Michael Church Racing Books

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.

The Derby Chart

Her Majesty the Queen was due to open Epsom’s magnificent, new Queen’s Stand on the first Wednesday in June 1992 – Derby Day.

  The previous Monday, knowing of my life-long interest in the great race, Father Green telephoned me to enquire if Pat and I would be going as usual.

 “The opening of the Queen’s Stand, will be a historic occasion,” Perry enthused, “and I would dearly like to see the Queen herself.”

“O.K, well how about if we meet you on the front steps of the new stand at noon,” I suggested.

“We may be able to get a close view of the ceremony from near the winner’s enclosure and afterwards, you can come back to meet our picnic party in the Members car park.

“Sounds great, Michael. Give Pat my love and I’ll see you both on Wednesday.”

On a sunny Derby Day, Father Green and I watched the Queen, in a straw-coloured outfit with hat to match, unveil a plaque near the weighing room, so officially opening the Queen’s Stand.

Perry was delighted to see the Queen close-up, although he appeared to be embarrassed when recognised by a group of regular racegoers.

Returning to our little picnic, we introduced him to Pat’s friends Ingrid and Irene, who kept his glass replenished until we all made our way over to the stands for the first race at 2.15.

At this point, I must tell you that today, I was to add the name of this year’s Derby winner to my new Derby Chart – a large, hand written parchment chart showing the male linage of every winner from 1780, which, when completed, was to be shown live on Channel 4.

Just before the first race, I was informed by one of the Channel 4 staff to go down to the Paddock, then situated about a furlong away. There, I would find a green corrugated iron tower, and after entering by a dilapidated door at the bottom and climbing a makeshift staircase, I would meet John Francome and Lord Oaksey.

“You can spread your chart on the floor behind us”, said Francome, cheerfully.

“When you’ve put today’s winner in, I’ll give ‘mission control’ the word and they’ll take you back to the cameras.”

It sounded reasonable and having previously traced the descent of all the fancied runners back to the Thoroughbred’s founding fathers, I waited, papers spread out on the floor, whilst two feet away Messers Oaksey and Francome gave their paddock comments live to the nation.

But, imagine my horror, when I realised I would now have to watch the Derby with them on their 12 inch TV monitor.

Slowly, my mood changed to total despondency – watching the Derby live was one of the highlights of my year – and in over 40 years I had only missed it twice.

Strangely, when the Derby was in progress, I found myself constantly checking the leaders, to see where they would fit into my chart, rather than eagerly following the horses I had backed.

Accepting my lot, I watched the tiny image of Twist and Turn lead into the straight followed by Great Palm, Dr Devious and St Jovite. Then, approaching the distance, the three of us huddled together, our intense faces, only a foot from the screen, as Dr Devious drew alongside Twist and Turn, before clearing away to win by two lengths.

Oaksey commented that, “St Jovite has kept on one-paced to be second, while Silver Wisp has run on to be third.”

Stifling my frayed emotions I delved into my notes. Incredibly, Dr Devious had been the only runner descended from the Byerley Turk – a Founding Father of the Thoroughbred who was captured from the Turkish army at Buda in 1687 and ridden by Captain Byerley at the Battle of the Boyne in 1690.

Whilst I waited and waited, to present my updated chart, Pat and her friends, together with Father Green were enjoying the sunny afternoon and backing the winners, Dr Devious at 8-1 and Viceroy at 13-2.

At the end of the broadcast, I was escorted to Channel 4 ‘mission control,’ where I was told sympathetically that if I could come back tomorrow, they would make every effort to show the chart. Even so, I felt a deep regret at the loss of a Derby Day I had so eagerly awaited.

 Wild Woolley at White City

“Have you seen the new greyhound paper out this week Charlie – the Greyhound Express? All dogs it is, except for the back page, and that’s horses. You get this, you don’t need another paper!”
Roy and Charlie boarded the fast train at Woking – first stop London Waterloo. They were bound for White City; it was Greyhound Derby Final night, the year, 1932.
Had you been on their Central Line underground train you might have guesed anyway; hundreds of young men, and a few women, strap hanging, swaying, and more than a few reading the new paper. White City had become the Mecca of this fascinating sport and tonight, an unbelievable crowd of 80,000 people would push through the turnstiles to see a race that would go down in history.
Even so, the reason for Charlie and Roy’s attendance, and they insisted on this when they told me some 20 years later, was to back a white dog in a red jacket earlier on the card – or as Charlie put it, a red dog of a different colour.
The greyhound was known to them as Jack, or sometimes Jack o’Lantern when appearing on the London flapping tracks, but more of that later.
Spilling out from the tube station, they were swept along the road towards the track, like the course of a river.
Charlie, a bricklayer and one of the nine Church brothers, had been a fan of the dogs for almost three years, taking in the exploits of the legendary Mick the Miller. Meantime, Charlie’s pal Roy, was a bookies-runner, who would call every day at the Church’s home in West Street, to pick up and pay out bets; number 45 being one of the ‘safer houses’, during the years in which illegal betting flourished.
Forging their way down the street, they were constantly approached by men selling out of suitcases – watches, clothing, tin foods, quite apart from the tipsters and programme sellers. Nearing the stadium, one van, driven off the road, near one of the entrances, was selling a pile of white boxes. Charlie, being inquisitive, pushed in to see.
“They’re shoes Roy. All leather, hand-made shoes, Oxford style, fallen off the back of a lorry in the West End, only this morning!”
Roy came to look. They were selling fast, that’s for sure. And Roy said he could do with a posh pair of shoes for when he went racing. They weren’t cheap, unless they were the real thing that was.

Like almost everything Roy did, it was a gamble and he took it.
“Have you got two pairs of size nine’s there?” he asked the spiv, remembering generously that Charlie took the same size. A well-worn camel-coat dived into the back of the van.
“Two nine’s coming up Gov. Two quid each, OK.”
“Two quid,” recoiled Roy, that’s a bit steep.”
“A bit steep,” the spiv objected. “You won’t see the likes of these for two quid anywhere else – they’re a steal!”
And so they were.

Roy and Charlie joined the long queues to the turnstiles with shoeboxes underarm. People had been arriving at the track from the middle of the afternoon, many with their own food and drink, enough to last them the evening. For such were the crowds inside the stadium, that in order to get a meat pie and a cup of tea, you would run the risk of missing a race and not getting a bet on.
Eventually, after waiting more than half an hour, Roy and Charlie got inside the stadium.
At this point, I think it best that Charlie tells you the story as he told me.
“Inside White City, it looked more like a Cup Final than a dog meeting; the size of the crowd was staggering. Quite apart from all the pushing and shoving, there were long lines to get to the Tote windows, and large clusters of punters hovering in front of the 200 or so bookmakers spread round the track. There was also a military band on the go: ‘Pack up your Troubles, Tipperary’, and that sort of thing, although most of us were too busy, either studying the form, or trying to get a bet on, to take much notice.
“You see, Roy had been given this strong tip from his governor that ‘Jack o’Lantern’, shall we call him, would be on a going night and, we should get on, bundles if we could.
“We decided that a tenner each was the best we could muster (a monster bet for a working man at the time), and when the time came, we positioned ourselves within striking distance of the boards of O’Hara and Billy Broadbent.
“During the parade we kept a careful eye on Jack, his powerful white frame contrasting with the red jacket under the glare of the lights. Then, just before they went in the traps we made our move. O’Hara laid me, £55 to £10, while seconds later, Broadbent laid Roy £50 to £10.
“We were on and the hare was running.”
Uncle Charlie recalled the race as if it was happening in front of him.
“The favourite was in the five box and he got a flyer; two lengths up before the bend. Jack, as we knew, was often slowly away and so he was tonight. But it looked as if he had a bit of trackcraft, and going into the second bend he kept on the rails, moving up to third down the back straight. Around the final bend, he still had a length to make up on the favourite, but he kept gaining, and hugging the rails he went by to win by a neck.”
“I’m sweating now just thinking about it,” Charlie said, as he reached in his top pocket for a handkerchief.
“Tell Michael about the shoeboxes,” interrupted Roy, enjoying the telling as much as Charlie.
“Oh yeah, the shoeboxes, but first came the track announcement over the Tannoy. Apparently, gangs of pickpockets were at work in the crowds, lifting wallets and watches. Then Roy came up with this bright idea,” Roy beamed, as Charlie continued.

“We would go to the lavatory and empty our wallets into the toes of the shoes in the boxes; all except for two fivers – one to celebrate with and the other for emergencies. We reckoned if we were going to get turned over, or hit on the head going home, the last thing they would rob us for was a pair of shoes.”
“Anyway, after about seven races our feet were beginning to give us gyp, so back to the lavs, to switch the cash into our old shoes and try on the new ones.
Now I know what you are thinking Michael, but you’d be wrong, they fitted like gloves, real toff’s shoes they were.”
“And that was another shrewd move,” interrupted Roy, “You see, no-one would be interested in robbing us for two scruffy pair of shoes.”
However, by now, even to this 16-year-old, Roy and Charlie were becoming a tad obsessive.
“Tell us about the Derby,” I pressed, pouring both our visitors another bottle of Bass each. Charlie took a drink, wiped his lips and continued.
“Oh yes, I must tell you that before the dogs came out for the final, they paraded four previous Derby winners, including the great Mick the Miller – he got a fantastic cheer from the crowd. It made you feel as if you were part of history. But back to the race. From the bookies boards it looked like a two-dog race: 8-13 Future Cutlet (trap5); 5-2 Wild Woolley (trap 6), and 10-1 bar. Both dogs had won their semis, but in a first round heat Future Cutlet had beaten Woolley fair and square, to set a new track record.
However, despite all the excitement, neither Roy nor I, wanted to have a bet – you see we had already made our money for the night and there didn’t seem any sense in opening the shoeboxes again.”
Mum and dad started to laugh, visualising Charlie and Roy opening their shoeboxes in front of the bookies!
Charlie pressed on, hardly breaking stride.
“With all the noise going on – I guess you could call it the Derby roar – neither of the favourites broke well. However, Future Cutlet soon took off and crossing to the rails forced Woolley wide. Along the back straight, it was as we expected, a two-dog race, with Woolley chasing hard. Neck and neck into the third bend, Woolley had regained the rails and, when the improving Cutlet ran wide at the last – some said the driver had slowed the hare – Woolley pressed his advantage to win by a diminishing neck. The distance between second and third was 10 lengths and the time, 29.72, was a record for the 525-yard final.”

Charlie’s impressive account brought Dad to say that he should challenge Lesley Welch (the memory man), on the radio.
Suddenly, Charlie looked a bit embarrassed. “Have you got another Bass there Dorothy,” he said to Mum, offering his glass.
Roy, taking advantage of the lull, then said, “Shall I tell ‘em about the presentation of the trophy, Charlie?”
“Oh yeah, go on, Dorothy will like that.”

“Well, Charlie and I worked our way along to the area where we could see the ceremony. Lady Chatham, a good-looking woman, presented an impressive trophy to the owner, Sam Johnson of Manchester. Apparently, he had only paid 25 guineas for the dog. Imagine that, Charlie and I had won four times that amount on Jack. Also, I must tell you, that Wild Woolley, a dark brindle,  by the way, had the special 1932 Derby winner’s jacket put on, before they paraded him around the track.”
With Charlie, having run out of steam, it was Roy, who revealed their nightmare journey home.
“After a couple more drinks in the stadium, we joined the 500-yard queue at White City underground station and then, onto the overcrowded platforms at Tottenham Court Road. Eventually, to cap it all, when we got to Waterloo, a Guard told us that there was a Sunday service in operation.”
At this point, Charlie, having downed the Bass, continued the story.
“I remember saying something like, ‘Oh bugger this, let’s have another drink and then get a cab – all the way to Woking.’”
“However, I don’t remember much of the journey, apart from us singing, with the cabbie joining in, friendly like. It had been a great night, so we tipped him handsomely and waved goodbye.”

“A minute later, as we staggered through the front door, it hit us simultaneously – the shoeboxes, the bloody shoeboxes!!   

All that money and we’d left it in the bloody cab.
We were desolate – neither of us slept that night. We had no receipt for the fare, we hadn’t taken the cab number, I mean, why would we?”
Charlie continued, “On Monday, the pain grew worse when our pals asked us if we’d had a good time at White City. And Roy’s boss, who had given him the tip, was gobsmacked at our stupidity. Ain’t that right Roy?”
Roy cut in for the finale.
“But miraculously, there was a happy ending. The following Friday, Jane, (dad’s Mum), opened the front door to a grinning taxi driver who handed her our two white shoeboxes. The cabbie told Jane, ‘I dropped a fare here last Saturday night; two blokes who couldn’t stop singing; I reckon anyone who carries such scruffy old shoes around with them must really need them. So here they are. And thank them again for the fat tip.’”
“That evening,” Roy concluded, “Mrs Stebbings, our neighbour, said she heard Charlie shouting and laughing from as far as four doors away. ‘It’s amazing, just amazing,’ he kept shouting – ‘Taxi driver, I love you.’”

Looking back, Charlie’s story went some way to explaining a phenomenon that had always puzzled me.
Why Charlie, although a heavy bettor, but in every other way a reluctant spender, was such a generous tipper?

Footnote: Trained by Jimmy Rimmer, Wild Woolley went on to run in the Greyhound Derby a further three times. In the 1933 final, he finished third to his old rival, Future Cutlet and in 1934, he finished third again, this time to Davesland. Finally, in 1935, now five years old, he was eliminated in the first round heats and subsequently, retired to stud.

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

of which he has a few signed copies for sale.

Harry Wragg and the Brylcreem Boy

I knocked twice on the dark stained door at the end of the passage.

A small hatch slid open.

  “Oxo,” I said boldly, standing on tiptoe.

Alice let me in.

  “Is the 1.15 off,” I enquired.

  “You’ve got a few minutes yet,” she said, dragging on her Woodbine.

I entered the smoke-filled room where the usual crowd huddled around the ticker-tape machine, its stuttering chatter competing with the ringing telephones.

This is the back room of Charlie Young’s Hairdressing Salon and, as a chirpy, skinny ten-year-old, my excessive enthusiasm for racing and betting has led me to be accepted by all the regulars.  Today is both the last day of the 1946 Flat Season and the last day in the riding career of Harry Wragg, so consequently, my last chance to back him.

Harry was the thinking man’s jockey, known nationally as ‘The Head Waiter’ because of his effective waiting tactics. He had been champion jockey in 1941, and ridden the winners of 13 Classic races, including three Derby winners – Felstead (in 1928), Blenheim (1930) and Watling Street (1942). He also had two younger brothers, Sam and Arthur who were both successful jockeys in their own right.

Time running out, I quickly scribbled my first bet, 2/- win Tiffin Bell, (Harry’s first mount), and slid it across to Charlie’s lanky blonde wife Alice, who promptly secured it among 50 or so others in a giant bulldog clip.

  “Two lumps today, Alice,” I piped, reaching for the obligatory cup of tea.  But before I had put the cup to my lips, Uncle Albert shouted across “Result Manchester – 1.15 – first Tiffin Bell – 5-2.”

  “Blimey, I’m off to a good start,” I squeaked.

During the next 30 minutes, a pipe and two Capstan full strength passed through the security system and quickly contributed to the diminishing visibility.

Continuing my loyalty to H. Wragg, I invested 2/- to win on Aprolon in the next, and made myself useful by taking a tray of tea and biscuits out to Charlie in the shop.

Charlie, a dead ringer for Alfred Hitchcock, often used his ventriloquist talents whilst cutting hair.

  “How’s it going young squirt?” he enquired, throwing his voice to the corner of the salon.

I backed Tiffin Bell, won 5-2,” I boasted.

“Then you can afford a hair cut he replied,” still in the high squeaky voice.

  “Sit in the end chair.”

  Ten minutes later I re-entered the betting room sporting a well-slicked head.

  “Aprolon won at 7-4 Michael,” Alice said, coughing manfully, adding, “it must be your lucky day.”

  “And Harry’s,” I said.

  “What are you doing in the big one?” she enquired.

  “Well, I’ve got to stick to Wragg now, but c-c-can I have a sub on my winnings?  I did have a shilling left over, but I had my hair cut.”

  “Ask Taffy to settle up on one of your slips.”

  “Bloody hell boyo,” said Taffy, “its like looking for a needle in a haystack.  Tell you what, I’ll lend you two bob until Monday.”

  “Super,” I replied, and instantly returned the coin to his hand.

  “Put it on Las Vegas in the N-November Handicap,” I stammered.

Two fifteen approached and the request for prices from the ticker-tape had the ring of an auction. Five to one Dornot – Rae Johnson; 100-8 Star of Autumn – Charlie Smirke; 20-1 Las Vegas – Harry Wragg.

Arriving just in time for the big race, I recognised the voices of Uncle Arthur (Craven A), and Uncle Henry (Rothmans), through the blue haze.  At this time, it was thought expedient by a health fanatic, to take the drastic step of opening a window an inch or two, as visibility had fallen to one pace, and it was difficult to hear the odds over the coughing.

Standing on a chair, Taffy shouted out, “Under orders Manchester,” shortly followed by, “Off Manchester 2-20.”

A stillness now came over the assembly, and strangely, the absence of a running commentary in no way diminished the excitement, as each man prepared himself for the instant finality of the result.

The silence was finally broken by the sound of the ticker-tape. Taffy crouched over it assisting its passage like a midwife at a birth.

  “Here it comes,” Taffy warned … “Manchester – 2.15 – first, Las Vegas
20-1, second, Delville Wood 33-1, third, Star of Autumn….”

At this point, Charlie burst in shouting, “Quiet everybody, quiet, I’ve just seen two coppers hanging about outside – there’s going to be a raid – everyone upstairs, quick as you can.”

Charlie then went into his raid-drill, “Alice get rid of the ash-trays, Taffy give me the cash and the books, and put the ticker-tape under the stairs, NOW!”

A crocodile of disgruntled men climbed the stairs to temporarily pay their respects to Alice’s bewildered mother, Violet.  Meanwhile, Charlie beckoned to me, “You come with me boy.”

  “They’re at the back door Charlie,” Alice cried out.

  “Hold them up for as long as you can,” he replied, then staring close into the faces of two bemused customers, said, “You’ve seen nothing, OK – and your haircuts are on the house.”

  “Michael, put the plank across the arms of that chair, and sit up on it.”  I obeyed instinctively.  Charlie then put the books, cash and betting slips into a pillowcase, pushed it under the plank and threw a large white cape around me to cover everything.

   “Afternoon Mr Young.” The stentorian voice preceded the presence of two uniformed police officers.

  “You’ve been very busy this afternoon.”

  “Yes, usual Saturday afternoon you know,” Charlie replied, looking a little pale.

  “Alice looks as if she has been washing up cups for an army,” the sergeant added sarcastically.

  “Customers like a cup of tea with their haircut you know.”

  “Yes of course, we must try that approach down at the station,” he retorted.

  “Given up the betting, have you Charlie?” he persisted.

  “Yes, a mug’s game really you know officer.”

  “You’d be a mug if you got caught Charlie – a heavy fine could close your business down.”

  “Yes officer, but all that’s in the past now,” said Charlie, riding his luck.

The sergeant’s gaze turned to the customers.

  “Been waiting long, gents?” he probed, but their nervous mutterings revealed nothing.

Looking in the facing mirror, I watched the copper circle my chair. I could feel my heart beating – my winnings were in that pillowcase.

  “This boy’s nearly done.  Perhaps as a favour you could cut my hair next.”

  “Crikey,” I thought, feeling a rush of blood to my head.

Suddenly, I blurted out,

  “Ch-Charlie’s got to wash it first, officer, I’ve only just got here.”

Charlie’s blenched face sprang to life.

  “Yes, course I have. His Mum hates all that Brylcreem plastered all over it.”

I felt myself propelled forward to the basin for a vigorous hair washing.  This having been done under the sergeant’s steady gaze, Charlie was then obliged to begin my second haircut of the afternoon.  As the sergeant’s puzzled frown deepened, Charlie explained helpfully, “His mum likes it short!”

  “Oh well, must be getting along, I suppose.” The sergeant slowly moved towards the door before pausing.

  “There’s just one thing you might like to help with Charlie,” he said thoughtfully.

  “Of course officer, anything,” said Charlie obsequiously.

  “I’ve got ten tickets left for the Police Dance next Saturday, would you like to take them off my hands?  Be good for you and Alice to get out occasionally.”

Charlie gritted his teeth and paid up.

Leaving by the front door the two policemen were joined by Uncles Arthur and Henry tiptoeing down the stairs from the now profoundly bewildered Violet.

  “What are you two up to – leaving the scene of the crime?” questioned the sergeant.

  “No officer,” said Arthur, “we’ve just been estimating for a wallpapering job.”

  “A cover up job, more likely.”

As the story of this raid went around Woking, so I became the boy hero, albeit with the shortest haircut in Surrey.

This short story is taken from Ripping Gambling Yarns,

of which Michael has a few signed copies for sale.

Illustrations by Julia Jacs