Post by atticus on Nov 24, 2015 18:00:42 GMT
Now and again, I jot down a few ramblings in a personal blog and I thought that Kimmy board chums might find a recent piece reproduced here mildly amusing.
THE SPORT OF KINGS OR FOOLS?
What were you like aged fifteen or so?
At that age I used to hang around with several other spotty youths to chat about non-existent girlfriends, our latest records, whether we’d be able to get in to see an ‘X’ certificate movie and who looked the oldest to front attempts at buying cheap alcohol from the off licence. It was coffee bars rather than pubs and looking back it all seemed very innocent and seemingly very tame and unexciting. Until Barry arrived.
I’m not sure where Barry came from. I think everyone in the gang assumed that he was known to someone else but he certainly made his presence felt with his almost god like qualities. Barry was older than we mortals – probably around eighteen – and held in awe. From the moment he entered our lives issues such as how to get hold of alcohol became a thing of the past. He also knew where to buy cigarettes in packets of five and was legally able to obtain them on our behalf. He had many, many qualities that commanded our respect but there was one attribute that above all others kindled our interest. Barry was a gambler and bet on horses.
Prior to Barry’s arrival upon the scene I don’t think any of my coffee froth blowing buddies had given horse racing any serious consideration as a possible pastime. It was an activity that was in our consciousness but apart from having to endure the day’s entire racing results on television immediately prior to Doctor Who on a Saturday evening it played no part whatsoever in the enhancement of our lives.
But Barry changed all of that. Every time we met up he regaled us with tales of his successful punting achievements and on at least one occasion flourished a whole five pound note under our noses to show just how clever he had been. To be truthful, I’m not sure how many of Barry’s claims of riches actually happened but at the time we were captivated and enthralled at the prospect of obtaining a few extra readies simply by following our mentor’s guidance.
However, no advance information was ever forthcoming. We never received specific details of which particular horse or horses were going to be backed or had won on any particular day and he always refused to accept stake money from us with a request to put it on a horse of his recommendation. I like to think that this refusal was due to a sense of honour and concern for our moral and financial welfare but with the benefit of greater wisdom being achieved over the intervening years, it was more likely that Barry simply did not have a clue about which horse to back and just enjoyed the kudos generated by his own popularity.
But one day, some four or five weeks after Barry’s arrival on the scene, something happened that changed my life forever.
It was a Monday evening and Barry turned up looking more animated than usual. In fact he was positively vibrant with enthusiasm and clearly had news that he wished to impart. He told us of a horse that was going to be racing on the Wednesday that just had to be backed. There was no question of it losing. It was a certainty. Defeat was out of the question so what were we waiting for?
I cannot remember the actual name of the horse in question but it had the word ‘air’ in its title – Air Commodore or Air Marshall perhaps. This was back in the mid-sixties so perhaps a bit of research might turn up the actual name.
Even at that age, I had a healthy scepticism of Barry’s proclamation that instant riches were just a heartbeat away and so took it all in with the proverbial pinch of salt. But the next day, Barry was even more adamant that tomorrow would be a day never to be forgotten and was even more insistent that we were going to regret forever not taking action should we continue to ignore his heeding. It will win. You can put your entire week’s wages on it. There is no doubt about this.
The upshot of all this was that I was persuaded to place the very first bet of my life and invested a whole two shillings – ten pence in today’s inflationary world. Well, I did say that this was all some time ago.
With one of my chums, whose name was Stewart as I recall, we cautiously entered a betting shop for the first time in our lives.
Betting shops at the time had only recently arrived on our high streets and very austere places they were. There was nothing welcoming or glamorous about them; plain, unplastered brick walls were the norm with the day’s racing events and results hand written on a white board in felt tip pen by a jaded looking individual chatting to his mate about anything but the job in hand.
Stewart and I had been briefed by Barry about how to proceed once inside this cavern of iniquity and I solemnly wrote out my betting slip and passed over my two shilling stake. If I recall aright, Stewart was seemingly less flush than I and invested sixpence.
This ceremony took place a few hours before the race and so there was nothing left to do but wait for the result over a hamburger and coffee in the newly opened Wimpy Bar. Did anyone ever like that gherkin on top?
Ten minutes after the race, Stewart & I (along with two other buddies who for either budgetary or sanity reasons had not invested in Barry’s prediction) once again ventured back into the betting shop. And there, newly posted up with the ink barely dry, was the confirmation that Air Marshall, Air On A G String or whatever the name of the animal was, had won the race at odds of 8/1.
It was a moment of incredulity. The magical, breath taking sensation that over powered was indefinable. Never before had I experienced such exhilaration and excitement as I passed over my winning betting slip (yes, I had remembered to look after it) to the guardian of wins and losses behind the counter. I was duly given my winnings of eighteen shillings – sixteen shillings in winnings and the return of my stake money of two. Heck, it was just two shillings short of a whole pound.
So there it is. My life long pursuit of wealth through winning had begun and still continues to this day as most of my family and acquaintances will testify. I still try to convince myself and others that it is the sport of kings itself that is the attraction but I think we all know differently.
The truth of the matter is that if that pesky horse had not won its race back then I would probably have had no interest in horse racing whatsoever and would have been trying to make a shilling or two selling turnips from an allotment as an alternative.
Atticus
THE SPORT OF KINGS OR FOOLS?
What were you like aged fifteen or so?
At that age I used to hang around with several other spotty youths to chat about non-existent girlfriends, our latest records, whether we’d be able to get in to see an ‘X’ certificate movie and who looked the oldest to front attempts at buying cheap alcohol from the off licence. It was coffee bars rather than pubs and looking back it all seemed very innocent and seemingly very tame and unexciting. Until Barry arrived.
I’m not sure where Barry came from. I think everyone in the gang assumed that he was known to someone else but he certainly made his presence felt with his almost god like qualities. Barry was older than we mortals – probably around eighteen – and held in awe. From the moment he entered our lives issues such as how to get hold of alcohol became a thing of the past. He also knew where to buy cigarettes in packets of five and was legally able to obtain them on our behalf. He had many, many qualities that commanded our respect but there was one attribute that above all others kindled our interest. Barry was a gambler and bet on horses.
Prior to Barry’s arrival upon the scene I don’t think any of my coffee froth blowing buddies had given horse racing any serious consideration as a possible pastime. It was an activity that was in our consciousness but apart from having to endure the day’s entire racing results on television immediately prior to Doctor Who on a Saturday evening it played no part whatsoever in the enhancement of our lives.
But Barry changed all of that. Every time we met up he regaled us with tales of his successful punting achievements and on at least one occasion flourished a whole five pound note under our noses to show just how clever he had been. To be truthful, I’m not sure how many of Barry’s claims of riches actually happened but at the time we were captivated and enthralled at the prospect of obtaining a few extra readies simply by following our mentor’s guidance.
However, no advance information was ever forthcoming. We never received specific details of which particular horse or horses were going to be backed or had won on any particular day and he always refused to accept stake money from us with a request to put it on a horse of his recommendation. I like to think that this refusal was due to a sense of honour and concern for our moral and financial welfare but with the benefit of greater wisdom being achieved over the intervening years, it was more likely that Barry simply did not have a clue about which horse to back and just enjoyed the kudos generated by his own popularity.
But one day, some four or five weeks after Barry’s arrival on the scene, something happened that changed my life forever.
It was a Monday evening and Barry turned up looking more animated than usual. In fact he was positively vibrant with enthusiasm and clearly had news that he wished to impart. He told us of a horse that was going to be racing on the Wednesday that just had to be backed. There was no question of it losing. It was a certainty. Defeat was out of the question so what were we waiting for?
I cannot remember the actual name of the horse in question but it had the word ‘air’ in its title – Air Commodore or Air Marshall perhaps. This was back in the mid-sixties so perhaps a bit of research might turn up the actual name.
Even at that age, I had a healthy scepticism of Barry’s proclamation that instant riches were just a heartbeat away and so took it all in with the proverbial pinch of salt. But the next day, Barry was even more adamant that tomorrow would be a day never to be forgotten and was even more insistent that we were going to regret forever not taking action should we continue to ignore his heeding. It will win. You can put your entire week’s wages on it. There is no doubt about this.
The upshot of all this was that I was persuaded to place the very first bet of my life and invested a whole two shillings – ten pence in today’s inflationary world. Well, I did say that this was all some time ago.
With one of my chums, whose name was Stewart as I recall, we cautiously entered a betting shop for the first time in our lives.
Betting shops at the time had only recently arrived on our high streets and very austere places they were. There was nothing welcoming or glamorous about them; plain, unplastered brick walls were the norm with the day’s racing events and results hand written on a white board in felt tip pen by a jaded looking individual chatting to his mate about anything but the job in hand.
Stewart and I had been briefed by Barry about how to proceed once inside this cavern of iniquity and I solemnly wrote out my betting slip and passed over my two shilling stake. If I recall aright, Stewart was seemingly less flush than I and invested sixpence.
This ceremony took place a few hours before the race and so there was nothing left to do but wait for the result over a hamburger and coffee in the newly opened Wimpy Bar. Did anyone ever like that gherkin on top?
Ten minutes after the race, Stewart & I (along with two other buddies who for either budgetary or sanity reasons had not invested in Barry’s prediction) once again ventured back into the betting shop. And there, newly posted up with the ink barely dry, was the confirmation that Air Marshall, Air On A G String or whatever the name of the animal was, had won the race at odds of 8/1.
It was a moment of incredulity. The magical, breath taking sensation that over powered was indefinable. Never before had I experienced such exhilaration and excitement as I passed over my winning betting slip (yes, I had remembered to look after it) to the guardian of wins and losses behind the counter. I was duly given my winnings of eighteen shillings – sixteen shillings in winnings and the return of my stake money of two. Heck, it was just two shillings short of a whole pound.
So there it is. My life long pursuit of wealth through winning had begun and still continues to this day as most of my family and acquaintances will testify. I still try to convince myself and others that it is the sport of kings itself that is the attraction but I think we all know differently.
The truth of the matter is that if that pesky horse had not won its race back then I would probably have had no interest in horse racing whatsoever and would have been trying to make a shilling or two selling turnips from an allotment as an alternative.
Atticus
My first bet was on Devon Loch and I've been 
my luck ever since! 
