Back in the Good Old UK

...and I can discard the burqa.

It was as Mr Bolan said, (he is a genius, I swoon at his feet) a blip, not hackery.

I flicked a tiny smidgen of breakfast TV this morning. On channels 1 and 3 the talking heads were discussing 'problem gambling' on the internet. Each sofa consisted of a breakfast TV couple, an 'expert' and a female 'problem gambler'. The channel 3 specimen was middle-aged and respectable. She hid her gambling from her family and friends. Apparently, like 'problem drinking', if it takes place at home, it can appear quite genteel. At first. Until the bailiffs come.

The channel 1 bint was cut from a different cloth. She was brazen. Got herself into tens of thousands of pounds worth of debt then started stealing from work to fund her gambling addiction. She was quite blase about it all.

The presenter said,

But you robbed a bank of twenty-five thousand pounds!

The hussy replied,

That was my gambling addiction that lead me to do it.

Like that made it OK. I couldn't understand why she was sitting there. Shouldn't she have been in jail? Then I got bored and flicked to Dora the Explorer.

They were still on about internet gambling on Radio 4 while I was driving home from work. Apparently there are 250'000 'problem gamblers' in the UK. Some government type announced,

250'000 problem gamblers is an unacceptable number!

And I thought to myself,

I wonder what number of problem gamblers would be acceptable?

Let's face it - if everyone was as keen on gambling as Nellybert the bookmakers, internet casinos, lotteries et al would soon go bust. We don't even do the lottery. I've bought one scratch card in my whole life and have bet on the Grand National maybe twice.

28. Bet on a winning horse

Or

My Short-lived Career in Gambling

We’re back in 1976, back in the Globe Bar, where Nelly is an innocent young barmaid.

Bryan Street was different in those days. Most of one side of the street was taken up with McAllister’s bottling depot. The bookmaker’s on the other side of the street is the only business still there from that time. There was another pub beside the bookie’s and many of the punters would flit between the two bars. It wasn’t long before a few of the bookie’s regulars were persuading me to have a flutter. At first I was very reluctant for I thought gambling was a fool’s game. But Jim and Billy persisted and eventually I allowed myself to be persuaded. Don’t ask me to recall the racecourse for I haven’t a notion. But well I remember the name of the horse. It was called Love Story. That pair blinded me with science as to the odds and all the rest of it but it was the name that pulled me in for I was an eedjit for the romance in those days. I placed a fifty pence bet on the horse. Fifty pence! Let me tell you that fifty pence was the equivalent of a fiver then and was a modest, yet respectable wager. And the damn horse romped home and I won a couple of quid. Easy money – I thought.

Next day Billy and Jim were on at me again. Picked me another sure winner. I placed fifty pence and – lost it! I was raging. Swore I was finished with horse racing. Then the following Monday they tell me that Love Story is running again and I should place a bet. He’s the favourite. I refused. He coudn’t win twice in a matter of days. They cajoled. I dug my heels in. The horse was probably pounded with exhaustion. They gave up on trying to get me to relent. And of course Love Story won the bloody race. When they told me I vowed to myself that I’d never bet on a horse again. And I never have. Not even on the Grand National.