskirts of the Siberian Tundra and Michael Roberts waltzing around in a

sleeping shirt last ironed when he rode work for old man, 'Pa' Brown.

Breakfast is in a renovated barn and Clint Larsen (not the footballer)

Paul Matchett, Cathy Howells and I have some country grown sustenance

before we set out to see the yearlings. Klawervlei is a wonderful set

up and the different barns have been named after great racehorses of

old. I walk around viewing the woolly nags with Michael Roberts who is

only slightly taller than a premature weanling and twice as critical.

The crowds are starting to arrive and it makes viewing a little

tougher. We escape to the main tent to warm up with some coffee to be

promptly serenaded by John McVeigh's cousin, Andre Reui, on guitar playing ballads from yesteryear. His rendition of 'You're as cold as ice' seems touchingly appropriate. Prince strides by wearing a Springbok rugby jacket that would be loose on Clyde Basel & stearing well clear of the free bar as if it was a leper colony. These Pakistanis don't seem to have the constitution of the locals.

Robbie Hill training trotters for Karachi Derby

An announcement is made that the sale will be starting a couple of hours late as Chris Van Niekerk and Sean Tarry are unable to land their '63 vintage Dakota on the local miellie field due to thick mist and are forced to fly on to Cape Town International. This announcement

blows the Wrights right out of the water as they have to get back for an earlier flight home. The Humble Hero, Joe Soma, strides in looking fresh and strong and no doubt looking for someone to natter with over

a drink. Brett Crawford steps up to the plate in eager fashion and soon their little coterie is growing as the local tipple, the Green Tractor, makes its belated appearance. Brett was last seen irrigating a field on the side of the road. Lynton Ryan, the horse guru of note,

has given me a list of  horses to look at and we end up inheriting a Seventh Rock filly for R75000. Herbert Mulholland seems to be a man on a mission as he pushes Dennis Drier all the way for the sale topper with the hammer dropping at a princely R240,000. This sale is fast turning out to be the premier social event of all post July functions. The seventy odd lots are soon sold by Andrew Miller for a total of around three point eight million proving that it has come of age. As soon as the last lot has been led away following ex champion sprinter, Mythical Flight, McVeigh's cousin, Andre, starts crooning again with the most popular person in the room becoming the attractive blonde bombshell behind the bar. Because I have to catch the early flight back to Durban, I manage to evade the rowdy colleagues and hitch a lift back to my hotel in Cape Town with Gareth 'Peppier' Pepper.

Monday 8th July 2013

The Vodacom Durban July was run this Saturday in warm winter sunshine after the midweek inclement weather had put a damper on it. 

July Day

Rain had sleeted down nine days before the event turning the course and infield into a Phnom Penh rice paddy. Then to make matters worse, on the Thursday evening a fresh deluge was dumped by the weather gods sending shivers up the spine of the Gold Circle board & spinning them in to frantic last minute discussions. Permission for the use of two helicopters to dry the track was vetoed by the town board, probably because all available helicopters had been diverted to Hluhluwe & the Kruger Park to track down the murderous Rhino poachers with various Vietnamese 'tourists' in tow. Thankfully, the wind picked up to such a frenzy that it could have forced a cancellation of the annual Sydney to Hobarth boat race, a race once interrupted many years ago by two South African weekend sailors, Herman Brown and Lynton Ryan, whilst on a tourist sailing tour of the harbour oblivious to the fact that the start of the famous boat race crossed paths with their tour route.

The wind certainly helped to alleviate the problem even though it was decided to call off the two opening events to abet the drying track. Approximately fifty five thousand revelers descended on the track to witness the current equine superstars do battle. The array of outfits, or in some cases, the lack of them, were outstanding, and big race trainer, Jeff Freedman, came in a canary yellow suit last worn by Freddie Mercury at a '70's bath house party in San Francisco. Freedman had been the subject of much mirth when hypnotized at a pre-July function & must still have been under the spell to don such an outfit. It was so loud it came with its own volume control and his owner, Shorgen Phillips, wore a matching yellow outfit to boot. With the Tour De France in full swing, maybe they were both vying for the yellow jacket.

Jeff Freedman at July after party

Another big race trainer, Gavin Van Zyl, tried to emulate Elton John as ring master and wore a top hat that made him resemble Paul Kruger at his first official opening of parliament. Quite a few race goers had gone for the top hat and tails look that resembled the Doves undertakers team ready to troop inebriated wanton women off the premises. It seemed as if all the major players in the industry had turned up  and many overseas visitors filled the various venues. Minkey Goss of Summerhill fame had a slew of dignitaries in tow as he strode up to his private box. His stud is trying to win its ninth consecutive Breeders' title and he was forced to watch as main challengers, Klawervlei, turned out some excellent equine athletes to win big races on the the day. It sure looks like it is going to be a humdinger of  battle to the wire. Master horseman and stud man extraordinaire, John Koster, the King of Klawervlei, was all smiles as he surveyed the athletic prowess of his successful breeding stock.

The opening event was won by the talented, Master Plan, for Fred Crabbia who lamented the fact that his son of Jetmaster had been overlooked for the big one again despite not having won a race for almost a year. Talking about big ones, I notice Clyde Basel, the epitome of masculinity, clambering up the stairs in an instance.

The final field had come in for some heated debate by some of the major players and much had been said about the merits, or lack of them, of some runners. There will always be opinions, and differences have led to everything from divorces to world wars, and possibly, next year the process and approach will have to be amended and modified. The great race and its traditions do not need to be tinged by this type of controversy.

I walked out of the parade ring to be accosted by an inebriated Indian fellow who says, "Hey Laffty, how's yourself? I'm a touch door neighbour of Ronnie the barman. What you'd like?"

drunk Indian man

I have no idea who he is talking about but send him packing with a lazy twenty and a promise to keep my ear to the ground in hope of finding a winner. The queues coming from the ATM machine are longer than Bill Lamberts entourage as he wafts by followed by more government hangers on than the Titanic had lifeboats. I do not envy Bill's job as he panders to the expectant free loaders up in the sumptuous enclaves of the classic room. Greg Sadie, the original Elvis impersonator, wafts by with a pile of computarforms under his Hugo Boss shirtsleeves as he makes his way down to the bookmakers, jacket pockets abulging. He is a form studier of note & resembles one of Liberace's close confidants on his way to a Vegas soirée.

We get a hint of what is to come later when Kolkata wins the fourth race for Sean Tarry, Chris Van Niekerk and Klawervlei, as he shows his well-being after impressing at the Vodacom gallops just ten days previously. Dees Dayanand looks as though he is dressed up for a Bhangra competition in Sea Cow Lake over Dewali. He has a large following around the country and many of his friends are fawning all over him outside the parade ring like groupies at a Bon Jovi concert. In the actual paddock, you see a lot of the usual suspects including those that don't know the difference between doing things right and doing the right things. Another hypnotee from the Thursday night function, Raymond Deacon, could also still be under the soporific effect as he lumbers by looking like Rin Tin Tin on bunga & dressed for an Everest trek.

The Golden Slipper winner produces the first group one winner for main line stallion Trippi and Team Tarry as For the Lads wins a good race. A proud moment for Gaynor Rupert, Drakenstein Stud and fellow investors, as the chestnut filly out of Skin Tight comes home well to kick off a big day for rising star, S'manga Khumalo.

I waltz up to the view room to have lunch and I see what appears to be the diminutive, Michael Roberts, walking across the course with his head bent down akin to a Buddist monk traipsing along in deep meditation. I realise that you are not supposed to look up if you see a shadow of a pigeon, but he may have wandered off into the remote recesses of his imagination. We might not have HRH the Queen on track but the irrepressible Bill Lambert has a regal demeanour of his very own as he brings another group of admiring visitors in to the parade ring. He

Bill Lambert

introduces me to the Mayor of Pietermaritzburg and his counterpart from Durban. I wonder where the original mayor of Durban, Robbie Martin, is entertaining as he normally has an entourage of aging blue rinses with him - probably the bar at Stella Football Club.

They introduce the twenty jockeys to a crowded parade ring before they mount up and get on to the course to tremendous applause. The atmosphere is outstanding as everyone gives a minute silence to the ailing senior statesman, Nelson Mandela, before a wonderful rendition of our national anthem by a very talented Soprano singer. The big race is run at a good tempo as runners vie for their positions and Heavy Metal holds off determined challenges from Run For It and Do You Remember to once again emphasize the dominance of superlative stallion, Silvano.

The big three are back, with Chris Van Niekerk and Sean Tarry securing back to back Vodacom Durban July winners and young S'manga Khumalo becoming the first black rider to win the race. Many of the fancied runners are strung out like junkies in Kabul and last years winner, Pomodoro, trails in down the field to emphasize the uncertain and erratic nature of this great game.

Leaving the parade ring, I literally bump into my Indian friend from earlier in the day who has now completely marinated his body in alcohol and is less than one drink from intensive care. I have seen people look better after the life support system has been turned off. "Eh Laffty..." he slurs before he loses focus totally and shuffles off aimlessly.

I notice Gary Player, South Africa's greatest golfer in the parade ring talking with Robin Bruss.

I had last seen him, that is Gary, at Royal Ascot where he received a standing ovation before giving out the prizes. There were autograph hunters standing in line and it is a pity that he is not afforded the same treatment in his homeland. He is a great ambassador and loves his racing. Jimbo Goodman my great friend and co presenter breezed by resembling British Actor Terry Thomas in the last weeks of his life, without the moustache, contentedly puffing on an Monte Christo on his way to auditions for 'Çarry On Up The Khyber'. After the Currie Cup match was shown on the impressive big screen the parties got in to full swing with the wonderful Durban backdrop being illuminated by a fireworks display.

James Goodman

The post festivities cleaning crew managed to resuscitate 'Fat Boy' Scott from a slumped position in his box at eight thirty in the morning. He was last seen been wheel chaired into the liver transplant unit in the emergency ward of Entabeni hospital. Our best wishes are with him.

Fat Boy Scott before first drink

Tuesday 2nd July 2013

Hughes Pulmateeth

Shoudna

Roy and I have just returned from London where we met with barrister, Hughes Puldmateeth, who was pushing for the extradition of murder accused, Shoudna Dunnit Dewani, to face the music. South African authorities, a toothless poodle at the best of times, have pulled out every stop to enable the return of Shoudna to Cape Town to face trial. For those of you who have forgotten the case, Shoudna is alleged to have paid a couple of murderous illiterate villains, John 'I'll Poke You' Dhlamini and his retarded cousin, Cutthroat Dhlamini, to hijack him and his beautiful wife on a predetermined rendezvous in Gugulethu and to allow him to escape while they promptly did away with his new unfortunate bride. The two miscreants were caught on CCTV being paid by Shoudna and have since been charged, incarcerated and sent away for a long time. Both fingered Shoudna as the brains, for lack of a better term, thus incriminating the Wagon wholesale. Shoudna's sexual proclivities & sometime preferences have emerged and his murky entretempts have revealed liaisons with a German gay bouncer amongst other trysts with a string of double adaptor males. Shoudna scarpered back to the safe enclaves of Blighty, and his delusional publicist, Max Nodifference, in conjunction with his lawyer, Hineed Decashbadly, have inter alia dismissed and denigrated the South African judicial system and gone for the last chance saloon, the insanity plea. Shouldna has since shacked up in a caravan on the grounds of an upmarket Bristol hospital for the rich mentally disturbed. Meanwhile, this man is saner than Tony Blair, not that Blair is squeaky clean, particularly - a stint in front of the UN Security Council for war crimes would be a good start - but arguably alot more conniving, and if the British public want to protect him, then they will be doing their own judicial system a massive disservice.

Hineed Decashbadly

Max Nodifference

Puldmateeth has told the court that Shoudna's health has improved and that he no longer spoke of sewerage pipes or any forms of self-mutilation even though the subject of self-flagellation has never been broached. Shoudna's legal team has asked for a few conditions to be put in place before they considered sending him down south to face the truth. Psychiatric help has been guaranteed for him in Cape Town and a single cell has been requested because the legal team feared the brutality of the crowded Cape jails and the possibility of him being repeatedly sodomised by half of Kyalechee. In reality, given his penchant, it is hardly certain that this would be a deal breaker. The trial in Bristol is expected to conclude within five days and British judge, Horace Blighty Smith, will decide the fate of the man who has seemingly intentionally destroyed the lives of a few families. Meanwhile, Horace would do well to look at Blair as the second case on the agenda. Blair might well fall into the same bracket of seemingly intentionally destroying the lives of more than just a few families - talk about an individual getting off Scot-free!

Max Nodifference, a publicist with a predilection for courting controversy amongst other things, is the 'go to' man when airhead film stars and top sportsmen need to get maximum coverage or maximum spin. The silver haired egotist has made some far etching comments about our judicial system and the letter of the law in this country and once again has proven that he will get your name out there as long as the cash is good. He claims his driving force is the hypocrisy within our society....Ya Max! Our good friend Max is himself currently facing sexual offences of his own that date back to the Jimmy Saville epoch, although apparently nothing connected to Saville's antics per se. Saville appears to be on another level when it came to surruptitious sexual indulgence on both sides of the sexual divide & mostly among the prepubescent, mentally challenged or downright paralysed it would appear. Max himself has denied eleven sexual assault charges from girls that were aged fourteen to nineteen at the time of the alleged offences, all supposedly between 1966 & 1985 - something to do with the sexual revolution, presumably. Of course, our man Max refutes the charges outright as totally unfounded, protesting his innocence of all charges. His trial is set for March next year & that will make for entertaining listening.