Rank Outsider

Do not drink to excess, swear, blaspheme, or gamble. Well, I am not proud  that this is a list in which I can say that I have been 100% unsuccessful.

I like a glass of wine, or two, on an evening or two per week but by current unit measurements this may be regarded as being towards a problem. What a load of *******. I have been known to swear on occasions of frustration and stress but not to use foul language to supplement my vocabulary. I try not to be blasphemous but it can be difficult particularly when many established and popular outbursts and profanities are grounded in faith and worship terms. I gave up on the National Lottery a decade ago and strongly disapprove of the prominence of a betting culture in just about everything in everyday life.

The commercial breaks of UK TV are dominated by advertisements glamourising bingo, scratchcards, poker, roulette and all manner of on-line gaming. Lets face it, these are all solitary, sad and eventuallly demoralising and self- destructive activities. The sort of thing pursued in the gloom of a room, hunched over a laptop or PC and behind a locked door. Not much progress for humanity there from teenage years then.

My Grandparents were of a generation where drunkeness and gambling were still firmly in the category of sinful behaviour. Gradually the righteous indignation against, and taboos attached to such things have become eroded and blurred and are now almost regarded as social attributes rather than matters of personal weakness.

Take the saturday just gone, part of the long run in and extended weekender that is The Grand National. It is one of the events that define our character and identity as a country following on quickly in the calendar from the early underdog stages of the FA Cup, the Boat Race and as a warm up to the London Marathon. It is also the day when all the country is encouraged to gamble in a spirit of fun and frivolity. Children are carried into the Bookies shop high on the shoulders of fathers and uncles and encouraged to study form by selecting a nicely named horse or being drawn to the quartered or spotty silk racing colours of the jockeys.

My first ever visit to a Bookies was enough to put me off gambling for life. It was in the 1970's in our small town High Street. The windows, unlike todays mesmerising and hypnotic displays to draw in punters, were grubby and fly infested. The opening of the door released a mushroom cloud of high tar infused cigarette smoke mixed with the sweat from fear and exhilaration of the public occupants. Oversized men, fronted by bulbous and overhanging bellies stood around amongst an ankle deep ticker-tape of discarded betting slips. Some nervously fingered bits of paper, others were well engrossed in obsessive and compulsive behaviour misconstrued as a lucky and superstiitious ritual. A few were defeated and dejected and not looking forward to explaining to her indoors about a wafer thin wage packet this week.

It was an entirely male domain, apart from perhaps a hard faced cashier lady behind the grille or nicotine/saliva streaked counter screen. Nowadays the premises of the large chains of betting shops are like Starbucks and have taken on the role of a third home for male and female patrons.

My first visit was also an introduction to the mystique and exclusive process of placing a shop-bet. There were no user friendly instructions for first timers.  Looking confused, overwhelmed and about to pass out in the thick atmosphere did elicit some guidance from a regular. Pick a slip, study the race times and venues, choose a horse, approach the fierce cashier. Then the big decisions. For a 10p stake, a lot of pocket money in those days, did I want to bet each way or for an outright win. The former term threw me completely- did they turn around and race back from the finish? I went for each way, in my mind, two chances to win. The biggest decision was whether to pay the tax before on the stake or after on the, or any, winnings. I do not recall if I won anything. My 10p disappeared into the back room to end up who knew where. Betting was a futile occupation. As I at sometime overheard there may be four counters to take your money but only two to pay it out. Not best odds.

As a family, if we were organised, we would usually have a sweepstake. There was no logic or system involved in choosing a mount. Three horses each and our names inked in on the full page special colour spread of the saturday morning Express newspaper. This was stuck up with drawing pins on the kitchen notice board.We may have heard of the better known riders and runners but none of us had anything like a long game strategy.

Our wedding day in 1989 was coincidentally on Grand National Day and one of the horses, 'Last of the Brownies' was such an apt betting proposition given that Brown, and not Last, was the maiden name of my gorgeous bride.

The actual running of the race was always late in the afternoon. If it was nice weather we would be out and about and not really interested in watching. We did, when I was a child,  only have a black and white TV anyway which in itself was problematic. I do have strong memories of individual races such as the wins of Red Rum and Aldiniti, but very strong impressions of death and mayhem amongst the thoroughbred stock as the pace, heavy ground and horrendously challenging jumps and obstacles claimed many equine victims and continues to do so annually.

The day can come and go now without my interest. It remains however a day of mass public participation and is often an introduction to betting for the first time for many. The TV and media coverage is as extensive and informative as a Royal Wedding and reinforces a cultural trait in this country to forget logic and reason and go for that life changing gamble even if you are well ahead and cruising comfortably in your own grand national.