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Rupert and I just celebrated our first Anniversary together. As is the custom for a first Anniversary, my gift to Rupert was Paper. Toilet Paper in fact. Bought a dozen rolls of each and as you’d expect, Prankster Ainsley insists on using both rolls in alternating squares! She particularly likes the image of The Trumpet puckering up to kiss Rupert’s arse. Such a well brought up girl!🥰

The phone call from my GP confirming the serious spike in my PSA came on June 30th last year. I was being driven to Melbourne to celebrate “Christmas In July” with the extended family when I took the call. Since then it’s been all systems go to give that duplicitous bastard Rupert, at least as much discomfort as he was giving me. Hopefully we’ve slowed the prick down. All the following are steps to slow his progression down. The Oncologist has this sadistic habit of reminding me every visit that the cancer can’t be cured and the aim is simply to extend my life. Happy with his “aim”, not so happy with his bedside manner😀.

I had my Blood Test this morning and my PSA level has dropped to 0.6 which suggests the spread might have stopped/slowed down for a while. It was 34 at its peak so it’s a massive drop – get your PSA checked gentlemen. My last session of Chemotherapy is at 1.00pm tomorrow (thank bloody goodness) and Thursday afternoon I have CT Scan and Radiology meeting in preparation for my Radiation Treatment. After the scan, I have my pelvis tattooed to give them a target for the Ray Machine. I’m in discussions with them now about what form the tattoo will take. Apparently the tattooist thinks my idea of “horses heads” to mark the spots is beyond her level of expertise but I’m still holding out hope for little baseballs instead of boring “X marks the spot” decorations. And no Megan, they will not be tattooing my balls! They will advise me at this meeting when my 5 days per week treatments will commence and whether they will be for 6 or 9 weeks. Hoping for 6 obviously, but as I’ve done since June 30 last year, I will do exactly what the experts advise. Not much point owning a dog and barking yourself, so I’ll continue to do precisely what I’m told. I owe that to the people I love.❤️

And now (I promise) for my last Golf anecdotes. With the trots being held at the Showgrounds and then Moonee Valley back in the day, plenty of Punters, Bookmakers and even a number of Trainers were based around Essendon, Ascot Vale way. The easy access to Yarra Bend Public made that the golf course of choice for the trotting fraternity for midweek 18’s. These accounts of what occurred on the 13th, 14th and 15th Holes (or as I like to call them The Trotting Bermuda Triangle) at Yarra Bend are verifiably true. I was there for the events on the Par 3, 112 metre 14th and the Par 4, 341 metre 15th and a person I would trust with my life was there for what happened on the Par 4, sharp dogleg to the left, 308 metre 13th. I believe the Hole numbers may have subsequently changed with some course alterations, but they were Holes 13, 14 & 15 when these incidents took place. Enjoy.

IVAN AND THE GOLD ROLEX: Everyone who has ever played a round of golf knows someone who is a friend of someone’s brother who knows someone who threw their clubs and golf bag into the drink after a particularly demoralising series of miss hits only to have to retrieve their bag because their car keys were in one of the pockets. Only problem is, I suspect most these tales are “urban myths” but his one isn’t. Jim Hynes, the person I would absolutely trust with my life, was a member of the regular Wednesday Foursome that played in the 70’s for the grand total of a Red Lobster each with settling after the 18th. In fact, Jimmy is the common denominator, in each of the 3 tales.🤔 Another regular in the Foursome was Ivan Ribot, a massive Trots punter in the 70’s who never obtained his Driver’s Licence. There was a green side bunker on the Yarra River side of the 13th green that Ivan managed to land in this infamous day and with each of his unsuccessful 10 bunker shots being hit with more venom than the previous one, he was lining up for his 11th attempt when he exploded “Fuck It, I’m never playing golf again”. His 11th out of the bunker was never hit but next instant his sand iron was hitting the murky waters of the Yarra River followed by his pitching wedge, 9,8,7,6,5,4 and 3 Irons, his Driver, his 3 wood, his 5 wood, his putter and finally his now empty, Golf Bag. Ivan was a little bloke and apparently by the time his bag was flung into the river he was more than a little exhausted and whilst his sand iron nearly made it to the opposite river bank, his bag barely made it to the water. With that he handed over $20 to each of his playing partners, spun on his heel and headed of towards the Pro Shop to call a Taxi (no Uber in those days) to go home. He’d only gone about 40 metres when a dreadful thought occurred to him and he sheepishly returned to the river bank. He needed to retrieve his golf bag, not because he had keys in a bag pocket, but because his Gold Rolex was safely tucked away in a bag compartment and the bag and Rolex were now floating off towards Ivanhoe. By sheer good luck, a rower from Studley Park Boathouse was passing the scene of the crime at that exact time and for the cost to Ivan of a Pineapple, he retrieved the Golf Bag, Ivan salvaged his Rolex and this time, his energy levels restored, the bag made it safely into the middle of the river and sunk to the bottom. I suspect it lays there to this day. As for Ivan, I understand, true to his word, he never played golf again.⛳️

“HOLD THE PHONE, THAT’S ANOTHER IRON HEAD GOING FURTHER THAN THE BALL”: In the early 90’s I must have been having a dirty run on the punt and I needed to replace my old set of Clubs (or Sticks as 🐢 would call them🤣) and rather than stump up for a new set of Callaway Irons, I went the “iron head knock off” route and had them fitted with decent shafts by a Club Builder in Sydney. Saved a few hundred bucks and the irons were terrific. As you do, I boasted to Jimmy Hynes about my bargain purchase and he followed suit ordering the same set of irons from the same builder. This day at Yarra Bend his new clubs made their debut. By the time we reached the Par 3, 14th hole only 2 of Jimmy’s new irons were still intact. The other 7 had all snapped clean off where the iron head was attached to the shaft. Now to his credit, Jimmy was an above average snooker player, but as he’s reminded me once or twice over the years, he had more than enough Snooker cues and didn’t need another 9 short graphite ones. Perhaps the shafts snapping was God’s way of telling Jimmy to stick to snooker and to forget about golf. On the one occasion when Jimmy got down on his hands and knees on the green and used one of the newly acquired snooker cues to putt, he sunk possibly the longest putt I’ve ever seen him make – had to be all of 4 feet! I made him take a 2 shot penalty for that of course! So as Jimmy is teeing off, with his at this stage, his still undamaged 9 Iron, I was on the mobile to the Sydney Golf Club Builder letting him know that 7 of the new clubs he’d sent down had snapped. He was in the process of telling me that he must have connected them too tightly and he’d replace them free of charge when I interrupted him mid sentence with a chorus of Queen’s classic “Another One Bites The Dust” as the head of Jimmy’s 9 iron disappeared into the distance as his ball failed to reach the Ladies Tee. The laughs shared that day and repeated over countless lunches and rounds of golf since, always at my expense I might add, made the Club Replacement exercise well and truly worthwhile. Jimmy usually embellishes the story by saying I pocketed a 50% sling from the Builder for recommending his services, but in truth, my commission on the sale was actually 60%.😀

SWEARING WAYNE AND THE RUNAWAY GOLF BUGGY: The 15th hole ran alongside the Yarra and sloped pretty steeply towards the river. This day, Wayne Pollock joined us for the round, and it was Jimmy’s introduction to Swearing Wayne. If Lefty hit a good drive he swore, if he hit a bad drive he swore, if he made a putt he swore and if he missed a putt he swore even more. In fact, I would estimate about 15% of the phrases uttered by Wayne during his “introduction to Jimmy” round included the word FUCK! From that day on, Jimmy always referred to him as Swearing Wayne. Both Jimmy and myself usually enjoy the chat more than the golf when we play and this day we were chewing the fat as Jimmy prepared to hit his third when Jimmy’s buggy took off down the incline headed towards the river just down stream from where Ivan’s bag settled in it’s watery grave. Jimmy probably had me covered for speed that day but he was a million to one about catching his buggy before it plummeted into the murky water and this time his car and house keys were tucked into a bag pocket so he faced getting very, very wet when he went in to recover them. Then enter Stage Left, running at close to the speed of sound, Swearing Wayne to catch Jimmy’s buggy just as it was going into the drink. Once again, we nearly needed an ambulance for a paramedic to examine us all for suspected heart attacks we were laughing that much. Just another memorable day in Trotting’s Bermuda Triangle.🤣

I apologise for taking so long to Post an update but I simply haven’t felt up to it. I think it’s the knowledge that my last EVER chemo session is on tomorrow that has provided the adrenaline boost I needed to get back on line. Ill try to do better going forward. Here’s to no more chemo. Cheers.

And finally, my binging recommendation for this Post is a French crime show called Spiral. There are 8 seasons available on SBS On Demand and they are all rippers.

Stay safe. Love Russ.❌⭕️❤️

I had my three monthly Hormone Therapy Implant 12 days ago and wouldn’t you know: within 48 hours the hot flushes were back in spades. I’m not sure what I expected but I’m pretty certain whatever testosterone I had coursing through my body when I was diagnosed, is now well and truly just a memory so I was hoping the flushes would have settled down. After a 3 week hiatus, I had to make a decision whether to resume Chemotherapy 8 days ago and honestly, the temptation to declare “stop the merry-go-round, I want to get off” was really strong. The realisation that quitting Chemo would basically be giving up drew me back to the Hospital on May 30th for another Infusion.

The day before Chemo and the 8 days since have gone like this: May 29. Took my four Dexamethasone tablets and as usual insomnia was a real issue. May 30. Four more Dexy tablets, a drip of Palonosetron and my fourth course of Chemo. Only side effect on the day was an uncomfortable, burning red face. May 31. Had to self administer a Pegfilgrastim injection into my belly and took my last 4 Dexy Tabs. June 1. Pretty much a “side effect’ free day.😀 June 2. The pain in my legs resumed and the constant nausea was back. June 3. As for June 2 with the addition of a mouth that feels like its been scalded and my taste buds are screwed up again. It’s a sad day when you can’t enjoy Coffee and Chocolate because they both taste incredibly bitter. June 4. A pretty miserable day with the previous day’s side effects still in play and with my fatigue probably worse than it’s ever been. June 5. My bone pain was a good bit better and had resolved itself a couple of days earlier than after my previous 3 Chemo sessions. June 6. My nausea was surprisingly much better. June 7. The only side effect I’m experiencing now is the “scalded mouth” so in summary, Session 4’s impacts have been a lot easier to cope with than any of the previous 3 and the best news is, I now have only 2 more Chemo Sessions remaining. 🥳

Winston Churchill is credited with saying “There is something about the outside of a horse that is good for the inside of a man”. I don’t disagree with old Winston’s analysis but since I’ve been housebound with Rupert, I’m of the firm belief that the outside of Woody the Dachshund is wonderful for this old bloke. He belongs to my Grandson Mitchell and his Girlfriend Caitlin and I suspect they recognise his company is really good for me and consequently he spends a bit of time with us. I have no idea how such an incredibly smart little dog can be so bloody disobedient. I am positive if ever he broke out of our back yard, we’d never see him again. If he spotted us looking for him he’d gallop off as fast as his little legs would carry him to avoid recapture. He sleeps in the bed with me and the 2 short videos above show his bedtime routine. I only wish I had his bladder control as he never has to wake me up to go for a wee and generally, as long as I am sleeping, he is sleeping. In short, and he is REALLY short, he’s a bloody ripper.🥰

I’ve mentioned my 7 year old Granddaughter, Ainsley previously, and she truly is the apple of Pop’s eye. Or at least she was until 7am this morning when I was woken from a deep sleep to the dulcet tones of my Amazon Echo Show announcing “Remember to water your plants”. The smart little bugger had set a reminder to wake me and Woody up. I suspect she knows that I haven’t watered a plant in 50 years which makes her joke even funnier. Pranking War has now been declared between Pop and Ainsley and The Geneva Convention Rules Of War are forthwith suspended. I will be spending the next 24 hours coming up with a “shock and awe” counter attack!

I’ve always played Team Sports and I’m pretty happy with my choices but in saying that, I’ve invariably enjoyed playing social golf with mates. Perhaps because I was a complete fucking hacker, I never had any interest in playing in Club Competitions but the camaraderie and laughs shared with mates over 18 holes followed by a drink at the 19th will remain with me forever. These anecdotes always make me smile and hopefully will give you a laugh as well. Amazingly, all are verifiably true stories.

THE DAY OF THE POWERFUL DRIVE THROUGH SQUARE LEG. One of my favourite Golf companions is Tim Walsh. Tim has had a Home in Indented Heads for as long as I have known him and a morning round of golf followed by an afternoon of feasting on Portarlington mussels was an amazing way to fill in a day. One morning around the late 80’s we met for a round at Clifton Springs Golf Club and as the local “expert”, Tim had the honour on the first hole. I was to hit second so I positioned myself just outside the Tee Box, directly behind Tim, 180 degrees around from where his ball was teed up, as he took aim and launched his drive. Well he sort of launched his drive! This may sound like a physical impossibility but it happened and I have the scar on my shin to prove it. The club speed on Tim’s swing was impressive and the exit velocity on his drive was one for the ages. He smashed it. Unfortunately, the drive never made it to the fairway but it did thunder between his legs at a rate of knots, narrowly missing his genitalia before crashing into my left leg as I watched from what anyone would justifiably consider a totally safe vantage point. I’ve seen some bad hooks off the tee over the last 60 years of social golf but that physics defying, first drive of Tim’s was absolutely unique. I thought they were going to have to call for Medical help for me after the ball thundered into my shin – not to treat my leg but to place me in a MICA Ambulance to prevent me having a heart attack, I was laughing that hard.

IS THAT A GOLF BALL IN YOUR POCKET OR ARE YOU JUST PLEASED TO SEE ME? For many years when I lived in Melbourne, I was a Member of The Caduceus Club, a luncheon Club that would meet every couple of months for Lunch. Once per annum we would have a Golf Day where 4 Player Teams competed under Armbrose conditions. For a number of years our Golf Day was held at the prestigious Yarra Yarra Golf Club, one of Melbourne’s 8, world renowned, Sand Belt courses. The Course is most famous for its 4 par threes with the great Peter Thomson once describing the 185 meter Par 3 eleventh as a “national treasure”. It was on this “national treasure” that I hit what will always remain, the most embarrassing Tee Shot of my chequered golf career. This particular Golf Day, I found myself playing in a Team with 3 blokes who could really play including the Club Captain from nearby Kingston Heath. My biggest contribution to what eventually proved the winning Team was undoubtedly my then Handicap of 26. One of the Rules for our Armbrose Golf Days was that all Team Members had to use 4 of their Tee Shots. As I stood over my ball, the realisation that we’d already played 10 Holes without using any of my drives weighed heavily on me. Champion Australian Cricketer and World War 2 Fighter Pilot, Keith Miller, once stated that “Pressure is a Messerschmitt up your arse, playing cricket is not”. With respect Keith, I’d propose that real pressure is having 8 holes to play in an Armbrose Competition and knowing that you still have to count 4 of your Tee Shots. Anyway, back to my Tee Shot. One of the Green Keepers was mowing the Green on his ride on mower and he pulled to the safety of the back of the green and called us up. By my standards, I hit a decent shot that landed on the back of the green and then one bounced into the Green Keeper’s jacket pocket. He calmly climbed down from his mower and emptied my ball out of his pocket and on to the first cut of rough. One of my 4 Tee Shots was now in the books. I’m not sure if the Green Keeper reported me to the Club Committee for hitting him and failing to yell out “fore” but I do know that we never again played our Golf Day at Yarra Yarra. As a member of the winning team (the token out marker) I received a great Putter and as the striker of a shot that The Club Captain of Kingston Heath declared, he’d never seen the likes of, I received a Box of Titleist Golf Balls. Not too bad a result, all things considered. ⛳️

HEY DUCK, I SAID DUCK! As I’m not sure of The Statute Of Limitations for “Duck Hunting out of season” and for “animal cruelty” (is a duck actually an animal?) it’s probably best that I don’t identify the lead character in this tale and refer to him only as The General. I’ve known The General for over 50 years now and a more loyal friend you will never find but he was, and remains, a competitive bastard and he’s always had just a little bit of a temper. Just as I had a bit of a weakness for buying horses and keeping my wife in the dark about my purchases, The General’s weakness was buying the latest set of technologically improved Golf Clubs. This led to a bit of a problem for The General as he needed to hide his previously purchased “old” Clubs from his wife. His choice of hiding spot was quite innovative, with the roof cavity of his home becoming the resting place for, at one stage, 4 complete sets of relatively new golf clubs and their bags. Now, if you’ve ever carried a complete Golf Bag, you will know that they are reasonably heavy. Legend has it, that the 4 sets of Clubs was a bit much for the ceiling plaster and when it came time to sell his home, a Structural Engineer’s Report stated that the cracked plaster would need to be replaced prior to the property obtaining a structural approval certificate. The General thought that was a small price to have to pay for keeping both his wife and his discarded golf clubs, in the dark for so many years. As mentioned previously, The General could go off in his younger days and one Sunday afternoon at Sunshine Baseball Club, he threw one of the best fast balls I’d ever seen him release at a group of Sunshine hecklers, who’d been shouting incessant abuse at the Essendon Players while consuming their Sunday arvo cans under the shade of their Club Room’s veranda. With hindsight, I’m glad that his fast ball narrowly missed the serial offenders, but at the time, I was definitely hoping he would ping the fucking pest who had christened me Blossom on a previous visit to Sunshine Town. Now for the Duck Tale. The General’s competitive nature was often on display on the Golf Course and just as he threw the baseball at the Sunshine Clowns, it was not unknown for him to fling his golf club off into the distance when he badly miss hit a shot. The noise a club makes when thrown in disgust is very distinctive and the best way to describe it would be as similar to the sound a helicopter makes when coming down to land. That is, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. The course where The General’s most famous, or should that be infamous, throwing of the club occurred, is probably best not revealed but his weapon of choice was a 3 iron and the course did have a large waddle of Mallard Ducks. These are the pretty ones with the beautiful green necks and heads. I like to think that the last thing that went through the ill fated Mallard’s head prior to it being removed by The General’s rotating 3 iron was “Where the fuck is that helicopter? I can hear it but I can’t see it.” Ever since that Duck Decapitation day, I can honestly say, the above described events, have been retold during every round of golf I’ve subsequently played with The General. The General truly is a great friend.

THIS WEEK’S BINGING RECOMMENDATION. SBS On Demand is a source of many wonderful International Series and this week’s recommendation comes from there. It is The Bureau, a French Series with 5 Seasons available for streaming. Each Season seems better than the previous one and it is riveting viewing. Very highly recommended.

Samuel Clemens (Mark Twain) is often credited with making this claim and whilst not entirely accurate, he did in fact, say something very similar in 1897 – “the report of my death was an exaggeration”. With it being a month since my last Post you could easily be forgiven for thinking I’d been “scratched from life’s race” but you would be wrong. Staying alive hasn’t been an issue. It’s just getting on with living that has been a problem.

I was scheduled to have my fourth course of Chemo on May 9th but after discussions with my Oncologist, it was decided to have a hiatus from Arthur to see if I could throw off the debilitating nausea and tiredness that I’d been living with for the previous couple of months. It took until May 18 for the constant nausea to abate but the fatigue remains an issue. I was seriously considering whether the Therapies I’ve been undertaking (Chemo every 3 weeks, Nubeqa medication twice a day and Hormone Therapy) were worth the price I was paying in the hits I’d taken to my quality of life. Being able to live a good life is more important to me than simply staying alive.

Tuesday this week was an important day. I had my 3 monthly CT and NM TC-PSMA Scans. I didn’t need a sign from God if I was to continue my treatments but I did need an indication from the Radiologist reviewing the Scans that Rupert had been slowed down. The Results were better than I could have hoped for at this stage and my decision to place my faith in the Specialist’s recommendations seems to have been vindicated so it’s back into Hospital next Tuesday for another dose of Chemo I go.

I have stated previously that I have found the reminiscing required in compiling this Blog to be greatly therapeutic and whilst I can’t guarantee how often I will Post now I’m resuming Chemo, please don’t assume my failure to post is an indication of my demise. As with old mate Mark, assuming my death “would be an exaggeration”.

NICKNAMES: Anyone who has spent a lifetime playing Team Sports and/or spending their days on Racetracks is bound to accumulate plenty of nicknames. Most don’t stick but occasionally one will stay with you for the rest of your life. Since my Primary School days I’ve been known variously as Eggy, Eggshells, Edy, Rusty, Rissole, Big Fella, Refrigerator, The Fridge, Knuckles (don’t ask), Rich, Blossom (given to me by the drunks at Sunshine Baseball Club in the 70’s and still probably the monicker most used by my mates) and finally Cecil.

The handle Cecil was given to me by Rick Tresize in the showers in my early days at Essendon because he felt I bore a strong resemblance to Cecil the ram from Footrot Flats. Every Sporting Club needs someone to keep things loose on the Field and if there was a Hall Of Fame for Team Clowns, Rick would have been inducted decades ago. He was famous (infamous) for setting teammates shoe laces on fire, for putting his false teeth on the Dinner Plate of the Waverley Baseball Club’s President and for peeing on the leg of all and sundry in the showers. A couple of these require further explanation. The “false teeth on the dinner plate” incident occurred in 1984 during Waverley’s 25th Anniversary Dinner at their ground. Having played Waverley that afternoon, most of the Firsts stuck around for the celebrations. The fact that we won after being 9 runs down in the ninth innings probably contributed to our willingness to join in the merriment. To his credit, the Waverley President laughed off the “false teeth” accompaniment to his chicken dinner although he did consign the entire meal, false teeth and all, to the bin. Not sure why he didn’t just tuck in!😃 The “peeing on the leg” of unsuspecting Teammates in the shower has been going on in Team Sports since Adam played full back for the Eden Garden Apple Eaters but Rick was much better at it than most. I’m not sure why, but I somehow suspect, it never found its way into Women’s Locker Rooms.🤔 Veterans know to always shower facing your teammates and to never close your eyes when shampooing your hair. This is important information every Granddad should pass onto his Grandsons, so Robert, take note.

THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY: Every fisher has a story about the “one that got away” and this old horse owner has one as well. In the 1978/79 Racing Year I had seen a really nice two year old colt win a couple of races. I liked the horse that much that we actually bred our only mare to his sire. The Studmaster standing the sire was also the driver of the horse in question and I asked him would the now 3 year old be for sale. The horse was owned by the Studmaster’s Father In Law and they eventually let me know that the horse was for sale for $30,000. He had made a couple of starts at 3 without troubling the scorer and it did seem a lot for a maiden 3yo but I agreed to trial the horse with a view to purchase. Around the same time I was considering investing $35,000 for a 14% share in a Stallion that was coming to Australia. The Stallion was by the World’s Leading Sire out of a terrific broodmare and had a decent race record. The choice for me was a risky investment in a 3yo colt or a reasonably safe investment in a young Stallion that should generate a steady stream of income for the next 20 years. Unfortunately I went with the stallion. His name was Sprinkler and he may well be the worst Sire ever to pollute our Standardbred gene pool. The 3 year old colt was Popular Alm, the greatest Australian Pacer I’ve ever seen.

After agreeing to trial Poppy, I arranged for Hall Of Famer, Brian Gath to travel to Bendigo give the horse a hit out. He was to work the horse over a mile and the only people present that morning apart from Brian and myself, were my Dad and Popular Alm’s owner, Arthur Pearce. Ron Pocock also viewed the workout from his lounge room across the road from the track. Of the group witnessing the trial, only Brian is still alive to verify this account and although I’ve never discussed the subsequent events with him, I suspect he’d view Poppy as his “one that got away” as well.

Poppy ran a mile in 1.58.1 for Brian hard held! To put this effort into perspective, at that time, no horse had broken 1.58.4 in Australia’s preeminent mile race, The Miracle Mile. Both Brian and myself thought we’d made a blue clocking the mile but we both had identical times. Poppy had ran a time that was simply unheard of. The negotiations for purchase took place in Arthur Pearce’s kitchen and after a bit of haggling he’d agreed to drop the price from $30,000 to $25,000. Brian had won our richest race, The Interdominion on Markovina for a couple of Adelaide Owners in 1978 and he spent the next half hour trying to convince them to pay the asking price but they wouldn’t budge off $20,000. I suspect they also considered Poppy their “one that got away”. By the time Brian had made his way back to his stables in Deer Park the aforementioned Ron Pocock had learnt from the Owner that Brian couldn’t come up with the asking price and he promptly called Vin Knight to let him know that he’d seen the fastest mile ever paced at Bendigo and that the horse could be his. The rest as they say, is history with Poppy becoming an equine hero throughout Australia. Vinny always maintained he paid $40,000 for Popular Alm, and perhaps he did, but one thing I know for certain is that had I not selected Sprinkler as my investment of choice, Poppy would have been going home with me for $25,000 and Vinny would never have got his hands on him. A “sliding door” moment if ever there was one.

Finally, one of the advantages (if I can call it that) of being too tired to leave the house is that I get to binge a lot of TV Shows. Whenever I Post going forward I will recommend a Show that I think you’ll enjoy. This week’s recommendation is a great show on Netflix called “Rough Diamonds”. It is fantastic viewing and if you can put up with the Subtitles, you’ll love it.

One of the disadvantages of trying to post weekly updates, is that every now and then the battle between Arthur and Rupert leaves me debilitated, exhausted and pretty much knackered. The two weeks since my last Chemo have been by far the most testing period I’ve been through since diagnosis. and the only difference between the Pet Shop Parrot and me was that I actually was sleeping, nearly 24/7. My body seems to be screaming at me, “give me a spell mate” so thats what I’ll be doing. I’ve already broached the subject with my dedicated Oncology Nurse, Allison, and will be speaking to the Specialist about suspending my next Infusion for three weeks. In Baseball terms, I’d equate this three week recovery time to the Seventh Innings Stretch. In Baseball the Ground Crew come out half way through the seventh innings and redo the infield in preparation for the last few innings. I’m not checking out of the Game – just getting ready for the next few innings.⚾️

I switched up my Play List for my last Chemotherapy session and had a couple of hours listening to The Killers. The choice seemed a bit of a no-brainer. The words in their Land Of The Free really resonate with me.

For the first time since I commenced Chemo, the dreaded vomit reared it’s ugly head this week. In the middle of the night it struck and unfortunately I forgot that I had a bucket strategically placed beside my bed for such emergencies and instead bolted for the loo with all the speed of a Usain Bolt. To understand the significance of my little dash, it should be looked at through the lens of two things: firstly for the previous 10 days I had barely sat up let alone raced to the bathroom and secondly, if there is one generic trait that runs right through the Edwards Male line, it’s that none of us were graced with any leg speed. Johnny, Barry, Brendan, Mark, John, Mitchell and myself all would be kindly referred to as plodders. Haven’t seen enough of Rory, Brayden, Jakob, Andrew, Jett, Billy, Oliver, Angus and Lachlan to know if they managed to overcome the Edwards speed (or lack of it) deficiencies but at about 2.00am, last Wednesday morning I’m pretty sure I would have had them all covered. Which brings me to another important bit of Edwards Family history that needs to be recorded for posterity’s sake.

I can Imagine my son John will be choking on his coffee at being included in the Loiterers List but let history show, John has never beaten me in a race. In his early teens he insisted he had me covered over any distance so in the Winter of 1991 the stage was set for The Edwards Gift over 100 metres to be ran on one of the main streets of Kiama, NSW. After Dad passed away in March of 1991, we tried to include Mum in our Holiday Plans and while her refusal to board a plane restricted our options, in the Winter of that year, we headed off to Kiama for what actually became a really nice time that I think helped Mum cope with her grief just a little bit.

In 1991 my playing days in the State League were winding down, ultimately being brought to an end by a severe case of Glandular Fever diagnosed on Christmas Eve, 1993. John was developing a real passion for the game and worked hard on being the best he could be. So the stage was set, 37 year old Dad versus 13 year old John, in the Grudge Race of the 20th Century.

The start of our race may or may not, have borne a striking resemblance to the start of “The Race” in Seinfeld Season 6. The only difference was I didn’t need Kramer’s car to backfire to give me a fast getaway. After 30 metres I had an unassailable lead and coasted through the finish line with the Judge not having to reach for his Camera. All Gamblers have to “know when to hold them and know when to fold them” and that day I officially retired as the undefeated Edwards Family Sprint Champion. An acknowledgment I would like included in my Obituary 😄. John, to his credit used the experience as a spur to work on his running and about 4 years later he was the youngest Member of an Australian Touring Team that went to the USA and shortly after that he had signed a Professional Contract with the Minnesota Twins.⚾️

This Final message in this post is for my beautiful Granddaughter Ainsley who celebrated her 7th Birthday just two weeks ago. At some time, long after I am gone my Darling, I would expect your Mum and Dad will sit down with you and you and you’ll go through Living With Rupert together. They will probably delay sharing the Blog with you due to the occasional swear word I may have used but little do they know, that your capacity to swear rivals that of my good mate Wayne Pollock and in fact your spelling of swear words is far superior to mine. I just think it is important that you know how much it means to me when you make sure no one is looking and you sneak me a kiss on the cheek. For that instant, all my health issues just melt away and I’m filled with love for you. I wish I could be there to watch you grow but i know you have the complete and total support of the Fredericks and Edwards Families and you will be just fine. Love you my Girl. Pop❤️⭕️❌

Just a quick read that I hope you find interesting for when you’re hopping into your Easter Eggs tomorrow (see what I did there – hopping into your Easter eggs😀). Once again, this is a Rupert Free zone, but for information purposes, I have my next three weekly appointment with the Oncologist on Thursday and hopefully I’ll get the okay to commence treatment with the previously discussed Nebeqa.

A REAL EASTER MIRACLE

Anyone who has ever had a bet has absolutely no doubt that there is a “Punting God”. We may or may not believe the stories of The Virgin Birth or of Jesus Rising From The Dead but of the presence of an omnipotent Punting God, we have no doubt. I can attest that I personally was the beneficiary of an Easter Miracle courtesy of the Punter’s Deity on April 21st 2003. Let me explain.

In the late 1990’s, early 2000’s an Easter visit to Oakbank in South Australia for the Great Eastern Steeple was a once a year pilgrimage for my long time mate Michael Barrett and his wonderful Partner, Sharon Ryan. One of Michael’s friends was Eric Musgrove, one of Australia’s leading Jumps Trainers, and Mick, Eric and a number of other friends would spend the Easter Weekend based in picturesque Hahndorf and attend the Saturday and Monday Race Meetings between doing plenty of eating and drinking in the German themed Town. Robyn and I joined them for this terrific weekend a number of times but in 2003 we remained in Melbourne. I suspect it might be the case that Mick and Sharon barred us after the 2002 Easter Trip because I had John Williamson’s Greatest Hits playing on loop for the 7 hour road trip but honestly, I can’t see what the problem was. How could anyone not love listening to that Australian classic, Bill The Cat, multiple times while being chauffeured from Ascot Vale to Handoff?😄

Michael and myself would talk virtually every day back then and on Easter Sunday night be rang to tell me what a great meal I was missing out on at Zorro’s Steak House. Telling each other what a great feed we were enjoying in their absence was the subject of plenty of calls and on this call I asked Mick whether Eric Musgrove liked anything in the Great Eastern Steeple the next day. He replied that Eric thought by far his best for the day was in The Onkaparinga Cup on the flat. He didn’t tell me it’s name but I didn’t need to be a Rocket Scientist to find the tip on the TAB Site the next day. Eric only had one runner in the Cup and his name was Chase Harry. I threw $50 on “Harry” taking the “best tote” option on my Corporate Account (I hadn’t been barred by virtually every Corporate Bookie at that stage) and proceeded to forget what time the race was on, being more interested in watching the Richmond – St Kilda game from Docklands than watching the Oakbank gallops. After the Footy was finished I checked my Account and a win of just over $7,000 had been credited to my balance mid afternoon. “Harry” had led all the way starting at 40/1 with the Bookies, paying just over $100 on the SA TAB and paying $140 “Top Tote”. Obviously I immediately called Mick to thank him for the tip and his slightly annoyed response was “What the fuck are you talking about?” I reminded him of our conversation the night before and he informed me that the one Eric thought would win was scratched with a high temperature early Monday morning and he didn’t think “Harry” had a hope in hell! I’m not sure but I think Mick might have then hung up in my ear.🤣 I don’t know if Chase Harry ever won another race but that day he proved the time tested adage, “it’s better to be lucky than smart”. Now that was a real Easter Miracle. This one is for you Sharon🤣.

THE VERY DEFINITION OF A BAD BEAT.

Have you ever backed a horse that is going for its ninth win on the trot, watched it crap in by 11 lengths, note that your pick was never close enough to any other runners to lose the race on protest and still finish up $400 lighter in the kick? I have. This is the Sendok Story.

During my time studying (and I use the term extremely loosely) Accountancy in Bendigo there was a group of us who would regularly skip an afternoon’s classes to attend a Trots Meeting in the local area. I also had a good buddy doing Accountancy who had no time for the Trots but loved the Gallops and we would sometimes head out to the Bendigo Track for a Thoroughbred Program. His name was Kevin “Shifty” Sheehan and he went on to be arguably become the most important figure in the AFL’s Draft and Development Programs as the National Talent Identification Manager. We played cricket together in Bendigo Representative Teams and in the Clan Travelling Cricket Team and I spent much too much time at his Family’s Rising Son Hotel in Barnard Street, Bendigo. I am pretty certain he was my partner in crime the day of the Sendok Bad Beat.

As mentioned previously, Sendok was going for his 9th win in a row on this 1st day of October, 1973 and I somehow managed to secure 6/4 for $400 in the strong local Bookmaker’s Ring with him eventually starting Evens. That was about as big a bet as I would ever have in those days. He won, hard held, by an ever widening 11 lengths, and while I was lined up with the other winning punters behind the Bookmaker’s Stand, the Steward’s Warning Siren sounded. I had no idea what the issue was but I was bloody sure it couldn’t possibly involve Sendok. How wrong I was! Sendok had completed the Race with a 4kg Lead Bag he should have been carrying, back on the dividing partition in the horse’s stall. He was disqualified and every Punter who had backed him did their money cold. Even today, I understand the Punter still loses his bet if a similar circumstance occurs. One Rule of punting should be, “if you can’t win you can’t lose”, but when this happened “I couldn’t win and I did lose”. Danny Power, a Journalist mate of mine for more years than I care to remember, tracked down the story about the race that The Age published the next day and it appears below. One point in the story that jumps out at me is that the Trainer copped the same $400 Penalty as I did. That hardly seems equitable and personally I would have been happier to see him receive a 12 month disqualification and 50 lashes with a Jockey’s whip.😄

WHEN THE PLANETS ALIGNED

As anyone who knows me and anyone following my Blog will be aware, the two greatest loves of my life, apart from my Family, were The Trots and Baseball. The Trots gave us a great living for many years and Baseball gave me a place to get away from the pressures of living on the punt. Both provided me with wonderful friends and many memories that will keep me smiling when my time is up. This story is about how my love of the Trots gave me a once in a lifetime Baseball experience.

Some time in the late 80’s I was negotiating with the two owners of a Stallion in the USA to purchase him for down under. The price was agreed and the deal was done subject to the horse (I think it’s name was Nukes Image but I can’t be sure of that) passing what was called an EVA Test. To safeguard the Australian Equine Industry any stallion imports had to obtain a Negative EVA Result through a Semen Test before they were allowed in the Country. Most Stallions passed the test but this time Nukes Image failed so the Sale never went through. One of the two Part Owners was George Steinbrenner, Principal Owner of the New York Yankees, recently valued at US$7.1B. You might know him form the back of his head on many Seinfeld Episodes. At the time that the Sale fell over, Mr Steinbrenner, or George as I liked to call him, said to me that the next time I was in New York he’d like me to be his guest at Yankee Stadium. I wasn’t in New York for a number of years but in 1999 a group of 6 of us were heading to the USA East Coast to visit the Baseball Hall Of Fame in NY State and to attend a some Yankees games so I contacted George to see how long a rain check on his personal invitation was good for. To my absolute shock, he sent me the following reply.

So off to Yankee Stadium on July 19th we headed for our first game between the New York Yankees and the Montreal Expos. We were going to be there for another four games, one more against Montreal, two against Tampa and one versus Cleveland and I had let George know we’d be there for the five games I’ve detailed. To my absolute surprise, George hadn’t left Bleacher Seats – he’d left me six tickets for each of the five games in his field level private box on the home plate side of the Yankees Dugout. We were in heaven.

But let me back up a few days: on Friday July 16th, George had John F Kennedy Junior as his guest in “our” Private Box for a game against Atlanta and after the game JFK Junior took his seat behind the controls of his Piper Saratoga plane and took off for Martha’s Vineyard Airport. Now, had we scheduled our trip for just a few days earlier, I’m absolutely positive that Junior would have been fascinated by the Aussie accent and the winning personality of this White Hill Tech graduate and would almost certainly have asked me to join him on his flight.🤔 The plane never made it to Martha’s Vineyard and the bodies of Kennedy and his two passengers were recovered five days later. On Sunday July 18th David Cone threw only the 16th Perfect Game in Major League history and only the third Perfect Game ever pitched by a Yankee. Can you imagine how exciting that would have been to be seated there drinking Bloody Marys and eating Hot Dogs just a couple of feet from where Cone was doing his thing? Instead we were driving to our Hotel just through the Lincoln Tunnel in New Jersey. We missed that thrill by 24 hours and had to settle for watching five games of Yankee Baseball in seats that money literally couldn’t buy. After a couple of days we’d got to know the Waiting Staff looking after our every need pretty well and the Head Waiter enquired “Excuse me sir, but how did you get these seats?” As you’d expect I replied honestly “Me and George have been mates for years mate and he never makes any Roster moves without giving me a call first”. He seemed happy with that and although I never thought it possible, I think our service was even better after that conversation.⚾️

Reggie Jackson remains my favourite Yankee so it’s appropriate he should appear somewhere in this Post and here he is in an Angels uniform. Have a lovely Easter Sunday and stay well. Russ⭕️❌

1. 

   Duck story had me on the floor!

2. 

   Lovely tales as always Russ. We have recently got a new Dachshund puppy, as I lost my beautiful Steffi in…

3. 

   Hi Russ More wonderful stories and I will look up Rough Diamonds. You and Mark Twain hang in there! With…

4. 

   Hey mate love the blog,keep being tuff as I know you will. Sent from my iPhone

5. 

   Bless you Russ. Reading your wonderful blog, I spend half of my time laughing and half crying. Perhaps you should…

After last week’s venting this weekend’s Posts will be a “Rupert free zone”. Instead I have written about: “The Greatest Love Story Never Told” and over Easter I will add: “A 1973 Bad Beat”, “A True Easter Miracle” and “When The Planets Alligned”. It’s Holidays so you’ll have plenty of time to read them.😀

My very existence was determined by a chance encounter at the Bendigo Easter Procession on April 22nd, 1946. What about the crowd shown in attendance that day. Everyone in Bendigo seems to be out celebrating the first Easter in 6 years that included the young men that survived being sent off to War.

Growing up, there was always an untouchable subject for dinner time discussions and that was the date of Mum and Dad’s Wedding. Their stock answer to any questions was “I can’t remember the date”. It was only when I needed to lodge my Birth Certificate to obtain my first Passport in 1979 that I thought I knew the reason for their forgetfulness. The Certificate showed that they Married on September 12th, 1947. My wonderful Brother Johnny was born in 1940 so mystery solved, right? They were simply embarrassed! How wrong I was. There is a Heroine and Hero in this Story, one is my Mum and one is my Dad.

Mum fell pregnant with my Brother (and he was always my brother, never my half brother) in May of 1939. The Sperm Donor (he never earned the right to be called Johnny’s Father) was best mates with Mum’s brother Roy and honestly his name is irrelevant but from the day Johnny was born, The Sperm Donor had absolutely nothing to do with Mum or her Baby. On February 11, 1940 Mum became a 17 year old single mother. The Country was at war and the pressure on unmarried mothers to surrender their baby for adoption the minute they were born was immense. Mum and her parents refused to hand Johnny over and instead took him home, showered him with love, and gave him a stable home. Around 1942, Mum is now a 20yo single mum living with her parents and desperate to give Johnny a Dad, she decides to accept a marriage proposal from a soldier home on leave in Shepparton. Once again, his name is unimportant but for the purpose of this story let’s call him what he was, Wife Beater. In a very short period of time my Pop, the winner of the Military Medal for Bravery in WW1, had denied him access to the family home and the marriage was either annulled or Mum obtained a divorce. We aren’t sure of this detail. As a divorcee and a single mum, Mum now had 2 strikes against her and I can only assume she wasn’t a great judge of character. On Easter Monday, Mum and a six year old Johnny set off early from their home in Bridge Street to obtain a vantage point where Johnny could get a good view of all the floats, marching bands and of course, the World renowned Chinese Dragon, Loong.

And now for the hero of this tale, my Dad. Dad enlisted for the Army in 1939 and served in multiple theatres of war before returning to Bendigo by January of 1946. When he went off to War, Dad had a girl friend named Dot. At some stage when Dad was overseas, his younger brother “cut his lunch” and married Dot. Voltaire is credited with saying “To the living we owe respect, but to the dead we owe only the truth”, so sorry Uncle Les, but thank Christ you took that “Dot” bullet for us. Mum was world class at carrying a grudge and I never understood why Auntie Dot was off her Christmas Card List, but after learning the “girl friend” tale, I now know why. Dad had known Mum socially prior to heading off to War but they were never romantically involved. After all, Dad had a girl friend and he was strictly a “one dog, one bone” man. Dad has a “Drunk and Disorderly” charge on his Military Service Record and I like to think he hit the town hard and got smashed (preferably somewhere exotic like Beirut or Cairo or Damascus) when the literal “Dear John” letter arrived from his old girlfriend. So during April of 1946, Dad was enjoying his first Easter at home in 7 years and he was footloose and fancy free. He’d just found full time employment and he headed off to the Easter Procession for a big day out with his mates.

After the Procession was completed, Mum was walking around the Easter Fair stalls taking in all the excitement and atmosphere of the Fair with Johnny, when a handsome, returned soldier snuck up behind her and put her hand in his. For the next 45 years, up until his passing on March 11th 1991, he kept hold of Mum’s hand and never let go. They married in 1947 and Dad adopted Johnny and he was an Edwards. They lived with Mum’s parents in Kennedy Street until 1959 when they bought a brand new home in Fox Street, Bendigo with a War Service Loan. They had a sign made and affixed it to the chimney out the front of our home. The sign simply said “Orana”. It is the original Australian’s word for “Welcome” and from the day they took possession of our new home, everyone was welcome to visit, any time, day or night.

For a few years the three Edwards Brothers (I like to think we were known as “The Fox Street Boys” but we actually weren’t😄) shared a bedroom with Johnny in the single bed and Barry and myself in a bunk bed. I think Johnny eventually got sick of Barry’s farting and snoring🤣 and my Brother moved out in 1964 marrying, ironically, the beautiful Dorothy (and believe me, this Dot was a ripper) and she remains my Sister to this day.

All the details of this wonderful love story were kept from me until approximately one hour before Dad passed away. As Mum and I sat at Dad’s Hospital bedside, she completely unexpectedly started opening up about Johnny and how she came to enjoy a lifetime of happiness with Dad. Most the above details were derived on that afternoon with extra information eventually confirmed by Mum’s sister Marion around 20o4. Mum confirmed that Dad and her sat down with Johnny when he was about 16 and they told him everything about their history and gave Johnny the chance to know the name of the Sperm Donor and his reply fills my heart with joy. He said “I know who my Dad is and that’s you”. Still makes me emotional today. I’m pretty sure most of us were unplanned pregnancies and we never really knew whether we were wanted or just accepted as a part of normal, growing Family. Johnny knew from his discussion with Mum and Dad that he was unconditionally wanted by his Family from the time Dad took Mum’s hand all those years ago. That’s pretty cool I think.

Dad seemed completely at peace as Mum revealed our Family history and I’m absolutely certain that a burden was lifted off Mum as she spoke to me and that it really helped her cope with Dad’s death. The Nurse told us that we should probably take a break for a little while and I was in the car with Mum and Dad’s younger Sister, Jean, when the Hospital called on my car phone (this was 1991 and my car phone cost somewhere near $5000!) to let us know Dad had slipped away peacefully. Is it possible he was able to let go knowing that Mum had opened up to me? I honestly have no idea but I do know exactly what the last thing I said to him was. I kissed him on the forehead and thanked him for giving me two wonderful Brothers and I thanked him on behalf of Johnny and Barry for the lives he’d given us.

I referred earlier to the imaginary Fox Street Boys and I’d like to conclude this Love Story with a recollection from when this “Band Of Brothers” took on an entire baseball team during the 1970 Queens Birthday VPBL baseball championships in Traralgon. I was a 16 year old playing third base for Bendigo, Johnny was a 30 year old playing right field and Barry was a 23 year old short stop. The three of us had very different personalities: Johnny preferred a fight to a feed, Barry was one of the most annoying people I ever played with constantly sniping at Umpires and the opposition (I once saw the Coach of our Bendigo Club Team, Falcons, drag him off the field and play with 8 players when Barry sulked after playing tunnel ball with a grounder and then refusing to chase it) and as for me, I was all about the game😇. At some stage of the Sunday afternoon game someone slid into Barry with his cleats up and it was on. I think the 30 year old right fielder was buggered after sprinting all the way to second base and he was no where near his pugilistic best but I was first there and ready to go. I’m not sure if the Fox Street Boys actually did put a beat down on everyone from the opposition Team but I like to think we did. What I know for certain is that we brothers had a tighter bond than ever after that game. Barry actually won the MVP for the Championships that year (can’t believe I didn’t win it!) and we won the Grand Final Game comfortably so a rollicking good time was had by all.

It was important to me that I get this part of our Family history down for all my extended Family and future generations. Thank you if you’ve made it to the end. I truly appreciate it. RIP Johnny Edwards and John Edwards, my Brother and my Father. You were two of the very best. ❤️⭕️❌

John Edwards, born October 27th, 1921, died March 11th, 1991. Elva Mary Edwards, born October 14th, 1922, died November 10th, 2016. Love and miss you both.❤️⭕️❌

1. 

   Duck story had me on the floor!

2. 

   Lovely tales as always Russ. We have recently got a new Dachshund puppy, as I lost my beautiful Steffi in…

3. 

   Hi Russ More wonderful stories and I will look up Rough Diamonds. You and Mark Twain hang in there! With…

4. 

   Hey mate love the blog,keep being tuff as I know you will. Sent from my iPhone

5. 

   Bless you Russ. Reading your wonderful blog, I spend half of my time laughing and half crying. Perhaps you should…

Bad news Warren, the “Frank and Beans” have nearly disappeared and Magda, you can now breathe easy as my stretch marks where my muscles once were, are much worse than your “roast chicken”, sun scorched skin. As for you Mary, with apologies to the Soup Nazi, “No hair gel for you”. There are “Plenty of things about Rupert” and every fucking one of them is a malignancy. The Rupert in me is here to stay unfortunately but I have made it my mission to outlive the 95 year old rat living in New York. I see he’s getting married again so with a bit of luck he’ll do a Billy Snedden and die on the nest.

This is a rough graph showing the rise in my PSA and subsequent drop after commencing dual therapies. One of the earliest measures the Urologists consider is the PSA Doubling Time which indicates how quickly the PSA Level will increase by 100% and the PSA Velocity which measures the change in PSA over time. My Doubling time, as indicated by my first two alarm bell ringers, was 1.1 months and the Velocity 12.8 ng/ml/mo. If the PSA Doubling Time is less than 3 (mine was 1.1) then the Prostate Cancer Mortality Rate is 20 times greater than if the Doubling Time is greater than 3. A Velocity of 0.75 is considered acceptable so mine being 12.8 was a long way from that. (Source: Prostate Specific Antigen. Author: Michael K David DO).

I guess the point I would like to emphasise to every male who reads Living With Rupert, is to please have regular PSA Tests. The aggressiveness of Rupert in me meant that an operation to remove the Prostate was never an option. Had I been given my regular PSA test in January it may well have shown my reading as being around my normal level of 4 and I may well have already departed for the great baseball field in the sky. Because my GP booked me in for a Blood Test in May with a follow up 2 weeks later, and then hastened my appointment with a Urologist, I’ve been given a chance to slow Rupert down. I’m grateful for that chance.

I start my second Chemo course of Arthur The King Of The Chemo tomorrow so I was reacquainted with Dexy The Midnight Runner this morning. Probably means I will be watching TV till the wee hours unable to sleep so any suggestions for shows to binge will be gratefully accepted. I handled the first Arthur infusion pretty well. My fatigue worsened, I had pretty bad bone pain in my legs for a few days and I’ve generally felt nauseous for most of the last three weeks but no throwing up at all so I think I’d rank Chemo side effects a good way below the pain of a really, really bad hangover.😄 A few of you drew my attention to a new Drug being used in conjunction with Hormone Therapy and Chemotherapy in Prostate Cancer patients. It’s name is Nubeqa and the results are promising in extending life expectancy in Stage 4 patients. My team of Specialists will tomorrow be discussing putting me on the new drug so fingers crossed I am a suitable candidate.

If you live on the punt for 40 odd years, you are guaranteed to have plenty of “bad beat” stories but I’m not going to focus on punting bad beats as they are simply a fact of life for anyone living on the punt (plus I’m not sure I have enough time left to even cover 10% of them). Rather I will focus on a few races that we lost as owners that we should have won and didn’t through no fault of the horses listed and one sporting bad beat that shaped my life for the better.

Pelicanrama in the 2YO Bathurst Gold Tiara. She started at $1.10 in the Final of this prestigious race and she was well over the odds. She could have ran the entire race next to the outside fence and would still have shit in. Unfortunately a cowboy drawn a barrier outside of us decided to take our legs in the run to the first turn and our race was over. Kerryn Manning was only just starting to drive in those days and her Dad Peter was behind The Pelican and probably with hindsight, discretion may have been the better part of valour, and had he restrained at barrier release and then gone forward, we would have won easily. Unfortunately the possibility of being poleaxed at the start never entered our collective heads. The Cowboy got a holiday from the Stewards and we got nothing. Bastard.😡

Trojan Twin in NSW Sires Stakes Races at Forbes and Albury. These were only heats of the Sires Stakes and they weren’t high prize money races. Trojan Twin was just a nice horse and won about $120,000 in his career. He was named after the College in Chicago my son John studied at, and in using the word “studied”, I really am taking a lot of journalistic license but that’s a story for another day when I write the XXX Rated John Story.🤣 To get to Forbes involved approximately 10 hours in a float from Peter Manning’s Great Western property and the trip to Albury was about 6 hours. In other words, they were hardly our local tracks but to make the Finals of the Sires Stakes you had to run in heats. In both races we were flattened by the same Driver on a horse called Jofess. Jofess went on to win Harness Racing’s biggest race, The Interdominion in Perth but thank Christ it wasn’t in the care of Bruce Harpley at that time. It was in fact trained and driven then by a great mate in Darren Hancock. We stayed at Darren and his Dad, Dick’s stables in Pheasants Nest when we raced in Sydney and I will be forever indebted to them for their hospitality. Trojan Twin ran second in both races and for one of the very few times in Peter’s long career, he lodged a protest in one of the bad beats. That demonstrates how pissed off Peter was. Jofess, driven by Bruce Hartley, beat us by a metre in the protested race and I have no doubt the interference cost us victory but the local Stewards surprisingly didn’t agree with my summation. Who would have thought: local Stewards preferencing a local Driver! Bastard😡.

Roman Aspect running second during the Spring Carnival. I’ve only ever raced a couple of Gallopers and Roman Aspect was a ripper. One of my very best mates, John Pate, asked me would I like to go in him just a few weeks before his first start as a 2YO at Flemington during the Spring Carnival. He ran a terrific race down the straight and finished about 4th or 5th (Chopper will know exactly where he finished😄) and the next week on Sandown Cup Day he won the Rawdon Stakes by about 5 lengths hard held. I can still remember the great race-caller Bill Collins stating in the run home something like “This isn’t a race. Roman Aspect has destroyed them.” He was turned out for a spell after crapping in at Sandown and 6 weeks later on New Year’s Eve he underwent surgery for a twisted bowel. I believe Alister McLean at Werribee performed the life saving operation and saved him. He returned to the races in the Spring as a 3YO and won The Mercedes Benz Stakes on Caulfield Cup day by 4 lengths ridden by Peter Cook. We gave Peter Cook a $2000 sling after the race but it mustn’t have been enough because he jumped off Roman Aspect to ride another runner the next week on Cox Plate Day. We ran second that day and headed to Flemington for their Carnival with great expectations. This was where the Roman Aspect bad beat occured. We were ridden by Harry White in (I think) The Carbine Stakes. Harry had the race track moniker “Handbrake Harry” and I have no idea why punters called him that🤔. This day we were beaten a neck by the heavily backed favourite, a horse called I think, The Challenge, ridden by Mick Ditman for Tommy Smith. After the race Bill Collins said it was “a great example of two outstanding jockeys getting the best out of their respective mounts. Mick Ditman wielding the whip vigorously and Harry White sitting quietly, riding hands and heels.” I’m not sure if bill was subtly suggesting we’d been “hand braked” but I know that’s what I thought. To make matters worse I’d had a $1000 each way at 16/1 on our horse. The bet was made with one Bookmaker and he asked me did I want it again. Different times. When I gave the punt away the Corporate Bookmakers wouldn’t let me back one to win $500. So glad I lived in the racing era that I did. Now for the sad ending to this tale. Shortly after the Spring Carnival, Roman Aspect burst his bowel and this time couldn’t be saved. We had the best of good luck being involved in such a terrific horse and the worst of bad luck losing him when he had an exciting future in front of him. Bastard😡.

Being left out of a Country Victoria Cricket Team to play the West Indies in 1975. This was the Tour when a young Viv Richards, Gordon Greenidge and Andy Roberts appeared on the World Stage. As an aside, Richards had a pretty ordinary start to the Tour but in the last two tests Captain Clive Lloyd put him at the top of the order with Roy Fredericks and Viv scored two centuries and a fifty facing the opening attack of Lillee and Thompson, and the rest, as they say, is history, with Richards going on to be one of the very best the game has seen. Can you imagine how many times I could have dined out on the imagined story of Viv getting something in his eye just as I let one of my trademark outswingers go and he nicks it to Robbie Delminico behind the stumps. Never have to buy another beer in my life I reckon. Now back to my bad beat!

I absolutely loved cricket in those days and the West Indies players were my heroes. When I was left out of that Team I was absolutely devastated. The three Selectors could never give me a reason for my omission. One of the selectors, Bill Bonney, had retired from playing at that stage but John Turner and Freddy Tupper were still suiting up. I had one aim that local cricket season and it was to inflict as much pain on both John and Freddy as was humanely possible when we played against them. I can’t say I was an express pace bowler but when I shortened the wicket up to about 18 yards by charging past the popping crease, I became positively lethal! Only recently I heard that Tupper was black and blue from his knees to his neck after I’d finished my spell against him and even though it took me 45 years to get that news, I was still wrapped to hear it. A vindictive bastard aren’t I. I never had a spy to let me know how badly bruised Turner finished up but I like to think he finished up least as sore as Tupper. Bastards😡😡.

My disappointment at not playing that game was pretty much responsible for me giving the game away to concentrate on Baseball in 1976 and in hindsight, those bastards probably did me a favour by not selecting me. Baseball went on to provide me with a host of great friends and a lifetime of wonderful experiences and memories, so out of a bad beat something good grew.

I’ll let you know next week how I’ve coped with my second dose of Arthur and whether I was approved for the administering of Nubeqa. Until then, stay safe and for fuck’s sake men, get that PSA level checked. ⭕️❌

What is love? I don’t know that any of us actually have the answer to that question but I do know what it isn’t – it isn’t Fucking Rupert, so that’s the last mention he gets this week.

I love my family, I love chocolate, I love baseball, I love Port Douglas, I love Woody the dachshund, I love my friends, bloody hell – I even love Collingwood after last night’s win but when I say “I love my daughter Megan” I am talking about something different. The love a Father feels for his daughter is unique. No matter how old your Daughter is and how successful she becomes, she will always be your little girl and in your eyes, the most beautiful girl in the World.

Megan Robyn Edwards was born in Essendon on February 3, 1981 and unlike he who shall remain nameless (John Edwards😀), she’s managed to make it through to 2023 without causing her Mum and Dad too many headaches. It was a running Family joke that I could never remember the date of her birth. As my end draws closer, I should probably own up Megs that your birth date was never unrecalled – third of second eighty-one (3,2,1) was pretty easy to commit to memory. Just because Megan didn’t cause us many sleepless nights, you mustn’t assume that she led a quiet or boring life but rather it is probably is an indication that she was smart enough to hide her “away from home” indiscretions pretty well. I know her two wonderful children are in great hands as they navigate the complexities of today’s World.

Being an Edwards, Megan spent plenty of time at Essendon Baseball Club growing up. To this day, she still holds the record for Getting Hit By A Pitched Ball in any Victorian Baseball Association Season. It was her go to method for getting on base. Unsurprisingly, as the pitchers started to throw a bit harder and taking one for the Team hurt a bit more, she determined that discretion was the better part of valour, and jumped the fence from the baseball field to the tennis court and she was forever lost to the great game⚾️. Looking at this old photo, the Coach in me is drawn to the fact that the batter has her eyes closed. If only I’d picked up on that little technical flaw at the time she was playing, she may well have hit the ball more often than the ball hit her. She did make a major contribution to my baseball career by donning the cheerleading outfit, waving the pom-poms and putting the “whammy” on opposition players in our most important games. I loved having her at the field.

Not too long after giving baseball away, Megan started accompanying me to the Track whenever her school commitments would allow. Eventually this led to her ownership of Australia’s Champion Two Year Old Filly, Pelicanrama and what a ride that was for all the Family but in particular for Megan and myself. Pelicanrama won a brace of Classics throughout Australia that year and Megan and I were on course for all of them. Just as I went from being Russell Edwards to being John Edwards’s Father at the Ball Park, I progressed from being Russell Edwards to being Megan Edwards’s Dad at the Race Track. Both were identity changes I was absolutely wrapped to accept. One memorable night after what I’m sure was another “fill up” night at Moonee Valley, we were driving home and Megan asked me who the sailors were I was discussing on track. Eventually I managed to established that the “sailors” being discussed were actually the “semen” collections from a Stallion we owned. Semen – Seaman: Tomato – Tomato. The years spent with Megan around the horses remain some of the happiest of my life. They were wonderful times.

The times we spent travelling with the kids were always precious to us. Megan travelled to the USA with us on multiple occasions, spent weeks away with us attending Racing Carnivals in NSW, Tasmania and New Zealand, holidayed in Bali with us, ran in two City To Surfs in Sydney with her Dad, flew to Sweden to watch our Champion Trotter, Knight Pistol compete against the World’s best and in what was probably our best holiday as a family, stayed with us in a third floor, four bedroom apartment in a Houseman Building on Boulevard Saint-Germain, Paris. We owned a Penthouse at Palm Cove at the time and after spending half an hour on an international House Swap site, I’d struck a deal to swap our Golf Course located Palm Cove Apartment with a Paris based Surgeon who loved golf and reef diving. The swap was for the best part of 4 weeks and after being greeted on arrival by the Surgeon’s mother to show us around, we basically lived as locals for the duration. An undoubted highlight of the stay was dinner at the Michelin Starred L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon in the Pont Royal Hotel. The meal was a once in a lifetime experience and cost accordingly, but never for a second, have I regretted the spend. In the interest of enjoying whatever time I have left, I won’t tell you which of the Edwards girls actually fell down the stairs going to the basement Restrooms and when you look at the Restaurant seating below, it was probably a modern day miracle they both didn’t fall off their stools. To finish off a wonderful night, John and Megan dropped us back at the Apartment and headed out on the tiles until dawn. There might have been one or two local Bars they didn’t actually visit that night/morning but I suspect if there was, it was only because they were too drunk to find them. Megan didn’t resurface from her bedroom for the next 36 hours. Shouldn’t let the booze beat you Lovey.❤️

Having to hibernate after a night on the drink was not normal form for Megan. Her powers of recovery are legendary. Her 21st Birthday Party is testimony to her durability. Our very dear friend Sharon Ryan, life partner of Mick Barrett, was employed as “Mixer Of The Cocktails” for the Party and Sharon’s philosophy was “if one shot of Vodka in a Bloody Mary is good, a double shot is better”. By around 9.30 Megan was, shall we say, well on the way, and decided the best way to make it through to the early morning hours was to get rid of the 10 cocktails already consumed. After employing a Barry McKenzie “technicolour yawn” and a 10 minute hiatus, Megan was back to Sharon for more rocket fuel. She was even still standing at midnight for the speeches. Made her Dad so proud.😄

One of the holidays we took with a kids when Megan was at Primary School was a week in the snow at Mount Buller. It was the one and only time we went to the snow and the reason for that was simple. As a first time skier my abilities were limited (nonexistent actually) and at my first attempt navigating the Bourke Street Run I was a mortal danger to myself and anyone else who happened to be in my path. I eventually fell off somewhere near the bottom of the Run, took off my skis and swore that would be the last time I would ever take to the slopes. True to my word, the Edwards family henceforth chose holidays in the sun rather than holidays in the snow. I would often remind Megan after that trip that skiing was best left to those who grew up learning to ski and that it is really crazy that people will risk physical injury on skis when they just don’t know what they’re doing. Move forward approximately 20 years and Megan was living and working in Canberra and she called us to let us know she would have to go into Hospital for a knee reconstruction after a fall playing soccer at Parliament House in an after work competition. As she was going to be confined to bed post surgery she asked could Robyn go up to Canberra to nurse her until she was back on her feet. Robyn lives for those situations and was on the next available flight to Canberra. Now for the punch line! Robyn was visiting Megan in Hospital when the Surgeon came in to check on Megan and in conversation, he asked how she wrecked her knee. Megan looked at the Surgeon, looked at Mum and looked back at the Surgeon and sheepishly owned up that she’d had a fall fucking skiing! I guess I was pretty good at the old “told you so” when the kids were growing up and it’s instructive of her knowing what my response would be that she chose the Soccer explanation over the truth. ⛷️

Pretty early in adult life Megan confided in her Mum that she didn’t think she wanted to have kids and she asked would we be upset missing out on more Grandkids. Obviously our primary aim in life has always been to see both our kids live happy lives and if Megan believed her happiness would be best served by not having kids Robyn and I were perfectly comfortable with her decision. Commencing her life with David seemed to change Megan’s priorities and she’s now the wonderful mother of Robert and Ainsley. It’s a nonsense to think that having Children makes women mothers. It is as ridiculous as thinking someone buying a hammer automatically becomes a carpenter. Megan has learnt on the run and I like to think Robyn has helped guide her along the motherhood journey and she is simply a great Mum. The day of their Port Douglas Wedding remains one of the proudest days of my life. Looking back, I wish both Robyn and myself had walked Megan down the aisle together. Robyn deserved that.

God knows, I haven’t been a perfect Father but the one thing I will never regret is bringing my two children into this World. Sometimes I think that maybe I should have did some things differently, but honestly, I am pretty happy with where we finished up.❤️❤️❤️

Just when my hot flushes had settled down I was administered my second 3 monthly Hormone Therapy implant last Friday. The latest Bone Scan suggests the removal of Testosterone courtesy of the Implant has reduced the size of Rupert in the Prostate but the sneaky bastard escaped into my bones and lymph nodes before we could slow him down so onto Chemotherapy we went.

I started my Chemotherapy this week and feel like I’m already on first name terms with half the Oncology Staff at Canberra Hospital. I had to attend the Rupert Centre on Saturday, Tuesday and Wednesday. The Saturday session was an Information meeting mainly dealing with how to cope with the anticipated side effects of my Chemo. I was told to make sure that if I vomit or cut myself no one comes into contact with the regurgitation and/or the blood. I was also told that unprotected sex was to be avoided and for some reason, Robyn found that instruction quite humorous and certainly superfluous.😄

At the Information session I was given 12 Corticosteroid Tablets (Dexamethasone) with 4 to be taken the day before Chemo, 4 the day of Chemo and 4 the day after Chemo. As explained, the Dexamethasone aids in lessening nausea and vomiting subsequent to Chemo infusion. They did warn me that the Dexamethasone would likely cause insomnia and oh boy, they weren’t kidding. Going forward, my Dexamethasone tablets will be referred to as “Dexy” in recognition of the band, Dexys Midnight Runners (Come On Eileen). For three nights I was awake well after midnight and whilst maybe not running, I certainly couldn’t sleep. Dexy is a prohibited Treatment under the Rules Of Horse Racing and I can well understand why. It would be the height of cruelty to make a horse race if he was as tired as I was from lack of sleep🥱.

Dexys Midnight Runners – I think I had hair like the girl in the upper right back in the day.

My first Chemotherapy session started at 10.30 on Tuesday morning and I honestly had no real understanding of what to expect as the Docetaxel was introduced into my veins. Subconsciously I think that I was expecting to feel a surge of poison as the drug moved through my body but nothing could be further from the truth. I felt absolutely nothing apart from surprise when the infusion was completed. The Docetaxel aims to slow down the growth of Rupert by giving him a bit of a clip whenever it finds him in my body. I’d equate it to a game of Whack A Mole – whenever Rupert sticks his ugly fucking head up, the Docetaxel will whack him down. In future, the Docetaxel shall be referred to as Arthur to honour the mighty Arthur, King of the Britons, in Monty Python’s Holy Grail. I’m hoping his dismembering of the Black Knight might be replicated with his attack on Rupert but I fully understand that unfortunately in my case, Rupert’s injuries will only be flesh wounds and not fatal.

As I like to imagine, Arthur doing his best work handing Rupert a beating.

My next appointment was on Wednesday to receive a Pegfilgrastim injection. This was to stimulate the growth of “healthy” white blood cells in my bone marrow as Arthur goes about his work. It should also lesson the risk of infection apparently. I think an appropriate name for the Pegfilgratsim is “Peg” after the name given to my late Mum by Dad. She did her best to promote development of a healthy moral compass growing up and I like to think she did a pretty good job of that, so Peg it is. Peg’s job now is to grow healthy white blood cells so she’d better be at the top of her game.

I feel pretty good right now but I’ve been forewarned that the worst side affects will start to appear around the weekend so I have that to look forward to. Hopefully those side effects will be the price I have to pay to stick around a bit longer.

Until next week when I will write about my wonderful daughter, live well.

Love Russ

As foreshadowed in last weeks Blog, I had my first appointment this week with the third and final branch of Specialists that deal with Prostate Cancer, The Oncologist.

My expectation was that the Specialist would either recommend that I commence Chemotherapy immediately or tell me to go home and type faster on my Blog to ensure that I said everything that I wanted to say as quickly as possible. The truth is, the Specialist didn’t advocate for either course of action. Rather he pointed out the complications of undergoing an intensive course of Chemo and suggested I go home and think about the side effects before making any decision on going forward with a Chemotherapy plan.

From the time of my first elevated PSA reading I’ve tried to keep myself apprised of what my future was likely to involve. I know a little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing and that the Medical Fraternity must absolutely hate dealing with patients who self diagnose using Google but in my case, utilizing the Internet has helped me avoid a couple of delays that would otherwise have occurred in my treatment. Being able to give Informed Consent to commence Chemotherapy immediately was another example of my “little bit of knowledge” helping to expedite my therapy.

The Radiologist had indicated that my Chemotherapy treatment would involve 3 sessions over a 9 week period. She was half right. I am booked in for 6 sessions of 90 minutes duration over an eighteen week time span. The Drug of choice for my type of Cancer is Docetaxel. It’s been used in Prostate Cancer patients since 2004 which surprised me a little. I would have thought new therapies should have been approved and adopted over the past 20 years but apparently not.

An extensive International peer reviewed study funded by Prostate Cancer UK in 2019 confirmed that Men with large prostate tumors who also have secondary tumors, were almost three times as likely to be alive after five years when given Docetaxel Chemotherapy alongside Hormone Therapy as those only receiving Hormone Therapy. Given that I’d like to stick around as long as possible, going with the 18 weeks of Chemo was a bit of a no-brainer. Be interesting to see if I’m still singing from the same hymn sheet when the expected side effects kick in🤔.

The Specialist explained that each treatment of the Docetaxel will basically kick the shit out of me and just when I’m starting to feel a bit “normal” I’ll cop another dose to knock me on my arse again. Eighteen weeks of that is far from appealing but I’ll give it a crack. The list of potential side effects takes as long to read as War And Peace so I won’t bore you with reproducing them here but the important thing is that I should have my first infusion within two weeks.🤞

Now for a bit of reminiscing and Family History. On June 27th, 1978 Robyn gave birth to our son John. Nothing can prepare you for what it’s like to be a Father. When I called Mum and Dad on the Hospital phone (no mobiles in those days) to let them know Robyn and baby were both well and that he would be named after both his Grandfathers, I was overwhelmed with emotion and wept uncontrollably. Funnily enough the next 44 years have involved plenty more tears – sometimes crying with elation and sometimes crying with frustration!😄

John Stanley Edwards always liked being the centre of attention. At Kindergarten he threw a tantrum when he was cast as a sheep in the Christmas Nativity Play. He had aspirations of playing Joseph but at the very least he thought he should have been a Wiseman or a Shepard but a sheep? Seriously! We thought throwing himself on the floor crying was a bit of an overreaction but he was what he was.

At Primary School he remained all about the look and when we interrupted his Melton Primary education to head off to the USA on an extended holiday, he had one item on his wish list: a pair of the most expensive sneakers Nike had produced to that time, the Bo Jacksons. As usual, he got his way and I swear, if he was still a size 6 instead of a size 13, those runners would remain on his feet today. He wore them when he went out, he wore them to bed and he would have worn them in the shower if Robyn had let him. It was a day of mourning when he could no longer squeeze his feet into them and I think he gave them a Viking burial at the Melton Lake.

Growing up, John delighted in smashing his sister at Monopoly. He fancied himself as a Real Estate Mogul and turned what should have been a friendly board game into a full body contact sport. No matter how hard she tried, Megan just couldn’t get the better of him. With hindsight, I suspect John kept a secret stash of $500 bills under his side of the Board which undoubtedly contributed to his undefeated record but one day Megan and I went into partnership in an effort to bring his reign as Edwards Monopoly Champion to an end. I’m not sure whether it was by good luck or good management but on this occasion it was John turning the board over in anger instead of the usual culprit (Megan). To this day, Megan has never given John a rematch and much to John’s disgust, she remains the Edwards Family Monopoly Champion into perpetuity.🏨

John has always fancied himself as a Chef but as with most things in his life, if a little of something was good, a lot of something was much better. After one of his Home Economics Classes he decided to reproduce a pasta dish he’d cooked that afternoon for his family as a treat for his Mum. The recipe called for a teaspoon of Garlic but if a teaspoon of garlic is good, a jar of garlic is obviously a lot better. Apart from being completely inedible, the stink of his pasta dish remained in that kitchen until we moved out and may have meant we lost a good portion of our Bond when we vacated that rental property later that year.😄

When he was 17 John played a really important role in Essendon’s Division One Premiership victory over Upwey. I remember giving everyone on the Team my usual advise that I give to those who’ve won a Flag – don’t get that drunk that you forget what a great night you’ve had, and as usual, my advice was completely ignored by all and sundry. We entrusted cousin Brendan with the role of chaperoning John that night and talk about the blind leading the blind, and I use the term “blind” advisedly – by 8pm they were both completely out of control! The next morning John had to pitch for Kurunjang College in a Schoolboys Baseball Championship and somehow the Melton boys got the prize over their more fancied opponents. He didn’t let the booze beat him!

For his 18th Birthday, John had a party at home that saw most of his High School rock up for the evening. Apart from multiple visits from the Police responding to our neighbour’s noise complaints the night was memorable for two significant events: John and his mates succeeded in burning down the back fence when their cosy little fire got out of control and John began his relationship with the girl that would eventually give birth to his son Mitchell. The first event was pretty bad but the second one led to some of the very best and some of the very worst times of John’s life. He loves Mitchell to death and hopefully some time before I’m “brown bread” Mitchell will realise just how loved he is by his Dad❤️.

At 18 John obtained his Driver’s Licence and had full access to the family cars. During his 18th year the Baseball Club had a Golf Day at Cape Shank Golf Course and as we were walking out the door his mum stated that I wasn’t to let John drive the golf cart. I replied that if we trusted him driving the Family vehicles we should trust him steering a golf cart. Once again, Mother knew best! Cape Shank has paths alongside the fairways for the carts that most people follow but not our John Boy. He decided to overtake the cart in front via the rough alongside the path and proceeded to run the Golf Buggy up a tree damaging the front of the cart and the windscreen. It took me about 6 months to confess to Robyn that not following her maternal instincts had cost us $1,000 in Golf Cart repairs.⛳️

That’s about it for today and hopefully by this time next week, I will have a commencement date for the 18 weeks Highway To Hell that my Chemo will likely become. Addionally I will have been administered my second three month Hormone Therapy implant. If the nurse thought I was a Fat Bastard when he administered my first implant I hate to think what smart arse crack he will come out with now I’m 10 kilos heavier!😡