A perfect 10.....

THERE are 10 - I repeat 10 and only 10 - sacred tablets to a successful punting career. They are cast in stone. They are irrefutable. They are infallible.
The result of the pooled knowledge and experience of some of this nation's most fearless and feared punters, they will be disclosed a little later in this essay. And I promise you this: you will shake your head at their simplicity - and their wisdom.
These sacred tablets were disclosed to me at the Wentworth Park dogs in Sydney a few Monday nights back. I couldn't believe my luck to have been brought into the inner sanctum of these polished punters and entrusted with their sacred tablets. And anybody attending the dishlickers deserves a bit of luck now and then, wouldn't you say?
Personally, I love the dishlickers. I was at the opening night of the dogs at the 'Gabba in Brisbane. I was at the opening night of the Albion Park dogs in Brisbane. And on a brisk winter's night with the Olympic City's skyline Meritoning merrily in the background, I found myself through a mixture of good fortune and Resch's at Wentworth Park. It was my third time at the dishlickers and I'm growing rather fond of them. If life's getting you down a bit and you're going through a rough patch and you think there's no one else worse off than you, there's no place like the dishlickers to restore your spirits.
On the walk down to the track from the Duke of Edinburgh, a betting plan has crystallised. Regardless of the number of races on the program, I was going to put a dollar each way on 2, 4, 6, 8, and then 1, 3, 5, 7 repeated until the night had run its course. I'm what some people might call a mug punter. After five races and one third – a mutt called December Moon which didn't pay a dividend – I was starting to suspect they might have been right.
Then the story of the sacred 10 betting commandments began to flow with the fifth round of VBs.
For two of my companions that night were among the authors of the sacred tablets, burnt into the sides of empty rum cartons by the ends of lighted cigarettes some years ago by a group that went by the name of the Tinny Can Bay Gang.
The Tinny Can Bay Gang, it transpired, was a group of some seven men who, once a year, got away from their troubles and strifes by hiring a house boat for a week and floating aimlessly and rumfully around the smooth waters leeward of Fraser Island.
Among these seven were the cream of Queensland journalism at that time. I'm not sure what the other six did for a living.
Not having done it myself, I'm not quite sure what motivated seven healthy males to want to spend a week or even two cramped up together in such close quarters. And being a family newspaper, I'm not even going to hazard at a guess as to what role was played by the yards of plastic sheeting and the five gallon tub of pump-action industrial strength Oil of Ulan they invariably carried on board with the rest of the week's provisions.
All we need to know - and the world's punters can thank their own particular God for this - is that late at night when the sexist jokes had run their course and the fart-lighting competitions had been extinguished for the night, these seven good men set about to pool their punting experiences and come up with a sure-fire list of commandments that ensured racetrack riches.
And so it transpired that at about 9pm at the Wentworth Park dishlickers, one of the Tinny Can Bay Gang leant forward and in a conspiratorial whisper told me the first commandment.
No 1. Never give back a wrong ticket.
Naturally, I was speechless. Stunned. The other Tinny Can Bay Gang member came to my rescue.
If you go to the Tote or the on-course bookie and discover you've been given the wrong number, he explained, wrong horse, wrong race, wrong state. Wrong whatever. Never, ever, give it back.
It'll always end up being a winner, I asked.
No. Not too often. Just every now and then and you feel a right royal chump if you've forsaken the piece of accidental good fortune that's come your way.
My companions could see from the expression on my face that one tablet a night wouldn't be enough.
No.2. Always take a tip from a kid.
I said nothing. Who in their right mind is going to argue with that!
No 3: Who's shout is it?
I said I didn't get it and they replied I'd better.
The real No 3 was disclosed as soon as I returned.
No 3: Never trust a woman with fruit (in their hat). My head was starting to spin my this stage. Can just one person take so many pearls of punting wisdom in one sitting?
No 4: Forgotten for the moment. My two companions admitted that over the years, the members of the Tinny Can Bay Club had been unable to remember what No 4 was. They could only remember that it was brilliant at the time and they're hopeful it will come back to them one day, if science ever finds a way to revitalise brain cells killed off by overproof Bundy rum.
No 5: Always trust your cape. This tablet's origins were apparently in the analogy of some bloke's good fortune in relying on his cape to break his accidental fall from a highrise building. My friends hinted that it meant that if your luck was running out, don't be ashamed to fall back onto old and proven favourites that have rescued you in the past.
No 6: You're going to die anyway, so go for the Great Dane. It seemed one of the Tinny Can Bay Gang's founding members had this dog of rather small stature who was a mad rooter all his life. No leg was safe: human or table. Aged about 107 in human terms, this canine donger dynamo finally expired trying fruitlessly to mate with a Great Dane he couldn't have serviced properly even if someone had put him up to it. The basis of this commandment in punting parlance, I figured, was to go for it regardless of the consequences.
I waited eagerly for tablets 7 to 10 and my companions looked sheepishly at me. They confessed that the Tinny Can Bay Gang trips were always very, very tiring, physically and emotionally. Quite simply, the gang had never got around to finishing the 10 sacred tablets.
What a dilemma! It's mid evening so do I jettison my pre-evening formula of 2,4,6,8 and 1,3,5,7, repeated and embrace the five known, irrefutable, infallible, cast-stone tablets to a successful punting career.
It was race six and under my system I was due to back dog three. A mutt called Sailing. Sailing? I realised all of a sudden that I had been humming Yellow Submarine all night, much to everyone's annoyance. Just couldn't get it out of my head. Submarine. Water. Sailing. Get it? Got it.
"Nope," I declared, "I'll stick with Sailing." I explained the reason and it seemed good enough for most of the other people at the table too. They got on as well.
A few minutes later, Sailing saluted the judges and paid $49 at the Tote for a $2 each-way outlay. We can only assume that half-way round, the chewing gum must have become dislodged from between his paws.
I stuck with my mug's system and booted two more winners home in the last three races for a modest $30 win overall.
After the last, we stood out on the concourse enjoying our final beers and waiting patiently for the crowd to make his way to the exit.
It was then that I put a suggestion to the two members of the Tinny Can Bay Club. "I think I've got a replacement commandment No. 4 for you guys."
They looked interested enough.
No 4: Go with the tune in your head.
I like it a lot, one of the gang said. The other was a little more cautious. "It's not bad but it'll have to prove itself over and over again before it could even be considered for inclusion," he said soberly. "Even then, it would have to be agreed to by all of the Tinny Can Bay Gang in the usual place at the usual time."
He looked a bit distant and I couldn't help wondering if he was daydreaming of a balmy day on the tranquil waters of Tin Can Bay with just a wisp of wind, the distant call of a seabird, the rustle of plastic sheeting and a squirt of Oil of Ulan.

- Don Gordon-Brown