I actually started as a board boy at 16, under the legal age that I know of, and I can remember most of the shops I worked in. There were the independents… Reg Pitt in South Croydon, a Ladbrokes in the Elephant and Castle, one in Caterham and my first was one of a couple owned by Ronald Lowe in Norbury, South London.
I can remember with great clarity, as he occasionally appeared in the shop, the impression which Mr. Lowe made upon me at that time. Blonde hair… it could have been dyed… gold bling on his wrists and he always wore a light linen suit, regardless of the weather. And of course always brown. Looking back, he had something of the modern-day Rod Stewart, although this was the late 1960s when Rod would have been in his ‘mod’ period.
Ronald Lowe was the stereotypical image of ostentatious wealth, especially for the son of a 16-year-old minister from a home where every penny mattered.
I also vividly remember something that was common to all the stores I worked in… the look on the bettors’ faces when they came in at the end of the day to search the board to see if their selections were marked red… the color of the felt-tip pen assigned to the winners. It was the look of hope and anticipation, quickly followed by a positive lunge forward, a betting slip extended towards the counter, or a sharp turn back towards the door, aware that their shameful look had not gone unnoticed by the staff.
Of course there were ‘characters’, although today many of them scored high marks on the gambling problem severity index.
There was Bill… we never knew his real name… who would always greet you with the words “lend us a deuce, Bill.” He called everyone Bill, was always short and… here’s the thing… he worked for a bank!
There was a man in the shop in South Croydon next to the Red Lion pub who we called Bob the Bok, so good was he at finding losers. There was one time when all the patrons, to a man, tore up their tickets as he walked up to the counter to support the same horse. It lost, the odds were long, I remember.
I loved Mondays because we used to cover the first race at Ally Pally… invariably won by Sandy Barclay for Noel Murless… because that gave me some overtime.
Then I could go on about the comments, which often had little connection to the actual race. Extel’s voice rarely gave any descriptive insight into the track, although I do remember him describing Mill Reef when he won the Gimcrack Stakes ‘at a canter’.
I realized how much artistic license was taken on my first visit to Lingfield, where you could stand outside the betting shop sign and simultaneously watch the live action behind your shoulder. The gap between the actual race and the commentary seemed like an eternity… imagine how the up-and-coming guys with their drones would have cleaned up today.
In a store in Chinatown, I watched the club owners arrive at the same time every afternoon, gamble on tens and twenties, and leave much of the winnings on the counter for the pretty girl behind the grill. I think it was her day job.
Yes, they were formative years, but I’m not sure today’s betting shop environment would provide such an abundant apprenticeship.
Goodbye for now
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