In his day he had been a regular round many of the London tracks and whenever he was holding a few quid he still liked to have a go. But at the present everything he touched went wrong. It was the kind of spell anybody goes through. With John it was bad though; he seemed to be tapping dough from everywhere, from anybody; and the way things were about him it quickly became common knowledge. I got irritated when I heard them talking in the lodge or the pub but there was little to be said. By tapping their money he gave them the opportunity. Its unusual to meet anybody with the credit he had. He could be skint on a Wednesday morning but filling his place at the bar at dinner time, having a bet in the afternoon and meeting you in the pub late on in the evening. He had sources all over the place. Yet even so, gradually, he was returning from the pub before 2.45 p.m.; if making a bet he would do so only in cash and get me to carry it to another bookie because he was in for too much to his own; in the evening he would mutter an excuse and go home early. He was taking a real hammering.
The equine virus caused great deprivation. Before Xmas, as a special treat for starved horse punters like myself, an enterprising television team crossed the English Channel to screen back three races from a meeting in France. It was a Saturday and the British bookies were offering an almost complete race by race service. Both of us had worked overtime in the morning and in the pub afterwards I gave him another tenner, we went to the other betting shop. Although we knew next to nothing of the French form we did know the good jockeys and trainers and the rest of it. He laid the £10 on three crossed £2.50 doubles and a £2.50 treble. My own bet was more or less identical — I just selected different horses.
Back in the pub we watched his first two runners win. And then we watched his third runner win.
That third winner is the magical side of life. According to the betting forecast in the ’Life the horse was a 7/2 chance. But the pari mutuel returned a dividend amounting to slightly more than 25/1.
Twenty five times your dough in other words.
When it flashed onto the television screen John paused then snorted; he glanced round at me, as if to say: These cunts think they’re kidding me. . And we rushed away to the betting shop for confirmation. It was true, and his winnings amounted to more than £1200. There wasnt enough on the premises to pay out in full but he was quite happy to wait until Monday morning. While the man behind the counter was getting the cash together John walked to study form at a greyhound meeting also taking place that afternoon. He backed the next favourite for £300. The man had to phone his head office to have it okayed. I was watching John. He was really shot through with nerves and yet I doubt whether a stranger could have noticed. At the best of times he got the shakes, but during the period in the betting shop he seemed to have been making a conscious effort to control himself. He stood with his hands in his trouser pockets, staring up at the results’ board; usually his shoulders were round but now he was holding them as straight as he could. The greyhound favourite won at 7/4. When the result was announced he hesitated, he glanced at me then back to the board; finally he nodded. Yeh, he said, that’ll do.
On the way back to his house we stopped off at the licenced grocer where he purchased a crate of brown ale, plus two bottles of gin which he passed onto the Irish couple. It was the only occasion I was ever in his room. There were a few knick-knacks and family photographs, and a big pile of old Evening Standards heaped in a corner. A fusty smell hung about the place. He noticed my reaction. Fucking pong, he said, open a window if you like. Then taking two cups from a cupboard he passed me one along with a bottle of brown ale, and he continued talking. He was defending greyhounds. It wasnt that I didnt like them, just that it was almost impossible getting a line to their form without actually visiting the track to see them race. He admitted this but went on to tell me about an old mate he used to have. He had told me about him before, in connection to a system he worked. In fact, according to John, his old mate worked it so successfully that the bookies refused to deal with it across their betting shop counter. The guy was forced into going to the track to make his bets with the on-course fraternity.
The system is quite well known, nothing startling; it’s called the stop-at-a-winner and in principle consists of a minimum I bet with a maximum of 4. You select your four dogs and back the first to win; if it loses you back the second; if it loses you back the third; if it loses you back the fourth; if it loses you’ve done the money. The cash outlay on the first doubles onto the second and triples onto the third, quadruples onto the fourth; if your initial stake was £10 and you choose four losers then you wind up doing £100 i.e. bets of £10, £20, £30 and £40.
The beauty of the system lies in this stopping-at-a-winner; as soon as a dog wins the bet stops automatically. Only one solitary winner from four is required and a profit is almost guaranteed. In theory to choose one winner from four is not too difficult. It is not certain and by no means easy, but still and all, it should not be too difficult — and one thing is certain, if the bookies dont like the bet then it cant be bad.
This is all fair enough, but like anything else it applies only under normal circumstances. When somebody’s on a losing streak everything can go crazy. Odds-on shots run like 100/1 chances; all these stonewall racing certainties that should win in a canter, they all fall at the last fucking fence. The one thing they all have in common is that you’ve backed them. It reaches the stage where you feel guilty about choosing a favourite because of the disservice you’re doing to all the rest of the punters.
I was reminding John about that kind of stuff. He smiled briefly, then he sniffed and got up off his chair; he walked to the corner of the room and lifted a bunch of the old newspapers; he produced a quantity of various coloured pens. Jock, he said, I been wanting to have a go at this for years. While he was speaking he sorted through the back editions, opening out their respective dog-sections, spreading them along the floor. You got to play it wide, he said, that’s all; you just got to play it wide. What you do Jock, you cut out the fucking middle man. Yeh, he said, the fucking middle man — you know who that is? it’s you, you and me, we’re the fucking middle man. Yeh, he said, open another couple of bottles.
He halved the quantity of pens. That old guy he was telling me about had eventually gone skint for different reasons but the most important was his method of selection; he didnt really have one, he just chose the dogs from his own reading of the formbook. What you had to find was a genuine method, so that the four dogs would be chosen for you. And then there was another thing to consider, which races to work it on. It would be pointless using a system that forced you into hanging about the track all night with money in the pocket. At most greyhound meetings there are between 8 and 12 races. Probably the best way out of the bother is to work it on the first four races of the night; in that way you get in and get out — you arrive for the first race and make your bet, and leave as soon as you back the winner. And if you dont back a winner then you leave after the fourth race, and maybe try again the next night.