How often do you see a sign advertising Cockroach racing? I reread the aging, fly-spotted notice. Half of it is missing but still advises ‘Thoroughbred Cockroach racing … BYO ‘roaches. $1,000 prize pool. If interested, call this numb…’
It is dark, late Autumn and I’m being kicked out of the Empress of India for pissing against the bar. OK, yer, not nice, but in the crowded space, we frontline ‘bar-props’ are loath to vacate for the dunnies. We all do it occasionally, more so as the clock ticks towards six. We no longer think it is controversial or unusual!
Flo’s professionalism barely misses a beat as she plonks six pots down onto the bar in front of Bluey, Billy and Gerry. She glares momentarily at me and then orders me out! I reckon she has seen my telltale arm movements, wrestling with the bloody buttons of my fly!
Tongues click in sympathy as I’m unceremoniously ejected from the warm, fuggy space. “Bugger it”, as I realise I’m goin’ to miss my final couple of pots.
I stumble along Scotchmer Street; not my usual route home. The missus is gonna be surprised to see me home early. The ‘roach racing idea swirls. I could certainly use the cash! I wonder what’s involved in training a cockroach?
I’ve a dodgy prostate: I desperately need another leak. It’s dark and I smile as my bladder drains. I nimbly sidestep the slipstream off the wall and circuitously continue towards our cottage, tucker and bed.
Enormous cockroaches swarm. I’m in the maw of a monster and with a single swipe, it has my entrails strewn across the pavement — the bedside clock’s alarm erupts.
Over breakfast, I’m thinking about that $1,000. The factory crawls with ‘roaches – any stray scuttling sees lethal footwork! I’m wondering about what I do after I catch one, how will I train it?
It’s Saturday morning, with meat, veg and groceries straining the trusty old shopping cart. The café provides our usual tea and scones, and I casually scan the nearby Community notice board. Here it is again: ‘Cockroach Racing Saturday 24th, Flemington, BYO cockroaches. That’s it. I’m in. I’ll have three weeks to whip a winner into shape.
On Monday I snare a beauty – about an inch and a half long, sleek blackness, feelers another inch, at least. If I could find a small saddle I’d have a Melbourne Cup starter. I place ‘Claude’ into an Old Holborn tobacco tin and add a few crumbs. They’re gone when I let him out for a run later on. He has cake for dinner.
Over the next three weeks, he eats regularly, and richly. Leftovers off my plate, snacks from the ice chest, lunch crumbs. He continues to impress, every inch a winner. Svelte condition, I reckon; no excess baggage, muscles toned and ready to fly.
Saturday 24th and we’re at Flemington. I’m pumped. We’re at the Mounting Enclosure, I open his tin and he is away. I never see Claude again!