It was his name that he had a problem with, our thoroughbred but thoroughly pissed off hero. Jet, he’d have preferred, a fine black coat being his proudest attribute. His triumvirate of owners, themselves thoroughbred (by their own estimation) but thoroughly despicable specimens of the homo sapien sub-genre ‘Eastern Suburbs Unfortunates’ had other ideas. 

He hated all three of them. The plastic surgeon specialising in the undercarriage reconstruction of Sydney’s elite yummy mummies, those who, like her, had made the mistake of passing up the elective Caesar. Being one of them was her unique selling proposition, famed as she was for a spectacularly unfortunate delivery which had at least spawned a future captain of Australia in the ailing sport of Rugby Union, but that’s another story. 

It was her solicitor that had invited her into the equine ownership consortium, a man she had got to know quite well when she made the mistake of embarking on a particularly challenging procedure after a big night out with the girls. The unfortunate patient, or victim as she prefers to be referred to in the newspapers, has not had carnal knowledge since and doesn’t mind people knowing, for it has brought her fame, notoriety and over 5,000 new Instagram followers. In a blow to her attempts to cash in on the opportunity, her tik tok video was swiftly taken down by the administrator. The solicitor has his own issues. His undercarriage remains in good shape but sadly only in the flaccid condition. His problem stems from his inability to pass the bar, leading to his inability to pass any bar, and a spiral into alcoholism. It was at his first twelve step meeting that he learned all about horse racing from a gambling addict who had stumbled into the wrong meeting, thinking it was a course in bookbinding, a topic he had taken an interest in when his race card fell apart at Randwick, causing him to miss out on a big win in Race 10. 

The gambler was from the most venerated of professions in the Eastern Suburbs, that of the estate agent, or property consultant as he preferred. A narcissist by descent, his claim to fame is having the largest self-promoting headshots to be found in any sold board between Watson’s Bay and Redfern. By sheer coincidence he had sold the plastic surgeon her house in Point Piper, causing him to wonder how much it must cost to have a bit of post-labour repair work done. He went home that night to impress upon his pregnant wife the dangers of a natural birth and to discuss the alternatives.

Meeting in a bar to talk about their equine investment, attention turned to the subject of its naming.

“What were its parents called?” asked the property consultant.

“The father was called ‘Spontaneity’ and the mother ‘Patient Lady’” said the solicitor. 

“I’ve got it!” Declared the plastic surgeon, causing the other two to move away before realising that she was referring to a proposed name. “Come too soon!” 

The two chaps loved the risqué wit of their female companion. Not just for the humour but for the opportunity it gave them to self-flagellate their own masculinity at the altar of her feminine wit. A skill all progressive men need to hone, they both agreed.

And so it was that our black beauty of a hero lined up for his first race, a modest affair in the outer reaches of the Sydney metropolitan area. He took note that his three owners had made no effort to come and lend support in person, this being a part of Sydney in which they wouldn’t be seen dead. Enraged by the ridiculous name he had been given, he resolved to consider it as a stage name. In his head he would be Jet. 

The solution came to him as he stood waiting for the off. If ‘come too soon’ was what they wanted, ‘come too soon’ is what they would get. Launching himself out of the barriers he set off at a fantastic pace, his jockey straining at the leash to hold him back. There was no stopping him. 500m in and he was 10m ahead of the field. Still running like a mad thing at 700m the inevitable happened and his legs gave way beneath him. In the ultimate irony he was overtaken by three horses: Repaired Lady, At The Bar and Big Shot Boy. 

If only you’d have gone for Jet, he thought as he trotted over the line, I’d have flown home.

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