The Lucky Last
Doncaster Races, 30/11/2024
I watched hundreds of 18 to 21 year-olds flood through the gates of Doncaster racecourse for the Student Fun Day with a slightly bitter taste in my mouth. Not because I’d downed my coffee, but because a large part of me missed being a student. I wasn’t jealous of the acne and financial ruin, which is still ever present to me anyway, but I was jealous of their laid back lifestyle, and determination to make the most of every social event. I finished university over a year ago, but I often look back fondly at that chapter of my life. Of course, all chapter’s must come to and end, none more so than my time as a bookmaker’s clerk.
I’d been working on the weekend for my girlfriend’s dad’s company, Phoenix Sport. They’re an on-course bookmaker, and my job was to take bets and pay people out if they win. Getting paid to watch racing has been the stuff of dreams… most of the time. There’s been the occasional Saturday morning where standing out in the cold for 9 hours with my future father-in-law, watching all my odds-on picks get beat hadn’t sounded all that appealing. Particularly when I’ve already fought through Monday to Friday at my day job. But for the most part, it’s been a great laugh, and an invaluable insight into a sport I love. Today was (probably) my last shift, before we venture off on our travels around South East Asia and Australia.
“The Racecourse Is Now Open”
It started as most racedays often do, unloading the Tiguan, and lugging our joint and all the other apparatus to our pitch. I had the duty of carrying the money bag, and had 15,000 reasons not to misplace it. Once we’d got to the ring, the bookies assembled like a working-class, betting version of the Avengers. I’d made the journey with Duncan, my future father-in-law, and one of his business partners, Scott. We were joined by the double act that is Paz and Tony, the latter affectionately nicknamed “Tone the Bone”. Tony is a 70-something heavy smoker, and one of the funniest people I’ve ever met. His most distinguishing feature isn’t the flat cap permanently glued to his head, or the pea-sized mole just beneath his left eye, it’s his moustache, which hugs his upper lip. So thin that it’s nearly a yard away from his nose, it resembles some sort of over-exaggerated hairy lip liner. His laugh, which is a combination of a snore and the crackling static you might hear on the car radio when you’re in the middle of nowhere, is infectious and wonderful. Paz, just over half Tony’s age, and doesn’t really have any distinguishing features - he’s just proper sound.
As Tony sparked his second Marlboro Gold in ten minutes, the bookies huddled around the ring manager and made their picks for where we wanted to pitch up. We were in “Number 11”, directly in front of the grandstand, and all the students that filled it.
12.52
Three races in, Nigel Twiston-Davies’ 4 year old mare, Dameofthecotswolds, justified favouritism, and found plenty in the final furlong to save us from a heavy loss. The fourth-placed Emma Lavelle horse, Bluey, was a loser for nearly two bags - no prizes for guessing why all the students were backing this one. But by this point, the Prosecco was hitting them, and they were beginning to misunderstand the basics of betting, not that they understood them in the first place anyway. The next race was the “Happy 50th Birthday Andrea Brennan Handicap Hurdle”, and I hope to God Andrea was having a better day than I was.
“Can I have one pound on number 3”
Yep, of course.
*pulls out bank card*
Sorry, it’s a fiver minimum on card, mate
*sighs and walks away*
Next please…
“Can I have number 3”
How much do you want to put on?
“Five pounds both ways”
Do you mean each way?
“Yes”
Ok, that’s ten pounds please.
“No! I said five pounds!”
Five pounds each way is ten pounds, would you like to do two-pound-fifty each way, and spend a total of five pounds instead?
“Yes”
14.02
After the fifth race, the second leg of my round-robin bet had lost by a length, and an all too familiar wave of disappointment and frustration came over me. I was in no mood to serve the male clientele, all of which shared a few things in common; a mullet hairstyle, an addiction to disposable vapes, and an unbearable accent that cannot be traced to anywhere in the UK, and is simply known as the “uni accent”. One would imagine they’re all from little villages in places like Bedfordshire or Buckinghamshire… villages which have lost their respective idiots. Perhaps I’m too harsh, in fairness; I don’t mind the mullet (I haven’t had the balls to try it), I can’t go anywhere without a vape, and my accent probably sounds unbearable to a select few in the likes of Bedfordshire or Buckinghamshire…
“It’s a fiver minimum on card, pal”
“Five pounds each way is ten pounds, so if you want to spend five pounds altogether, you could -right just tell me how much you want to spend”
15.02
Tom Cannon stormed home on board Merely A Detail at 28/1 in the final race, to which we only had to pay out one winning bet. For potentially the last time, I helped take down the joint and lugged the money bag onto my back, now with 20,000 reasons not to lose it. We weaved the trolleys through girls in knee high boots and short skirts, and I looked back on the grandstand fondly, wondering when I’d next be back.
We loaded up the Tiguan and set course for The Houghton in Castleford, one of Duncan’s favourite pubs. After 10 minutes of being there, it soon became one of mine too. I hadn’t been before, and was instantly charmed by the decor and ale selection. It was like stepping into a 1970s living room, and the barmaid was outnumbered, gender wise, fifteen to one.
Tony and Paz followed soon afterwards, and we sat down with Lee and Dave, two other bookmakers who hadn’t had as good a day as us. After ninety solid minutes of discussing percentages, betting margins and card machines, soundtracked by Tone the Bone’s crackling laugh, the pub began to fill up. A few glamorous ladies walked in, any one of them could’ve won the Miss Castleford award, but the ratio of men to women remained the same, as we were joined by more middle-aged blokes. It’s no wonder the place filled up like it did, when three Guinness and a Madri came to a grand total of £15.
We put the world to rights and I said goodbye to Tony, who was adamant he wouldn’t be “above the ground and breathing” by the time we got back from our trip. I suggested there’s still life in the old dog yet, and I was met with that familiar crackling sound.
I fear this has just become drunken ramblings as I sit here back in the Tiguan, pissed up and dying for a wee, secretly worried that Duncan might be over the limit. But that’s essentially how every shift at the races ends, so I wouldn’t have it any other way.