provided another way for the alcoholics to lose their money, or to win some for more drink. Or to win some for a new football shirt. Bobby could read the form of horses. Sometimes horses were in good form, sometimes bad. The same as humans. The key to winning a bet was to predict what form they would be in. A row of numbers beside their name signified where they had finished in their last few races. A zero meant it had finished nowhere. A one meant it had won the last race it ran. The number two beside the name meant it finished second. It was important to be able to read the form. The
Sporting Life
listed the finishing time of each horse and the distance of each race it ran. The summer was the flat-racing season. The horseswent over jumps in the winter, when the ground was softer, so that the jockeys wouldn’t completely wreck themselves when they fell off going thirty miles an hour. The shortest races were five furlongs. A furlong was two hundred metres. Eight furlongs was a mile.
Ladbrokes on O’Connell Street was just around the corner from Barney’s video arcade. It was Bobby’s favourite bookies because they had free coffee and tea. It was illegal to gamble if you were under eighteen, but Bobby had never been stopped. He had been questioned a few times but he just said the bet was for his dad. Bobby grabbed some dockets and a bookie’s pencil. He looked up at the board that listed all the races. The 2.15 at Catterick was ten minutes away from starting. There were ten runners. It was a seven-furlong sprint. Number 13 was called Jack the Lad.
‘That has to be a sign. Thirteen is my lucky number and it’s a seven-furlong sprint.’
‘You’re as mad as your da. What does it matter if it’s a seventy-furlong sprint?’
‘A seventy-furlong sprint isn’t a sprint because seventy furlongs is over eight miles.’
‘Just put the bet on.’
Bobby checked the
Sporting Life
. Beside the horse’s name it said, ‘Course and distance winner’.
This rang a bell for Bobby. His dad had about ten thousand superstitions when it came to gambling.
Never back a favourite in a three-horse race
.
He had heard that so many times and thought it was the most ridiculous one. Another one was
course and distance winner
. Some days it was a reason to back a horse, other days it was the reason a horse would lose. Half of his superstitions contradicted the other half.
Jack the Lad was 4–1. Pat Eddery was in the saddle. Bobby knew if he put three pounds on it would give him fifteen back.
‘I’m going to put three quid on Jack the Lad.’
Bobby climbed up on one of the stools to write the bet out.
£3 win Jack the Lad, 2.15 Catterick
.
The lady behind the counter was looking at him suspiciously.
‘Is it OK if I do a bet for my dad? He is in the pub next door.’
‘Of course it is, son, do you know which horse he wants to back?’
At that moment, Bobby remembered another one of his dad’s superstitions.
‘Never write out a bet with a bookie’s pencil.’
He didn’t listen to that voice in his head the last time and he lost.
‘No I’ll go and ask him, thanks.’
‘Come on, Jay, quick, we need to find a shop.’
‘For what?’
‘We need to buy a pen and we need to pretend we’re asking my dad which horse he wants to back.’
‘You just wrote out the bet.’
‘I know, it was with a bookie’s pencil, though.’
‘It doesn’t make any difference, you lunatic.’
There was a shop a few doors down from the bookies.
‘Can I have a pen please?’
‘What type of pen, we have Bic biros, felt tips…’
‘What is the cheapest?’
‘The Bic, it’s five pence. We have them in blue, black, red…’
‘Any colour will do, red actually.’
Liverpool wore red. Bobby had three pound twenty left. He knew a three-pound bet would cost three pound thirty with the ten per cent tax added on.
‘Can I borrow ten pence off you, Jay?’
‘No.’
‘What do you mean, no?’
‘Not for a bet. I’m not
Sporting Life
listed the finishing time of each horse and the distance of each race it ran. The summer was the flat-racing season. The horseswent over jumps in the winter, when the ground was softer, so that the jockeys wouldn’t completely wreck themselves when they fell off going thirty miles an hour. The shortest races were five furlongs. A furlong was two hundred metres. Eight furlongs was a mile.
Ladbrokes on O’Connell Street was just around the corner from Barney’s video arcade. It was Bobby’s favourite bookies because they had free coffee and tea. It was illegal to gamble if you were under eighteen, but Bobby had never been stopped. He had been questioned a few times but he just said the bet was for his dad. Bobby grabbed some dockets and a bookie’s pencil. He looked up at the board that listed all the races. The 2.15 at Catterick was ten minutes away from starting. There were ten runners. It was a seven-furlong sprint. Number 13 was called Jack the Lad.
‘That has to be a sign. Thirteen is my lucky number and it’s a seven-furlong sprint.’
‘You’re as mad as your da. What does it matter if it’s a seventy-furlong sprint?’
‘A seventy-furlong sprint isn’t a sprint because seventy furlongs is over eight miles.’
‘Just put the bet on.’
Bobby checked the
Sporting Life
. Beside the horse’s name it said, ‘Course and distance winner’.
This rang a bell for Bobby. His dad had about ten thousand superstitions when it came to gambling.
Never back a favourite in a three-horse race
.
He had heard that so many times and thought it was the most ridiculous one. Another one was
course and distance winner
. Some days it was a reason to back a horse, other days it was the reason a horse would lose. Half of his superstitions contradicted the other half.
Jack the Lad was 4–1. Pat Eddery was in the saddle. Bobby knew if he put three pounds on it would give him fifteen back.
‘I’m going to put three quid on Jack the Lad.’
Bobby climbed up on one of the stools to write the bet out.
£3 win Jack the Lad, 2.15 Catterick
.
The lady behind the counter was looking at him suspiciously.
‘Is it OK if I do a bet for my dad? He is in the pub next door.’
‘Of course it is, son, do you know which horse he wants to back?’
At that moment, Bobby remembered another one of his dad’s superstitions.
‘Never write out a bet with a bookie’s pencil.’
He didn’t listen to that voice in his head the last time and he lost.
‘No I’ll go and ask him, thanks.’
‘Come on, Jay, quick, we need to find a shop.’
‘For what?’
‘We need to buy a pen and we need to pretend we’re asking my dad which horse he wants to back.’
‘You just wrote out the bet.’
‘I know, it was with a bookie’s pencil, though.’
‘It doesn’t make any difference, you lunatic.’
There was a shop a few doors down from the bookies.
‘Can I have a pen please?’
‘What type of pen, we have Bic biros, felt tips…’
‘What is the cheapest?’
‘The Bic, it’s five pence. We have them in blue, black, red…’
‘Any colour will do, red actually.’
Liverpool wore red. Bobby had three pound twenty left. He knew a three-pound bet would cost three pound thirty with the ten per cent tax added on.
‘Can I borrow ten pence off you, Jay?’
‘No.’
‘What do you mean, no?’
‘Not for a bet. I’m not
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