Too much information, some might say, but the discerning punter soon learns which pieces of the jigsaw are the crucial ones. Horse racing is not a science, and there will always be surprises, but, over time, just like human athletes, good horses run well and bad horses don’t.
Making a profit from gambling on horses involves identifying those occasions when the offered odds for a horse to win are better than the true probability of that outcome. So if the knowledgeable punter calculates that the chances of a horse winning a particular race are, say, one in two, and the odds offered by a bookmaker are better than evens, that is the time to bet.
In 1873, Joseph Jagger famously broke the bank at Monte Carlo by discovering and exploiting a bias in the casino’s roulette wheel, which made some numbers come up more often than others. These days, no one can seriously improve their chances of winning a lottery jackpot by simply studying how often the numbered balls have come out of the machines on prior occasions because so much effort goes into ensuring that the draw is completely random and unpredictable. But, in horse racing, if previous form was not a fair indicator of future performance, then there would be no bookmakers, and probably no racing. Certainly there would not be British Thoroughbred racing as we know it, with over five million people per year attending race meetings and some seventeen thousand racehorses in training.
“Ten each way on Burton Bank,” said a man in front of me.
“Ten pounds each way number two at seven-to-one,” I called to Luca over my shoulder.
I took the man’s twenty-pound note and gave him the ticket in return. “Ten pounds each way” meant ten pounds on the horse to win and ten on it to place. In British racing, in a handicap with over sixteen runners, a place bet would pay out if the horse finished somewhere in the first four.
The next person in the queue was the young woman in the black-and-white dress and matching wide-brimmed hat.
“Ten pounds each way on number eleven,” she said, tilting her head up so she could see me and I could see her. She was gorgeous.
“Ten each way number eleven at sixteens,” I called to Luca.
The ticket appeared, and I handed it over. “Better luck this time,” I said to her.
She looked slightly taken aback that I had spoken to her, and she even blushed a little, her cheeks showing pink against her monochrome outfit. “Thank you,” she said, taking the ticket and hurrying away. I watched her go.
“Do you take a forecast?” said the next man in line, bringing my attention back to business.
“No,” I said. “Win or each way only.”
He turned away. A “forecast” is a bet that predicts the first two finishers in a race. A “straight forecast” meant the first two in the correct order, and was known in the United States as an “exacta.” There are lots of multiple bets, from simple doubles or trebles, when all selections have to win, to others, with such strange names such as Trixie, Yankee, Canadian, Patent or Lucky 15, that contain multiple singles, doubles and trebles on three, four or five horses running in different races. We didn’t accept any of them because it became too complicated and too time-consuming. We left those to the betting shops and the big boys. Luca was keener to take them than me, but our regular betting ring customers would go elsewhere if we kept them waiting longer than the next guy.
Betting became fast and furious as the race time approached. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to have a bet on the Wokingham. A probable long-odds winner was encouraging everyone to have a punt, and the wad of notes in my hand grew steadily as the minutes ticked by to the start.
Burton Bank was just about holding his favoritism at seven-to-one, although there were two other horses whose prices had shortened to fifteen-to-two.
“Twenty pounds to win on Burton Bank,” said my next customer, a young man in morning dress.
“Twenty to win number two at sevens,” I said over my shoulder to Luca.
“Bloody hell,” he replied. “The Internet’s gone down again.”
8
Phones as well?” I asked.
Luca was busy pushing buttons on his mobile.
He nodded. “Same as before.”
The effect was startling. Suddenly there were men running everywhere with walkie-talkies in their hands and curly wires visible over their collars and leading, I presumed, to earpieces in their ears. They scanned the bookmakers’ boards, on the lookout for sudden changes to the odds.
“Twenty pounds to win on Burton Bank,” repeated the young man in front of me, slightly irritated at the delay.
“Sorry,” I said to him. “Twenty to win number two at sevens,” I repeated, turning to Luca. He looked at me and shrugged his shoulders, then pressed the keys, and out popped the ticket from the printer. I held it out to the young man, who snatched it away.
“A tenner each way number four,” said the next punter, a large man in a blue-striped shirt and red tie.
I glanced up at our prices board.
“Ten pounds each way number four at fifteen-to-one,” I said, and the ticket duly appeared.
Ten pounds each way wasn’t going to be enough to significantly change the odds, I thought, not even on a relative outsider.
There was not much going on, although I could see some of the men with the earpieces moving down the line of bookies making bets and keeping a close eye on the prices.
But no one tried to make any odds-changing bets with me, and our board hardly altered in the five minutes or so before the race. But that didn’t stop the chaps with the earpieces running up and down in front of me, shouting at one another both directly and through their walkie-talkies.
“What do you mean it’s busy?” one of them shouted into his two-way radio.
I couldn’t hear the reply, as obviously it played straight into his ear via the earpiece.
“Well, get her out now,” he shouted. He turned to one of the others. “There’s a damn woman in the pay phone making a call.”
It was almost funny.
Larry Porter clearly thought it was, and he stood full square, laughing loudly.
“It’s back,” said Luca just as the starting stalls opened and the cavalry charge began.
“What a surprise,” I said.
I watched the race unfold on one of the big-screen TVs. As was usually the case in the Wokingham, the thirty runners divided into two packs, running close to the rails on either side of the course, in the traditional commentator’s nightmare.
The handicapper didn’t quite get his dream of a multiple dead heat, but still there was a pretty close blanket finish, with those running on the stand rail having a slight advantage.
“First, number four,” announced the public-address system. “Second, number eleven. Third, number twenty-six. The fourth horse was number two.”
So Burton Bank, horse number two, had finished fourth. He had once again been made clear favorite, with a starting price of five-to-one, so some of those bets made by the earpieces must have been to try to shorten his price. On Thursday, in the Gold Cup, Brent Crude, the favorite, had drifted badly when the Internet went down, so, I thought, the big boys’ first instinct today must have been to back the favorite and drive down the price. It hadn’t done them much good.
The winner had been returned at a starting price of fifteen-to-one. But there was nothing suspicious about that. The starting price of the winner of the Wokingham Stakes had regularly been at twenty-to-one or higher.
“What was all that about?” I said to Luca.
“Dunno,” he said. “Nothing much seemed to happen.”
“No,” I said. “But it was fun while it lasted.”
“Where did all those blokes come from?” he said. “They must have been hiding in the stands somewhere.”
“It was a bit of overkill, if you ask me,” I said.