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From AITL as follows...
NERVOUS DOG FORECAST MAN Frequented the ******* Palace shop in Newcastle in the lat 1980's. Only backed dog forecasts, commentary only over the blower (for some reason Newcstle got SIS very late). As soon as the commentary came on for the dogs poor guy would be a bag of nerves, shuffling around whilst screwing up his ticket. Soon as the commentary stopped right as rain MAXXIE Former well known fence in Birmingham, used to back in the Arena shop on Stephenson Street. Like Terry the**ney referred to above, developed the Maxxie lean ie when his horse was in a tight photo he would lean to almost horizontal to favour his horse. Banned from the Arena ultimately for particularly nasty and unwarranted racial abuse. Always brought in at least half a dozen plastic bags - when on a good run Boots bags, when losing Poundstretcher. Still owes me a pony. 'NANNY GOAT' PLACE used to frequent shops in Reading having anything from 100 - 500 quid on horses, during 80's to early nineties, would mark his ticket 200 t.p., if the horse won he would claim it was 200 tax paid, if it placed it was 200 **** place, (as u know a few bookies took **** place bets then but soon outlawed them), was barred from numerous betting shops for "trying it on", never watched a race, look outa the door and you would see him pacing up and down the pavement for 3 or 4 minutes after the off. When the **** place only bets were stopped a mate of mine used to lay him and he was such a toby jug they had an agreement that if the horse was less than 5/4 he would only return him ten on, or 1.10p for each pound staked, the number of odds on favs he had monkeys on that got beat was horrendous, the bloke was so unlucky, if there were five odds on shots that day he would pick the one that fell or was unplaced. Not married, lived with his mother i think and did his absolute gonads over the period.............i can still see him pacing up and down the pavement outside Reading station now!! When he used to come back in the shop he was nearly white with fright looking at the screen, dunno for the life of me why he bet, was just not cut out for the game. Give my regards to all, and tell each way from me that he's a gutless**! |
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This should be in a book, Campo.
Excellent stuff. |
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Best read I've had in a long time :)
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More from AITL...
Ron and Reg If you lived in Worthing in the 70s&80s and were in betting shops there were always people that had information on horses trained by Josh Gifford and Captain Ryan Price (THE GREATEST) 1976 Saturday before Royal Ascot, the biggest Majic Cign shop in the town, everyone knows everybody else, racing has finished on TV, and the shop is packed.There had been a big tip for Price's horse in a 5 furlong handicap at Bath which had been on TV, horse got beat but should have won.Two local characters, Ron and Reg, in the shop, Ron, well known racehorse owner, Reg, scrap dealer, but does know a lot of people in racing, were arguing if it was the jockeys fault, this lead to pushing and shoving, then it was off. Reg throws one of those heavy stools ( the ones you sit on) at Ron, they're fighting in the street. Reg throws a pushbike at Ron, who's trying to get into his BMW ( I think} then fighting on the front seat, shouting about shooters, gangs, five handed, tomorrow morning at a well known green. Everyone from the shop is out in the road, watching, hilarious. Ron went on to have winners at Royal Ascot and in Group races, was always in the racing news, saw him a couple of months ago getting petrol. On the Isle Of Wight one day in a taxi, driver says you're not from round here **ney accent) where you from? I said 'Worthing' and he said 'Oh you know Reg then.' Not the characters anymore, especially on racecourses. MAKE ME LUCK BOSS And that is correct, it's not 'Make Me Lucky Boss.' Asian cab driver, compulsive gambler, starts the day with 10 bets, and bets on every single race, dogs, horses or cartoons, only backs favs or second favourites. Never says a word until his selection comes to challenge, then he starts :- ' make me luck boss, make me luck boss, MAKE ME LUCK BOSS, MAKE ME LUCK BOSS, GO ON BOSS, GO ON BOSS YAAAAAYYYY. Makes no difference if it's 10 or his last bet of the day when he's skint. I've seen him have 17p on a 6/4 shot and cheer it home just the same, even when he's 200 down. 10p SHORT I first had his crotch in my sights when I was kneeling down outside a bookies in Belfast and he walked straight in front of my rifle. The groin of his old blue jeans was faded white with urine. "Would ye ever have 10p to make up my bet, sojer? Would ye, sojer, eh?" He wouldn't be waved on. He just stood there, a man of about 60, small and skinny and unshaven. "For f*ck sake, pal, sod off," I said, trying to see past him. "I'm jist 10p short, sojer. 10p short of ma bet." A crackle in my ear and the radio said "Give him the ten f*ckin pence!" So I handed it over. At the end of the patrol I was told, with much laughter, that he did this all day and every day. With no links to any paramilitary group, he was deemed harmless and the best way to shift him was to give him the 10p. He could make two quid an hour from us. We weren't allowed to claim it back on expenses. MONEY GONE, MONEY GONE". Last Year, I used to go into a bookies with some mates from work (Leicester Square). My mates were atrocious punters - doings BAGS, Roulette - you name it they lost on it. Anyhow - that part of the World Edges on China Town and the same Chinese Faces used the shop all day long. One tiddly wink chap used to go loopy when my mates accidently brushed against him reading the form (etc..), convinced they were bad luck incarnate - the Chinese guy would go mental shouting "MONEY GONE, MONEY GONE". So of course every lunch time we would pat him on the back and ask how his luck was. "You go away, you go away MONEY GONE, MONEY GONE"! |
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The Hitler lookalike.
Appearing daily at Fulham Road *********. He speaks in a German accent, and is accompanied by two others. One female with a wig, and a large chap that looks a little like Bernard Bresslaw. I last saw him in March 2004 before I moved from the areas, he was in every weekday between August 2003 and March 2004. Someone must have seen this fella. He is identical looking to old Adolf. Wonder if he still goes in there. Chinese and their luck what's all that about. Ages ago I used to frequent a chinese restaurant and got to know the boss quite well. For some reason, I still don't know why, he got the idea that I was lucky. He'd always come over and say, "You lucky man" and rub my shoulder. Of course all the family worked there and they'd all spend the afternoons punting like nutters in the LBO. The entire gang would line up behind me as I sorted out my bets and one by one they'd say the same thing, "Ah, Mr Golden. How you? Fine man, lucky man" and they'd rub my arm. After a while I didn't even bother turning around and they reduced their bit it to just walking over and touching me (no jokes). Weird. SIS once showed a fox running loose at Goodwood. The Chinaman who hadnt spoken to anybody ever and we assumed did not speak English shouted out AGH COME ON TWO DOG and laughed his head off at his own joke for five minutes, in the end the whole shop joined in. The Accountants Two go into my local Billy Hills shop in Cardiff. They don't know each other but they bet exactly the same. Walk in, read the papers, have a coffee, watch some racing. When the race they want to bet comes on they saunter up to the counter. 200 on the nose, normally a favourite but always wins. One walks out and goes for a pint without picking up his winnings and reappears about an hour later.Picks his winnings up, does exactly the same thing and wins. The other takes the money and goes to a differnet pub. I've seen them lose now and again but normally they win and win well. Manager hates them because he knows they will only have one or two bets and wont give their winnings back like most of the other punters. |
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Charlie the Chinaman
in ******* Brighton shop. Seems to have some kind of palsy as he can't stop shaking. Wears the same filthy suit and shirt every day, smokes constantly, backs the favourite in every race, always shouting out the words "no money..no money". Supposedly owns a huge property empire all let out to housing benefit claimants and junkies. Hong Kong punters in a billy shop in knightsbridge mid 80s , betting so large that a guy from security was put in just to count the money , wanted 250k ( in a suitcase ) on Dancing Brave for the Derby , but were knocked back even though they'd done fortunes. Eventually left the country when the sun did a front page article on them and their dad got to hear about it. SHY used to only come in on a saturday and looking like an accountant stood out like a sore thumb in brixton hill . A large punter he'd wait until the manager came to the payout and hand over betsof a monkey or a grand , until one time the manager was out the back on the phone and he heard a loud shout from the new cashier , " BOB this bloke wants to place a one thousand pound bet , do we take it ? " SHY was never seen again THE FINE GENTLEMAN This is a frequent bettor I got to know in the mid 90s at a central London shop: An elderly gentleman who walked around the shop with a very fancy, silver-tipped walking stick, always well turned out and polite to all the clerks and patrons. Always had a smile on his face -- if you didn't know better, you'd think he had a ton of cash stashed away and he didn't have a care in the world. He always lathered on some strong scent, which smelled like a mix of honey and limes. He was a 5 or even 10 bettor per race, always putting the bets down on longshots in the horse racing (he pronounced the dog racing "a mug's game."). When each race began, his own booming, hysterical commentary would begin: "RUN YOU MOTHERF***ER, YOU F***ING C***, YOU F***ER CANNOT RUN, YOU C***, YOU SLOW C***, YOU PIECE OF S*** F***ING B******, YOU'D F*** UP A FREE LUNCH, YOU DAMN C*** F***ER, RUN C*** RUN! THIS PIECE OF S**** IS LAME..." Race ends, inevitably with a losing ticket nestled in the nice old chap's hand, and he'd quietly grab his walking stick, begin pacing the shop again with that wan smile plastered on his face (though it now looked just slightly mad). "A fine race, that was," he'd softly to anyone who would listen. "My horse never gave up. He's a good un, he is. Next time. Next time will be mine." |
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ttt
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THE FIRESTARTER
USED TO BE A GUY IN EDINBURGH WHO USED TO LIGHT THE PAPERS WHEN HE LOST. HE WAS BANNED FROM EVERY HILLS BOOKMAKERS ABSOLUTE NUTTER. THE EX-JOCKEY who no-one believes Used to be a guy came in our shop, small, but age had fattened him - claimed he was an ex-jockey, but no-one believed him. I knew his sons, and knew that the geezer was telling the truth - I'd seen the pictures of him, about five stone lighter, on the walls of his house. Played cricket for our team, left-handed opener, with an amusing habit of backing off to square-leg if the bowler was any faster than Bishen Bedi. Anyway, a fair size-stakes puntyer, with a penchant for backing Willie Carson mounts. Would do one, two or all of the Scot's rides on any given day - clearly Carson could ride a bit, so he had a few nice pick-ups. Anyone one day he rings up, says I really fancy Carson on such-and-such, had what was for him a big bet on the beast. The race was at Newcastle, and the history books record that Carson rode six winners that afternoon out of seven - the ex-jockey's one was the only loser. THE BANK MANAGER north east late 90s . big gambler hence the name ,bet on anything, horses, dogs, south african,one day won 14k , anyway he had to come back next day while we scraped the money together, next day picks up,we're really panicking with him having 14k to play with, he loses the lot + another 2k. we could'nt understand why he brought the extra 2 ...total compulsive |
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Saving.
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Fella about 36 ish who pushes his brother in through the back entrance in a wheelchair.
The brother seems a bit bemused by it all,but our man who is usually dressed as if he's just been on a night out(cheap top shop suit)seems to love the racing.Bet's in every possible event but has a particular liking for the dogs. "Go on 2 and 3...go on 2 and 3 go on .....go ooonnnn...GO OOOONNNNNN 2 and 3" he can be heard shouting as 1 3 5 and 2 flash past the post together. |
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AUGUSTO
Italian, loud, lopsided gait, ex-boxer. Not a big guy, would have been a welter max in his prime, the keenest multiple punter I've ever known. Ran a collection of seamstresses like pimps run **s, always carrying plenty - would place at least 20 multiple bets a day, each for about a score. Not a lot of money, but damage if he copped. Every evening, would cash up his day's tickets. Always carried at least 500 losing tickets in his pockets, and would always find the winners last. Lippy fecker, would have a pop at anyone if they got in his way, must have been in his sixties when I knew him. Still see him now and again walking up the City Road. THE PRODIGY Worked in a small-town shop, used to have a young lad (15-16) phone up his bets every Saturday and the big meetings. His dad was a local face, knew everyone, and the boy was a nice kid, so he would come in at the end of the afternoon and settle up, or to watch the non-televised stuff if he had any runners. Always backed seven or eight, patent top three, lucky 15 top four, and so on, with a superheinz or goliath to top it off. Came in one Saturday, he has had a few winners, and he needs the last one, a Pitman novice hurdler, for a big five-figure draw. The word spreads, everyone in the shop is watching, the boy's just sitting quietly in the corner trying not to choke to death on the cigarette fumes - the Governor comes out the front from behind the jump, and in front of everybody, offers the kid a few grand (can't remember the exact amount) for his ticket. Boy's not having it, so we watch the race, the boy's horse is clear at the last, and falls. A big sigh from the whole place, except the Governor, who sitting in the corner laughing his nuts off. DANGER HORSE everything that ever one apart from his few winners was the one he picked out as the danger to his selection. He was ex-CID and now a fiction writer. Had a book deal but nothing major. was known through the 2 bookies in my town as danger horse because his danger horse always won. I told him he should be backing two horses every race |
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Saving.
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FIGGIS
Asian, about 30, in partnership with his brother with two newsagents shops. Used to stick to the same stake every bet which was 20. Win or lose, his expression never changed, and he never spoke to anybody else in the shop. My mate was whistling the tune 'I'm H.A. P. P. Y.' one day when Figgis came in, we couldn't call him Gupta, so he got labelled Figgis. Two years later he vanished completely, but his brothers shop is still open. EYES IN BACK OF HEAD MAN In for the duration every day God sends, has large docile dog which causes major obstruction at doorway. Has an opinion on every sporting event from football to Pro-Celebrity Patagonian Ping-Pong. Backs 2 FAV in every race and when race is off, he turns to RP display on wall and studies racecard. Never watches ANY of the race and when horse invariably loses, crucifies hapless jockey in the James Hunt rhyming fashion. Probably never watched a horse race in his life. THE DOGGY MEN Two pensioners whose wives had died, Len and Steve. Nice old boys, and it was cheaper to sit in our shop all day in the winter than sit at home with the heating on. The flat upstairs was rented by two nurses and when they got a new sofa they gave the old one to the betting shop and that's where Len and Steve used to sit. Steves dog on his left, and Lens dog on his right, and sitting in the middle was their old mate Ernie, with no dog or wife. All was quiet before I managed this shop and it stayed that way until The Sentrys dad (see first post on this thread) came in one day half drunk. Ernie was visiting his daughter who lived near Southwell racecourse, and the Sentrys dad fell into Ernies seat in the middle of Len and Steve. The dogs (a Jack Russell and a small Boxer) went completely bananas, nipping at his feet to get him to move out of Ernies place. Somebody got the Jack Russell and Steve got his Boxer under control, while dear old Len slept through it all. |
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Typically Tropical
Back in the 80s in Brixton my local Mecca was used by predominantly black punters. The place was done out fairly lavishly for those days - it took loadsa dru g/prostitutio n money - naffly and patronisingly themed along the lines of a Carribean racecourse complete with columns supporting the roof made to look coconut palms. At the top of each column was a box affair from which plastic flowers cascaded. As the local ganja dealers would use these boxes as safe places to stash their gear it was commonplace to have your view of the 2.30 from Sandown obscured by some dreadlocked guy skillfully shining up a coconut palm - 'baggy' in mouth - before or after doing a bit of business (betting slips are perfect for wrapping ganja in btw). Amazingly the staff took absolutely no notice whatsoever. After the place got turned over a couple times by local gangsters using shooters Mecca installed a CCTV system. This passed off without comment from the locals for about 6 months untill someone suddenly got the idea that the cameras were linked directly into Brixton Police Station. Cue the instant trashing of the place - luckily the staff managed to make a quick exit through the back door. This was enough even for greedy old Mecca as the place never reopened. One Out Tom...... Possibly the World's Worst Gambler. Earns his name from his ability to do one Placepot everyday for Life at EVERY meeting and NOT understand the concept. I.E would invariably put in Favs/2nd Favs and if ONE Race had a 16/1,25/1,14/1 finish this would bung the Divi up to 100+, whereas if his Fav had come in it would be about a Pony. Worked as a Milkman over Windsor and one of my favourite stories about him, was when his long-suffering Wife could see that he was on a bad run whilst playing Poker with his mates in the house, opened the Flat window(4th Floor), unplugged the TV and threw it out the Window and said.....'''They've bloody had everything else, they may as well take that when they go''' The Professional....... Used to live with his Mum. He was about 45/50. Come in once or twice a week......Case the joint.....pretend to read ALL the info......make sure nobody was looking at his ticket........slip it under the Bandit Screen Bond-like......always the same bet....... 5p win (usually on some out of town dog) Sadly died in a housefire, thankfully after his Mum had passed on! |
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These are from Oz...
The first one is brilliant, it's what betting characters are all about. We don't have betting shops over here, but a few of the characters I've come across working for on-track bookies over the past 30 years. Around 1981, I worked for a place-only bookie at Sandown Greys. An elderly guy turned up one Thursday night wanting $5k cash on a dog at 6/4. We bet him $2k. He asked the guy next door for a similar bet, and then walked to the T.o.t.e and plonked the rest of what he had on. The dog somehow ran 3rd..paid money back on the ****..and cleaned us out. The odd thing about him was that he was wearing pyjamas and slippers, with an enormous dressing-gown over the top. We never saw him again. Colonel Klink was very well known around the late 70s-early 80s. Would have been around 55. He would turn up occasionally and take the very, very short odds.1/10, 1/12 etc, always for cash. He flew from Melbourne to Sydney one weekend to have $20k on a horse that was going off at around 1/8. It duly won. When asked where he had stayed in Sydney, his answer proved the adage that money is for gambling, not for spending. He had slept the night on the beach! Ronnie is a large place punter on Melbourne races. Usually bets for cash, and will have $5k or $6k on his 2 or 3 fancies for the day, usually around the $2 mark. We didn't know much about him, but he was proving hard to beat, until a day last year at Caulfield. His final bet, being $80k down,on credit, was $10k e.w on the last winner @$10. It was an amazing recovery. That night there was a meeting as well, and a few of us went out for a midnight supper after the races. We were sitting at a table outside the cafe in busy Lygon street, when a man of about 60 walked through the crowd, selling the early editions of the next days papers. It was Ronnie. Our likely $100k debtor was a paper-boy !! He was at the races today. |
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http://tv.cream.org/specialassignments/themes/bigdeal.mp3
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THE NERD PUNTER
has a rich family so gets himself 50 at the start of each day even though he never had a job. backs 5 dogs in each dog race so no matter what wins he cant make a profit. when he gets returns he keeps the coins and punts away the notes. when he has no notes left he counts up his coins, loudly exclaims "i have enough for x cans" goes home happy with his cans and returns to lose about 40 of his daily 50 the next day. now known as "the N.P." as an abbreviation for his above name. |
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Larry The Boardmarker
I sometimes used to travel into town on a Saturday, for no other reason than to spend the afternoon in the betting shop, of which there was several, mostly dingey holes (this was the 1960`s when most shops were pretty spartan, to say the least), but the shop I normally attended was comparatively huge for its time and always had a good Saturday crowd - many of them were the older types, who back then usually wore rainmacs and flat caps . Larry would always be standing up on his platform, roll-up fag on his lower lip, same blue-holed cardigan, well worn white shirt with dog-eared collar, grey trousers and plimsolls. And of course with him were his tools of the trade - bucket of water, chamois leather, cotton cloths, chalk and felt marker pens. The blackboard was for the results, and the plastic marker board for the betting shows. He had plenty of yap, and always seemed to attract a small shifting audience. Larry - in his early sixties - had an opinion on every race, could always set the world to rights and give his opinion and solutions for anything and everything, from the Vietnam War to women`s lib. He was a character. It was a gloomy late October day and the rains came to soften the ground, and together with the big end of flat season fields, conspired to produce results which rendered the formbook something close to being obsolete. This particular Saturday in question was especially horrendous, with one rank outsider after another sailing home to bash the wallet. Mercifully the last race arrived, but with fatalistic predictability, produced yet another stumor. It seemed nothing less than plunder by the bookies. The looks on the faces said it all - the inside of an old debtors prison could not have been more cheerless. Now, there is an old hymn-anthem titled, Abide With Me. It is a very solemn hymn with words and music to match and has been sung at countless funerals down the generations. Somewhat surprisingly to younger generations, it was extremely popular with most older people, most of whom seemed to know the words and tune by heart. Also it was, for years, sung by the Wembley crowd before the Cup Final. Within seconds of that final winner nailing any hope of punters leaving with anything more than a bit of silver and a few coppers - many with not even that - Larry, realising the gravity of the situation, siezed the moment and spontaneously burst into song:- Abide with me, fast falls the eventide; the darkness deepens:Lord with me abide When other helpers fail and comforts flee, help of the helpless, O abide with me. In the first two lines he was on his own, but then the whole shop, including the staff, joined in, and it was quite rousing and emotive. Having been forced to attend church twice a week for years, as a boy, I was familiar with this hymn, and in the situation present, it lent itself perfectly to the occasion and the words of the first two verses aptly echoed the plight of the voices singing them. Swift to its close ebbs out life`s little day; earth`s joy grows dim, its glories pass away. change and decay in all around i see - you never change, O Lord: abide with me! Every verse was sung, and the final line of the final verse was rendered very slowly, and at lung bursting volume:- In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me! With that, nobody uttered a word, they all just filed out of the shop in an orderly fashion - perhaps sensing their souls had been cleansed; in fact, they appeared very similar to a church congregation as it leaves at the close of service, with Larry, in the role of minister, waving down, nodding and saying his little "bye" to everyone, and, in turn, being acknowledged. The punters headed for home, some perhaps to face the music, having maybe lost the rent money. For sure, it looked every bit like a quiet Saturday night in for all. I have not seen anything quite like it in a betting shop since, nor ever shall, as the camaraderie of betting shop punters has disappeared forever, and we are now in the age of the internet. Larry is now up there with the angels - along with, I suppose, many of the punters in the shop that day. Let`s hope he is singing for us when we have a similar bad day. Gone, but not forgotten. |
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Smelly Lilly
Jesus wept, need i say more.... |
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The Knitter
She had the whole shop to choose from but always chose to sit in front of the paper with the main meetings raceform .perched on her stool knitting away.refusing to budge needles clacking while a queue of blokes tried to glance over her half finished cardy at the 2-30 from Goodwood Distant memories. They guy who smashed the screen with his fist because I wouldn't pay him out on a straight forecast. The race was a dead heat and he had one of the winners and the third. He simply could not grasp that his bet had lost The guy who came in late November with a carbon 40 win Le Moss for the St Leger.I searched everyehere for the original. I had seen it knocking about in the shop for months as you do with Ante Post bets. Anyway I knew the bet was genuine so I paid him out on the carbon just as he walked out the door it clicked. LE MOSS DIDN'T WIN THE ST LEGER. I had to chase him down the road but I got the cash back. |
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Guy spotted in Badbrokes main branch in Wincombe St. Cheltenham - comes in three or four times a week stays for one race only. smartly dressed but not office / retail clothes. mid 30s, sometimes seen carrying books / files. walks in acknowledging no one and speaking to no one. Occassionally glances at RP on the wall but never makes a bet - never even goes near the counter. Sometimes takes or makes a call on his mobile. Never more than the briefest exchange on the phone. Watches the race impassively. occasionally smiles towards the end. Afterwards again takes or makes a call and appears to give a brief report on one of the runners. Leaves. What is he up to? One rumour is that he is a big Betfair layer but as he speaks to no one, it remains speculation.
I was a boardmarker in Mecca in the Archway. There was a gypsy camp just up the road and a guy, probably in his forties or fifties but looked older from being out of his head by 10.30 every morning, was a regular. He could scrawl '5 pound favourite' on a slip when he was able to hold a pen and stand up at the same time, and let it ride on the next one when he won. There were five favourites in a row one afternoon and he was walking to the door with fivers and tenners falling out of his pockets when his daughter came in. She was built like a rotweiller with a face like a pox ridden werewolf. She swung at him for reasons only they knew, and knocked him out cold in the middle of the place. He lay there through a race, stood up for the next one, wrote '5 pound favourite' on a slip and handed it over. 'IT'LL BUY ME A COFFEE' Back in the mid 70s, single bloke in his 40s on the dole. Came in once a week and the entire giro (about 18) including the odd smash, on an odds on shot. Every time we paid him out he said ' It'll buy me a coffee'. He had one loser in about 17 weeks, promptly vanished, and was never seen again in our shop, but carried on in Mecca at the top of the road. |
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The guy who came in to a billys in streatham vale , sat there punting in the afternoon and got paid out 50 too much on the wrong slip. Cashier tells the manager who goes out to speak to him . Bloke does a runner out the shop and tears off down the road . He comes back in 10 minutes later and sits down , the bemused manager goes over, shows him the slips and the bloke pays it back. A short while later the manager notices a bet thats been running up , a 15 acc thats got nearly 600 going on to the next race fav trading at 1/3 . It doesn't win and the bloke nearly takes the hinges off the door as he leaves the shop cursing and spitting.
The Brixton shop very similar to the one mentioned , with a nutter of a manager. Cashier gets robbed at the counter, manager realises as robber walks out the door . Tears out under the hatch out the door after the bloke , jumps on him in the market , bloke pulls out a knife and stabs him. When the police turn up they work out he's jumped on the WRONG BLOKE.... Mate of mine going into shop in East London to put papers up, gets in shop, bloke follows him in and locks door says 'Give me the money.' Mate says it is all in the insert and has a half hour delay before it can be opened up. Robber says 'That's ok, we'll wait'. And they did before making off with dosh. |
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The guy who came in late November with a carbon 40 win Le Moss for the St Leger.I searched everyehere for the original. I had seen it knocking about in the shop for months as you do with Ante Post bets. Anyway I knew the bet was genuine so I paid him out on the carbon just as he walked out the door it clicked. LE MOSS DIDN'T WIN THE ST LEGER. I had to chase him down the road but I got the cash back.
How did you work out how much to pay him ?:| |
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Greysuit Harry.
Harry was what used to be termed: an "old lag". Somebody who is in and out of prison on a fairly regular basis - quite often for burglary of houses and shops, and other various petty stealing crimes, which in many ways, is his way of life. Usually none too bright, he would seldom move away from his own area, and is normally on friendly terms with the local policemen on the beat. A generally harmless type who would "come quietly" rather than put up a violent struggle if caught. Harry was one such type - called Greysuit Harry because that was what he always wore. Whether he caught them as a batch of the same size and colour as they fell off the back of a lorry is anyone`s guess. I remember one occasion when a local small electrical shop had been broken into one night, and the police had been alerted. They discovered that whoever broke the window had cut his hand. The trail of the drops of blood was followed down a side alley and into the entrance of an old woodmill. There, under a workbench was Harry, sleeping like a baby, and with a brand new kettle and toaster by his side. I think he got three months. Harry often lived rough - and often looked rough too. When he wasn`t "sleeping it off" somewhere - either in cells or some other form of shelter - one could guarantee he would be in one of two places: either in a pub, or in a betting shop. He was a magician in the pubs, always knowing which ones to go to when the crowds were there - darts night, snooker night, whatever. He got to know almost everybody, and he made sure strangers too would soon become acquainted. It has to be said that Harry was a scrounger of pints par excellance. During the evening he would move around from group to group, joining in the banter. Although a known scrounger, he was such a friendly and engageing fellow, with a big smile, warm personality and tales to tell, that there was always someone in each group who would fill Harry`s glass, even knowing that the favour would not be returned. It should be said, however, that if he had had a good day in the betting shop, then he was generous, almost to a fault. In the betting shops, he was quite amusing. If skint, he would enter very quietly and go straight to the form pages on the wall and spend long periods assessing the form, of which he was a very shrewd judge. He would then make it his business to give his opinions to punters who he knew had benefitted from his advice in the past - in fact they were usually keen to know what Harry`s opinions were. If successful, he would often be given the odd couple of quid, and sometimes a fiver. The funniest bit would be if he was flush with cash - especially on a Saturday. Harry would come through the betting shop door in really ebullient style - everyone had to know he had arrived. He had just come from the pub and was quite well oiled. He would go straight to the table in the middle of the shop where he would deposit his money - and there it would stay for the duration of the afternoon. There would usually be a few fivers, lots of pound notes and a mountain of change -all poured on to the table very noisily. Harry had a strange ritual if he was doing well. He always came in with a big cigar lodged in his top jacket pocket. If towards the end of the day he was a long way in front and had just backed another winner, he would take the cigar out and peel off the wrapping. He would then stand near the middle of the shop, light up, and draw strongly on the cigar; he would then look upwards and blow huge rings of smoke up at the ceiling, probably through a feeling of elation combined with a momentary signal of triumph over adversity - maybe, deep down, there was a bit of primal virility mixed in there too. There were some dark days also, when the cashpile dwindled to nothing. Harry would then politely ask a regular who had had a good day to lend him enough money for "the first pint". His economic (drinking/betting) cycle would begin again, although the word begin is rather inapt, because there was no end or beginning to this cycle (apart from when being banged up), it was almost a continuum. I saw Harry limping along - and looking quite rough and old - as I drove through his home town a couple of years ago; it looked as though arthritis had got to him. I often think about him on freezing cold winter nights, and privately wish him well. A bit of a rogue, but a harmless and likeable one, who`s heart was always in the right place. |
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LONG NOSED BAR***RD
this well tanned grey haired chap can be found in the aldershot area - loves a bet every race and annoyingly delights in keeping every winning bet till last knockings. every dog race "come on 4 come on 4 - hes got this - come on 4 - oh 4 fks sake - u stupid long nosed b@rstard" verbally abusing a greyhound - now come on mate !!! |
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RAY
Things were quiet in the shop, when one summer evening Ray comes in. He was our biggest punter, and gets us concerned. This particular evening, my (usually silent) partner happens to be there, and he's given to worrying a bit at the best of times, so he's all a panic with Ray there, and Ray knows it! Ray has a couple of bets, and isn't winning, which is usually a signal to up the stakes a bit. Anyway my partner's indian (Ordered before Ray's entrance) arrived, He got a plate etc and sat at the table in the shop with the food spread out in front of him. He's about half way through his meal, when Ray stands between him and the main screen cheering the leading horse home, a 20/1 shot, and he's the only punter in the shop and he's cheering it home. My partner now in a state of abject panic leaps up sending indian food flying in all directions, spilling his curry all over himself, and says, in a shaking voice, "Ray. How much did you have on it?" Ray looks at him, and says. "Nothing, I didn't have a bet" ============================================================================== Taken from my own rare visit to a local bookies. Upon making conversation, there calculated money making system was fascinating. One particular favourite tip being to back Seb Sanders in yellow !. Bets ranging from 1-5, and annoyingly finding more winners than me!! JOAN COLLINS back in the 80's when i worked for ******* a lady use to come in every lunchtime with her bets and sometimes used to pay by cheque, the first time I served her I thought it was a wind-up when I saw her name on the cheque . She owned 2 quite large hotels and was obviously very wealthy and liked to live up to her namesake by dressing in a ' dynasty ' style. She used to do pontoon and mag . 7 bets and one day [Sat, glorious goodwood meeting ] she had 6 winners and had 22k to collect. Came in on the monday manager gave her the cheque and she gave us both a tip, manager 2 , cashier {me } 1 Tight cow . |
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I have received a message from AITL to thank Henry and the rest of you for your contributions to this thread.. :)
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George Nickless RIP
Lovely man...used to work with him at a Gov. Establishment and used to come in to the Bookies when I started there. You would never get rich from punters like George but the world was a happier place. He would put about 6 slips over and some would be for his Missus and some would be for old Connie. You didn't have to look what meetings were on 'cos George would have his corny joke like......... I'll expect racing will be on today, as the Wetherby all right or-I'll get me money out from my Perth Or this will win, something in the Ayr told me. Lovely man!-which incidentally was one of HIS expressions. God Bless!!!!!!!! |
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Middle-aged West Indian chap, quite well dressed, looked like he wouldn't say boo to a goose. Well known around Leicester for dropping his kecks and flashing his John Thomas to all and sundry. Barred from all major supermarkets for causing 'extreme distress'.
Get's a nudge a nudge from the cashier next to me, 'He's just gone in the toilets!' Big sigh... 'Which twunt left the bloody thing open?' Off I go with the spare key to check it out. Open the door and there he is, trousers round ankles, Razzle in hand. I look at him, he looks at me, jazz mag back in bag, trousers pulled back up, and off up the stairs he went. 'JOES MUMS MATE' I used to work Saturdays for Roy Christie in one of his shops back in the late 70s, and this old dear used to put on a 2 x 10p each way yankees every Saturday. One day she came in and had 5 on a horse to win instead. I joked to the manager 'She must have a tip.' He looked at the bet, then phoned another independent in town and backed the horse for himself. It won. It appears she lived next to Joe Mercers mum and the tips were red hot. I was only there for one and a half flat seasons but she must have had at least one tip every three weeks, and never lost. In a South London billies in the 90s, there was a most annoying character who proclaimed to anyone and everyone, whether they were listening or not, that he was "The best punter in London". This one particular day he had backed a horse over the jumps, it went well clear, 2 to jump and 25 lengths up, "go on my**eeeeerrrrrr, go on my son, in you go you beauty" . Over the last and on to the run in still at least 20l clear "Woo Hoo, get in, get in, I'm the best punter in London". All of a sudden it appears that the horse is beginning to falter (cant remember its name, although sure it had either the word, 'chocolate' or 'ice' in it, maybe both) and the second is beggining to gain on it, although it seems the beast will hang on. Picture the guy walking round the bookies looking at the punters watching the race whilst shouting out "Im the best punter in London", and the, by now whole shop fixed on the screen willing the horse in second to get up, sure enough it was gaining, but was it gaining fast enough? First one punter murmers a bit of encouragement for the horse in 2nd, then another , then another, then as it becomes apparent that it was going to get up the whole shop, even those on the one in front were screaming home the second, as it hit the line to get up by a SH, best punter in London's face was an absolute picture. He was staring at the screen and the punters in disbelief. With that he turned around to everybody and announced "Well, I'm still the best Each Way punter in London"! Cue mass hysterics, as he made his way from the shop. |
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Drunken Jim
Drunken Jim would be in the same little out-of-town betting shop every afternoon without fail - always arriving at 3.15, well lubricated, as ever. "Here comes Drunken Jim" someone would usually say as he approached. Jim had some annoying habits - coating the toilet floor with urine after a couple of visits was the worst one. Complaining to the shop owner was no good; all he would say was: "Jim`s a good customer". In other words, he was a constant heavy loser - we all knew that anyway. He had spent his entire working life with British Rail and had a wonderful pension, plus state pension, personal pension, and, it was said, a good inheritance. If a pair of flippers were needed to go into the toilet, punters would instead nip down the grassy slope at the side of the shop and through a gap in the hedge, shake hands with the vicar, and then return. Another one of his annoying habits was continually talking aloud as he read the form; he would always stand reading the form pages on the wall - he never sat down - and would constantly be poking his pen into the pieces of form on the pages, so making holes all over the place, whilst at the same time, explaining why this one would win, why that one has no chance etc. Jim had slightly prominent teeth and a bit of a lisp which caused him to splutter, and when he became animated during a disagreement, it usually paid to stand back an extra couple of feet. He was very patriotic and opinionated. Along with the horses, another subject that would really get him going was cricket. He couldn`t understand why players born in a foreign country were allowed to play for England. On one occasion when the subject was raised he spluttered heavily, and then exclaimed, "In my day, your FATHER had to be born in England to make you eligible to play for England - now they`ll have anybody". (Perhaps it was true in his younger days, but not so in much earlier times; Maharaja, K. S. Ranjitsinhje had regularly played for England in late Victorian times). The last time I saw Drunken Jim was around the mid eighties, or just after. He was looking quite old, in fact I think he died about a year later. I hadn`t been to that shop for years, and so while in the area decided to pay a visit to see if any of the old regulars were there - and they were. Jim, half cut as usual, was doing his normal routine, except noticeably slower. However, he still had strong opinions and remained his feisty old self. As he was leaving and stepping outside, somebody said what a good jockey the new champion Peter Scudamore is. Jim poked his head back inside and grumpily roared: "Huh! not a patch on his father". With that he slammed the door shut. Everyone inside the shop laughed out aloud. |
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Up, for Jayco.
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MAKE UP LADY
there was a cashier who kept putting make up and nail polish on, blowing her nails etc while there a mad dash to put bets on. She just calmly carried on putting make up on while all the punters were getting angry and missing getting their bets on... grrr STINKY NIGE Thick-set black guy, frequented shops in Ipswich town centre circa 1990. Would often see him, maybe acknowledge his presence with a nod or a smile only to be greeted with 'baaad man' glare. One minute later would comically bump into you and laugh his head off! Generally a good egg Nigel, sadly unable to wash himself or his clothes properly. Time Lord Rastafarian, aged 55-65, Black leather hat, long scarf & coat (a la doctor who) Late afternoon better, 4 NHF races left & the dogs are on and you're trying to get the f**kers out. Time lord strolls in, same every day, 3 slips, 4 selections on each mixture of dogs & horses. 10 yaaaak or 5 E333zzzzw (10p Yankee/5p E/W) scrawled at the top of each slip, then 4 lines underneath of pure, unadulterated hieroglyphics/morse code....even the dogs were called by there maiden names (no traps here)...then the piece de resistence...no time...jesus, the time i spent dechiphering I could've been in that Enigma film. In my year of knowing him I only heard him say three sentences :- "rassssssclaaaarrrt" "pusssssssyyyyclaarrrtttt" to the female cashier and finally "coooooooome on fuuuuuuuuu kk ii nnn trap tree" |
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