What if…
The mighty Phar Lap was secretly cloned and brought back to life?
What if

The Champion’s creators were sadistically murdered and Phar Lap fell into the worst possible hands?
What if…
They tried to ring Phar Lap into the 2003 Melbourne  Cup?

Odds on it would make one helluva story!

From blistering start to heart-pounding finish, The Last Melbourne Cup is just that.
A page-turning yarn about sheer greed, raw violence and unbridled sex;
a cool cop hot on the trail of a cold-blooded killer:
and the unstoppable Phar lap in the race that will stop a nation…in its tracks!

In Store Price: $AU22.95 
Online Price:   $AU15.00

ISBN: 1 920699 163
Format: Paperback
Number of pages: 254
Genre: Fiction Crime/Thriller

Author: Lawrie Jordan
Imprint: Zeus
Publisher: Zeus Publications
Date Published: November 2002
Language: English


  About the AUTHOR 


Lawrie Jordan, 47, was born and lives in Brisbane. 

He is an advertising Copywriter and has worked at various international ad agencies in Brisbane and London. 

He is currently Creative Director at a Brisbane advertising agency, and has developed campaigns for Queensland Tourism, Woolworths and the TAB. 

In 1994, Lawrie was named the Brisbane Advertising Club’s “Ad Person of the Year”. 

He has won numerous advertising awards for press ads, radio commercials and direct response communications. 

Lawrie has traveled extensively throughout Britain and Europe. 

In 2000, he took a 12-month sabbatical and traveled around Australia with his wife Lynda and their two sons, Tom and Joe. 

He is a self-confessed “mug punter” who gets to the track regularly and the TAB religiously. 

The Last Melbourne Cup is Lawrie’s first novel. 


Read a sample:


I was having a quiet pint and a punt with my oldest brother Bill a few years ago at our local Pub Tab and the conversation turned to sports heroes from different eras. I recall asking him if he thought Bradman would have been able to handle the sheer pace of a Denis Lillie or a Jeff Thompson. Unfortunately I don't recall Bill's answer to that one.

However I do remember - quite vividly - where this line of thinking led to.

"What about Phar Lap?" I said. "How do you think he'd go against the likes of Sunline?"

"Mate, cream always rises" he replied, " a champion like that would simply rise to the occasion. He pissed on his peers then, he'd do exactly the same thing now."

Which got me thinking…Wow, imagine if we could bring Phar Lap back!

The more I thought about it, the more I wanted it to happen.

And it has.

I hope you enjoy reading "The Last Melbourne Cup" as much as I enjoyed writing it. 

PS. I did do a lot of research before writing this, my first novel. But remember, it's not a history book, a textbook on cloning or a horseracing manual…it's just a bloody great yarn (even if I do say so myself). So please take my blending of fact and fiction with a large grain of salt, put any mistakes down to 'artist licence' and never let the facts get in the way of a good story!


C h a p t e r   1


Tuesday, 6  November, 2001

The rat was cheesed off.

He was starving after several days stuck in a stainless steel toolbox, during which time all he'd had to eat - reluctantly yet ravenously - was his beloved tail.

He was also dying of thirst, having recycled as much of his own vile piss as he could stomach, but above all else he was totally cheesed off.

How could he, with his gutter rat cunning, have fallen for any trap set by those despised humans?

Ugh! The very thought of the filthy creatures made his skin crawl.

Yet - think of the devils and they're sure to appear - now came the unmistakable sound of human activity. A door opening, closing and bolting shut; fluorescent lights kicking in; footsteps on floorboards (three sets…no, wait, four); raised voices; the scrape of furniture being rearranged; ripping noises then (most interestingly) a thumping thud, a muffled cry of pain, a cruel laugh and finally a brief silence.

That silence was soon shattered by the scrunch of his prison door suddenly swinging opening. This was rapidly echoed by his own raucous screech. After spending so long in pitch black, the penetrating light pierced his pupils like pinpricks. Taken by surprise and blinded by the light, he was easy prey for the heavily tattooed hand that grabbed him by the scruff of his scrawny neck and tossed him, twisting and turning, into a new cage.

As the burning in his eyes slowly subsided, the rat realised that this was a completely different kettle of fish. Gone were the slimy, shiny walls and shit-stained floor. In their place, rusty metal bars welded tightly together in a hemi-circle like a small brazier hacked in half. Yet it was the new 'floor' that captured the captive's attention. It was a floor of furless flesh. This new cage was strapped onto the chest of a living, breathing human! It only took the rat a split second to work out that at last there was a way out. He could gnaw through this floor, feasting as he went, and he wasted no time in doing so.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, the human host barely stirred as the rodent sank its razor-sharp teeth into his bare skin, just to the right of his left nipple, and tore out a bite sized chunk. On the second chomp however, the sharp pang brought the man around - only to trigger off a searing new pain in his throbbing head as he tried in vain to raise it. He was lying down, face up on a cold marble bench under a blazing spot light.

Squinting through blurred salty eyes, he looked down at his hairy chest, at first not quite comprehending the horror he was experiencing. He was being eaten alive by a giant rat! He screamed as he squirmed as he struggled to sit up, all to no avail. His arms were pinned to his sides with industrial strength gaffer tape, as were his legs. Suddenly a shadow fell over him as a large, faintly familiar face eclipsed the light. Another strip of tape was ripped off the roll and clamped down hard over his mustachioed mouth, stifling his protest mid-scream and turning it into a muffled moan.

'We could let you yell your lungs out Ron,' his tormentor said matter-of-factly, between sips of an iced coffee, 'No one will hear you here. But I want you to hear me, OK.' The big man continued on conversationally as if nothing were out of the ordinary, as if the prone man with the bleeding head always wore a rat on his blood soaked chest. 

'What you're wearing is called a Witches Bra. They used to use them in the old days in the old country to sort out the bitches from the witches.' He paused long enough to chuckle at his little rhyme and to make sure his two huge Maori henchmen standing nearby were doing likewise.  They were, although one of the men looked like he was genuinely enjoying it much more than his mate.  

'You see what happens, Ron,' he continued cheerfully as the rat chewed on, 'is that Roland here only has one way out – and that's to munch and crunch his way out through your heart and lungs. Maybe your spine too if it gets in the way'. He hesitated briefly to see if what he'd said had sunken in. From the sheer look of terror in Ron's brown, tear-filled eyes, they had. 'Now I'm going to take your gag off,' the smiling face explained, 'and then I'm going to ask you one simple question. You spill your guts and I'll take the 'wascally wodent' away,' he said, his smirk soon sinking to a sinister sneer, 'but if you don't tell me what I want to know straight away, you're rat shit. Literally. Are you ready?'

Ron nodded wildly and the tape was duly ripped off, along with half of his bushy grey-black moustache. An involuntary scream left his swollen lips. 'ARGHHHHHH!! GET IT OFF! GET THE FUCKING THING OFF, FUCK YOU!!!' Ron yelled, loud enough to momentarily startle the still-starving rat and cause it to pause from its feast. Ron's torturer sipped his coffee as he waited patiently for the outburst to abate. 

'OK, are you quite finished?' the cruel face said at last, when scream had turned to whimper.

'Right now. Where…is… Phar Lap?'





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