Tweet
Originally posted by Somersault Sam
WALK ON, SQUIZZY
Chapter 2013.1
[ATTACH=CONFIG]5322[/ATTACH]
SQUIZZY TAYLOR: Toorak Times website readers are being invited to retrace his footsteps through Ole Melbourne Town. (See below)
Right key wrong room, G.E
Dear G.E. - Re your comments published in the Herald Sun on January 22, 2013: Your pappy was pretty much on the ball with what he told you about Squizzy Taylor’s revenge after being given the boot from a Melbourne metropolitan race meeting. Squizzy returned to the course in the dark of night and set fire to the grandstand. However, the geography in your pap’s tale needs a slight correction. The course was Caulfield, not Moonee Valley. I know that to be a fact and attribute it as the reason why a shiver runs up and down my spine every time I attend a raceday at the track they call `The Heath’, 8km south-east of Melbourne’s CBD.
I don’t mean to sound like a clairvoyant or some other person with a mystic touch, but I sense that, like me, G.Elleray of Carnegie may enjoy a flutter on the gee-gees from time to time. If that is the case he may profit the following hot tip: The best way to expand your knowledge about Squizzy T’s comings and goings is to give `Spinner’ - a friend of a friend of mine - a bell on (03) 9889 3746 and have him give the lowdown on the Squizzy Taylor Gangland Walk.
The STGW involves a 2hr-something escorted stroll through the seedy streets and dingy alleyways of Old Melbourne Town retracing the footsteps of Squizzy who, back in the ‘20s, captured the imagination of Melbournians to such a degree with his cockiness, brashness, elusiveness and total disregard for the law - not to mention his itchy trigger-finger - that he became a sort of celebrity, known around the traps as `The man who was never there.’
Squiz, of course, was familiar with the twists and turns of the racing game having had been an apprentice jockey, but his days in the saddle ended unspectacularly when racing officials, owners, trainers and fellow jockeys realised he was not to be trusted and they refused have a bar of him.
Having come from a racing family myself, Squiz’s lurks and perks first came to my notice early in the piece after I became sold on this research caper quite a few moons ago.
I had three great-uncles deeply entrenched in horse racing including one who actually rode against Squiz in pony races at Jack Wren’s Richmond racecourse. According to family legend, all three made their mark in the equestrian industry, but I will save their stories for another day.
I was a snotty-nosed 12 y.o. I had anything to with chaff-burners on the chance it may lead to something. It certainly did - a sore backside. NSW country trainer Alec Bagnall promised me and two mates a couple of bob helping to clean out his stables. Shovelling up the horse poop and replacing the straw in the stalls sounded simple enough, but it turned out to be a lot more to the job than simply that.
When we had almost finished our task, one of my mates became bored and thought it would be fun to defy Old Alec’s warning about entering a fenced off enclosure which contained a bay stallion. At first glance the big fellow seemed harmless enough, but he suddenly turned into a raging monster the instant our mate set foot inside his territory and bailed him up in a terrifying manner.
Too terrified to enter the yard and rescue our mate, we yelled for help and Old Alec rushed to his aid. I have never seen a man so angry as Old Alec was that day. The three of us were sacked on the spot and hurriedly made our exit from his premises without seeing a single penny of the reward we had been promised. All we received from Old Alec was an old-fashioned kick up the bum.
It was five years or so later that I joined the ranks of the mug punters. I am not exaggerating one iota when I confess that my current losing streak goes back 50-odd years when I lost my shirt on Morse Code in the 1950 Melbourne Cup. I thought M.C. looked home and hosed before being check on the home turn and finished third behind Comic Court and Chiquita.
Another shirt of mine went west in the 1951 Melbourne Cup when M.C. had his second crack at the Melbourne Cup. Again the Lou Robertson-trained nag appeared to have the race in the bag after hitting the front at the home turn. There is no doubt in my mind that M.C. would have won if he hadn’t mistaken the lush green turf of the Flemington straight for the bluey-green contents of Richmond’s Olympic Pool and plunged in head first.
Going on the third time lucky theory, I again risked my shirt, plus everything else that I owned, on M.C. winning the 1952 Melbourne Cup. What a debacle his run in that race turned out to be. Being the form horse, I expected to be given a good run for my money and was absolutely stunned when he finished at the tail of the field.
I was up to my neck in debt when it came time for the Williamstown Cup a fortnight later and unable to raise the raise the price of an admission ticket. Fortunately, a mate of a mate of mine was on the gate recognised my nod and a wink signal and allowed me to go inside. I did not have a bet that day. When I tried the nod and a wink routine with my favorite bookmaker he ignored me completely.
M.C. stormed to victory in the Willy Cup and as spectators responded by giving him the traditional round of clapping and cheering. Among them was one yahoo who bellowed out: `You have improved since the Melbourne Cup.’ That yahoo was me!
Bang! Bang! Bang! Keep the your heads down, my friends, until we meet again …
| [ATTACH=CONFIG]5320[/ATTACH] | with Somersault Sam Our Toorak Times’ columnist has collected so much dirt on the notorious Squizzy Taylor that you are forgiven for suspecting they were tarred with the same brush and became partners in crime. |
[ATTACH=CONFIG]5322[/ATTACH]
SQUIZZY TAYLOR: Toorak Times website readers are being invited to retrace his footsteps through Ole Melbourne Town. (See below)
Right key wrong room, G.E
| I HAVE instructed my trusty band of cut-throat pals to carrying out my instructions to the letter by adopting a softly-softly approach when delivering the following message to Herald Sun reader G.Elleray of Carnegie … |
Dear G.E. - Re your comments published in the Herald Sun on January 22, 2013: Your pappy was pretty much on the ball with what he told you about Squizzy Taylor’s revenge after being given the boot from a Melbourne metropolitan race meeting. Squizzy returned to the course in the dark of night and set fire to the grandstand. However, the geography in your pap’s tale needs a slight correction. The course was Caulfield, not Moonee Valley. I know that to be a fact and attribute it as the reason why a shiver runs up and down my spine every time I attend a raceday at the track they call `The Heath’, 8km south-east of Melbourne’s CBD.
I don’t mean to sound like a clairvoyant or some other person with a mystic touch, but I sense that, like me, G.Elleray of Carnegie may enjoy a flutter on the gee-gees from time to time. If that is the case he may profit the following hot tip: The best way to expand your knowledge about Squizzy T’s comings and goings is to give `Spinner’ - a friend of a friend of mine - a bell on (03) 9889 3746 and have him give the lowdown on the Squizzy Taylor Gangland Walk.
The STGW involves a 2hr-something escorted stroll through the seedy streets and dingy alleyways of Old Melbourne Town retracing the footsteps of Squizzy who, back in the ‘20s, captured the imagination of Melbournians to such a degree with his cockiness, brashness, elusiveness and total disregard for the law - not to mention his itchy trigger-finger - that he became a sort of celebrity, known around the traps as `The man who was never there.’
Squiz, of course, was familiar with the twists and turns of the racing game having had been an apprentice jockey, but his days in the saddle ended unspectacularly when racing officials, owners, trainers and fellow jockeys realised he was not to be trusted and they refused have a bar of him.
Having come from a racing family myself, Squiz’s lurks and perks first came to my notice early in the piece after I became sold on this research caper quite a few moons ago.
I had three great-uncles deeply entrenched in horse racing including one who actually rode against Squiz in pony races at Jack Wren’s Richmond racecourse. According to family legend, all three made their mark in the equestrian industry, but I will save their stories for another day.
I was a snotty-nosed 12 y.o. I had anything to with chaff-burners on the chance it may lead to something. It certainly did - a sore backside. NSW country trainer Alec Bagnall promised me and two mates a couple of bob helping to clean out his stables. Shovelling up the horse poop and replacing the straw in the stalls sounded simple enough, but it turned out to be a lot more to the job than simply that.
When we had almost finished our task, one of my mates became bored and thought it would be fun to defy Old Alec’s warning about entering a fenced off enclosure which contained a bay stallion. At first glance the big fellow seemed harmless enough, but he suddenly turned into a raging monster the instant our mate set foot inside his territory and bailed him up in a terrifying manner.
Too terrified to enter the yard and rescue our mate, we yelled for help and Old Alec rushed to his aid. I have never seen a man so angry as Old Alec was that day. The three of us were sacked on the spot and hurriedly made our exit from his premises without seeing a single penny of the reward we had been promised. All we received from Old Alec was an old-fashioned kick up the bum.
It was five years or so later that I joined the ranks of the mug punters. I am not exaggerating one iota when I confess that my current losing streak goes back 50-odd years when I lost my shirt on Morse Code in the 1950 Melbourne Cup. I thought M.C. looked home and hosed before being check on the home turn and finished third behind Comic Court and Chiquita.
Another shirt of mine went west in the 1951 Melbourne Cup when M.C. had his second crack at the Melbourne Cup. Again the Lou Robertson-trained nag appeared to have the race in the bag after hitting the front at the home turn. There is no doubt in my mind that M.C. would have won if he hadn’t mistaken the lush green turf of the Flemington straight for the bluey-green contents of Richmond’s Olympic Pool and plunged in head first.
Going on the third time lucky theory, I again risked my shirt, plus everything else that I owned, on M.C. winning the 1952 Melbourne Cup. What a debacle his run in that race turned out to be. Being the form horse, I expected to be given a good run for my money and was absolutely stunned when he finished at the tail of the field.
I was up to my neck in debt when it came time for the Williamstown Cup a fortnight later and unable to raise the raise the price of an admission ticket. Fortunately, a mate of a mate of mine was on the gate recognised my nod and a wink signal and allowed me to go inside. I did not have a bet that day. When I tried the nod and a wink routine with my favorite bookmaker he ignored me completely.
M.C. stormed to victory in the Willy Cup and as spectators responded by giving him the traditional round of clapping and cheering. Among them was one yahoo who bellowed out: `You have improved since the Melbourne Cup.’ That yahoo was me!
Bang! Bang! Bang! Keep the your heads down, my friends, until we meet again …
| [ATTACH=CONFIG]5321[/ATTACH] | Squizzy Taylor Gangland Walk Don’t miss this opportunity of taking a peep into the past by experiencing a day or night walking tour by retracing the footsteps of Squizzy Taylor in times when the perky hoodlum acclaimed himself to be lord of the manner. Phone (03) 9889 3746 |
Attached Files