Story by the PABC (Pig’s Arms Boozecasting Company) psephologist and race caller Antony Puce.

It was two in the afternoon when Antony Puce slouched into the Pig’s Arms and drew up a stool at the bar.  Merv could see that he had had a big night and it was no big deal guessing what was on his mind.

Merv tossed the ice into the shaker, added his magic pink liquors, capped the vessel and shook it like he meant it.  “Hold the little paper umbrella”  said Puce.  And Merv decanted the Pink into a cocktail glass fit for …. a bit of a cock.

“The main game?” said Merv, well-knowing that a leadership spill against a PM is likely to happen only once in a lifetime.  “Of course.” said Puce.

He adjusted his Anthony Squires bag of fruit pants to restore the blood flow to his wedding tackle, raised the Pink and downed it in a single smooth fluid flourish.  Without needing prompting, Merv reloaded the shaker, shook and charged a fresh glass, forgetting to leave out the paper umbrella.  Puce picked out the offending poolside miniature and flicked it in the general direction of away – as a smoker might discard a butt from a car window in bushfire season – and with the same amount of care.

“It’s like this:” Puce said and Merv adopted his old kung fu stance – the sleeping horse and readied himself for a distillation of Puce’s take on the spill.

This is a big spill.  It makes Exxon Valdiz look like catshit on the carpet.  I mean, when Gees minders gelded Rudd, they broke the unwritten code.

” What’s that ?” asked Merv. “Dunno” said Puce.  “It’s not written down”.  But Puce had a feeling in his waters and his water feelings rarely let him down.  I’d say that it doesn’t matter how big a deadshit the PM is, his or her party must back him or her until the electorate throw the bastard out.  The electorate decides when to change the lead horse.  The parties only pick the jockey.  So when The Gee team gelded Rudd, they were taking a big punt that came within a gnat’s whisker of not succeeding.  Still might not in the last furlong.

But to roll the dice on another scratching and a bloody resurrection is beyond wild irresponsibility with the crown jewels.  It’s fuckin’ suicidal, said Puce, who by now was feeling his oats and the warming effect of a Pink and a half was unmistakeable.

I’ve been down to the track.  I’d say it was hard.  The owners and trainers are taking up their positions in the Members’ Stand.  I’d say they could not care less who wins this one – or the minor placings.  These magnates are building their war chests and preparing for a big killing in the 2013 season.  The bookies in the ring are sending every fuckin’ mixed message they can think of to keep the punters unsteady on their feet.  Now just because Rudd’s handlers have scratched him today, does not mean he’s been put out to grass on the backbenches, much less sent off to the knackery.  He’s a definite starter for Monday’s steeple and despite indifferent form overseas, he can’t be ruled out – at least for a place.

“But the big filly has to have the shortest odds, surely, Puco” said Merv.

Maybe, but there’s a lot of activity amongst the handlers and there’s a strong chance that a dark horse might surprise everyone.  “Wot, like Christopher Pyne-o-clean ?”, joked Merv.

No.

Pink.  And make it snappy !

I’m sure there’s been a lot of preparation over at the Smith stable and there’s talk that the Palomino from Grayndler – or should I say Albermino, are capable runners.  But across the scales, I’d say they were stayers running just out of the placings.  Lightly handicapped for a good reason.

“I think it’s probably a mistake to put either horse in the jumps.” said Puce.  “Too many falls.  Too many serious injuries.”

“And too many deaths”, added Merv. “Ida thought that a pony that’s lost his nuts in a previous fall would be smart enough to not draw attention to that.  After all, it’s not much of a stud that touts a gelding as it’s big name draw card, is it ?”

The hangers-on and listeners-in in the bar murmured that they were keeping up and were keen to have some insight into the result in advance – so they could lay on their bets at decent odds before the form had been thoroughly analysed to death.

“Listen, this is how I reckon it’ll play out” said Puco.  The handlers and owners gelded the Rudder because they were shit sick of him misbehaving in the stalls and not working with the stable hands.  He’d become a show pony in a show of one pony.  Look at his form.  No results in three years.  Didn’t take the team with him.

Now, Big Red likes a rails run, but I have to say that the filly has a few results racked up on pretty difficult tracks.  Not a great record, no outstanding wins greater than a half head, and a tendency to be distracted by dark horses on the wrong side of the track,  but none-the-less she does have a few wins.

“What fuckin’ wins would those be ?” said a crusty from Queensland.  “Well, she got up with carbon in a late finish, the economy didn’t fall apart like most of the rest of the world, she got a tiny tax on the trainers and owners and she’s safe with kiddies.

“Last in dressage” piped up some wag from South Australia.

“Yeah, true, but she looks a lot more appealing than some fuckin’ Dalek in red speedos.

“I reckon it’s come down to that” said Puco.  “It’s a country with crappy bush tracks, shitty hay and hopeless handlers.  No way are we gunna get world-class performance from the nags here “ said Puco – and the punters took their time finishing their Trotter’s Ales.  No hurry into the TAB, the odds just weren’t attractive enough.