BEN’S BLOG: ‘The Story of Sid’

[dropcap]I[/dropcap]t seems, Blog, that our readers enjoy stories, of years gone by, from the betting-ring.

Tonight, I made my way to Green Lanes, to have dinner with friend and foot-soldier of Star; Mark Maskell. Mark has worked for, and become a great friend of Star, over the last ten years. A few months ago, we were all rocked by the news though, that he had, had a terrible stroke. Thankfully, time, and a little rest, have eased his ill health, and I thought that I’d organise a bite to eat, tonight, for Mark, along with a few bookmakers and punters he knows, from his dog-racing days.

Stories, many we had heard over and over again, were recited. And then, an older member of the party, told us the very sad story, of a former clerk. A clerk, being the workman that records the bets, into the book, for the bookmaker betting away at the front of the pitch.

Let’s call the clerk; ‘Sid’.

Sid worked for a very busy firm at Walthamstow. Let’s call the firm; ‘Jones and Son’.

When Greyhound Racing was a huge spectator sport, crowds would flock from all over London, to bet into frantic, heart like, betting-rings. Bets would fly in from all directions, and close to the off, punters would regularly not be given a ticket, the bet simply put down to ‘Boy’, ‘Cap’, ‘Ginger’, whatever…

A punter, was coincidentally approached, at Lingfield races. He was asked if he wanted to be involved, and help in a little trick, going on at the dogs… When it was busy, a punter would go and have a bet with a specific bookmaker. Any bet. Say £25 at 4/1 trap 1, to say; ticket 84. After the race, his ticket would be given to another face, as to not arouse suspicion by the bookmaker, who may remember what bet the original punter had actually had, and he would approach the joint, as to collect a winning bet. From the back of the stand, a face, a very heavy face, would nod to the clerk. The clerk thus knowing what was coming. As the bookmaker called out ‘ticket 84’, the clerk would say a believable amount to the bookmaker, and the punter would be paid out.

The approached party nudged and nurdled, to get more details.

The firm was Jones and Son.

His friends.

He went immediately; and told them.

Jones and Son then studied what was happening, and confronted the clerk after the next meeting.

Sid broke down and confessed all; repenting his sins. He had been set up, having been put in a compromising position. A position, that in a rough dog-track betting-ring, he certainly didn’t want exposed. The gangsters had rumbled Sid as being gay, and were fully leaning on him.

The ‘coup’ had been going on for eighteen months, and the thieves had taken £3,000 per week.

Poor Sid. He was desperate. He’d lost his good name. He felt he had no other option.

And, Blog, you know the end of the story, really, don’t you..?

Everyone knew anyway.

CRUEL WORLD.

In other news:

“There’s nothing more boring than being a self-made man; you waste so much time trying to make your way.”. Pedro Almodovar.

Pedro, tell me about it! WHY, OH WHY, AM I NOT A MEGA YET??!!

Over an out, B x