Many, many years ago..
Back in the spring of 1966, my Dad was sitting upstairs on the no 35 bus, as it headed back home from work, when he could hear an altercation downstairs. A man's voice started singing in a fine tenor style, singing a song about the lovely weather, and how everyone was nice etc etc.. The voice got louder as it's owner climbed the stairs and it's owner, a small, slightly deranged looking man emerged onto the top deck.

Now the bus was full, taking workers home after a day's toil, and there was only one seat vacant, it was next to my Dad, so thats where the singer placed himself, and having got to the end of his song, he introduced himself to my Dad as "Max".

Dad and Max proceeded to pass the time of day with comments about the weather, going to the seaside, and the other usual things that would occupy any self-respecting public transport eccentric, since that's who this gentleman was. If it helps, my parents had been married for a little over a year, and they lived near to the local Mental Hospital, where some of the patients were allowed to go out into the community and perhaps hold a job down, or do a little shopping, Max had been shopping, and he showed my Dad the things he'd bought proudly. My Dad being a sociable cove, he always loved a natter, and was thoroughly enjoying the conversation. Until matters took a strange turn.

"It's the Grand national tomorrow, isn't it?" asked Max

"It certainly is!" replied my Dad

"You got an 'oss? You've gotta 'ave an 'oss!!" exclaimed Max

"I haven't, as it goes, I'm not much of a gambler" said my Dad

"Right then.." Max lowered his voice to little more than a whisper
"Don't tell anyone I told you this mate, but you wanna bung the lot on Anglo!"

"Anglo? Why Anglo, it's well down on the list, though?"

"Anglo, mate, can't lose, and don't tell anyone that old Max told you!"

Then, winking, and tapping his nose with his finger, he jumped to his feet and ran off down the stairs. Leaving my Dad wondering how much of the last ten minutes he'd imagined.

The next day dawned bright and breezy, a great day for horse racing. My Parents settled down on the sofa with cups of tea to watch the Grand National. At the last fence, a little known horse emerged from the pack, and romped down Aintree's long run in as if it were equipped with wings. It won, by three clear lengths. A horse called Anglo, barrelled home at 50-1.

No he didn't back it, they were skint, just married with a baby Sparkie.

Edit date's better
(Beer Elf Thought this was like a campfire, anyhow, on, Mon 11 May 2009, 15:00, Reply)