Nicky Watson Needs Some Knickers – So Archie Heeds the SOS Call and Heads to Aotearoa to Sort Her Out

I had a dream yesterday morning that my mate Deano’s horse won the NZ Sires Stakes in Earthquake City, Christchurch tomorrow night, and I have to say that it woke me up faster than a striking taipan makes a bloke pissing in the bushes west of Barcaldine bolt back to the ute and high jump into the tray.

With eyes wide bright and a tail bushier than a seventies porn star’s homage to Tassie I sprung out of bed and raced for the fixed price market on the Sires, but thanks to bloody Malcolm Turnbull it wasn’t there so I emailed some Kiwi called Simon instead, and spent my time waiting for the laid back Tab man’s reply booking my flights to the City of Shaky Dreams and scoring a bed in which to rest my weary head.

Image result for nicky watson new zealand

Sadly for the Youth Hostels Association who normally benefit from my custom Deano had left his credit card on the Polo Club Bar when he’d got pissed and spewed on the pool table earlier in the week after landing an interstate Montana double and Maggie had kicked him to touch in a Uber, and it would be remiss of a Jeebung lad not to spend up large on his mate’s card when it has a $50 grand limit, so I went for broke.

That’s why I’m now in the final stages of last-minute packing for the punt adventure of a lifetime, and why my old St Paul’s front row hero of nineteen hundred and something early eighties is about 20 grand shorter on the Amex than he thought he was, and why Maggie’s waking up this morning to a note saying “luv ya sweetheart see ya on Monday after I win a million dollars, and the reason that she is London to a Brick on right at this moment to be ringing her dream guy Gorgeous George and asking him if he wants to play while the tiger’s away.

Who cares?

The bloody stupid Kiwi’s have Deano’s horse at $61 and I’m gunna take ’em to the cleaners using his credit card to back it for heaps.

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Of course first I have to suffer the business class flight with the fluffy pillows and the soft backed blanket and the fresh seasonal meals made to order and the free grog and all those things that God sent to try us on Qantas flights across the ditch, and then I have to suffer the indignity of signing Deano’s name on the check-in chit for the $1500 a night penthouse slum that I’ve lowered myself to stay in – don’t they have servants to fill these sort of forms in for you – and of course I also have to unzip the over-size port with the excess luggage I also bought on his card and roll the bastard out and wake him up before I can even think about walking past the 24/7 smoked salmon and flash stuff smorgasbord to go and get set at the TAB.

These things are sent to test us aren’t they sportsfans?

Never mind.

The silly All Black buggers have got the world’s best 3YO pacer Shez All Rock at $3.60 to win their Classic Oaks race, and she’s a bigger certainty to bolt in than Maggie is to be dialing George, so if I’m forced to eat imported Quail eggs from some wagyu style chickenry in Bruges and belt down a few glasses of 3 grand per 30ml rare fine wine, well what does it matter?

I’m sure that you would do exactly the same if you were in my shoes and had an already in the bag 220 to 1 all up waiting with your name on it wouldn’t you?

I wonder if they keep Pets in these Penthouses in Christchurch?

Bloody hell I hope so.

Maggie asked me to send her some holiday snaps.

Hold on Nicky, I’m coming with your knickers!

Lots!

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