DRIVE in a two-mile circuit from our house and you will count 39 betting shops. True, we live near the racecourse, but in the past year it seems every empty retail space reopens as Eurogoal or some such establishment. They are almost all invariably empty, so what’s going on? What’s going on is – internet gambling. Many of these places are called “kiosks”, places where you can use your internet registration number but have somewhere comfortable to watch the race/match/game while the real money is being placed at home in private.
It’s a long way from my first experience of betting, “part of my education” as my Granddad put it. I was 12 years old and he’d borrowed a motorcycle and sidecar for the day. He’d told me not to tell my mother what we were up to, he didn’t think she’d approve. It was early August: one of those days where the sky was littered with soft white clouds. Encouraging me to wear something pretty, he astonished me by appearing dapper and dandy in a linen suit and panama hat.
Goodwood is described as the world’s most beautiful racecourse, and that day, as we sped along country lanes towards the South Downs, lush with foliage and briefly glimpsed views across deep valleys, you could see why. What I couldn’t understand was why my Granddad was looking so posh.
When we pulled into the car park I understood, the place was littered with Rollers and Bentleys, and like the birds in the aviary at London zoo, exotically hatted women were screeching to each other. Edward VII described Goodwood as, “a garden party with racing tacked on”. It was he who had decreed that formal morning dress should be abandoned in favour of the relaxed linen suit and panama.
I remember looking at the groups heading for the members’ enclosure with trepidation, but was soon grabbed by the hand. “Let ’em toffs go, we’re off to the best place, grab a handle.” We lugged our picnic hamper into what must be the best view for race goers ever: from the hillside the Downs rolled away before us, and in front the whole course and the winning line lay directly below. “You’ll need these,” and from his pocket he pulled out some small binoculars.
“But first, down to business.” Business involved getting our race cards, and elbowing our way to the paddocks. That day I learnt about “form”. How to look at the shine on the horse’s skin as they paraded round the enclosures, how to judge their temperament from the angle of their ears, how to find out if they liked the going soft or hard, and how to make sure we backed a winner and at the best odds.
This involved getting to know Stan a bookie from the East End and an old mate of Granddad’s. He wore bowler hat, bow tie, waistcoat and white gloves like the rabbit in Alice. The need for these soon became apparent, while he chalked, talked, and changed odds at phenomenal speed, competing in the cacophony to bark his bets, somewhere in the distance his tic tac man would be sending him signals which his white gloves acknowledged and caused him furiously to rub at his blackboard and shout something new.
“Right, choose.” “What?” “You choose the ’orses, we’ve a tenner, no more and no less.” There was only one way, of course, I chose the names I liked best. They all lost.
Here in Cyprus, online gambling companies are flourishing and making huge profits. One such company was Playtech Cyprus, whose CEO, a 32-year-old Israeli, helped float the company on the London Stock Exchange in March for £265.2 million But what is the pleasure of gambling without actually being at the event, participating. For many compulsive gamblers, it’s a need to be completely cleaned out: they can’t stop until all the money is gone. That is the danger of Internet gambling: it’s so easy, so private, so hidden. Happens in the schoolyard over a mobile phone, or late at night in your bedroom, or quietly behind blinds in a small caf? in Ayios Dometios. There is a case to argue that casinos are more wholesome, at least they are sociable and open, your gambling habit there for everyone to see.
That day long ago in Goodwood was not all sunshine and sandwiches. Leaving, we met a man sitting desolate against the fence. Granddad knew him. He was holding his head in his hands weeping. He’d lost his whole week’s wages, how was he going to face his wife and kids? “I’ll lend it yer, mate,” offered Granddad, “but you’ll have to tell yer missus.” Even then it was clear from his face that the acknowledgement of his addiction was far more frightening than the fact he’d lost all his money. He’d prefer to lie than take the offer of help.
As we left my Granddad took my hand, “Never gamble more than you’d be willing to lose, Lauren, and I don’t mean just money. And next time I’ll pick the ’orses.”
