Not Not While the Giro

by Kelman, James

  I was reminding John about that kind of stuff. He smiled briefly, then he sniffed and got up off his chair; he walked to the corner of the room and lifted a bunch of the old newspapers; he produced a quantity of various coloured pens. Jock, he said, I been wanting to have a go at this for years. While he was speaking he sorted through the back editions, opening out their respective dog-sections, spreading them along the floor. You got to play it wide, he said, that’s all; you just got to play it wide. What you do Jock, you cut out the fucking middle man. Yeh, he said, the fucking middle man – you know who that is? it’s you, you and me, we’re the fucking middle man. Yeh, he said, open another couple of bottles.

  He halved the quantity of pens. That old guy he was telling me about had eventually gone skint for different reasons but the most important was his method of selection; he didnt really have one, he just chose the dogs from his own reading of the formbook. What you had to find was a genuine method, so that the four dogs would be chosen for you. And then there was another thing to consider, which races to work it on. It would be pointless using a system that forced you into hanging about the track all night with money in the pocket. At most greyhound meetings there are between 8 and 12 races. Probably the best way out of the bother is to work it on the first four races of the night; in that way you get in and get out – you arrive for the first race and make your bet, and leave as soon as you back the winner. And if you dont back a winner then you leave after the fourth race, and maybe try again the next night.

  Yeh, said John, you got to screw the nut.

  Plenty of selection methods were available. For the following couple of hours we set about testing as many as we could think of, using the old back editions, working on the past meetings at all the London tracks. Some useful information resulted. Many dog punters use methods and one of the most common – next to acting on the advice of racing journalists – is to bet on particular trap numbers. In every race there are six dogs and each goes from an individual trap numbered from 1 to 6. Over the period we tested Trap 6 was by far the most successful; on one occasion this draw had provided the winner of seven consecutive races. But for the stop-at-a-winner system that kind of consistency is irrelevant. All it required is one winner out of four.

  It was me who came up with the right one. The time dog. We were both a bit surprised, and I was also a bit disappointed. The time dog is the greyhound to have recorded the fastest time of the six runners in their most recent races. To the non punter it may seem obvious to say that the dog who runs the fastest will race more quickly. Well it does seem obvious but it never works out that way as most punters know. Too many variables exist and, like everything else in the formbook, recent times are only a guide.

  But the fact remains that many punters who reckon themselves expert on the subject will set more store on time than any other factor. And this is why I was disappointed, because our test seemed to prove them right. And if they were right then how come they were usually so fucking skint. John just shrugged. Well yeh, he said, but like I say Jock, most of them the cunts, they’re looking to back 8 winners out of 8 fucking races.

  Aye I know but still and all.

  Open a couple of bottles.

  Aye but John . . .

  Look Jock, listen to me now; see I been watching this for years and I know what I’m fucking talking about. You got some important things here. Now what you got? you got a system, you got the stop-at-a-winner, right?

  Aye.

  So you know what you’re doing for a fucking kick off. Most of them the cunts, they dont even know that, they dont know what the fuck they’re doing! right? Now what else you got? yeh, the fucking dogs, you got them chose for you, you got them selected, right?

  Aye but . . .

  Right?

  Right, aye.

  Okay, so what else you got?

  The time dog.

  Yeh yeh, the time dog, that’s how you got them chose – but what else you got?

  Eh.

  Come on Jock! He grinned and reached for the bottle I’d passed to him; he began pouring the brown ale into his cup. Then he sniffed, What else you got?

  Well you need a lot of fucking luck.

  No you dont! leave off! you dont need no fucking luck – why you think we got the fucking system! Jock, you got to play this wide.

  Aye.

  Now you take me, I’m a cunt. I’m a cunt Jock, no two ways about it. You go down the pub and ask any of them and they’ll tell you, I’m a cunt.

  I snorted.

  And you, he said, you’re a cunt. We’re both cunts – you know that – so what we got to do, we got to cut out the fucking middle man, right?

  I shrugged.

  Right?

  Aye, right.

  Okay . . . John took a mouthful of the beer, refilled the cup. What we do Jock, we work it together. Now we both know the score, we got to make the same bet and we got to take the same dogs. I mean Jock . . . he shrugged, look at this afternoon? Yeh, now I’m not criticizing, in your place I’d do the fucking same. But I lift a grand and you go skint. Yeh. John grinned suddenly. Fucking froggies, always did’ve a soft spot for the cunts.

  First thing on Monday morning he disappeared from the college to open a bank account. The day before he spent out of the district, visiting his family but also repaying a few debts I think. He was allowing £400 for the system, that is, £200 apiece. Our initial bet was to be £10 so we needed £100 each for the stake; the extra £100 was for emergencies. I kept mine planked in my room; whether John did this or not I was never sure.

  That first Monday went well although we saw little of each other till the late afternoon when we resumed chatting. Previous to this it seemed as if we werent chatting by some unspoken agreement, that it could have brought some bad luck on the system to continue discussing it all the time. He survived the day without a solitary bet. Even during his midday break he made a point of drinking less than he would normally have done. His dayshift started earlier than mine and so he clocked-off before me; we met in the pub for 7 p.m.; I just had time to swallow a pint and then the taxi was there and we were off.

  An hour later we returned. The first runner had won a short head at 9/4, throwing us a profit of £22.50 apiece, less expenses. Next night to another track where the first two runners got beat but the third won a length at 7/2, giving us a profit of £75 each overall – almost twice the wage I was receiving weekly as a porter. It was very nice. And the obvious problem arose: how to continue going to work every day with all that cash in the pocket. Not that it bothered John. Put it this way, he said, at my fucking age what else I got to do.

  During the next couple of weeks the time dog missed on two separate occasions; then came a losing sequence of three consecutive evenings. It was a bit of a bombshell. There’s a funny sense in which you expect one to be followed by two. Since it had failed on individual evenings the worst I expected was that it would fail twice in a row. We went along for that third evening and I doubt whether I truly thought about what would happen if it failed again. As it turns out we had enough in hand to attend for the fourth night and the time dog won the second race at 6/1; and gradually we recouped the losses without having touched the emergency fund. We werent winning a fortune but it was paying.

  When the equine virus vanished – as mysteriously as it had struck – it came as an anticlimax; horse racing remained at a standstill, the ground either waterlogged or bonehard. But the dogs went on chasing the parcel of fur. Some of these nights were freezing cold and making the trek across London could be a slog, particularly knowing you might be on the return journey half an hour later. There was one night John had to go a message on behalf of his family and we arranged to meet in the track bar. If he came late I was to double up on the bet to keep his side going. Wimbledon it was, and I made the journey by rail. But I wound up getting the two stations mixed up. The one I got off at was right in the middle of nowhere and I had to walk for miles, not a taxi in sight, and I missed the first three
races. But John had arrived in time and he doubled up for me.

  To be honest, I could have done with a night off now and again; but I didnt broach the subject in case I hurt his feelings. Weekends were the worst – Fridays and Saturdays had come to resemble Tuesdays and Wednesdays. A lot can go on in London and it doesnt all take place at the track. A new shorthand typist had started in one of the college offices; when I brought in the mail we had reached the stage of avoiding each other’s eyes. If I asked the girl out it had to be a Sunday, if not explanations were called for. I suppose I could have arranged to meet her after racing some evening but explanations would still have been called for. The routine we were into meant leaving the track together and taking a cab, or the tube if convenient, back to the local pub; once I had swallowed a couple of pints in there I could rarely be bothered moving.

  John seemed to be enjoying the life. Almost every night somebody was coming across to ask how he was doing and where he had been hiding; frequently the company was good as well, and it might have been nice hanging on for the chat, but we couldnt, the essence of the system’s success was this stopping-at-a-winner. We had to leave the track immediately; anything else would have been a risk. Systems have to be regular otherwise they arent systems. Oddly enough that side of things gave us a bit of status – in fact it isnt odd at all. In any racetrack in the country there is nobody more respected than the punter who comes to back one dog and one dog only. And whether it wins or not is fundamentally irrelevant. We told nobody about the system but those punters known to John must have become aware something was going on – as soon as we cheered home a winner we vanished.

  At college and in the pub we said nothing either. A little minor hostility occurred early on, towards me. The pub regulars were seeing us go to the track and return from the track and because it was all being accomplished within an hour or so they assumed we were continually doing the money. Kennedy had acted a bit coldly, as if I was responsible for John’s welfare, or maybe he reckoned I was just tagging along for poncing purposes. It was pointless explaining anything. It was still pointless when they realized we were backing winners. Occasionally a kind of daft undertone could be sensed, as though we were wasting time and money i.e. why fork out good cash on taxi fares and entrance fee when you dont even stay to watch the whole night’s racing. It’s difficult to say exactly. One of the daftest statements I ever heard came from Kennedy on that Saturday when John turned the £10 into £1200. It was unusual to find him in the pub at all. Saturday was the night he normally went out with his wife; if they came to the local they always sat through in the lounge. But that evening he was on his stool at the bar when we entered. John was playing it very cool, knowing everybody in the district would’ve heard the news – the rest of the regulars were doing their best not to let him see he had been the main topic of conversation since opening time. I got the pints in for the three of us. Kennedy didnt speak for quite a while, but he kept on grinning and shaking his head, now and then nudging me on the ribs. At last he winked and chuckled, Yeh Jock, we all got to start backing them French horses . . . Yeh, he said, we got to start backing them French horses . . . He laughed at John and swivelled on the stool. Hey lads! he called, we all got to start backing them French horses now!

  The laughter was loud. John reacted by raising his eyebrows and studying the gantry. The guvnor came through from the lounge to see what was what and he grinned, and after a moment he said: Alright John?

  John continued to study the gantry. When the laughter subsided he muttered, Silly fucker, but it went no further than that. I think he felt sorry for Kennedy. The man had a lot of good points but he had that bad habit of playing to the gallery, no matter at whose expense – his nights were rarely complete unless John unwrapped one of his tinfoil packages. Yet John was friendlier to him than he was to anybody else in the place. I saw him do something in the lodge once which would have crushed Kennedy. He had asked one of the porters for a match and the porter cracked a joke while passing him a boxful. This porter was known to be tight with his cash but still and all, I was there when it happened, and there didnt seem any genuine malice in the remark – it had something to do with people who gamble large sums of money but neglect to spend on the petty essentials. John turned and stared at the man for several moments; then he placed the box of matches on the table unused; and he started talking to another man as though the one in question was out of the room somewhere. The atmosphere was terrible. Nobody was able to look at the guy; and eventually he left the lodge without speaking. I doubt if Kennedy could have recovered from something like that.

  John left himself open to comment because he borrowed dough so indiscriminately. It was a thing about him I couldnt understand. During the bad time when he was losing he must have tapped every regular in the place, the same thing in the college – not just the lodge but the refectory, the kitchen and probably the offices as well. Once I knew him better I dug him up about it in the pub. Yeh, you’re right, he said.

  The second time the method failed three nights on the trot it coincided with a general thaw, and horse racing resumed on a fairly regular basis. Unlike the other time we now had to go into the emergency fund, but again we fought back to recoup the losses. It took a while but at least we were doing it, and we were still in the game. I was happy to ignore the horses; because of the long interruption the formbook would’ve been as well chipped out the window. It was a bookie’s paradise, impossible to pick a winner. When a favourite actually did get first past the post you were expecting to see it headlined in the following morning’s ’Life. We were discussing this across at the track in company with a few people of John’s acquaintance. For the past two nights snow had been falling thickly then melting during the day. The going was officially heavy but according to the experts this was a bit of an understatement, it was like a bog – particularly on the inside. The inside of the track receives more of a pounding than the outside; and on really heavy going the dogs who favour this side often race at a disadvantage, as though they’re trying to run through porridge. In an effort to justify this the track authorities had strewn straw round the inside. But the early results were bad, and according to the punters in the bar, it was the straw to blame; contrary to expectations the dogs drawn on the inside were not simply holding their own, they were getting what amounted to a yard and a half of a start. The first three favourites all got beat without ever having been in the hunt. The same thing applied to the first three time dogs, two of whom had actually been the favourites. It was pathetic. Normally we at least got a cheer, but tonight we had hardly been able to raise a shout.

  Down in the bar the conversation went on, with John taking his part, listening and occasionally nodding, rarely talking. As the merits of each greyhound was discussed for the fourth race I could hear the time dog being rejected mainly on the basis of its draw, it was to run from Trap 6. This dog was also an uncertain trapper – which means it sometimes started fast and other times started slow. Also, it liked to run its race on the wide outside of the track and so did the dog next to it, the one drawn in Trap 5. Also, this Trap 5 was known as a speedy trapper and thus more or less guaranteed to steal the ground from Trap 6. So what with this, that and the next thing Trap 6 wasnt reckoned much of a bet.

  The warning bell sounded for the end of the dogs’ parade and the company dispersed to lay out the money. John muttered, What d’you reckon Jock?

  I had been half expecting it. How d’you mean? I said.

  Them big wide runners, they’re doing fuck all tonight. What d’you reckon? he sniffed. Reckon we should leave it out?

  What?

  He shrugged. And when I didnt reply he added. No use fucking throwing it away.

  Ach! I shook my head and we left the bar, hurrying along to the betting-ring. They were making Trap 6 an 8/1 chance and as we stood there they moved it out to 10/1. See what I mean? he said, a no-hoper Jock – save the dough.

  You must be joking.

  He pursed his lips
and paused, then made to say something but I shook my head and stepped over to the nearest bookmaker, and took the 10/1 for the £40. I held up the ticket for him to see. He indicated a bookie a few pitches along the rank who was making Trap 6 a 12/1 chance. He shook his head at me. I shrugged and left the betting-ring, went up to our place in the Stand. Shortly before the off he was there beside me, and that instant prior to the traps opening he told me he had backed the favourite.

  Trap 2 was the favourite. The punters had gambled it off the board; from an opening show of 6/4 the weight of money going onto the thing had reduced its odds to 1/2. John didnt tell me how much he had stuck on the dog but at that kind of price he must have done it for plenty. According to the conversation in the bar the dog was a certainty to lead at the 1st bend and get the best of the going up the back straight; and by the time it hit the last bend the race would be all over bar the shouting. There was no shouting. Trap 6 shot out and led from start to finish – the kind of race when you can hear the dogs puffing and panting, because of the silence, the crowd totally stunned by what they’re having to witness. I was also watching in silence. I collected my winnings and met him in the bar.

  He had a drink ready for me but was apparently too engrossed in his racecard to make any comment. It was the first time we had ever been there beyond this fourth race. I began footering about with my own rececard, marking in comments on the running of the previous race – this was something I often did to pass the time.

  John was watching me.

  What’s up? I said. I smiled.

  He shook his head.

  Ah well John, you’ve got to mark in the form and that.

  Mark in the form . . . he said; you cunt! mark in the form!

  Ach come on for fuck sake, I’ve backed a winner and you’ve backed a loser, it’s as simple as that.

  As simple as that! As simple as that . . . You cunt! He left his drink on the bar and strode out of the place. I stayed where I was. Before the start of the fifth race I walked up to the Stand and stood where we usually stood but he wasnt there and he didnt arrive back in the bar afterwards. Outside the track I had a quick look in a couple of the local pubs but he wasnt in any of them. I took a taxi up West.