Well I’d seen on the TV and bet on it from time to time over the years, but I never thought I’d actually see it live. Then one Saturday lunch-time in my local a friend said, “You coming to Liverpool or what?” It was too good to turn down.
At worst it was a long and uncomfortable ride up North by car, and at best it was a long weekend on the beer in the Wirral, Merseyside. My friend had been working in Liverpool and we were to hook up with his co-workers and at some point head off to Aintree for the race of the year.
I’ve never taken to gambling on the horses, and still think it’s a mug’s game. Not only that, I can’t think of a more boring way to pass the time than sitting there watching 5000 tins of potential cat food and glue running around in circles, all for the sake of a bet. However, we were there, and it would have been daft not to go and soak up the atmosphere.
We met Andy’s friends in a pub and the table we were sitting at was the resting place for forty hardened Liverpool supporters. And it was here that the loyal fans would get rat-arsed three hours before any game kicked off. Eventually they would stagger onto a mobile off-license and then get dropped off at the Kop. Anyway, after a quick prayer and three Hail Marys the strategy for the day’s betting began to unfold. It seemed all too simple, childlike in fact.
Our events manager for the day was a staunch racing addict and what he knew about turf, odds, horses, and the midgets riding them seemed astounding. However, after sitting with him for a while my bullshit alarm went off and I surmised that this was a sure-fire way of being relieved of our cash.
We would begin in the bronze enclosure apparently, and with our combined winnings from there we’d all take a stroll into the silver enclosure and carry this game play until we settled down in the gold enclosure. From this standpoint we, or he, should I say, would put our entire fortune on the last race of the day thereby cleaning out the bookies. Have you ever heard such a crock in all of your life? I was only 24, but even I could see the gaping great holes in his plan, but the sad part was, he actually believed what was coming out of his mouth.
On our arrival at the course we handed over our cash to Andy’s mate and watched as he shot off in the direction of the nearest bookies. It was 12.30pm. At precisely 1.00pm we learned that betting boy had lost our entire stake after placing it all on the first race of the day! ‘Tosser’ was just one of the expletives banded about…
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