Almanac Horseracing: Maybe the Last Great Post-race Demonstration – The 1975 McKell Cup at Rosehill

 

Noisy post-race demonstrations, at their most virulent during the Depression years of the 1930s, were in decline on Sydney racecourses by the 1970s, but far from extinct, as they have become in the post-modern era. Leading journalist Bert Lillye thought their waning might have been because money was not as hard to come by as it had been in the thirties. Fellow journalist Max Presnell felt demonstrations went the way of the dinosaur because of television coverage (which could provide close-up recorded visuals of disorderly crowd behaviour) and because an increasing percentage of racegoers were more interested in the social aspects of racing than the betting aspect.

 

Demonstrations have a long history in Australia dating back to the racing Dreamtime. The Sandgate Handicap riot at Eagle Farm, Brisbane, of the 1860s was one of the first to be extensively reported. It may not satisfy the conditions of a ‘classic’ demonstration, as formulated by the likes of Lillye and Bill Casey, as the target of the disgruntled racegoers in that case was an official (the starter), not a trainer or jockey, but the raw aggression shown by the participants fits the model. The ringleaders armed themselves with fence palings, with which they essayed to assault the inmates of the Official Enclosure.

 

The ‘in-and-out running’ (as English humourist PG Wodehouse, who knew a thing or two about the Turf, colourfully termed it) of chronically inconsistent horses, such as the notorious Sir to Me, ensured the survival of demonstrations into the seventies. The ‘perfect storm’ scenario for such disturbances was a poor performance by a horse in a Wednesday welter at Canterbury, followed by a winning performance in an open flying handicap under a lighter weight three days later, and it was in this sort of aggravation of racegoers that Sir to Me specialised. He had plenty of mates though; Munchen, Ready O’Ready, Ricochet, Calypso, Sir Regoli, Waikiki and Mona’s Joy (four times, including the 1970 June Stakes) were all repeat-offenders convicted by punters of sundry acts of inconsistency.

 

Other immediate causes of demonstrations were diverse, but unsurprisingly most were predicated on pitfalls met by well-fancied runners. Among them were cases where a stablemate upset a more favoured runner (especially if it were suspected the latter had been ‘pulled’), a perceived poor ride—being posted three or four wide from the fence, or flashing home too late from far back in the field, for example. Unpopular stewards’ decisions (specially to uphold a protest and demote the favourite from first place) always unified punters into something resembling a Parisian mob. Another certain agent provocateur was a beaten favourite winning next start at odds, as was a change in riding tactics, especially unannounced, or a betting drift against the opening-market favourite, followed by its poor run.

 

These were the exasperations that caused red-faced men in pork-pie hats to gather at the Birdcage Enclosure fence to yell abuse at participants and officials. Most demonstrations had a small core of the passionately disaffected, usually hardened veterans of the racecourse, who would get the thing under way. These would attract to their flanks less forthright malcontents, encouraged by their examples, who might otherwise have held their peace. On the outer edges of the demonstration sometimes gathered younger racegoers who, judging by their expressions, had joined in as a ‘gee-up’ or a ‘stir’.

 

By the 1970s, as was the case with post-meeting centre-course two-up schools, the numbers participating in demonstrations had dwindled, but the residue made up for that by calling on enhanced theatricality and volume. Like the famous Sydney Cricket Ground heckler, ‘Yabba’, the old hands seemed to be able to make themselves heard above the general din, and even the public address system. They would shout and boo throughout the post-race presentation if their sore point had occurred during a feature race.

 

Jockeys riding back into the Birdcage Enclosure were the most common focus of demonstrations, with trainers running a good second. Very often they were at or near their respective premierships’ lead, as they were usually connected with the well-supported horses whoses defeats were the most common causes of demonstrations. Thus Ron Quinton (in particular), Malcom Johnston and Tommy Smith often reluctantly filled the leading-man roles during demonstrations. The abuse shouted at them covered a large range of subjects, among which their parentage, race, sexual preferences, honesty, venality, age, diet, ability, and physiognomy were all routinely questioned. Popular enquiries, cries and assertions from the crowd included ‘What happened last week?’, ‘You couldn’t lie straight in bed [insert jockey’s name or nickname here]’, ‘We want [insert absent trainer’s name here]’, and ‘Show yourself, Better Brakes’. The targeted jockey was faced with the perennial choice of ‘fight or flight’, though the fight option could not extend much beyond a rejoinder questioning the abuser’s qualifications to criticise, or the 1970s equivalent of ‘the finger’, the ‘thumbs up’. Quinton, Des Lake, George Moore, and Peter Cook were occasionally baited into a response, but most riders preferred to escape the spotlight as quickly as possible. Demonstrations could last from five minutes to half an hour, but most lost their sting when the perceived offenders retreated into the Stand, or when correct weight was announced.

 

The police did not intervene in demonstrations of this era, as none ever devolved into violence. They were content to remain on the fringes, watching things. But the media loved to get involved, perhaps because demonstrations always provided easy copy for the journalist assigned to that race. Their photographers plunged in, to capture images like the one above. Bert Lillye wrote two feature columns on demonstrations in the 1970s, in which he did not disguise his nostalgic fondness for those he witnessed in the era of ‘characters’. These included the Billy Boy demonstration at Randwick in the late 1930s, and the Murray Stream imbroglio during World War II, when uniformed soldiers in their thousands threatened to climb the fence and invest the Official Enclosure. Another outstanding demonstration he cited was the ‘protest upheld’ decision against Kurama at Gosford in the 1950s, after which a woman pelted an official with soft drink bottles each time he tried to change the winners number in the semaphore frame. Reflecting on the hostility of Sydney demonstrations, Lillye observed that reports of them always included orange peels being thrown at jockeys—even though he had never witnessed anyone eating an orange on a Sydney racecourse. Melbournian Bill Casey asserted that demonstrations in Sydney were much more spirited than those in other Australian cities. At the heart of it, demonstrations were just good fun.

 

Perhaps the last of the old-style, full-on demonstrations followed the 1975 Sir William McKell Cup, run over the stayer’s distance of 2400 metres. It took place on 28 June at Rosehill, a day of unusually bleak weather even by mid-winter standards. It was fair-dinkum miserable, especially in the unroofed stands like the Paddock/Leger Stand, and for those few down on the lawn.

 

The 33/1 outsider, Black Tetra, ridden by Grahame Horselman, won the race but in its aftermath four of Sydney’s most experienced jockeys—Ray Selkrig (riding Sovereign Yacht) Ron Quinton (St Martin), Neville Voigt (Broadway Hit) and Bill Camer (Bur Oak)—all received lengthy suspensions for, in greyhound-racing terms, having ‘lost sight of the bunny’ during running. The demonstration that broke out before the majority of the field was even halfway down the home straight the first time continued so long and so vociferously that Billy McKell was compelled to deliver his post-race speech inside the Members’ stand.

 

The humour of the cold and damp punters at the time of the running of the Cup had not been improved by results in earlier races and many were hoping to recoup their losses on one of the obvious chances among the field in the open stayers race. Some form assessors were of the opinion that such races, so long as the fields were not too large, were more reliable betting mediums than sprints—the same theory that held that greyhound races over 800 yards at Harold Park were, as they offered fancied runners more opportunity to recover from early checks. Others held that, on the contrary, staying races consisting of ‘old stagers’ were best avoided, as the tempo was sometimes much slower than might be reasonably expected—and that could potentially override the form.

 

Black Tetra was not one of the ‘obvious choices’ for the Cup. In fact, at 20/1, he was the longshot of the small field of seven, four pointers longer than the horse assessed the second roughest hope, TJ Smith’s Navidad. Black Tetra’s form was not hopeless—in fact, two starts earlier he had run a close third behind the accomplished Wave King in the Gosford Cup (2000m), having lead into the straight. At his previous start, just three days prior, he was fifth of fourteen in the Hawkesbury Cup over an unsuitably short 1600 metres. It was thus not inconceivable he might be on the pace in the 2400 metres McKell Cup. Navidad too had some claims on recent form that included two wins in his previous three starts. But it was not so much the result, but how it came about, that roused the punters into a barricade-storming mood.

 

From the 2400 metres start at the top of the Rosehill straight, Black Tetra’s black cap could just be made out through the mire, moving over to the fence from barrier five to take over from Navidad, out of barrier two. They ambled down the straight but even so were soon many lengths clear of the field. Selkrig on Sovereign Yacht, in third, told stewards post-race he thought the birds might have already flown with as much as a lap (2000 metres) to go, when the two leaders were twenty lengths or more in front. Punters in the stands shared Selkrig’s unease and shouted futile instructions to the backmarkers to get a move on. Some race-callers (Ian Craig in particular) seemed to believe that race-goers enjoy it when riders on leaders adopt ‘tearaway’ tactics, as it makes for a spectacle; but my on-the-spot observations of punters (and my own sensibilities) inform me this is an outright mis-read. Punters don’t like it if they are on the leader in those circumstances, and they like it even less if they are on one of the chasers.

 

By the time the horses entered the back straight, the two McKell Cup leaders were an estimated 30 lengths in front, even though the race-tempo had remained moderate. In the Paddock Enclosure a hum like the approach of a speed boat from far away was already audible. But this growl was being generated by racegoers, not a motor. By the 800 metres several soloists among the crowd could be heard above the chorus, declaring that the race had already been forfeited. By the home turn the peloton had made no noticeable ground on the leaders, and by now it was evident to everyone that there was no chance of the leaders being caught. Black Tetra and Navidad went past the Ledger Stand to be met by cat-calls and shaking fists. Some two or three seconds later the rest of the field were welcomed with even greater hostility. In the stands, some of the more volatile dissidents began moving towards the exits on their way down to the terraced area next to the birdcage enclosure, which offered the perfect stage from which to orchestrate demonstrations. As a result, they were in occupation when the riders of the beaten horses returned, with understandable reluctance, to the birdcage, and began to throw race-books, plastic cups, pie crusts and maybe even the odd orange peel. Public enemy number one was the normally affable and popular Neville Voigt, who had ridden the 5/4 favourite, Broadway Hit, into second last place. A chant went up: ‘We want Voigt!’ We want Voigt!’—and not for the purpose of signing autographs.

 

Meanwhile, McKell was clearing his throat in preparation for his speech of congratulation to the winners of the race run in his honour. In 1943, as Labor premier of New South Wales, he had legislated the Sydney Turf Club into being and hand-picked its inaugural directors. He was regarded as the club’s patron saint, and many of its officials and employees revered him, and it was evident Sir William did not detest this veneration. As a former governor-general as well, he was a practiced orator before hostile audiences, but it was decided the mob gathered around the saddling paddock was perhaps a little warm even for the likes of him. STC officials quickly assessed the situation and, covering their heads ran onto the lawn, grabbed the table at which to presentation ceremony was to take place, and took it inside the Stand. The presentation was made in camera.

 

 

The turn and finish photos of the 1975 McKell Cup published in the Tuesday edition of the Sportsman paid mute testimony to the extent of the fiasco; in each just two horses were captured: Black Tetra and Navidad. What had happened? Each of the offending jockeys called on the usual defence that he had not wanted to be on the sacrificial horse that carted the rest of the pack up to the leaders. The race in fact had all the appearance of a temporary communal loss of contact with time and space, like (it has been theorised) happened to the pilots of Flight 19 over the Bermuda Triangle in 1945. In any case, the senior riders were quickly brought back to reality when each was handed a two-month suspension. Apprentice Johnston, who had eventually been the first to set off in pursuit of the tearaways, was cautioned, but otherwise escaped penalty.

 

Perhaps unfairly, the McKell Cup did not give the great boost to the career of Grahame Horselman that might have been warranted by his initiative. Horselman, although he had had a quite successful apprenticeship from the late 1960s, and had been the regular rider of the near-champion Zephyr Bay a few years earlier, was in 1975 what might be described as second-tier jockey at city race meetings. John Duggan though, who had ridden second-placed Navidad, did quite well out of the affair, due to the absence of Quinton and Voigt, and to a lesser extent, Camer and Selkrig, from the saddle for the next few months, as each of them were,  along with Duggan, on or close to the jockeys’ premiership leadership board.

 

(This piece includes extracts from volumes one and two of Sydney Racing in the 1970s.)

Copies of Sydney Racing in the 1970s: an Illustrated Companion are available via Wayne’s website

 

 

More from Wayne Peake can be read Here

 

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