(No more) STING - Vale Peter Cameron!

Cameron could snipe a snoozer at any distance. And with pretty much unfailing accuracy.

Peter Cameron, that is, Bundamba boy, which he’d promptly add wasn't Ipswich, but definitely of Queensland, of which he proudly was.

“Wouldn’t get hot on a stove,” Cameron would observe of a possible adversary, one that might have been seen to be “bunging on a bit of side,” he’d have suggested.

And just to make sure you knew what he meant, a second blow, a “sting” - could have gone something like: “he couldn’t pull the skin off a rice custard.”

His tongue, acid, obviously, always direct, leaving little doubt or grey area and one that certainly wasn’t for melting butter or mincing a word

But then it was always Cameron’s pen that was mightier than any sword or other weapon of any that crossed his notebooks or relentless research, from all levels of society from the racetrack to the corridors of power and much in-between.

Recent - and there were many long conversations (normally ending with “I’d better stop chewing your ear off old boy”) - were anything but fatalistic, earnest on current matters of life, state and the turf, but always including family, especially family, that was his de rigueur.

Often, I’d note he’d subtly scoff at knowing a journalist having been flailed by a heart-attack. Of course it was some jest, but pertinent to discussion. (Cameron, 76, was finally flailed by a heart attack April 4.)

“He’d have to have a heart first,” was an often-terse retort. It was not apocryphal.

Typical Cameron. But Peter Cameron had one hell of a heart and was one hell of a journalist, a special person, partner, father, friend and mentor.

He may perhaps dismiss this cliche as being described as “old school”, as being well - merely old school.

Then knowing Cameron, he’d toss up quickly - you know that Tobias Smollett in the mid 1700’s coined that term, the bloke who wrote such picaresque novels as The Adventures Of Roderick Random or of Peregrine Pickle. It was always in the facts, the details for Cameron.

Smollett suggested old school was simply about respect for traditions, your elders, those who’d been before you, manners, loyalty, dignity, etiquette, decency, hard work, ethics - on the job and personal - and always family and friends.

More reliable than a Hong Kong tailor with a Christmas card or birthday message was Cameron. 

Incredibly more sincere than a campaigning politician, when at the end of a long chinwag he’d ask “how’s Margaret” (my 92-year-old mother that he’d visit at times in Ashgrove to simply say hello) or “how’s the boy” (my young son Sebastian who has had some health issues)

That is Cameron - no cliche was Paceway - as Pete was dubbed after an early working stint at doing trots details, or Sting, as he dubbed himself writing his always read column on racing, sports, politics and any hint of the dubious, interesting, nefarious or downright shonky.

That morphed into (Around The) Traps in a later working life, the title of another typically burning trope, his name published in Hansard as much The Courier Mail, Sunday Mail or Gold Coast Bulletin, suggesting he was well read, sourced and knew too much. He did.

But he was never one to boast about it, just delivered it, relentlessly, without fear or favour - sorry for another cliche old boy - not for what the much shallower modern media would reel off as “click-bait”, but because it was the story that mattered not only first but most.

If Cameron was listed in the recent Inglis Easter yearling sales catalogue, his bloodlines would be declared an “outcross” of very rare nicks and crosses.

Traces of Shakespeare’s offspring from As You Like It - “all the worlds a stage and all men and women merely players”, loads of Runyon, perhaps throwing more to likeable colts - Sky Masterson or Nathan Detroit - than a Hot Horse Herbie or certainly an Unser Fritz.

Surely there is some French blood for Cameron, say from Descartes- “I think therefore I am” and rounded off with a hefty solid mix of Woodward and Bernstein.

Take yourself back to the era of Queensland in the 80’s to picture yourself in a Cameron Courier-Mail newsroom, full of verve and characters. It’s where I met him.

They were hot metal press days, compositors (you may have to google that), proper evening deadlines for morning papers - (sometimes “hold the press” was actually called), skilled sub-editors, no mobile phones, typewriters, copy paper with five sheets of carbon between. Your contact book, your relationships, your rounds, were your de rigeur.

I’d eschewed a career as a potential cricketer, Cameron fancied himself at same as a Lillee like quick, but I was coming off first grade trial matches where Kepler Wessells ran me out without facing a ball at Valleys Districts Ashgrove as I crossed paths trudging off with my captain Allan Border striding to the crease. Cameron was impressed.

But there I was also, rounding off a Courier-Mail cadetship with a three month stint in the turf department, after knocking off similar sessions making sure the TV guide had the right shows at the right time, the finance pages ran the stocks correctly and monitoring the police rounds desk in case there was a car accident at Annerley, a factory fire at Inala. Bland stuff but meant to teach a young journo the worth of fact checking and details.

The turf department though, well that was different. I loved the races but never thought it my professional calling until that stint in the early 80’s, until walking into that Bowen Hills nook.

Doomben 1982, Cameron (back, five from right)

There was Cameron, back left corner alongside Jimmy Anderson in the main chair, Walter James, well-schooled, well heeled, politically and socially savvy, encouraging, loud and gregarious.

Greg Atherton, Flash, did the dogs and lived a routine life around making sure he arrived at the early opener at Roma Street Station same time daily before work which sort of started around noon. The same Flash who forgot to tell his wife he was on annual leave but kept his daily routine, except for venturing into the office at all for those four weeks. Ando had to eventually pull him up.

Garth Stubbersfield, an old GPO (Post Office) employee, who transferred from clocker at Doomben to racing room journalist, coloured pens in a top pocket, a public servant of routine he was which had served him well as a bachelor until his 50’s, when finally betrothed. Planned dates with the bride to be proceeded with meticulous planning by Garth, including a practice run of the route to any restaurant.

Garry Keep, once seen I recall wearing one of those very wide old 80’s ties to work, brown with the silhouette of a naked woman, handled the red hots.

And Cameron, full of blow, bravado, self-belief, timely disdain, yet all with the drive and ethics an aspiring journalist could inhale. 

Sports Editors were kings, from Jack Craig to Tom Linneth, Smokey Curtain and Barry Dick in our era. Shortcomings in stories were thunderously announced - where’s the angle, have you rung so and so, do it again. None of this cut and paste of a social media today that parodies as news.

This was Bjelke-Peterson’s Queensland and the Russ Hinze racing era. When The Courier-Mail’s Phil Dickie was writing stories about illegal casinos in the Valley before Chris Masters tacked on at the ABC chasing the Moonlight State.

Cameron and I could possibly have been upstairs Bubble’s Bath House or The House Of The Rising Sun (after getting past doorman Steve Aczel who I will return to), and conducting our own research with Gerry and Tony Bellino, especially on a Thursday night, that was payday, cash back then. Could have been, somewhere in Wickham Street in the Fortitude Valley. Could have been!

Racing had the traditional Queensland Turf Club, “wouldn’t let the wind in” Cameron would say, Sir Edward Williams a noble yet stuffy chairman and Doomben, across the Nudgee Road, otherwise then known as the Gaza Strip, was doing their best as the Brisbane Amateur Turf Club, with Judge Edmund Broad (a one cap Wallaby) at the bench.

That is not to forget the Ipswich (also once Amateur) Turf Club, of course racing at Cameron’s Bundamba, where the committee room allowed you to pour your own beer, cut a slice or two of silverside for the crusty bread provided and get the latest from Bob Bentley, Wayne Patch (he’ll get another mention too), and Mr Corvi - Ron, the starter.

It was fervent fodder for an eager journalist, what was happening off the track as much that was happening on it and the sniff of a story was the petrol of any day. And what days they were.

Ando would always lead the charge. That noon start was to basically rattle the drawers and open the mail.

We would soon head to the Brekky Creek, or the Queen’s Arms (appropriately the venue for Cameron’s wake) or Peter Houston and Budda Handy’s Jubilee Hotel for a lunch session where of course research on the news of the day, angles, stories, invited guest trainers or owners, priorities were sandwiched between a beer and a steak sandwich.

Back to do our form and set our own race prices, shared off old cards, meticulously kept in order for every runner - no databases back then. But it was heads down, in between making calls and chasing yarns - “you do the lead today Snowy,” Ando would snort. On what? “I don't know, there are 140 horses running tomorrow son, there has to be a story in one of them.” He was right.

It was Cameron who gave me that “Snowy”. It has stuck, unlike the then voluminous blonde surfer style hair that then spawned it.

Cameron, always a stickler for style and presence, he could have easily been found wandering the Champs Elysees with an Esquire magazine in one hand, a baguette in the other, As Ando had first mentioned to us - “if you get to the races looking like you’ve got the arse out of your strides, people will think you have.”

Sure, there was lots of conviviality, Ando would normally give us a call late in the day - “it’s 6.30 lads, the bells are ringing”, which meant a short sharp session at the Journalists Club up the road under the Twelfth Night theatre shadowed by the magnificent Cloudland, yet we always got back with a decent yarn before deadlines.

There was always the office car too, an early modern white Holden Commodore, seen in various guises, shared between mid-week trips to Gatton ("emergency landing place for crows flying between Brisbane and Toowoomba") and known to conk out around a corner unless the air-conditioning was turned off.

But was always about the relationships being well burnished, Cameron was a natural at it. Saturday nights after the races were at what is now The View near the Brekky Creek. Rails ringleader Brian Ogilvie would lead the school with news of the day, trusty apprentice Michael Sullivan (now BlueBet) aside him (well I was living and sharing digs with him at the time).

Colorful trainer Jack Honey would have the latest “Miss World” on his arm, Michael “Shifty” Hawke, still perhaps plying his services as an SP somewhere and, John Mort Green (The Butterfly), we will get to him and Fine Cotton, but always with life learned lessons and crumbs of red-hot information, gold for Cameron and myself.

But the end of that session was always with a trip back to Bowen Hills to check the daily column copy on the hot press. No mistakes, job first. Always a stickler.

Cameron and I remembered Fine Cotton Day well, we were preened to have our picture taken for the opening of the new Eagle Farm press room, some may suggest it still remains the latest upgrade in the John Power Stand.

Suitably suited and smiling for Barry Pascoe, the photographer, Cameron noted the fluctuations board monitor above his head. “What’s that 33-1 to 7/2, Fine Cotton, saw it race at Ipswich last week, couldn’t possibly be right.”

The betting ring was chaotic and that was before the race. The Butterfly was well amongst it, possibly wearing two hats, bowler and activist at the same time, but that wasn’t the point for now. Of course, a horse called Fine Cotton was called across the line in front of Harbour Gold.

Cameron had the sniff. He posted me next to the winner’s stall where handicapper (and steward’s shorthand writer Lester Grimmet) walked past and simply said “wrong horse that".

Next face I saw was Ballina Bill Naoum, the trainer of Bold Personality until the Friday before - “that’s Perce” he said sideways giving us a real hint. Cameron knew.

Mort was spotted shouting “ring-in” leading a choir in the public doing the same. Total pandemonium.

Cameron, he was chasing the clueless trainer, Hayden Haitana. The course PA vainly asking him to go to the steward’s room, Haitana was off for a beer, as QTC vet Dr Bob Mason was hosing the Clairol no 4 off Perce.

Of course, Cameron found Haitana at the bar, he had the scoop as usual, before the trainer cleverly did a runner only to surface a few days later, Cameron with that front page in The Courier-Mail.

You all know the subsequent turmoil and outcomes but imagine being well amongst it. The Butterfly, who had $500 of his own on Fine Cotton the place, because he lived religiously on commandments like never back a good thing, was eventually warned off for 10 months, appeared at his sentencing dressed as Lawrence of Arabia and handed out Christmas cards to the QTC committee wishing them well.

Mort remained a lifelong friend and confidant of both Cameron and me, living in county Kent, sending DVD’s of English races and eventually chaperoning us to Derby’s in Ireland and Arc’s at Longchamp, never with a ticket but in the members with a knowing handshake to the gateman who may have had a new note or two in his claw.

But there was a cavalcade of characters, be they trainers, jockeys, owners, SP bookies, fly by nighters and those with get rich schemes who never did, Cameron embraced them all until - they wouldn’t get hot on that stove!

Yet there also was the time Cameron took to being a boxing promoter. It was a one-off - remember Steve Aczel, Bellino’s casino doorman, one-time Australian heavyweight champion, fought Tony Mundine twice, had plenty of ability.

Cameron took the corner of “Big Red” - Rod Christsen, still I can safely say the only jockey to ever fight for a heavyweight boxing title.

Rod "Bid Red" Christsen

Big Red rode a winner at the Capella amateurs for jockeys who hadn’t won three races and had some CV which Cameron (and I) loved.

In the ring he had a fair record, winning 24, about a 50% strike rate, 10 by KO, but earned a shot against Aczel. 

Amongst a heaving 1981 crowd at Brisbane’s Festival Hall - Red recalls Billy J Smith, Mick Dittman and a raft of racetrack mates and rogues in the third row, and he enters dressed by Cameron with pink satin shorts and matching jacket against his pasty skin. Hardly the stuff to scare a polished Pole in Aczel.

It was a mismatch, despite Cameron getting the videos done by Terry O’Donovan on Aczel looking for weaknesses, and some (very) friendly discussions (nudge nudge) with distinguished referee Alan Moore pre-match. (All to no avail).

Christsen went down a few times in the second and was copping another pizzling in the third when Cameron hurled advice from the corner. “He’s got no right, remember Red,” he yelled noting the video review work.

To which Red is alleged to have dropped the mouthguard and yelled back “Yeah, well what about his left, some c..ts, hitting me.” And then it was over.

But not Cameron and Red, who on losing his cab driver’s licence, Cameron suggested he go see a mate at the Main Roads department in Ipswich, Wayne Patch to see if he could help. (I hope there is a statute of limitations here) - “Rules are for fools he said to me,” Red said, and Patch (long term chairman of the Ipswich Turf Club) pushed forward a new licence.

When Rod was promoting Vo Rogue with Vic Rail, it was Cameron who gave him a knockdown to the XXXX rep chasing sponsorship money to promote Vo’s bid for taking the $1mprize money barrier at Eagle Farm. 

Red got the money, but the QTC knocked it on the head. Stuffies.

Not so when Cameron gave Red the number of a Toyota rep in Melbourne, and Vic had a couple of late model Camry’s and cash to get around where he was loved. It is understood they were not returned in showroom condition.

Of course, stories of Cameron’s lifelong international friendships and deeds abound. Valentine (Val) Lamb, from the Irish Field, Arthur Edwards, the royal photographer from the London Daily telegraph and Sun were often called upon.

And “Society” Max Presnell from the Sydney Morning Herald along with The Age’s Tony “The King” Bourke, a decent front row trio who would make an annual Melbourne Cup night booking at France-Soir on Toorak Road where the French Onion soup was the regulation starter, beef tartare and the frites the natural follow up. A rare time Cameron went without a XXXX for Bordeaux.

Peter Houston, Cameron, Max Presnell

Legendary Brisbane trainer Bruce McLachlan was a close friend. Once Cameron was locked in conversation with Bruce after another race winner. McLachlan never carried a racebook or a pen, such was his superstitions, but thoroughly affable in his ways, but short on dealing with ‘lightweights”.

A microphone from an upstart radio interviewer, (who allegedly had a Ford Capri car repossessed when calling at the Albion Park trots one night) was thrust live between them, hopefully the racing station had a dump button as big Bruce preferred talking to Cameron with respect and yelled into the mic “who’s this c..t”

There was hardly a person of racing or industry, politics or society, Cameron couldn’t find a link too, and nor them in reverse. Tough love, real respect.

But one thing that always remained true to his principles and ethic was that Cameron played the ball, never the man, it will be forever etched that those who may have been stung by a Sting column, remained professional if not personal friends.

Above all though for Cameron was family. I’d amaze at those long drives (no freeways back then either) to Ipswich and that rambling Queenslander where childhood sweetheart Shirley was waiting, as was soon to be Dave and Rach, both October foals.

If Baz Luhrmann was looking to reshoot “Australia”, the Cameron digs would have fitted right in, eventually a move to an even more salubrious Red Hill Cambridge Street address in Brisbane overlooking Lang Park, if not had Suncorp Stadium been completed, was an entertainer’s delight and the Cameron’s loved entertaining, a few Xmas jars shared with some typical bon vivant. 

It took me a while on learning of Peter’s passing, to go back through our more recent text chats and thankfully I was lucky enough to catch up for a beer, off the wood of course, and lunch with him at the Brekky Creek in January. Eternal memories.

I know I wouldn't have gotten this far without him, and assuredly not having had as much fun along the way, but always inhaling the knowledge, the passion, the life lessons to the end.

I’d normally email him something I wrote for my www.clarkofthecouse.com website (even though he was a subscriber) and get a quick reply, usually a thumbs up emoji -see who said he wasn’t aware of such modern stuff. 

Sadly, I won’t be sending this one to allezpete at hotmail.com.

But Vale Pete - old boy. But thumbs up to you!

I reminded Peter on Shirley’s passing of the words of another great sportswriter, the American Red Smith who penned an obituary for a friend - "Dying is no big deal, the least of us will manage that, living is the trick.”

Cameron lived large to the end, flitting between inner city Brisbane, and Mission Beach North Queensland with Deborah, as Dave and Rachelle grew from his enormous shadow into their own fine young people - he remained  active as ever, in touch as ever, sharing robust thoughts as always, lamenting lost traditions, and dare I add lost friends, as much as wishing for always better days ahead.

We will do our best Sting.

---

I sent former QTC and AJC chief steward Ray Murrihy news of Cameron’s death, and I hope he entrusts me to share it with you because I think it’s a perfect summary of respect, especially from someone who commanded such from his own integrity but was perhaps at times on the other end of a sniffing Cameron sting.

“I am so pleased with your voicemail Bruce as I am totally floored by the news of Peter’s sudden death. I know how close you both were and unfortunately whilst through Peter I feel I know Rachel and Dave in reality I have no family contact.

Peter was everything a good racing journalist and a good friend should be. His opinion I respected, his solidarity I admired and his Irish Catholic humour was so endearing, including his love of the odd schooner.

Oddly enough in our last of many telephone conversations we meandered into discussions of a good Irish funeral. Never thought for one moment how close that day might be.

Bruce in life’s journey there are many ships in the night, but we are both better people for having known PC.”