Holiday Betting
August 1994, the first day of the Ebor meeting to be precise. We
were in the car park of the racecourse having just driven up from
Oxfordshire. My very understanding wife, Sara, and I always
travelled up for York’s main meeting. We would eschew the fancy
city hotels and opt, instead, for canvas, staying in a tent at a
Tadcaster campsite which provided good access to the Knavesmire.
But 1994 was very different – we had company: my cousin Andy and
his wife Ella, who were not horseracing regulars, and our four-month
old baby Rhianna who was, had joined us for a holiday in the
“North”.
“Are you going
to get changed?” I asked Andy.
“What do you
mean?”
“Put your shirt
and tie on.” Andy was wearing a T-shirt with some type of musical motif
emblazoned across the front, probably an image of Bruce Springsteen.
“You’re joking,
right?”
“No, without a
shirt and tie you won’t get in.”
“I haven’t got a
shirt or tie with me.”
At the very
start of the holiday an unexpected problem had arisen; though minor it
threatened the prospects of an enjoyable day. Fortunately Ella was at hand with
a solution.
“I have a white
blouse you can wear,” she said from behind a mischievous grin. I must admit
that at this interjection our eyes flashed between each of us and then the
laughter broke out. Nowadays I expect there are plenty of men at the races
wearing unconventional clothing, but for Andy, a carpenter by trade, I thought
this was possibly a step too far. To his credit, he didn’t want to ruin the day
and, as obliging as always, he slipped on Ella’s blouse. Actually, once on it
looked fine, in the main, the thin lacy collar was a bit of a give away though.
For some odd reason I had a spare tie and in no time at all a potential
clothing-related disaster had been averted.
On course the
other adults put a bet on the Placepot – the worst bet anyone can place in
British racing. Naturally, I steadfastly refused to join them “in the fun”
despite their pleas and comments about “being a misery”. A man must have his
principles.
I quickly lost
£150 on a two-year-old at Folkestone, then spotted Raceform’s legendary
Racereader Alan Amies and, with Andy in tow, walked over for a quick chat.
“Got anything of
interest today, Alan?” I asked in hope.
“Cecil’s in the
Melrose.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s the
type of race that Cecil likes to win.”
It looked like
it would be all racing talk so Andy, a rugby fan, drifted back to the wives.
Soon after, Alan had to get to the parade ring (in those days Raceform always
had a representative on track who would not only read the race but also assess
the horses in the ring) so we parted company but not before Alan said “What’s
your mate wearing?”
“That’s a long
story Alan.”
Alan’s a good
judge and, from memory, he regularly played squash with a Director of Timeform
(a useful source of information), so I had £20 on the Cecil runner at eights,
and enjoyed watching her win in fine style. At least I’d got my losses back from
the disastrous Folkestone bet - all thanks to Alan. In the Winners’ Enclosure
the great trainer was chatting away with the press, head slightly cocked to the
side. I couldn’t hear him, but fully expected he’d be commenting on the
distance, the going, and the improvement the filly was making. Of course, he
may have added “this is the type of race I like to win” but I can’t be certain
about that.
The following
day we were back on the road heading northwards. After a couple of
unintentional tours around Glasgow’s concrete jungle we finally found the way
out and a few miles later broke through into the most glorious countryside
imaginable.
It was just a
short drive to the Duck Bay Hotel. Located on the banks of Loch Lomond it would
be our home for the next few days. The food was fantastic and the bar had the
longest run of optics I had even seen, most appeared to be whisky.
“How do we go
about this?” I asked a T-shirt-wearing Andy while staring at the bar.
“Start on the
left and work our way along, I suppose.” And that’s what we did.
The following
day Andy and I were in a small boat on the middle of a mist-shrouded loch, pike
rods set and both still trying to recover from the previous evening’s alcoholic
onslaught. Why were we pike fishing in August you may wonder? Well, we had
been sold the tale that both lochs, Lomond and Awe, were crammed with pike and
given the distance from our homes it was unlikely that we’d make a return trip
for a while, so old Esox was our target for this trip.
At nine-thirty I
picked up the mobile phone.
“You’ll be
lucky,” Andy said. Looking around I had to agree with him: the mountainous
terrain that surrounded the loch was an impressive vista, but it would surely
prevent me from making a call. A couple of months previously I had been in
Westminster providing the Government with some forecasts. I was in the heart of
the financial capital of the world, apparently, so getting some bets on would be
simple. I was wrong – no signal. This did not augur well for my attempt from my
new floating office, but there were bets to place so I had to try. For punters
who follow systems, missing just a couple of days is not an option; it is
definitely a case of all or nothing.
I dialled and in
perfect clarity I heard: “Welcome to Ladbrokes. Name and account number
please”. I gave the details and the account operator then asked: “How can I
help you today?”
“Do you have any
tips for catching pike from Loch Lomond,” I replied in a jaunty manner.
“Do you wish to
place a bet, Sir?” Her tone had changed and was now much sterner. Clearly she
did not fully appreciate my hilariously funny comment. Down to business then:
£250 to win on both Spanish Duty and Green Perfume; £50 on Promise City; £100 on
Songs Of Innocence; and £100 on Lady Writer. All with the tax “paid on”. Bets
placed, it was back to the fishing.
Needless to say
we didn’t catch any pike but just being there was still an incredible experience
and one I recommend to any angler. Later that day I phoned my Beckhampton
contact for the results and was relieved to hear that Green Perfume and Lady
Writer both won at 4/1 and 5/2 respectively.
The following
day we went to a whisky distillery where, incredibly, they were giving away free
samples that would have been impolite not to accept. Just one bet that day:
£100 on a loser. No bets on Friday and nor any pike from our final day on a
still mist-covered loch.
Saturday was
upon us and we had to make our way home. After failing to get a phone signal, a
red telephone box on the roadside came to my rescue and I was able to get £100
on Jayannpee at sevens, and another hundred on Gorinsky both in the sprint at
Sandown. They finished first and second with Jayannpee winning, but my two bets
at Ripon both lost. All four bets were determined solely by the draw.
Our time in
Scotland was short, but nonetheless enjoyable. And the betting was pretty good
also. In total I’d had eleven holiday account bets with four winners; a total
outlay of £1,485 (including tax) and a profit of £1,345 equivalent to almost a
month’s take-home pay. The following week I was able to bet from the comfort of
my office and Ladbrokes obligingly took my bets.
Scroll forward
19 years: I opened an account with 888Sport. I’d developed a new system and
wanted to test it in real time, something I always did. I was confident of
untapped riches coming my way, something I always felt with a new system, but
for the test year I intended to keep bets small, £25. The first six lost. I
was now not so sure of the system’s ability to hasten my retirement. Bet seven
won at 7/1 (SP: 7/2). The system was back on track and my confidence had
returned. When trying to place bet eight it was rejected with the message:
“Max. stake £5”. I phoned and apparently this was a “trading decision”. In
effect my account had been rendered unusable after just seven bets. Is it,
then, any surprise that the public’s interest in horseracing is dwindling?
End
