BOOKIES’ FAREWELL TO “ THE FLAT ”

Star (Christchurch), Volume XLIV, Issue 62, 14 March 1931, Page 17 (Supplement)

BOOKIES’ FAREWELL TO “ THE FLAT ”

They Are “On The Brink Of Ruin —”

us call him “Honest Fred." His bowler hat was grey, his waistcoat actionable, his voice awful. He was one of the gigantic cohort of bookies at Manchester for the last day of flat racing, says a writer in the “Daily Express.*’ It was a beautiful Manchester afternoon—atishoo! Smoke and sleet and slush. Honest Fred had his pitch in a puddle. His clerk, a disillusioned man in gold pince-nez, worked slowly and mournfully only raising his head to say, “Speak up, can’t ’ear ver! ” Honest Fred also employed a gentle man in a Gladstone collar to hang on the pole of the big um brella and look like a tent peg. This official was reciting, a litany which ran, “Lumme, ain't it wet, me collar’s soaked; lumme ain't it wet. Wot a day ! ” The three together were impressive. “Seventy half sovs to a half sov—put it down ! “ “Speak up, can’t ’ear yer!” “Lumme, ain’t it wet, me collar’s soaked, lumme ain't it wet, wot a dav! ” I approached Honest Fred “Where are you going for your holidays?" I asked cheerily. “Carey Street.’ said Honest Fred. “What can you give me on Richborough ?” “Sixtecns.” “But, man alive, they're offering twenty-fives all round. ' “Who do you think 1 am—Lady ’Oustcn?" snapped Honest Fred. Brink of Ruin. It was a singular thing. Throughout that great course on Saturday there must have been more than 2000 bookies. And everv tine was on the brink of ruin!

“It’s the end of the season, thank heaven.” grumbled a portly bookmaker with three diamond rings on his lingers and a bulging satchel. “It’s going to to be a hard struggle until next year.** “What price Richborough ? ” “Tens.” “But Honest Fred offered sixteens/* I complained. “Reckless/’ said the fat bookmaker, “very reckless.” The pity of it? These splendid fellows, broken and insolvent, had yet turned up to a man to say farewell to the flat season. And, according to the tradition of Last Day, Mrs Bookie had come as well. Staunch to the end in her last chinchilla coat and the only remaining car, with only a few paltry caviare sandwiches and a sip of champagne for her frugal luncheon, she attended to be by her husband’s side at the last grim struggle. Popping Corks. Happy homes were being smashed, children disinherited, fortunes lost all over the course. I took up my stan** beside one bookie at every race. Tommy Atkins won. “That’s torn it! ” said the bookie. Glorious Devon won. “Bust!” said the bookie. Landsong won. “Alas!” I cried. “Aye! ” said the bookie. The poignancy of it! And now comes a strange happening. Four extra first-class coaches were put on the 4.10 from Manchester to accommodate the returning bookies. Champagne popped and sizzled, aromatic smoke filled the coaches, diamonds glittered in the expensive haze. Perspiring stewards flitted up and down with groaning travs of liquor Great mounds of silver clinked on the card players’ tables, mighty wads were being thumbed by jewelled fingers. Wine, smoke, and clinking coin. And I heard a familiar voice. It came from the corner of the carriage and remarked, “Oh, I'm a DREAMER R R—aren't we all? Jus’ a dreamer-r. . . It was the voice of Honest Fred.