
What he did, I think, I'm not 100% on this, was that he got wind of a sure-win, guarnteed winner if you know what I mean, he ran a bookies so didn't take this news lightly. Trouble was, the odds wearn't good, everyone expected it. So what he did was place a huge bet on it, one of the veriable-odd things, where the odds on race-time are the ones that count.... I think.
So what he did was get my Dad, his brothers, cousins, everyone he knew, to go down the bookies and place loads of little shilling bets on the other dogs, all of them except the winner. They queued up and blocked all the tills, umming and urrring so no one else could bet. There was about 20 of them or whatever. This drove the sure-win's odds to get higher and higher.
It was all good, all going to plan, until a minute before the bell, they anounce that all bets are off, made up some excuse, can't remember what it was. So everyone got their money back, and they didn't get that big win.
( , Sun 11 Dec 2011, 18:32, archived)

( , Sun 11 Dec 2011, 18:32, archived)

( , Sun 11 Dec 2011, 18:35, archived)

If someone wanted a big order, he could get it, he'd worry about the details afterwards, and he'd get it done 95% of the time, even if it meant taking a loss on occasions.
Anyway, he was in charge of the bookies in the east-end one evening, when an irish fella comes in, this is in the 50s by the way. The fella asks if we'll take a £100 bet in Ireland, well, Dad naturally said "We'll take any bet", and took it. Don't ask me about the odds, I don't get it how he would know, but they knew how that worked at the time.
In comes Tone (Dad's brother), and he sees this bet on the books, and asks what the hell my Dad was playing at. He said, "Norm, this is the 50s, £100 is a year's wages for most people, and some Irish fella comes in placing an obscure bet? You know there is no way an Irish fella comes into your bookies in the east end, lays down a year's wages on a horse, and ends up loosing". It then clicked, they'd been rigged. But how do they turn this around? Dad, Tone and Melv spend the next day, and all night, going to every single bookie in the east end, and beyond, putting a fiver here and a tenner there, on the exact same thing. The figure if it comes through, they're quids in, if it doesn't, they've covered themselves.
Low and behold, the horse wins, the irish fella comes in, collects his money, and everyone smiles all 'round. I bet the Irish fella has never seen a bookie so pleased to lose before.
( , Sun 11 Dec 2011, 18:44, archived)

how old was your dad in the 50s?!
( , Sun 11 Dec 2011, 19:15, archived)

( , Sun 11 Dec 2011, 19:19, archived)

i think he worked from quite an early age, was a schizophrenic though, died in prison
( , Sun 11 Dec 2011, 19:27, archived)

( , Sun 11 Dec 2011, 19:28, archived)