Last week I witnessed the most extraordinary, the most vigorous, the most full blooded commitment to losing money that I have possibly ever seen in my life, and having worked in an investment bank, that’s saying something.
There was no thought, no reason and no method unless your method is unshakeable trust in blind faith.
Where? At the Cheltenham Festival last week.
There were 26 races spread over 4 days.On each of the 4 mornings, the punters poured into Prestpury Park, usually with prodigiously thumping headaches, suffering from the night before. A coffee (or something stronger for the die hards) and a copy of the Racing Post would be purchased and a quiet spot would be retreated to in order for the ‘strategy’ of the day’s betting to take shape.
From what I witnessed, there were very few money.co.uk members in attendance. But after the week that most people endured, I would imagine many of them are members now.
One would have thought that the strategy would have been well thought out prior to the trip, however the adrenalin of actually being there, along with the numerous opinions sloshing around, combined with the ‘one sure thing’ that trainer said to you last night in that bar…. Now what did he say again? Ah that‘s right, “keep it in your pocket, Son”...meaning that you have to tinker with the matrix.
Then when race time approaches, armies of confident punters invade track side. They watch the boards of prices, they watch the bookies, and look out for the best price for their intended prey. Who blinks first? 14/1! Bang! You place your ten pounds each way bet on your fancy and you confidently retreat to the stands to watch your riches canter home.
The race starts, the roar goes up. Five minutes later your donkey trots home with a visible limp in 18th position. You are already in the hole so you rip up your betting slip. You then rip up your strategy sheet and then you ‘go big’ on the favourite in the next race. “I’ll fix this,”you confidently mutter. It loses too, but most agonizingly for you it only came second and you bet ‘on the nose.’So, you persuade yourself that the route of backing favourites is the way to go, and it will come good.
That is the downward spiral of financial bloodshed that I went through last week, along with probably another 80% of punters in Cheltenham. It was not pretty. One giant car crash.
At final count I believe the bookies earned a whopping £60 million between them.
I enquired of one smug-looking bookie how the festival was going so far. Without looking up from the wad of notes he was carefully thumbing and then placing into a tattered leather satchel, he uttered the words more famously used by one Derek Trotter of Trotters Independent Traders,“well we’ve had worse days, Rodney”. Yes, he called me Rodney.
In horse racing there is apparently something that is known as a 'banker'. Of course there should be a clue in the title. I think we all must realise by now that bankers do not bring salvation. They may well bring a bit of salivation, but that is only until just before your ‘sure thing’ falls at the final fence.
Unfortunately, literally thousands of foolish punters made the advance decision to back the ‘banker’ in the very first race on Day 1.
At anything close to an even money bet, the thinking was that the multitude of punters (including 50,000 Irish who traveled to back their Irish ‘banker’) could bet their £500 betting funds all on the nose of Dunguib, and immediately commence ‘Cheltenham Proper’ with a cool £1000, which could then cover B&B, flight, beer money and of course more betting.
Now if you know your simple maths, even if a bet is at evens, that can be interpreted as the following:
For every two times this race might be run, the horse at evens, will win one of them. So imagine putting the house on a 50/50 chance?
I imagine the organizers might consider thinking about a revamp of the Cheltenham Festival for next year.
They could probably dispense with the needless extras, you know, things like horses, the stadium, the razzmatazz, the television crews.
All they need do is arrange for 200,000 gullible punters to meet up in the Cotswolds at a time and a place that suits everyone; they could then light a big bonfire, where we can all gather with our bags of hard earned swag. Perhaps someone like John McCrirrick could dress in Druid like attire, utter a few thoughtful words at a makeshift altar, wave his arms about a bit; we could all have a wee chant, or maybe a high five or something, then as thunder bolts and lightning cracks, in unison we empty £60 million in ready cash onto the crackling flames.
That would be economically no different from this year, but at least it comes with the added upside of the bookies not getting their grubby hands on it.
As I arrived back home with my tail between my legs and in near financial ruin, I met a wise old owl down at the football club - the type who in Roman times would probably have been a sage, confidant and counsel to Julius Caesar. Probably.
Me: “Well, James, did you have any winners in Cheltenham, sir?”
James: “Tis a foolish man who would bet on a horse, Joe.”
Me: “Never, not even one?”
James: “Not even if the horse phoned me up himself and told me he was going to win."
