Greyhound tips / John Harms / 04 January 2010 / Leave a comment Bet Now

As he tucks into a 2-piece feed, John Harms takes us back to the days when the hounds ruled the Gabba

The rhythm of the night was set by the program, which went Melbourne-Brisbane-Hobart-Adelaide, all four minutes apart, followed by an eight-minute break, then back to Melbourne again

Ah, sports fans, I've just had a couple of days ba(t)ching while The Handicapper and the kids are up north with the grandparents.

When a young bloke is on his own in the evenings like that, his heart turns to one thing: greyhound racing.

What a delight, as you tuck into a KFC dinner pack (mash and chips), to bang a few bucks in the account and have a crack at the hounds - preferably on a Monday or a Thursday night, although you can get by with a dabble at Warrnambool, Gosford, Lismore and Albion Park, with Mandurah kicking in late, on a Wednesday.

I love the dishlickas.

I used to go to the Gabba greyhounds back when you'd see trainers walking their conveyances in suburban streets. The Gabba was a cracking night out in the old days, until progress shifted the hounds to the sand and the modern facilities of Albion Park. Thursday night was an anthropological experience that gave you a double whammy booster-injection of both 'blokeyness' and 'Queenslandness'.

In the mid-80s, they were rollicking affairs, with dozens of bookmakers and stacks of punters and a 25-stone Catholic priest who used to perch himself (precariously) on a three-legged milking stool at the end of the betting ring. Many blokes had their yellow pay packet in the top pocket of their work kit, and quite a bit of the cash was already gone due to them having knocked off early and spent the afternoon at the Aussie Nash or the Lord Stanley Hotel.

These were pre-'Pub TAB' days, when serious drinking was a priority and so many of the blokes got to the Gabba with the punting confidence of a couple of rounds of XXXX in them.

They were looking for a Chiko Roll and a quick $50 on the odds-on favourite to set their night up. Everything was conducted beneath the Sir Gordon Chalk Building (years later it became the Lions Social Club), which resembled a great big concrete under croft where two rows of bookies called their odds and a few tote windows beckoned.

The harsh surfaces meant it was pretty noisy, and the sound of the Gabba lure and the call of Ron Hawkswell coming through the old speakers all the way from Sandown were unforgettable.

For a while there seemed to be one gate to get in ($5, I reckon it cost), which led you along a dark alleyway by the old practice nets on the Vulture Street side. Everyone came through that entrance, including owners and their greyhounds, which were kennelled just after you got in...so blokes wound up standing in dog shit.

Some punters had been home after work and had come back showered in stubbies and thongs, with a new Band-aid over their skin cancer and brylcreme in their parted hair.

The rhythm of the night was set by the program, which went Melbourne-Brisbane-Hobart-Adelaide, all four minutes apart, followed by an eight-minute break, then back to Melbourne again.

Just enough time to squeeze in a rum and Coke.

I used to go with a bloke from the tax department called Otis who enjoyed spasmodic success (although when he was on, he was really on) and a strawberry farmer called I. Lamb Australia, who was also known as The People's Hero. He backed them on looks alone, which meant he only bet in Brisbane.

The Gabba events were spectacular, especially the 558m, which started at the top of the straight. The ring was on the first bend, so the sound of the lure and Dogsy Dolan's voice drew everyone to the outside rail on what was a tight and tricky corner for the hounds to negotiate. So many times the beast carrying your hard-earned cash was left at your feet, looking like it had just gone three rounds with Hector Thompson.
It was smash-up derby stuff.

I used to lose consistently at the Gabba, but went all right at Angle Park and Sandown. The form sheets (now there was an interesting part of the evening--fighting for viewing space with punters wearing the one lens reading glasses around the pylons on which the form photocopies were sticky-taped) had primitive speed maps which read things like 432C554221. That, and half a dozen Bundies, had you feeling like you knew the truth and that it was just a matter of getting your trifecta on.

After a while, the Gabba greys went upmarket and introduced a smorgasbord upstairs for $17, which included entry and a race-book. It was Sino-Aussie cuisine, a mixture of family roast with vegies and salads, and various Chinese dishes (the sweet and sour pork glowed in the dark). But, there were prawn cutlets. Unlimited prawn cutlets. And unlimited jelly and ice cream (including that old Queensland fave, Tutti-Fruiti).

Of course, the dog track was well known outside the greyhound racing fraternity because people used to sit on it for the cricket. It was a sign that a big crowd was in.

However, few of those sober middle class types could have imagined the sheer pleasure of having four-the-blue or seven-the-black streak clear up the back under the cricketers club balcony with your lobster on it at 8/1. (On some Thursday nights in early spring, the Queensland cricket squad would be doing fitness drills, which led one punter to call, 'You're fatter than my missus Ritchie').

The last night at the Gabba, somewhere in the early 90s, was a sad affair.

Ote, The People's Hero and I jogged a lap of the track, as did many others.

And then it was off to Albion Park.

So, when The Handicapper is away and I'm having a quiet dabble, I'm just tapping into a bit of personal history, and a glorious Gabba past.

And 11 herbs and spices.

Finger Lickin' Good.