How clueless jockey took centre stage in Fine Cotton affair
It was a darkly comic criminal conspiracy playing out all too openly against the menacing background of Sydney’s gangland and Queensland corruption. The one person not in on the crazy secret was the one closest to the action.
Book extract
Don't miss out on the headlines from Book extract. Followed categories will be added to My News.
It was a seemingly simple plot to switch mediocre racehorse Fine Cotton with a faster steed and clean up at the track.
But the catalogue of drunken ineptitude that followed — against a background of gruesome threats from Sydney’s gangland and entrenched Queensland corruption — made for a barely believable and darkly comic caper that fascinates Australia to this day.
Jockey Gus Philpot was one of the few people who didn’t know he was riding a ringer at the Brisbane meet in 1984 — a scam that would unravel within moments of him winning the race on the hapless Bold Personality, barely recovered from the indignities of being covered in hair dye and spray-painted to pose as Fine Cotton.
In this extract from The Fine Cotton Fiasco by Peter Hoysted and Pat Sheil, Philpot — who later told how he had to ask another jockey what a “ring-in” was when alerted to the drama — eagerly preps for the race as trainer Hayden Haitana desperately tries to convince conman John ‘The Phantom’ Gillespie to back out of the scam.
DOWN in the mounting yards, jockey Gus Philpot was waiting for his ride. He’d donned the black-and-red silks and was raring to go. The 17-year-old was happy to take any ride going, and when it came to a Saturday meet in Brisbane, he’d leapt at the chance. He needed the experience. He wanted to get ahead, like every other apprentice jockey.
Apprentices were expected to say little more than ‘Yes, sir, no, sir, three bags full, sir’. Don’t complain. Work insane hours for 20 per cent of the square root of f--- all and keep your spirits up by dreaming of riding the winner of the Melbourne Cup one day.
So, he was pleasantly surprised to get the call from the trainer just after midday. Did he want the ride on Fine Cotton in the fourth? You bet he did.
Gus Philpot examined the contenders for race four, the Second Division Commerce Novice Handicap. It was a field of 12 starters, all try-hards and battlers. Some had eked the occasional win, stuck their noses in front at just the right time. It was a perfect race for a jockey making his way in the caper, a test of his skill to get the best out of his ride.
Apprentice jockey Philpot didn’t have time to have a good look at his ride’s form or breeding. None in fact, but by the time he’d stripped and got into his silks, the horse was nowhere to be seen. He reckoned the trainer would cop a spray and probably a fine from the stewards.
That wasn’t Gus Philpot’s worry. He had two rides scheduled for the rest of the meeting, and getting a ride in the fourth made it a good day.
He hadn’t heard of Fine Cotton, but thought he must have seen him around the traps somewhere. Maybe Bundamba. A nine-year-old miler. He was almost as old as Philpot. That suited him fine. The old geldings were usually pretty easy to handle. Any bad habits they might have had were long gone. Still, it’d be nice if the horse and its trainer turned up sometime soon.
Hayden Haitana was still in the car park. Walking back and forth, trying to figure out a plan, sweating out the last couple of stubbies he’d consumed at (Bobby) North’s place. He looked into the double float and there was Fine Cotton with Bold Personality. Like chalk and cheese.
This was a jail sentence just waiting to be handed down. He could sense that his life could well fall to pieces, right here, today, probably within the hour. The foreboding was becoming a certainty. But what could he do about it now?
John Gillespie emerged from the stands and strode down to Haitana and the horse float. ‘Good to go, mate. Everything’s in place.’
‘This isn’t going to work, John. We’ll all be locked up before the last race.’
‘The committee’s onboard, Hayden. The cops are with us.
Nothing can go wrong.’
‘Fine Cotton can win this on its own. Just give me a couple of minutes with it.’
‘We’ve already been through this, Hayden.’
Gillespie put his hand on Haitana’s slumped shoulder. ‘I know you love that bloody horse, but the ringer has to run.’
‘I’ll give it a bomb. It’ll get out of the jump like s--- out of a shanghai and won’t let up. Trust me, John. Fine Cotton can win this.’
Gillespie tightened his grip on Haitana’s shoulder. A little squeeze. A little reminder. This was his show.
‘The f---in’ ringer runs, Hayden. Cop it sweet, here and now, and don’t f--- this up.’
Haitana exhaled and looked again at Bold Personality. Looked down at its hooves. The white paint wasn’t setting. Instead it continued to smear itself into the paint that was already running, dripping onto the floor of the float. There was paint everywhere. Sticky, wet paint. This was a disaster.
Gillespie rammed his point home. ‘Our friend in Sydney is going to be very unhappy if the ringer doesn’t run, mate. When he gets unhappy, he gets upset. And when he gets upset, people get murdered. I don’t want to be one of those people, and I don’t want you to be one of those people. Don’t forget what happened to (brutally murdered trainer) Georgie Brown, sunshine.’
Haitana had not forgotten what had happened to Georgie Brown. He approached Fine Cotton, and the old racehorse nuzzled him affectionately. The trainer reached into his pocket and pulled out a Steam Roller, a peppermint lolly. Fine Cotton’s favourite. The horse gobbled it off the flat of his outstretched hand.
Haitana went to his other pocket and produced a white capsule, the size of a .38 calibre bullet. Fine Cotton’s bomb. Pure amphetamine. The horse licked it up off the trainer’s hand.
‘F---’s sake, Hayden! What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘We need a plan B.’
‘Leave that f---ing horse in the float. The ringer runs. I’m getting tired of repeating myself here.’
A couple of stray punters walked past the float on their way to the stands. Gillespie smiled at them and nodded.
He lowered his voice. ‘Hayden. Listen to me. Get the ringer out, leave the rug on it and get it up to the stewards for inspection. We’re running out of time. I’ve got to get on. (Former Bold Personality owner) Bill f---in’ Naoum’s turned up. He’s sitting in the Members’ Stand.’
‘Aw, Jesus. He’ll clock Bold Personality from a mile away.’ ‘That’s why I’ve got to get on. Run a little interference. A little distraction. A bit of the old sleight of hand. Leave Bill Naoum with me. The only thing he’s going to see of the race is through the bottom of a schooner glass.’
‘F---’s sake.’
‘Don’t f--- around, Hayden. Stick to the plan.’
With that unambiguous advice, The Phantom was on his way back to the Members’ Stand.
Haitana sighed. He needed a beer. Badly — his throat felt like sandpaper.
All right. Get this done. Get Bold Personality up to the stables and let the stewards give it the once over. He gave the bay gelding a pat on the neck and grabbed its bridle. The ringer threw its head back in a brief moment of protest. Bold Personality didn’t want to leave the safety of the float.
‘Come on.’
The horse edged forward. Fine Cotton made a move to follow, but Haitana turned his body and nudged the older brown gelding with his shoulder. He noticed Fine Cotton’s eyes had already begun to dilate.
The bomb was kicking in. Fine Cotton was in for a hard day and a long night. He’d have to work it out in the float somehow. Jesus, Haitana thought, Fine Cotton was going to kick the s--- out of that float. Panel-beat it from the inside. He briefly fretted that he might lose his rental bond when he took the float back tomorrow, all buckled and banged up.
What the f--- was he thinking? The bond on the float? The least of his worries now.
The stewards were after him. That was his first port of call.
What did they want? Had they really been rumbled?
Haitana trotted into the stands, quickening his pace as he drew closer to the stewards’ room. He was sweating profusely. He felt the heat on his face — always red from the grog — had ratcheted up a shade to scarlet with the heat and the stress. He slowed to a walk, stopped and took a breath before he entered, eager not to look careworn or troubled. Or guilty. When he got in the sparsely furnished room, there were no wallopers inside waiting to pounce. No fierce faces demanding answers, only a junior racing official sitting at a card table, looking bored.
‘Hayden Haitana,’ Haitana said, extending his hand. The young track official ignored the offering.
‘You’re late.’
‘Yeah, I hit a bit of traffic on the way over.’
‘No, you’re late. If you’re going to announce your ride, it’d be nice if you let us know,’ the young steward said, thrusting an envelope into Haitana’s hand. ‘On time.’
Haitana stammered his apologies, turned and left. He’d announced Philpot as the rider late. He’d been fined $10.
He rushed back to the car park. If that was the worst thing that happened to him today, he’d be the luckiest man in Australia. Hayden Haitana was now seriously addled. A beer would be good …
The trainer closed the gate on the float, leaving Fine Cotton to deal with the onset of amphetamine psychosis all on his own. Hayden pulled Bold Personality’s bridle and the horse trotted along behind him slowly, head bowed.
The ringer had been through hell, an equine ordeal that was the worst possible preparation for the race. For any race. A good three or four classes above the rest of the field, Bold Personality would be a lay-down misère to win in normal circumstances. But these were not normal circumstances.
The last 24 hours must have been the worst of Bold Personality’s life. Pulled to and fro by idiots and drunken morons, barely surviving the drive up to Brisbane. Subjected to all manner of indignities once he had arrived, including the full dye treatment. Then a chilly hour under the hose to wash it all off. The poor bloody thing didn’t even have a decent pair of racing plates on.
Haitana wondered if Bold Personality still had it in him to win. The horse had endured so much strife in the lead-up, so who knows, it might not want to come out of the barrier. Just stand there. Ignore the jockey. Take the rest of the day off. The last thing Bold Personality needed was a 1500 metre dash.
He somehow shifted the baffled beast into the stable and let him rest up, the blanket still on him as the heat of the day rose, the white paint congealing roughly on his hooves.
• This is an edited extract from The Fine Cotton Fiasco by Peter Hoysted & Pat Sheil, published by Ebury Australia on 20 August 2019, RRP $34.99
‘Shrapnel and faeces’: Shock of Bali bombing victims
A new book has revealed what happened inside the walls of the burns clinic treating Aussies injured in the Bali bombings. Read the extract.
My coffee date with two gangland killers
In his book extract, Enzo Condello — the brother of slain gangland figure Mario Condello — describes the day he saw the dark side of Carl Williams.