traffic areas near the door and the betting window. There were a few stools and a counter that stretched down one side of the room at hip height, its surface covered with the detritus of past decision making, screwed up betting slips and scattered copies of newspapers.
Above the counter were pinned the pages from the
Racing Post
and, above them, a line of six television sets showed a mixture of betting odds and live action of both greyhound and horse racing.
On the other side of the shop were notice boards with brightly coloured posters extolling the benefits of wagering on the coming weekend’s Premiership football matches with the odds for each game written large with a black felt-tip pen. A table with a coin-operated coffee machine sat in one corner with the all-important betting window in the other.
Business on the Tuesday afternoon after Cheltenham was slow, with just three others in the shop determined to take on the might of the bookmaker. Save for a few grunts during the actual running of a race, not a sound was uttered as they circled around one another from counter to betting window, then to a stool to watch their selections on a TV, and then back to the counter for deliberation on the next event. Race timings are so staggered to provide a contest from one venue or another every five minutes. And so it went on like a ballet, but without the grace.
I was the odd man out. First, I was in a suit and tie ratherthan the apparent uniform dress of extra-large replica football shirt hanging out over an extra-extra-large belly held in place by super-extra-large blue denim jeans with off-white training shoes beneath. Secondly, I was not gambling on every event, in fact I wasn’t gambling on any of them. And, thirdly, I was talking. ‘Well ridden,’ I said to the second screen from the left as the jockey got up in the last stride to win by a short head.
‘Do you come here often?’ I asked a man as he sidestepped around me to the betting window.
‘Not working for my wife, are you?’ he replied.
‘No.’
But he wasn’t listening, he was busy counting out a wad of notes to hand over.
‘I know you,’ said one of the other two, the one in the Manchester United shirt. ‘You’re Sid Halley. Got any tips?’
Why did punters always believe that jockeys, or ex-jockeys, made good tipsters?
‘Keep your money in your pocket,’ I said.
‘You’re no bloody good,’ he said with a smile. ‘What brings you in here?’
‘Furthering my education,’ I replied, smiling back.
‘Come off it, all jockeys are punters, stands to reason, they control the results.’
‘What about the horses?’
‘They’d run round in circles without a driver.’
‘Do you really believe that jockeys control the results?’
‘Sure they do. If I lose, I always blame the jockey. I have to admit though that I won more on you than I lost.’
I suppose it was a compliment, of sorts.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Gerry. Gerry Noble.’ He offered his hand and I shook it firmly.
‘Shame you had to give up,’ Gerry said. He glanced down at my left hand then up at my face.
‘One of those things,’ I said.
‘Bloody shame.’
I agreed with him, but life moves on.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘Not your fault.’
‘Yeah, but I’m sorry all the same.’
‘Thanks, Gerry.’ I meant it. ‘Tell me, do you ever gamble on the internet?’
‘Sure,’ he replied, ‘but not often. Too bloody complicated, never can understand all that exchanges stuff. Much easier to give the man my ready cash,’ he nodded to the window in the corner, ‘and then, win or lose, at least I know where I stand. Don’t fancy using credit cards. I’d get into trouble too quick and too deep.’
‘Do you come here every day?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, pretty much,’ he said. ‘I work an early shift, start at four in the morning, finished by twelve. Then I come here for a few hours on my way home.’
‘Do you win?’
‘You mean
Above the counter were pinned the pages from the
Racing Post
and, above them, a line of six television sets showed a mixture of betting odds and live action of both greyhound and horse racing.
On the other side of the shop were notice boards with brightly coloured posters extolling the benefits of wagering on the coming weekend’s Premiership football matches with the odds for each game written large with a black felt-tip pen. A table with a coin-operated coffee machine sat in one corner with the all-important betting window in the other.
Business on the Tuesday afternoon after Cheltenham was slow, with just three others in the shop determined to take on the might of the bookmaker. Save for a few grunts during the actual running of a race, not a sound was uttered as they circled around one another from counter to betting window, then to a stool to watch their selections on a TV, and then back to the counter for deliberation on the next event. Race timings are so staggered to provide a contest from one venue or another every five minutes. And so it went on like a ballet, but without the grace.
I was the odd man out. First, I was in a suit and tie ratherthan the apparent uniform dress of extra-large replica football shirt hanging out over an extra-extra-large belly held in place by super-extra-large blue denim jeans with off-white training shoes beneath. Secondly, I was not gambling on every event, in fact I wasn’t gambling on any of them. And, thirdly, I was talking. ‘Well ridden,’ I said to the second screen from the left as the jockey got up in the last stride to win by a short head.
‘Do you come here often?’ I asked a man as he sidestepped around me to the betting window.
‘Not working for my wife, are you?’ he replied.
‘No.’
But he wasn’t listening, he was busy counting out a wad of notes to hand over.
‘I know you,’ said one of the other two, the one in the Manchester United shirt. ‘You’re Sid Halley. Got any tips?’
Why did punters always believe that jockeys, or ex-jockeys, made good tipsters?
‘Keep your money in your pocket,’ I said.
‘You’re no bloody good,’ he said with a smile. ‘What brings you in here?’
‘Furthering my education,’ I replied, smiling back.
‘Come off it, all jockeys are punters, stands to reason, they control the results.’
‘What about the horses?’
‘They’d run round in circles without a driver.’
‘Do you really believe that jockeys control the results?’
‘Sure they do. If I lose, I always blame the jockey. I have to admit though that I won more on you than I lost.’
I suppose it was a compliment, of sorts.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Gerry. Gerry Noble.’ He offered his hand and I shook it firmly.
‘Shame you had to give up,’ Gerry said. He glanced down at my left hand then up at my face.
‘One of those things,’ I said.
‘Bloody shame.’
I agreed with him, but life moves on.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘Not your fault.’
‘Yeah, but I’m sorry all the same.’
‘Thanks, Gerry.’ I meant it. ‘Tell me, do you ever gamble on the internet?’
‘Sure,’ he replied, ‘but not often. Too bloody complicated, never can understand all that exchanges stuff. Much easier to give the man my ready cash,’ he nodded to the window in the corner, ‘and then, win or lose, at least I know where I stand. Don’t fancy using credit cards. I’d get into trouble too quick and too deep.’
‘Do you come here every day?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, pretty much,’ he said. ‘I work an early shift, start at four in the morning, finished by twelve. Then I come here for a few hours on my way home.’
‘Do you win?’
‘You mean
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