As a man who reported the racing news over a lifetime in the media and beyond, Tony Bourke, better known as "The King", would have it recorded that he has passed.
Tony, well let's call him "The King", as most did, passed peacefully in a Melbourne nursing home today (Tuesday), aged 81, though typically King like, there may be a protest, given he wasn't sure of his own birthday and there were questions he may have held multiple birth certificates. For the record, The King started as a copy boy at The Truth in 1955, and finished after a stellar career as racing editor of The Age in 2008, none of which is all of the true story of Tony Bourke, the man, the friend, the mentor, the raconteur, the nocturnal night owl, the always reliably late arriver. Tony Bourke was a one-off, old school in so many impressive ways like contacts and relationships and trust, but avert to social media, not for any other reason than technology and The King were not a good match. But The King lived in a robust era of true racing stars where their stories were more shared through the likes of his stories and through the other great racing journalists of the time, when click bait was never a term.
He lived his life by a simple motto – "take it easy but take it."
Well taken, King. I wanted to write an obituary in advance for my friend for Racenet last year and below it is – we thought it worth republishing on this day. The King is in fact gone and everyone now can add their own King anecdote. No doubt there will be many.
Public Respects:
As published in December 2021
The King is not dead, this is not an obituary, and certainly not his, not yet.
I'd rather remember a mentor, a friend, a unique character, one of racing's true and widely respected gentlemen, whilst he is still amongst us. (It's easy to say nice words later, I'll take the indulgence of writing this column to share some today.)
Now he's just The King, for no one has called long time The Age racing editor, Tony Bourke by his given name for years. Let's just say Tony is no longer in showroom condition, but he is still The King. The old form guides would list him as "Aged".
But then, none of us are, nor were any of The King's cars for that matter, a pivotal part of The King's many stories and more of those later, but The King is just one of the many reasons why racing's rich history is worth preserving, respecting and sharing.
In an age of click-bait grabbers, mundane predictable text, templated questions about confidence levels and the like, add in-house babble, The King was not made for these times. He was from an era of old school journalism, methodical research, crafted scholarly work, built from endless relationship building and always with the hint of vaudeville and whiff of disaster.
Everyone in racing has a story. The best part of that is none of them need be delved into fiction. They are real, they can't be made up.
The King wrote so many of his, always professionally, bordering on excruciating deadlines, over half a century but it is the stories about him and around him, that perpetuate the man. And in this, there is no myth.
Perhaps excepting the moniker and its origins. It was for a time believed it stemmed from landing a string of quaddies, but knowing The King as long as I have, there is a long litany of near misses and what might have been, I doubt that theory. None of which ever fazed him, as was part of his life-long demeanor.
Tony Bourke and Bart Cummings (supplied).
If it wasn't the old bracket quaddies he nearly nailed, it was what he called his "auxiliary" quaddies – another word for a wide one – that were further off the mark.
It is recalled he once boxed four in a Grand National chase trifecta and they fell over in order.
Armed with inside information from T J Smith he was chauffeur driven to Randwick races for the autumn carnival to back a moral. The tip was widely shared in the press room, saluted to much cheering and backslapping only for The King to reveal he didn't have the third horse in the trifecta and got nothing.
Covering the 1976 Wimbledon Tennis championships, King knew as much about tennis as turning on a computer, he was loaded up on the hot favourite Illie Nastase who sailed through to the final without dropping a set. Sadly, for The King and Illie, the 30-year-old Romanian ran into a 20-year-old Swede called Bjorn Borg who would straight set him in the final and win the next five titles and remain unbeaten at SW19.
That was the trip where The King was in London from Epsom Derby weekend watching Lester Piggott win his seventh on Empery, stayed on for Royal Ascot and then kept his booking at The Dorchester open for over a month, much eventually to the chagrin of the bean-counters back at The Age.
And this is why I think he is called The King, he lived like one but barely ever had a stamp. He was always meticulously turned out by Raoul, of the menswear shop in Church Street Brighton, The King was always best in yard.
And with it, always an honourable snipper (unlike many others from the old press rooms who would settle as well as a blancmange leaving mates lamenting).
Not The King. "He got me for $20 on Grand National day in 1972 before I went overseas for work," recalled one, "I came back three years later and he sauntered up and said here's that twenty I owe you, which I hadn't remembered or written off." He was a recalcitrant snipper, but meticulous settler.
But it is The Sebel Town House, once in Elizabeth Bay and the Sydney autumn carnival stints that are stuff of King legend. Of course, all expenses were paid up front, cash in those days, away for a month provided a good whippy which was more likely knocked off at Geelong on the day before leaving for Sydney meaning the bank for the carnival was a bit light.
No troubles at The Sebel, where the rich and famous mixed which meant The King was well at home, and he could sign up a cash advance to the room and use the Hotel Mercedes customer car as a virtual taxi to the track each morning (saving that troublesome cab fare).
There were bar bills chalked up by John The Barman on a foolscap page each night in the room number of all patrons, press, stars, and the King, but Crisp would have had trouble jumping that of The King's. The issue was explaining all those meals written off with Bart Cummings and T J Smith and C S Hayes and why The Age was paying for the best champagnes and red wines.
It is understood at some stage they had enough of this and started garnishing wages.
Terrific to see one of racing journalism's greats – The King – Tony Bourke out and about @attheemerald today – great respect for a wonderful mentor and friend and yes that's another in @adriandunn2pic.twitter.com/1tknqojhs3 — Bruce Clark (@snowyclark) December 9, 2021
All of us who stayed at The Sebel have many a story that should be written into posterity, The King's favorite involves a well-known music industry identity who regularly stayed there, well, all the stars did, from Elton John to Phyliss Diller. It was not unknown for John to shut the bar doors at 3am as required by law and lock the last remnants like The King in and continue operations.
But this tired media music mogul, recalls The King, retired to his suite with strict instructions for the Hotel front desk that he was not to be disturbed.
The King tells of a man arriving at reception demanding to see the aforementioned, and wouldn't take no for an answer. Startled staff rang the room, to not surprisingly get an earful, but returned with – "but there's a naked man saying he was invited to see you." The King's punch line is from the music man – "well send him up immediately."
Then there are The King's cars. The most famous I will dub "Hitler's Taxi". No, it didn't have bullet holes in it but it was an old (vintage is too kind) brown (turning purple) Mercedes Benz. There is some suggestion it had a Volkswagen engine in it, but it was a Merc, befitting The King.
If you opened the glove box there was a chance of finding Schindler's List, if you put a hand down the back seat, there may have been a minted version of Phar Lap's 1930 Melbourne Cup racebook. The radio didn't work, a transistor sitting on the dash had to suffice. The driver's door wouldn't open, he had top slide across the front seat to get behind the wheel, the passenger waiting for the procedure.
Driving up Glenhuntly Road one day en route to Caulfield Races, never before race three of course, notoriously and reliably late was The King, the back wheel sailed past the front of the car which clunked to a stop on the tram tracks. The wheel had fallen off.
When he parked it outside The Age in a no-standing zone on Spencer Street, a set of keys, the size of which the guard at Fort Knox couldn't have carried (most of which wouldn't have opened anything anyway), were deposited inside the pull down back number plate. Who'd pinch it??
James Fanshawe, the English trainer who came out for The Cup with Arctic Owl and Travelmate, was mesmerized by The King and his mode of transport and requested a "memorial" photo before heading home in 2000. One day the merc stopped on the side of the road. And was left there. It should have gone to the Racing Museum.
When The King finished writing for The Age, Racing Victoria, wisely recruited him to chaperone the world's media into Cup week, much of which would include The King's penchant for nocturnal activities, nothing nefarious mind you and Silvers and Rick's Bar, his regular haunts, are long gone, but despite much late-night sipping, the King was always as fresh as a new flower the next morning.
Hall of Fame Racing writers, Max Presnell and Tony Bourke at Caulfield in 2014.
If he did have a nemesis, it was technology, not the countless mobile phones misplaced, it mattered little as he had trouble let alone answering them. You'd get a call six days after you rang – "did I just miss a call from you."
The King clung to one of the earliest word processors to file his copy – I think they were issued by Tandy – until even The Age said "you keep it, we don't use them anymore" as we had all moved on to laptops and computers. There was many a time you could hear The King lamenting where the story he had agonised on for hours had gone. Into the ether normally with a wrong button pressed and it was start again. No stress for The King.
That was left for the testy sub-editors who were always stressing for The King's work. Whilst his press-room friends were tabled down for dinner and well on the way, The King would be aching out the final few paragraphs at a deadline that defies today's margins.
Not surprisingly sport, well let's say golf was another problem for The King though he holds a record for the longest drive at Albert Park when a sliced drive, amazingly off the ground, cleared the fence and bounded down Albert Road into the back of a grain truck – heading to Mildura.
Using a set of clubs that the Royal And Ancient refused to accept, one playing partner recalls the round where he hit the same tree twice with an oncoming group cowering beneath it.
"He was aiming where you'd expect a slicer to aim it, stood over the ball for a minute, hit it only for it to return requiring him to move one foot to address it again.
"He hit it again and this time hit the same tree for the ball to ricochet over his head, to which The King's reply was ‘oh well'."
That's The King, never flustered. He has run his race in even time, never keen on the bit, never reaching for the whip.
He has been master at building and maintaining a trusted relationship beyond being a journo seeking a story, but that with Bart Cummings which I think is his most treasured, for they are similarly measured characters who ignore fluff and bluster. A good red wine between them was more likely.
In his story "The Cups King and I", the King recalled the time when the creditors were closing in on Bart in the 1980's.
"During that time, I remember sitting with Bart in what was then a new grandstand at Caulfield racecourse. "What did this cost?" he asked. I ventured: "I think $30 million."
"That‘s about what I owe," he said and moved on to the next topic.
Sums up Bart and The King.
As The King still says – "take it easy but take it!"
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