The Lament for a Mate: Peter Cameron

Peter Cameron, aka “Bundamba Slim” or “The Sting”, lived life to the full and took us along for the ride that ended last week.

Lofty, and very much a Queenslander, the titles come from a column he produced “The Sting” while the Bundamba reference hails from his home territory.

Renowned as a racing writer, he also wrote general columns, but was much more: a bon vivant, encompassing epicurean, and winedot but XXXX was his tipple of choice, served very cold.

Well versed in the classics, literary and music, he was a great mate with whom there was never a dull moment, the product of a state that produced exceptional characters.

My earliest Queenslanders were the Sinclairs, father and son Barts, Jack Clayton, a racehorse trainer who exuded good times, Pat Farrell, “Sitting Pat”, a wonderful wordsmith, Keith Nould, a gentleman, and Rod Gallegos about whom a publican with experience of serving thirsty swagmen just off the track said he’d never seen a beer enjoyed more than by him.

But “The Sting” stood tall, better than a journalist who specialised in turf, now becoming extinct, but in our time, major to the newspaper fabric.

He started with trotting details on the Courier Mail but later general columns, mentioned in State Parliament, for the Sunday Mail and Gold Coast Bulletin. He did budget lockdowns, beyond the scope of we tabloid hacks. Put us behind closed doors with all that paper and only a two-up game would eventuate.

Educated under Jim Anderson, the Courier Mail turf editor, while Peter (Smokey) Curtain, the sporting editor, always received a favoured recollection. Ironically Curtain eased dehydration in my down and nearly out London days. Like Cameron, Curtain would never see a sparring partner go thirsty.

“Bundamba Slim” had a knack for outsiders, human not horse: be they politicians, “toughs” from some obscure Brisbane suburb or the salt of the turf. He and introduced me to “The Butterly”, John Mort Green, who cut a swathe through London in the 1960’s comparable with the Kangaroo gang. What they did with sleight of hand “The Butterfly” was more legit, albeit from an entrepreneurial twist.

“The Sting” could sniff a story like a greyhound in pursuit of a live kill. Found Hayden Haitana, the trainer of Fine Cotton, at Eagle Farm in 1983 for the infamous ring in.

Champion jockey Geroge Moore was difficult. At the urging of “Smokey” Curtain, Cameron pursued Moore for a series, ending in newsprint gold. I still have the clippings.

For visitors Brisbane was enhanced when “Bundamba Slim” put on the chef’s apron and cooked a steak. With an egg. Not that I have an egg on every steak but “Bundamba Slim” emphasised the importance of it. And none have tasted better.

However when we went to Frace-Sor in South Yarra on the Tuesdays after the Melbourne, “Bundamba Slim” who fancied himself as a Francophile due to his many visits there would order in a tone more Breakfast Creek than the Champs-Elysees, always French onion soup and Steak Frites. No egg but it hit the spot.

Consulting the wine list, larger than an old telephone book, flipping through the pages, he would find the vintage and grape of our choice.

For 25 years we went La Francois with Tony (“King”) Burke of “The Age”, others, including Craig Young, the top Sydney Morning Herald racing writer.

Sensations of the day were debated: Burke, the epitome of Melbourne diplomacy, and “Bundamba Slim”, hardly Queensland red neck but bronzed at the collar. I was moderator.

“Bundamba Slim” would rail against Victorian racing but Frankie Dettori was a favoured topic. “Bookmakers should build a stature for his contribution to them,” argued “The Sting”.

But he did predict the rise and rise of Peter V’Landys and The Everest while we figured he was just having a “Bundamba Slim” rant.

Finding the Melbourne Cup winner was his forte. “See what Robbie Waterhouse is going to lay and the winner will come out of the others,” he advised.

On one memorable Cup night “Bundamba Slim” was pontificating on how good Queenslanders, like Wally Lewis and Alfie Langer, were to the degree the leading general Sydney sporting writer, making a guest appearance, left the dinner in high dudgeon before finishing his onion soup.

On occasions he was on the receiving end. Tatt’s in Brisbane for a State Of Origin, played in Sydney. Beer in Tatts, served in a pewter, is hard to beat and “Bundamba Slim” introduced me to it. Craig Young and me won that one. We yelled and screamed as NSW triumphed. As he left “Bundamba Slim”, with a bleary eye, turned in an epic moment and declared: “I am never going to watch football with you again.”

Once in Brisbane Peter Cameron had two tickets for the State Of Origin and gave me one. I watched with his son, David, while he surveyed the scene standing elsewhere.

But Melbourne generates memories. We had the benefit of “Rick’s Bar”, a “King” Burke find. It was like something out of the epic film, Casablanca.

“Bundamba Slim” filled in for Humphry Bogart and Burke was much in the mound of Paul Henreid. We were just bit players. “Bundamba Slim” never had to say “Play It Again Sam” he just burst into a Frank Sinatra favourite, perhaps lacking the polish of old Blue Eyes but not the enthusiasm for the song, the moment and life.

While playboy could describe “Bundamba Slim” or “The Sting”, with Peter Cameron family came first. Fortunately, there was time left for the rest of us.