WHAT were the odds that Glasgow would have the most betting shops per head in the UK?
Don't ask me. Not a betting man, d'you see? Don't know the first thing about it. Of course, as a man of the world, I've ventured into bookmakers' premises once or twice. But always in the company of adults.
I looked on bewildered at the coloured slips, live television broadcasts and masses of vaguely mathematical information tacked to the walls.
What's to like? Well, there's the idea of handing over a small sum and being given a larger one back. I can see the attraction. But conventional wisdom says the punter always loses in the long run. And also in the short run.
The Campaign for Fairer Gambling calculates that Glasgow has one bookmaker for every 2458 adults. There are 205 bookies, to be precise, meaning 759 fixed-odds betting terminals, about which there is much concern.
This was news to me. As possibly evident from the description of a bookies above, my experience is less than contemporary. I thought betting was all about, you know, horses running hither and yon.
But many punters opt for the new casino-style gaming machines, which can take £100 every 20 seconds, thanks to their greater dexterity at roulette, blackjack and poker.
Still, surely machines don't compare to the romance of the turf? There was a time when I thought it pressed several of my buttons: Flash Harry in the St Trinian's films, Sid James, sunshine, fresh air, car coats and tweeds.
It seemed right up my concourse. But I didn't really enjoy my one visit to a racecourse. As already intimated, I don't understand anything about betting, from the odds to the accumulator, and very possibly back again. In addition, the beer was flat and the burger menu limited, while the lavatorial suite provided naught for your comfort. But perhaps, like the bookies' shops, that's all changed now.
I have to say, too, that I don't approve of horses by and large. I'm pretty sure (we never talked about, well, anything in my family) that my grandfather was killed by a boot in the bonce from a horse. Also, horses were vehicles in the past for toffs, who rode roughshod over us peasants, rather like cyclists do today.
Making the dodgy beasts race might seem fair enough, but I don't wish them ill and feel sorry for them galloping briskly while some midget on their back whacks them with a whip. It's not natural.
Back on the high street, how I envy those men who spend their afternoons going from pub to bookies and back. It's a kind of life, a social pursuit with a purpose, which is more than I - the lone existentialist in a dull city suburb - can lay claim to.
But where do they get the money? Now that I don't smoke or drink - yes, it's a great life (as I tell the Samaritans in my daily call) - I don't understand how anybody can afford to do either. To be able to smoke, drink and bet is beyond the dreams of avarice. Yet Scottish punters spend £822 million a year just on the fixed-odds betting terminals.
I do remember one lad from my youth who wanted to make a career out of betting. He studied the form like any good science student and approached it all quite professionally. And he did quite well. I think, overall, he was about three quid up the last time I saw him. Not a bad return for 38 years.
You also need luck to prosper at the bookies. Let me tell you: if there's anything in karma, I'm due a Lottery win, a miraculous new body with muscles and stuff, and a night with Sofia Helin. I await a doozie of a repayment for a life of hellish suffering. Oh, all right, for a series of small irritations.
But the years tick by and there's still no sign of karma stumping up. Betting punters must approach their calling with similarly hopeless anticipation.
Bookies thrive on two things: desperation and hope. But beware the invisible motto above their door: "Abandon cash all ye who enter here."
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