SIMON NOTT: Uncle Frank The Illegal Bookie

As a child growing up in the 1970s, from a non-racing family to me the Grand National was the only race of the year, literally. It was the only horse race I ever heard about and certainly that my parents got involved in betting on. I do remember being quite shocked the first time I actually sat down to watch it on the TV, early as it must have been, and realised that there were other races too. I was also very confused the first time I heard the term bookmaker in the context of taking bets. I thought it a bit strange that people I assumed worked for Ladybird would also take wagers in their spare time.

Mind you, not all that strange because I did know that other people used to take bets in their spare time. Quite close to our church going home too. My great uncle Frank used to work for a firm of solicitors and run Rackenford Village Post Office, then once a year became the local bookie. We lived in the sprawling metropolis of Tiverton a good eight miles away from ‘honest’ Frank so telephoned the bets in on credit, he knew we wouldn’t knock. 10p each-ways all over the shop. Little did I know that Frank was doing something clandestine, I’d have been very impressed. I doubt Frank was too bothered about having his collar felt though. The Police house opposite where my nan lived had long since seen its last resident Bobby.

It was a few years later that I discovered the real ‘joys’ of the betting shop and started to enthusiastically fund the coffers of the William Hill Organisation outlet in Tiverton. That benevolence via my Poultry Processing weekly wages paid in cash on a Friday afternoon. I was already clued up and besotted with on-course bookmakers after a visit to Cheltenham on Mackeson day but working for them was still not even an inkling at that point.

On-course bookies may have been a few years away but I was absolutely over the moon when Neil the manager at said William Hill shop asked me early one morning if I’d like to help him settle bets on Grand National day. Now I was the proud owner of a pocket-sized Racing Calendar betting ready reckoner, I often used it to work out what my 2/5, 2/7, 1/6 treble would have paid had the last one not let me down. I used to do a lot of those bets. In my head, if the biggest price was 2/5, that was the price of it copping, that despite having the aforementioned settling tool.

Anyway, that interlude was to illustrate that I was probably never going to be settling as such but putting a line through the losing bets in the pile. I’ll never know the extent Neil trusted my skills, when I turned up on Grand National morning, I was heartbroken to see that Neil had a professional helping him and not me, that was the beginning and end of my betting shop career.

Grand National Saturday was the only day of the year when the betting shop wasn’t filled with just Ne’er Do Wells like me, it was when the population braved our den of iniquity to place their bets, unless they had an account with an ‘Uncle Frank’. Of course, we regular wastrels used to look down our noses at people who couldn’t write out a simple betting slip, it never entered my head that by not doing in their wages in cold blood on a weekly basis they weren’t actually the mugs.

I’m hoping that nobody is rolling their eyes in a ‘not those stories again’ way after reading that. I know I’ve done the ‘Hard case with a bat’, ‘Repping for the first time, on the Embankment’ and ‘Bomb Scare’ Grand Nationals before. Did I ever mention Brian Edwards betting on the Grand National at the Point to Point in 1993? If not, I’ll save it. Please let me know if I have as I’ll start sounding like Uncle Albert otherwise. Just replace Grand National where ‘During the war’ would have been.

Talking of which, the War that is, another reason illegal bookmaking probably held no fear for Uncle Frank; he was a veteran of Bomber Command. He told us a story very late on in his 90 odd years of life. During the War, Frank’s father sadly passed away. RAF Navigator Frank was given two-day compassionate leave to attend his funeral. On his return he was devastated to learn that his regular crew and temporary replacement were shot down and killed on a bombing raid. It’s doubtful he ever worried too much about Civvy life again after that ‘eh?

I hope Frank used to get a few quid, my first boss Jack Lynn was also a veteran of the Second World War, second wave of the D-Day landings when just a lad. He had a betting shop in Dartmouth for a while. He said he never won on the Grand National, it was always just a case of turning over the slips waiting to find the winning one that was going to knock out all his profits. I doubt he cared too much either.

Let’s hope for a good result for the bookies in this year’s big one or not, whichever side of the fence you perch. Of course, any good fortune is a bonus, we’ve all already had better luck that most of Frank and Jack’s mates.

Touch wood.

SIMON

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Views of authors do not necessarily represent views of Star Sports Bookmakers.

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Simon Nott is author of: Skint Mob! Tales from the Betting Ring
available on Kindle CLICK HERE FOR MORE DETAILS

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