Michael Church Racing Books

The Italian Job

This is a story from the golden age of greyhound racing – hugh crowds, highly competitive betting and a stage full of characters that have all but disappeared.

During World War II, Wimbledon Greyhound Stadium was very badly bombed, and in order to continue racing and offer some basic amenities, the authorities moved the traps, winning line and stewards’ box to the opposite side of the track.

Soon after my fourteenth birthday, my parents finally consented to me attending the track on my own, although my wish had been granted with reluctance.  First, to get in unaccompanied, I had to pretend to be a year older; secondly, I had to be four years older to bet. But, such was my enthusiasm, I managed to achieve both.

However, first I must tell you of my plan to compile a personal form book, covering a longer period than the racecard. Cutting out the Wimbledon results from the Greyhound Express, I pasted them chronologically into an exercise book and compiled an index, listing each greyhound’s finishing position, his time and the date of the race.

One thing I learnt very quickly was that some dogs, whatever grade they ran in, rarely won, whilst others often ran their ‘Best Recent Time’ when second. I labelled all these as chasers, since many did not like to lead, and if they did, some would idle in front until another dog joined them.  My developing plan, which I disguised at school as an applied mathematics project, was to find races where three or four of these chasers ran together, preferably behind one or two fast starters.  This scenario, used in Tote forecasts, looked to me like a key to a treasure chest.

After a few weeks of cutting and pasting, I had promised to give myself a month’s dry run, just checking through and making nominal bets on paper to find out if I were on the right track. But having selected five races in the first two weeks, from which I had predicted two straight forecasts and two others in combinations, I found it hard to resist. And so every Wednesday and Friday, throughout Nature Study and Double Woodwork, I would pour over the Wimbledon card looking for races that fitted my plan.  After school on Wednesdays, I would take my shilling forecasts and three dog combinations into Charlie Young’s betting room, but on Friday nights I went to the track.

One such night, when I was above an archway on the first bend, one of the regulars who I knew as Tony came over.

“What’cha got in that book kid – all the winners?”

“Sometimes,” I grinned.

But my reluctance to give him any details seemed to heighten his curiosity.  And although we would chat about the dogs most Fridays, it was not until the night I landed two forecasts both paying over £3 for two bob a time, that my tongue ran away with me.

Tony was mid-20’s, and wore a long black jacket with sideburns to match; a few years later he would have passed for a teddy boy.

“I’ve got some friends who’d be interested in your system and that book of yours – they might pay good money.”

Naturally, I was flattered by his suggestion and fortunately, I hadn’t given him all the details, for having almost perfected what I thought was a passport to riches, I had no intention of sharing it.

At this time, I think it fair to tell you that the sources of my income were many and varied: six shillings (30p) a week from an early morning paper round; a profitable school bookmaking business; a lawn-cutting and dog-walking service and irregular amounts from collecting manure from the milkman’s horse.  But, if my new system stood the test of time, all but the bookmaking business could go.

The following Friday, Laurels semi-final night, Tony introduced me to the gang – all Italians – Berni, Ricardo and Alfredo, whose flashing smiles never quite reached their eyes.  When they fell to talking amongst themselves, it was about ‘deals’ and ‘goods,’ and I quickly found out that they supplied the black market – that is, when they weren’t racing or at the dogs.

Alfredo, the main man, bore an air of menace, a black suit, slick black hair and a pitted face.  He seemed to know most of the bookmakers and when he made a bet, no money changed hands until after the race.  For most of the evening Tony stayed close at hand, as if keeping an eye on me, but after gabbling something about the need for cigarettes and a slash, he disappeared under the stands.

Being a big night, there were ten races, instead of the usual eight – the ninth, fitted my system – a 700 yard graded stayers’ event. On Ricardo’s invitation he bought me a meat pie, a pale ale and then came straight to the point:

“I hear you win money here.  A good system Tony tells me?”

“Keeps the w-wolf from the d-door,” I replied, in a desperate attempt to sound cool.

Ricardo smirked, tolerating a stammering schoolboy.

“What’s going to win this then,” he pressed.

“Three with the field’s the b-bet,” I replied.

At eight shillings a time this cost me £2, a very big bet for me, but I did it for bravado, and the pale ale helped.  As it happened, the three-dog won easily, albeit as the 6-4 favourite, but the second, one of the five chasers, was the complete outsider and the forecast paid me £7 and change.  Aware that Ricardo and Co. were close by, I suppressed both my relief and delight, and, on their suggestion, I joined them at the bar, after collecting my winnings.

“Nice forecast,” they all agreed, until Alfredo cut in with, “How you gonna getta home kid?”

“Train from Wimbledon,” I said.

“We givva you a lift to the station, OK? Tony does the driving.”

“Thanks; saves my legs,” I replied.

Strange words from 14-year-old, but I had had two beers!

Once in the car, Ricardo told me that they ran a tipping service – horses and dogs – for about 40 clients; wiring or telephoning their advices on the morning of the race.  Approaching the station, Alfredo half turned from the front seat, his slicked back hair reflecting the orange street lamps along the Alexandra Road,

“Listen kid, we wanna you to give us a copy of your system see. Just a copy you understand, we’ll pay £5, OK.?” He looked at me hard, “OK?” he repeated.

“I’ll let you know next Friday,” I hedged, “and thanks for the lift.” Then, glancing at Ricardo, “and for the beer.”

I scurried through the barrier and down to the platform.

I can tell you, I wasn’t too happy about giving anyone a copy of my system, especially not for £5. Perhaps they thought for a kid I was as cool as a cucumber, but I certainly wasn’t as green.

Throughout the week, I day-dreamed about employing someone like Tony to drive me about in a big car, and then stopping all homework. “Who’d ever heard of a professional punter writing about Roundheads and Cavaliers?”

But when the following Friday came and I had no system written out, I began to get nervous. But what the heck! I couldn’t miss the final of Wimbledon’s big Classic.

Travelling up on the train, I had the idea of missing the first two races, to let the crowd build up while I had a cup of tea outside the station. Then, if I were to go to the other end of the track, they surely wouldn’t look for me there?  Twenty minutes later, I caught the red double-decker bus that went to the track. I pulled an old flat cap over my eyes to disguise my age and squeezed through the turnstile to join the crowds that flooded into every available space.  The trade papers said there would be catering to suit every taste. Where I was, you had a choice between cockles, mussels and jellied eels served in a dish, with vinegar and crusty bread.

Inevitably, there was a Crown and Anchor dice game going on in the ‘gents’ and at Wimbledon, this was always played with five dice rather than the usual three, the operators paying out on doubles or more to get a better profit margin.

While the third race was being run, I was able to move more easily along the walk-way under the stands. I then hit on the idea of transferring into the main enclosure.  This way I would avoid the gang and get a better view of the dogs.  I paid the additional five shillings and climbed the stairs.  All the seats were occupied, but if I went down lower I could stand on the terrace. No sooner had I found a perfect spot than I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“What-cher got for tonight kid?”

“Oh bloody hell!” I thought, “and I’ve paid for the privilege.”

I straightened up to my five foot three inches and told Ricardo, “A 2-4-5 combination in the next looks good.”

Suddenly, Alfredo appeared on the scene,

“Have you gotta dat system with you kid?”

“Er n-no,” I stammered. “I started writing it but, my pencil ber-oke and Dad said I had to g-get on with my homework.”

It sounded weak, and it was – I hadn’t the nerve to tell him I had changed my mind.

He paused for a while, then enquired, “What’s agood tonight then?”

I told him what I had given Ricardo, and as he walked away to join the queue for the  forecast, I breathed a sigh of relief.

The dogs now going into the traps, I rushed up to another forecast window to place my bet.  Out whirred six ten-bob tickets, down came the seller’s hatch, the traps sprung open and released a wall of noise.

First I could see, then I couldn’t, pushing, shoving, jumping up and down and then falling into the gangway. But I did catch a glimpse of the orange and blue jackets going into the third bend.  Scrambling to my feet, I asked, “Who won?” I didn’t have to wait long.  A crackly Tannoy annouced  “First trap five, second trap two.”

Minutes later, I collected £8 and some silver from the payout window.  Ricardo spotted me.

“Well done kid! Alfredo’s got a table upstairs; come and join us,” adding as an afterthought, “make yourself comfortable, you can write that system out for us.”

Surprisingly, Alfredo was in a good mood.

“Good boy, nice divi, come and sit down.”

But then, staring hard into my face, he said,

“Look, I think we stop messing about. I’ma gonna give you £20 and you’re gonna write out the system, OK?”

To soften his order he smiled and handed me a pen.

What could I say?  It was twice what my Dad would earn in a week.

For a while, out of stubbornness, I hesitated, until finally, I asked him for two sheets of paper.  He waived my request away, spreading four fivers on the table before me.

“Write it out in your book and tear out the pages.”

He then took out a long blade flick-knife and started to clean his nails.

A rage of resentment welled up inside me, and so, with a trembling hand, I started to write.

The system that I gave him was not worth £20; neither was it my system.  What I did write was, I hoped, a convincing concoction of selections based on trap numbers and odds, together with a staking plan.  Enough I thought to occupy their minds for a few meetings before the truth hit home.  We shook hands, although mine were still shaking, and he counted out the dosh.

“Was that your only bet tonight kid?” he enquired, I nodded.

“That’s good,” he said, putting the pages into his inside jacket pocket along with his knife.

“Perhaps we’ll have a little drink later?”

They all got up and moved away, pushing through the crowd.  I stayed, feeling what I thought big poker players felt when they’d bluffed a big pot.

Over the next half-hour, I remained at the table reading my torn book.  At intervals a crowd would rush out and then back in again; the alternating babble and roar coming and going like a tide.  A Tannoy voice announced the weights for the Laurels and, walking down to the lower terraces, I was able to get a good look at the dogs in the parade.

Last year’s winner, the brindled Ballymac Ball, looked a picture. Trained by Stan Martin at Wimbledon and drawn again in Trap 6, he would be difficult to beat.  At 14, as now, nothing focused my mind faster than the anticipation of the traps opening.

Instantly, Ballymac Ball hit the lids and from the shrieks, yells and cheers that followed, you would think that everyone in the stadium had backed him.

A minute later, I was legging it out on the street.  All I wanted now, was to get on the train and get home.  From over the railway bridge, and halfway down the Alexandra Road, I had 10 minutes to catch my train.

Suddenly, a black sedan pulled up alongside me. Ricardo leaned out.

“Get in the back kid.”

The back door swung open. Fearing they had rumbled me already, I slid on to the back seat. The door closed with a sickening thud.

“Saw you striding out kid – didn’t want you to miss your train – great dog that Ballymac Ball eh?  We cleared two ‘C’s’ on him.”

They pulled up at the station.  I trapped out of the back seat.

Aboard the train, I re-thought the situation.

“What had I done?”

Here was a racy, black-market gang in the big-time, wanting me in and I’ve just double-crossed them – out of the frying pan into the fire!

From then on, Friday night followed Friday night, but I never returned to Wimbledon Stadium until the Laurels Final the following year.

What happened to my well crafted system? It served me well for a few years – but more of that another time. As for my pseudo system, I often wondered if I had been rumbled, or if the gang had moved on, until nearly a year later when Uncle Albert excitedly burst into our kitchen.

“You won’t believe it, but I’ve found a great way to make money,” he said.

“Oh no” Mum replied, “not again.”

“I have,” Albert continued, “and it’s just up Michael’s street – have a look at this.”

He handed me two typewritten sheets.

“It’s a greyhound system,” I exclaimed.

“Yes, yes, read it,” he said.

“I’ve seen something like it before,” I said slowly.

“No, no, you can’t have; it’s a new system, I’ve just paid £5 for it – it never fails.  An Italian geezer at Wimbledon has made a fortune with it!”

This story is from Michael’s book Born to Bet,

of which he has a few signed copies for sale.

The illustrations throughout the book are by Julia Jacs

Escape to Newmarket

Between the ages of 18 and 20, I, like every other able-bodied young man in Britain in the 1950s, did my two years’ National Service.

Starting off at RAF West Kirby, just outside Liverpool, I went through six weeks’ square-bashing, where they attempted to force my square peg personality through a round hole.  However, although it was brutal for some, having previously learned to play the trumpet, I found that band practice and pass-out parades regularly cut into the torturous schedule of crawling through barbed-wire, bayonet charges, gas attacks and giving pints of blood away. From there, having survived what should have been an onslaught on my passive lifestyle, I was posted to RAF Hospital Ely in Cambridgeshire, where, working as an orthopaedic clerk, with a little trumpeting on the side, I lived an almost useful life.

The highlight of my stay at Ely was undoubtedly an eight-day rest in bed with newspapers, fruit and a radio, owing to a suspected concussion sustained when slipping up on my first parade.  Other modest achievements included playing The Last Post in church on Armistice Sunday and landing a treble at Epsom to win our four-man syndicate £125 (at the time, my pay was £3 per week).

The journey from Newmarket to Ely is about 12 miles.  I had always wanted to go racing there, but they had no Saturday fixtures and I could never get time off during the week.  The thought began to bug me, and in view of my imminent posting to Bristol University Air Squadron, I might never be as close to the racecourse again. What was known as the First October Meeting started on Tuesday, September 27.  It was a three-day affair and to me, it looked like now or never.

Tom Lewis, the Station Warrant Officer, also Entertainment’s Officer, was known to be keen on sports, particularly athletics, and from time to time would organise cross-country runs.  According to the Orderly Room notice board, the next, over six miles of local terrain, was scheduled for Wednesday, September 28 – perfect.  Ben Jordan, camp pianist/punter, whose official job title was Medical Clerk, was also keen  to go to Newmarket. After much discussion, and to everyone’s amazement, we both entered our names for the cross-country.

On the morning of the run, SWO Lewis informed the various sections that, owing to a previous engagement, he would not be accompanying us on the run but Corporal Waterhouse would. We should assemble at the Guard Room at 13.00 hours in regulation shorts, singlet and plimsolls, signing out on our departure and in on our return.  Having seen a number of POW films, by comparison our Great Escape took the minimum of planning.

Our third party enabler was Leading Aircraftsman Bobby Barnes: MT driver/danceband drummer, and supplier of new-laid eggs. One of his tasks was to take the Hospital’s outgoing mail down to Ely Post Office and today this was conveniently arranged for 13.00 hours.

Ben Jordan and I had already rolled up our civvies into a spare mail bag, and thrown them into the back of Bobby’s van.  Our signatures and last three numbers having been recorded at the main gate, we set off at a steady trot. So steady in fact that, after half a mile, we were already 200 yards adrift of Corporal Waterhouse and the main pack.

Immediately turning off into a side lane, who should be waiting for us but our chauffeur for the day, Bobby Barnes.  We quickly changed into civvies and stuffed our running gear into the post bags.  Bobby then drove us to the racecourse, promising to meet our return train at Ely after racing.

The two principle races this day were the Newmarket St Leger and the Cheveley Park Stakes.  In the ‘Leger’, Ben and I plumped for Cardington King.  We had both recently been kitted out at RAF Cardington and had backed the horse each-way in the Derby at 100-1. Sadly he finished fourth that day, but we reckoned now was the time to get back our money – and that’s just about what we did.  Cardington King won by three lengths at odds of 4-7 and we spent our entire winnings on two half-pints of Mackeson Stout.

The next race was a two-runner affair, but by the time we had collected our previous winnings and queued for the beers, it was all over.  The Cheveley Park, for 2-y-o fillies, looked an interesting event and often threw-up a Classic contender.  This year, the French filly Midget was all the rage and, ridden by Roger Poincelet, won easily.   We collected on our modest even-money investment, then the sun broke through and our ‘away day’ seemed proof of our charmed life.  It was not to last.

Queuing at the bar for further refreshments, a familiar, but dreaded voice shattered our bonne fortune.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here Church? And you too Jordan?”

“Wer-wer-well Warrant Officer, we did our cross-country and c-came on here.”

“I can see that,” he fumed, “but sports afternoon is not intended for Horse Racing.”

“Oh, I didn’t realise,” I replied feebly, my voice trailing away.

As the three of us were strangely wedged together against the bar, he eventually succumbed to ask us briskly “How are you doing anyway?”

In my shaken state, it must have taken me fully five minutes to tell him we had backed C-C-C-Cardington K-K-K-King, and from the glazed look that came over him I knew he wished he hadn’t asked, worse still, we had all missed another race.  Lewis, unable to extricate himself from our unfortunate pincer movement in front of the bar, heard that his intended nap of the day – Sculpture – had been beaten in a close finish.

“Well, I suppose I’ve got you two twerps to thank for that,” he said grudgingly.

At this point, Ben thought it might help our predicament to order another round of drinks and although SWO Lewis accepted his offer, his expression gave us no sign of hope.

Eventually, we broke free in time to see the last race.  Neither of us had a bet on it and we watched the finish in a subdued silence. On the long walk back to Newmarket Station, we talked over various excuses to give the Military Police on our return, none of which I feared, would get us less than 14 days confined to camp.

Bobby Barnes met our return train as arranged, and we changed back into our crumpled, but spotless running gear in the station toilets.  Jogging the last half-mile back to camp we had our ‘got lost’ excuse ready and offered up prayers that SWO Lewis had not shopped us.

“Who goes there?”

“Ch-Church and Jordan.”

“Advance and be recognised.”

A corporal MP looked us up and down.

“What hour do you bloody well call this?”

“W-we g-got lost c-corporal,” I stammered.

“Yes, yes, yes, I’ve heard all about it.”

My heart sank.

“Lucky for you Station Warrant Officer Lewis saw you running in the wrong direction – half way to Cambridge he said.”

Later that evening, Lewis came into the NAFFI.

“You boys all right after your long run?” he enquired.

“Yes fine, and thank you for looking out for us.” I replied.

“Strange you didn’t see me,” he said meaningfully.

“Anyway, next week’s concert in the Town Hall wouldn’t have sounded the same without our pianist and trumpeter, would it?”

We nodded solemnly, knowing it was just another case of ‘birds of a feather.’

This short story is one of 22 from Michael’s book Born to Bet,
of which he has a few signed copies for sale.

Illustrations by Julia Jacs

The World’s Fastest Greyhound

Little did I know as I queued in front of the new Woolworth’s weighing machine in the summer of 1949, that I would remember the next minute for the rest of my life? 

  The eager queue of school children waiting to weigh themselves en route to Saturday morning pictures, were not there to monitor their progress against under-nourishment, nor to measure obesity, but simply in order to obtain a weight-card in the highly collectable series, ‘Speed’.

  Among the cards I had seen at school were ‘The Flying Scotsman’, the racing driver Malcolm Campbell, and the Olympic athlete Fanny Blankers-Koen.

 To this 13-year-old they looked exciting and a change from cigarette cards.

I put my penny in the slot and waited. My weight on the card – 8st 6lb, was of little interest, but the picture was – a brindled greyhound in a red jacket at full stretch.

It read, ‘Priceless Border – Greyhound Derby Winner 1948 – approx 37.3 mph.’

 I had another penny left, but with the kids behind me shouting ‘hurry up Churchy, jump off’, I complied – only to jump smartly back on to weigh again. ‘Hallelujah! Another Priceless Border! What are the odds of that?’ I said to the next in line?

Priceless Border was well known by my school mates, some having backed him. And I could remember, reading in the Greyhound Express, about him winning a heat of the 1948 Greyhound Derby in 28.64 sec – a world record for 525 yards – before he went on to win the 1948 Final.

On a day dream level, I learned he was owned by a 10-year-old boy, Desmond O’Kane, his father having bought the dog for £110 as a present for him. 

  From that moment on, I saved a weekly amount towards my first greyhound.

The strange thing was that no-one else at school, no matter how many times they weighed themselves, ever got a Priceless Border. And it got to the point that a few Doubting Thomases’s, including Bobby Reigate, who only needed that card for the set, continually heckled me into bringing one of the ‘Priceless’cards to school.

During the next day’s dinner break, I enjoyed the notoriety and the bargaining power of being the sole owner of these rare cards. The gathering crowd of enthusiasts inevitably broke up into scuffles, attracting the attention of the duty dinner teacher Ma Frost.

  Fearing the card could be confiscated; I quickly switched it for the less valuable cigarette card of Don Bradman and, under duress handed it over.

   Later that day, I stoutly refused all overtures from Reigate for the precious card, until he hinted darkly that he would, in future, make me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

A few weeks later, there was a knock on our front door. It was Bobby Reigate and his father. My Dad, unaware of the significance, invited them in and Mum made them tea. It ensued that Mr Reigate was taking Bobby to see Chelsea at Stamford Bridge and asked if I would like to share Billy’s birthday treat?

  ‘We could stay after the match for the greyhound racing’, he added.

I had to hand it to Bobby; this was an offer I couldn’t refuse. But, wishing to look cool, I sat very still and pinched my leg, until eventually, politely thanking Mr Reigate. Strangely, nothing was said about the Priceless Border card, but with schoolboy honour I knew my duty as one obsessive to another.

  Going into the front room I took one of Mum’s ‘get well soon’ cards, wrote Happy Birthday Bobby and dropped in the ‘Priceless.’

More than 60 years later, and by now my prized weight-card long gone, a strange coincidence took place. One evening, on entering ‘greyhound’ into eBay, up popped an original Priceless Border weight-card. Joyfully, I bought it, but that’s not it, for when the card duly arrived I turned it over to see the date – July 49 and, the weight 8st. 6 lb – what are the odds of that?

A Glorious Goodwood

Alf was carefully chalking the numbers from one to 36 around the front tyre of the coach. This was Stewards’ Cup day in 1959, and for many the ‘sweep on the wheel’ would be their first bet of the day. The coach trip to ‘Glorious Goodwood,’ run by our local working mens’ club, was always fully booked and many of the stalwarts on board had been saving for this day since Christmas.

This year, I had been assigned by Mum as ‘guide for the day’ to Martha and Bucky, distant friends over from Dayton, Ohio. Keen racegoers in the States, they were eager to sample the delights of an English race meeting. However, by choosing a working mens’ club outing, they were about to be exposed to the primitive delights peculiar to that genre.

Five miles out of Woking, Alf, the senior bar steward, was joyfully handing out bottles of pale ale, Bass and Worthington for the men, and miniature bottles of spirits for the ladies. Having got everyone loosened up, he then went round collecting two shillings a head for the numbers on the wheel, (each passenger being allotted the number on their seat), and the same amount for the traditional Stewards’ Cup sweep.

Alf, by this time, pleased with the smooth running of the business end of things, generously assisted my bookmaking ambitions by announcing, “If any of you are going to have small each-way bets, I suggest you give them to young Michael, as they probably won’t take them on the course.”

Our first stop for ‘refreshments’ was the Half Moon in Petworth. Everyone was keen to stretch their legs, and it was ‘getting to know you’ time as the passengers mingled. Alec and Danny, two ‘likely lads,’ certainly used the time well, chatting up the Littlewood sisters, Wendy and Maureen. Meanwhile, having collected about a dozen small bets, I kept a distant eye on Bucky and Martha, unsuccessful in their quest for either Root Beer or Daiquiris. They had been cornered by Smithy, an expert on the Turf, but badly handicapped with pebble glasses and two walking sticks.

“Back on the bus folks, or we’ll never get there,” Alf pleaded, and slowly the pints were emptied and the seats were filled. Traffic was now building up alarmingly and in the next half-hour the passengers’ bladders reached capacity. Even Martha and Bucky politely enquired about the next washroom facilities.

As we were then stationary, Stan, our driver, decided to follow the example of the coaches ahead and release the passengers to take their chances in the hedgerows. Gents to the right, Ladies to the left, seemed to be the etiquette. Although the more discreet ladies could be observed laughing and stumbling towards the privacy of a distant thicket.

Eventually everybody returned, some more dishevelled than others but, after another round of bottled beers, including a Bass for the driver, any inhibition that lingered was swept away, as the volume of noise and laughter rose by a hatfull of decibels. ‘No Limit Banker’ was in full swing across the back seat, and a four handed game of Spoof (three matches per hand), stretched across the gangway. Martha and Bucky, who in necessity had taken advantage of the hedgerow washroom, watched in awe as the Littlewood sisters got down to some serious snogging with Alec and Danny. Such was everyone’s preoccupation, that no-one (except the driver, of course), noticed us turn into the racecourse. Journeying along from the straight six furlong start, we lined up with 30 to 40 other coaches.

In time-honoured tradition, Stan the driver was first out of the coach and, checking for the winning number on the front tyre, let forth a stream of expletives. Soon passengers were pressing in on all sides.

“What’s the winning number,” Bucky enquired.

“I wish I bloody knew,” replied Stan, “someone must have peed over the wheel at the Half Moon!”

Alf, well trained in thinking on his feet, instantly came up with a solution.

“The money on the wheel goes into the big race sweep – that should double the winner’s prize.”

Moments later, Alf, small but with Sampson like strength, was sliding out trestle tables from the under-carriage of the coach, assisted by a number of glazed but willing helpers. And while the ladies spread out table-cloths and covered them with all manor of meat pies, sausage rolls and sandwiches, Alf, now having enlisted the assistance of Bucky and I, distributed a full bottle of spirits to each of the passengers. According to Alf, this was all in the price, thanks to the generosity of the Committee.

A pork pie, two radishes and a glass of neat gin was not my usual diet for picking winners, but half-way down the gin bottles and well before the first race, many amongst us were confident that it was going to be their lucky day. Even Martha, who had managed to dilute her vodka with a Pepsi, had suddenly become psychic.

“Today the Smiths have it,” she said. “I’ve been talking to Smithy of the pebble glasses; I think it’s an omen. He was telling me about the Smith brothers, Doug and Eph; said they were the jockeys to follow.”

Bucky preferred to bet on the names, and being in England, fancied Queensberry and Tudor Monarch, the latter particularly, since it was owned and bred by Sir Winston Churchill.

As part of my duty, I proudly guided my middle American charges up to Trundle Hill, where they admired the view, but had to admit they had never watched racing from so far away. Lending them my binoculars went some way to placating them but, after Doug Smith won the first race and brother Eph the second on Queensbury, they seemed to be settling in nicely.

Next up was the Stewards’ Cup – 21 runners and the biggest betting race of the meeting. Bucky, looking to play up his winnings on Winston Churchill’s, Tudor Monarch, and Martha, convinced of the infallibility of the Smith brothers, headed off to the Tote, taking with them my ten-bob each-way Deer Leap.

Trying to call a race head-on from about a mile away is almost impossible, but halfway up the straight, I could see Manny Mercer on Deer Leap heading affairs. Into the final furlong, now well clear, I was counting my money. Suddenly, the pink, chocolate sleeves and cap of Tudor Monarch came out of the pack to challenge. Could Mercer hold on? Bucky hoped not, and he was right. The Tannoy announcement wavered across the downs, “First Tudor Monarch 25-1, second Deer Leap 22-1, third St Elmo 100-8.” The Yanks were delighted and I was more than pleased with my 10-1 place odds on Deer Leap.

Throughout the afternoon, Martha had been obsessed with the bookmakers and tic-tac men, and although her profits had been dented by Lester Piggott winning the next two races, she desperately wanted to bet with a bookie before returning home. Naturally it had to be on a Smith.

Doug was riding the Boyd-Rochfort two-year-old Jet Stream.

“That’s the one,” Martha said, pressing a pound in my hand. Bucky wanted the same and gave me another pound.

“Do your best Michael, we’ll come and watch,” he added.

Bookmakers on Trundle Hill weren’t usually known for their wild generosity, but amongst all the 7-2’s I spotted a 4-1 and dived in.

“Ten quid to collect if you win,” I told them.

Giving them a commentary on the race was a pleasure – Jet Stream led from tape to line. And Martha, given the ticket to collect the dough, made much play with the ten one pound notes, laughing and waving them around.

Battling back through the crowds to find our coach, Martha and Bucky, eager to tell the tale of their success, rejoined their fellow travellers who, had formed a large, seated circle on the grass. Predictably, about a dozen of them had not moved from the coach all afternoon, and were now more laid out than laid back. Meanwhile, Robert, the assistant bar steward, check waistcoat and beret, was serenading the circle with his accordion, and two gypsy women who had gate-crashed the party were, in the absence of tea leaves, reading palms.

At this point, one, ‘drunk as a skunk’ Turfite from another coach, staggered into our circle. His binoculars having worked around to the middle of his back, appeared to balance his equilibrium, since after having taken three steps forward, the weight of his bins contrived to drag him back.

Soon it was obvious to everyone that he was going to fall, but which way? Thinking quickly I borrowed Smithy’s walking sticks and crossing them in the centre of the circle to give us north, south, east and west, I encouraged the punters to bet on which way he would fall. The 2-1 odds I offered were not, in truth, for their benefit, but the entertainment value was great. Everytime he tottered north, folk would shout across their bets and throw over their cash, then, when he staggered back, they would call out south and throw over more money for me to record. Since his shambling progress continued for nearly five minutes, a small crowd had gathered to watch the fun, and my take on the event would have been the envy of any bookmaker on Trundle Hill.

Just when we thought he might stagger out of the circle, he went down to a great cheer. After close inspection, it was agreed he was inclined east, which, I am ashamed to say, was a very good result for me.

Climbing aboard the coach, we learnt that Alf had won the double sweep, but, appeared in no fit state to receive this news or any other. Out cold, he had been carried back to his seat by his conscientious family members.

Looking around, I noticed that the Littlewood sisters, whose petticoats and beehive hairdo’s were looking more than a little distressed, had changed partners with Danny and Alec. Meanwhile, those who still had a little money and were conscious continued with the ‘No Limit Banker’ and rounds of Spoof.

Feeling a little queasy, but otherwise contented, I settled down to count my day’s profit, when suddenly, I was disturbed by angry voices a few seats behind. Looking around, I saw two chaps, both very much the worse for wear, taking poorly aimed swings at each other. This continued for a short time until they both simultaneously passed-out and keeled over onto the seats, where they laid happily for the rest of the journey.

As we pulled into the Crown for the use of their toilets, Stan shouted out, “Fifteen minutes only, if you’re not back I’m going without you.”

Thirty minutes later, he went in to dig them out, but by then most people could not have told you who they were, let alone how long they had been there. Eventually, just as Stan was shepherding a few folk back on the bus, those aboard having become restless, were going in for the second shift. This pantomime continued for some time with most of those passing to and from the pub, breaking into impromptu dances on route, Martha and Bucky executing a very well received square dance.

Eventually, all were aboard, and everyone agreed that Stan had been a ‘brick’ by not driving off without us. So rather than ask him to do the usual, slow, one-by-one, drop- off routine, we all agreed to go back to the club, tipping generously when the hat was taken round on his behalf.

Tumbling out of the coach to the church clock striking 12, we were still a very rowdy bunch, since many had now got their second wind and were determined to sing their way to their doorsteps. Martha and Bucky thanked me, in song, for my company and then slowly wended their way along Church Street, harmonising their own particular version of ‘Show Me the Way to Go Home’.

If I could have had one last bet that day, it would have been that Martha and Bucky would never, ever, have a day’s racing quite like that, again.

This story is  from Michael’s book Ripping Gambling Yarns,

of which he has a few signed copies for sale.

The illustrations throughout the book are by Julia Jacs

Our ‘Olympic’ School Sports Day

I would like to take you back to our School Sports Day in 1948, which according to our Headmaster, would draw inspiration from the then current Olympics in London.

To put you in the picture and to give you a flavour of my life, when still a lad, I often attended horse and dog races, and could also be spotted in the crowds at Chelsea and Woking’s football matches. Athletics, however, due to the distinct lack of betting opportunities, had never grabbed my attention.

But now, fuelled by the ground swell of interest generated by the Olympics, everyone I knew was talking about the popular athletes, MacDonald Bailey, Arthur Wint and, of course, the phenomenal Fanny Blankers-Koen.

In fact, every playtime, class relay teams would hurtle their way round our playground, which inevitably led to queues forming outside the first aid room for attention to grazed knees and elbows.

At this time the School Sports loomed large in both teachers and pupil’s consciousness. And although it had crossed my mind that there might be some betting opportunities, it  came as a major disappointment that the only school events open to my age group, the 11- and 12-year-olds, were to be the egg and spoon, the three-legged and the sack race. Who were the National Heroes in those, I wondered?

I must have sulked for a week. Secretively, I had planned to run a book on the sprint races for our year. But not with eggs and sacks – I ask you?

Then one day I confided in Uncle Ernie, who surprised me by taking the higher ground,

“Never mind the type of event lad, why don’t you try to win one.”

He was right of course, although in truth I was a moderate runner, unless someone was chasing me, and my lack of hand-to-eye coordination had cost me dearly at conkers. So that sadly ruled out the egg and spoon.

My thoughts turned to the sack race, until dad reminded me of my nightly struggle to remain upright whilst climbing into my pyjama trousers – so no go there.

Finally, I settled on the three-legged race, but as Uncle Ernie said,

“You’ll have to find an agile partner for that one Michael?” He was right

again, and from then on I started to give it serious thought.

The Goldsworth School 12-year-old mixed three-legged race, run over 50 yards, was for 16 boy/girl pairs, to be run in two heats of eight, the first four in each heat to run in the final. Uncle Ernie, having temporarily given up betting, was keen for me to run and win, promising me a £1 note if I did, and he persuaded two of his brothers, Albert and Arthur to stump up the same amount.

That was all very encouraging, but my appeal to the fairer sex was at this time limited. As a geeky loner with a serious stammer, I had to make my p-p-pitch c-c-convincing.

Plucking up courage, I put my case to Thelma. Bespectacled, she had freckles, a fringe and two short pigtails. But more relevantly, she had been a member of the Junior School hockey team. So she was both well balanced, agile and the owner of a pair of satisfyingly sturdy legs.

After careful consideration, even at this young age, she would be a worthwhile ante-post bet for Council Librarian. On the other hand, if she later chose to smoke and drink, she would be nailed on for the cast of St Trinian’s.

For someone who I had rarely spoken to before, she was surprisingly compliant with my wishes. Thereafter, every lunch break and for half an hour after school, clasping each other behind our backs, we ran to the bicycle sheds and back, straight backed and focused ahead.

As we progressed in our training, we began to feel our elevation from ‘bus horses’ to thoroughbreds. This new image was further supported by Thelma’s excellent suggestion that we breathe in unison. At this point, I began to congratulate myself on my inspired choice of partner.

We were, at times, subject to ridicule, nothing new to me, but I felt sympathy for Thelma.

Inevitably, my reputation was called into question and I was summoned by Headmaster “Bonk” Peel, to be warned of the consequences of betting on the school sports.

Marshalling me into his study, he began, ‘Church, you are not going to turn our ‘Olympic sports day’ into a disreputable occasion are you?’

He sat menacingly on the end of his desk, glowering at me with knitted eyebrows.

‘You remember what happened on our last encounter, when we confiscated your double-headed penny?’

I did indeed, and to reinforce his threat, he took one of the five switches from behind his desk, momentarily trying it out for flexibility.

‘I w-w-wouldn’t dream of it Sir,’ I said with a slight tremble.

He looked past me, my reply having no impact on his impending lecture.

‘By that, I mean no wagering; not sixpences, thrupences or even pennies. Do you understand Church?’ he said, swishing the cane in the metre of his threat. Fully wound up he continued, ‘The Olympics are a proud occasion for everyone in the British Isles. Remember Church, it’s not about winning, but taking part – right Church?’

‘Right Sir, permission to speak Sir?’

‘Yes Church.’

‘W-w-well to say as yet, I haven’t taken a single bet.’

‘As yet, as yet,’ Peel fumed

‘W-well Sir, I m-meant to add – and I don’t intend to.’

‘I should hope not. Is that a promise Church? You know the consequences.’

‘Alright then, a promise,’ I said resolutely.

Bonk kept up his frown, but I did hear his secretary, who had crept in midway through his tirade, give a sigh of relief.

Sports day arrived and in the heats of the three-legged race, Thelma and I ran well to finish second. Delighted with the result, we decided not to watch the second heat, preferring instead to go behind the cricket pavilion and relax.

Ten minutes later, we were tracked down by Thelma’s anxious parents.

“There you are. What are you doing down there?” they echoed.

But I could see the relief on her mother’s face, when she saw we were rubbing the embrocation into our own thighs rather than each other’s!

In the final, we bounded from the start in unison and at halfway, we led by a yard. Then, someone clipped Thelma’s heel, causing her head to go back, then violently forward, sending her glasses flying into our path. I heard the crunch beneath us. Thelma swore and momentarily checked her stride, but she kept going with a grim determination – a girl after my own heart.

Sadly, we were beaten by inches, although Thelma’s mother kept telling everyone that we were the moral winners.

From that moment, after what had seemed to us a personal tragedy, our friendship steadily grew.

That evening, Thelma’s parents invited me round for tea, and to give

them credit, they never mentioned the likely cost of new glasses once.

Over cream buns with strawberry jam, I realised how lucky I had been to

find a girl as obsessed and committed as myself, one in whose company I now no longer stammered.

In the very happy months that followed, whilst guiding her gently through, what was for her, the unchartered waters of fixed odds football pools, we became an item, both in the classroom, sitting next to each other for algebra, and out of it, standing behind the goal at Woking.

Twenty years later, at Sir Ivor’s Derby, I thought I saw her in the grandstand. The pigtails had gone, but she still had the glasses and the freckles. I tried to get a closer look, but suddenly, she became engulfed in the crowd, and I could never be sure.

This short story is from Michael’s book Black Horse – Red Dog ,

of which he has a few signed copies for sale.

Ladies Day at Royal Ascot

It had come to Father Green’s ears, through Emily, that the ladies of the parish, namely, the Catholic Women’s League, thought their priest was less than appreciative of them and their works.

Perry sighed when he heard this, it was sometimes more than he could cope with, keeping all the elements of the parish happy. However, he valued Emily’s opinion and she seemed to think he could do no harm by giving the good ladies a little TLC.

Emily had hinted that his interest could take the form of an event or outing that the women would enjoy and which he could attend with commitment and enthusiasm – quite a challenge!

Perry had vague memories of previous undertakings by the CWL led by their doughty Chairwomen, Brenda Bartholomew. He had in mind a particular trip to a sewing machine museum, where he had to use all his priestly guile to avoid attending.

He needed, therefore, to think hard before something equally dreadful came his way. What would constitute a decent ladies day? Then it hit him – Royal Ascot’s Ladies Day.

The Gold Cup, run on the Thursday, was the centrepiece of the meeting – the Queen, the hats, Frankie Dettori, they’d love it. More to the point, he would love it.

The suggestion was put to the members at the next CWL meeting, where it received a tentative reception. Mainly, it was said, because some of the ladies were worried that Father Green would be bored with such an outing. And while Perry was able to put their minds at rest on that point, Emily had taken a back seat to stifle her amusement.

When the committee suggested that the Grandstand would be the most suitable enclosure at around £50 a head – bookable in advance – there were a few protests. However, Father Perry, not wanting to spend the afternoon on the heath or in the Silver Ring, enthusiastically extolled the Grandstand facilities, which included not only a better view of the race, but of Her Majesty when presenting the Gold Cup. In addition, he stressed, they would benefit from the many bars, food outlets, tote windows and overhead cover should it rain.

Father Perry’s final point won over the last of the doubters, since there had been much debate about their outfits.

As the date loomed nearer, Perry sensed there was a growing excitement, almost to match his own,

A coach was hired and the morning dawned bright. A small crowd gathered outside the Church to see them off. It was generally agreed that the outfits, although rather varied and some bordering on the eccentric, were overall, a credit to St Joseph’s.

Always hoping to air her voice, Brenda had brought along the accordionist, Colin Campbell, to provide a party atmosphere on the coach, and had also booked a local photographer to capture the ladies haute couture.

On the journey, Colin, sitting on the back seat, played a selection of songs from the shows, unaware that the singing and chatter from three dozen excitable women was making it increasingly difficult for Perry to study his Racing Post. But study he did.

If anyone, including Emily and Brenda, had expected Father Green to stay with them once inside the Grandstand, they were soon disillusioned, as he quickly melted into the crowd.

Punting wise, Perry would agree, this was not his finest hour – four straight losers including his nap and next best, had almost emptied his wallet. To make matters worse, although desperate for a drink, he had decided to steer clear of the bars to avoid being waylaid by zealous parishioners. Finally, however, the combination of losing and lying low began to take its toll. He had to have that drink and do a couple of forecasts – at least try to get out of trouble.

He was just downing his second whiskey in quick succession when two of his parish ladies spotted him from across the bar and within seconds it was too late.

“I know you don’t gamble Father,” said Maureen, “but Molly and I have been wicked and guess what, we’ve backed all three of Frankie Dettori’s winners.”

Perry smiled thinly.

“How splendid,” he said hollowly, “You must excuse me now while I watch this race.”

“We’ll come with you,” was the dreaded response. And so it was that Father Perry Green watched the penultimate race – the Chesham Stakes, without a penny on the much fancied World Premier, while his two companions twittered on endlessly.

After a while Perry’s face must have betrayed his tension because Maureen said, “Father you look pale, you have been good bearing with all this racing, we are going to buy you a coffee.”

Mercifully, as they left, he joined a nearby Tote queue to have his last £10 on a dual forecast – but on what?

“Frankie was sure to be in the shake up again,” he thought, “but betting on the favourite wouldn’t help his cause, unless he added a rank outsider.”

He scanned the racecard. Diaghilef was carrying 9st 7lb – top weight and 40-1 – “Even so,” he thought, “top weights are sometimes favoured by firm ground. So, smiling at the Tote girl he muttered, “Nil Desperandum,” and kissed his tenner goodbye.

The queue at the coffee stall must have been very long, for Perry had time to watch the race on a TV monitor under the stands. The King George V Handicap was over a mile and a half, so the horses would start away to the left on the far side of the course – all 20 of them.

Perry scanned the TV for his colours, but with such a big field the images were too small for him to identify clearly, worse still, the shouts of the punters drowned out the commentary – anyway, it looked like a blanket finish.

Just then Maureen and Molly returned.

“Sorry there’s only half a cup Father, we were jostled and nearly knocked over when the race started.”

Suddenly, he found himself sweating – the noise and the disappointment had finally got to him.

What happened next, Perry could never explain. Did he really faint, or was it his self-preservation coming to the rescue as it had in the past. He remembers Maureen’s anxious face and someone calling out, “Look out the priest is falling”.

Father Green felt himself slip gracefully from his chair. Was that his voice saying, “I must get outside, I need air?”

Many willing hands worked towards this end. Until at last, Perry found himself sitting quietly on a bench on the Grandstand lawn.

Attentive, anxious faces were all around him, but through the babble, he heard the tannoy announce, “Here is the result of the photograph for the sixth race: First Number 1, Diaghilef.”

“Oh what a pity,” said a woman nearby, “Frankie was second.”

Moments later, a St Johns ambulance man said, “He’s looking better now, see, he’s smiling.”

“I’ll be alright soon, thankyou,” said Father Green, “Just the heat, I expect.”

Then looking up at Maureen and Molly he said, “Give me a few minutes and I’ll follow you down to the coach.”

Which he did, but not before revisiting the Tote windows, where incredibly, he learned that the payout for his £10 dual forecast was £4,147 – “Certainly Nil Desperandum there,” he mused, and looking back, thought it could be his biggest win ever.

On the way home, Brenda, with accordion accompaniment, gave them soulful renditions of Climb every Mountain and Luck be your Lady Tonight.”

Meanwhile the ladies assured each other that in spite of everything, Father Green looked to have enjoyed the day.

Maureen and Molly vouched that he never stopped smiling all the way home.

Later, Emily gave further testimony that his smile had continued well into the evening.

This story is from Michael’s book,

The Gambling Adventures of Father Green,

of which he has a few signed copies for sale.