Gregory Peck, or for today’s breed, an Adam Sandler type (sigh), would have played that part beautifully. It was served on behalf of current board member Bill Spear, who has basically questioned why the SAJC’s membership has been moving faster than Hi Hat, jumping an estimated 400 to 1700 since September.

The voting slips were shredded before the injunction was waived, and the results were not tabled. Incredible behaviour; perhaps a win for the conservatives, but wait for the result of the protest. The plot gets down to what kind of horse you have backed, and there are only two kinds; fast ones and slow ones, and right now the betting is even.

The conservatives have their traditional values; they hear the bugle man performing The Call To The Post in their sleep. They like to buy their race books and mark the weight alterations and late riding changes, and yearn for the return of so many bookmakers who took the soul of racing with them, and left a colourless tote system behind.

On a pleasant day these members will have tea with the ladies, but more often than not a double scotch. They would prefer the winnings from the pending sale of the Cheltenham racecourse to better serve the racing industry; improve the facilities and encourage more people to actively become involved in what they are all about – racing.

They have every reason to be concerned that prizemoney, despite slightly increasing in recent years, is even further distanced from other states and is making it almost impossible for trainers to make a living, and thus less encouraging for the average person to become a syndicate owner.

Then we have the derby dwellers there for the party. “Did we just miss a race?” they ask as another glam breaks a high-heel. They spill their alco-pops and make a selection on the next event, based purely on the fact the jock looks hot in silk, taking no notice that his out-of-form mount has broken out in a sweat before moving out on to the track. They leave the punting game that reaps the TAB mega-millions, and in turn gives racing its paltry prizemoney, to the masses who follow racing from their local pub or online source.

A shrewd punter (if there is one) may be tempted to say neither of these runners has form. The fact is, racing, as we have known it, has been on a decline for years because it is no longer largely about noble beasts giving you the thrill of beating one horse home, but pure gambling. It’s why the SAJC, apart from its sale of Cheltenham, has for some time pencilled in other forms of income as a means of long-term survival.

It is interesting that the SAJC has venues open 365 days of the year at a racetrack that holds 35 race meetings a year. On Melbourne Cup day it had a two-tier pavilion with 600 patrons paying $210 per head on the top deck, and another 600 paying $150 for ground level status. That’s $228,600 income for one day, or the equivalent of selling 45,720 racebooks.

Also, the SAJC has 80 poker machines raking right now, and with another 26 in storage ready to tingle at a venue to be decided. At least the bookmakers said thanks with a wry grin when they took our cash.

Financially, the SAJC has been making some bold runs, but another issue is where to spend the spills of the revenue from all sources – bolstering the thoroughbred industry, which employs thousands of people, and maintaining the values and procedures of a traditional race meeting, or going down an even further track with the super entertainment packages that racing now offers.

Both groups can argue strongly, but unless they deliver a sound business plan between them, one fears the sad day will come, maybe in 10 or 20 years, when the industry falls behind so much that the only thing we can bet on and watch locally are those virtualreality horses on computer screens.

The desperates in the bars won’t mind, but pity racing; may we be reminded that it is a sport and it has a lot more to offer than just punting.

The reality is that, like Groucho, Chico and Harpo, and my darling Maureen, the man in the red coat and white moleskins is playing a more sombre note on his bugle to the traditionalists.

No one ever said that racing, as it was meant to be with its noble beasts and the thundering of hooves amid an air of great excitement, was the best bet. The need for night racing, bigger bars and, by god, as much glam as you can pack into a track, is what today’s Adam Sandler fans demand, leaving hundreds of thousands of others to prop-up the prizemoney by investing online from the front bar or at home.

With the runners still to salute the judge (please do not tell me that one day we will lose the timeless racing clichés) as they settle on who should be on the SAJC committee, the derby dwellers are making their move … and here comes Hi Hat, he’s come from nowhere and grabbed them on the line. A protest has been signalled.

You know, I’ve watched that movie a dozen times and I still back the wrong horse. That’s racing.