Betting Slips and Saggy Tits - Part Two
by Lee Carrick
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A lot of strong ones.
Description: Another day at the bookies in Cameron's Britain.
_____________________________________________________________________
Davey Reid
They call the back office the fishbowl. Not because it is colourful and relaxing to look at after a long day at work; but because it is small, claustrophobic and smells of mould and damp. The front counter is made from a thick glass which reaches all the way to the ceiling to deter would-be thieves. The shop has been robbed four times in the past two years, so I suppose the glass isn’t scary enough to stop a broken youth with a drug habit to feed from trying his luck.
This bookies is known as an ‘estate bookies’. In other words, it’s in the centre of a council estate rather than on a shopping street, high street or shopping centre. Billy Connolly said only the English would have the arrogance to call a scheme an estate; as if the people living here had vast gardens, lakes and free roaming deer. Instead they have vast unemployment, flooded potholes and free roaming teenagers. A scheme is a scheme south or north of the border regardless of what Whitehall decided to call them.
Davey Reid, no taller than five feet and no younger than seventy-five, was struggling to open the front door of the shop. I rushed out to help him and was met by the usual wave of cheap cigar smoke that made Davey smell like he hadn’t been washed in a week and frequently drove some of the younger punters out of the bookies. He was being followed by his blind/deaf and soon to be dead Springer Spaniel Emma. “Alreet Nicky sonna? Howay emmaroid.” Davey turned to me and shot a comedy wink in my direction. “Ah call her emmaroid cos she’s a reet pain in the arse.” Emma shuffled along behind him bumping into a few customers’ legs on the way.
I went back into the fishbowl where Saggy Tits Beth was sitting stewing in a pool of her own self-loathing. The back office was so small that the staff would have to turn sideways in order to pass each other. This meant that when Beth and I were working I would frequently feel the soft brush of her nipples on my stomach as I passed her. It takes a vile woman not get me aroused and this monster struggled to raise a smile, never mind an erection.
Beth had worked at the bookies for thirty years; in the same shop for thirty years. That means that she had, roughly, spent six thousand, nine hundred days working in the fishbowl. That’s more than two life sentences, as the regulars would often point out, much to her annoyance. Her son now worked in a shop in another town and so it had became a family affair.
Working there for so long had given Beth an air of authority which she happily and sometimes viciously took advantage of. She treated the shop like her house, and the people in it were unwelcome guests who would have to obey her rules unless they wanted to be abruptly and loudly reprimanded. The staff hated her; the customers hated her more.
Davey’s hand reached up from behind the counter and placed two betting slips in front of me. I scanned them into the system. He had won £2.40 from two £1.60 Lucky 15 bets. Not so lucky for him, I suppose. “Is that al, Nicky, daint take the piss. They call iz Davey Reid not Davey Cunt.” “That’s all, Davey, two horses were placed, one winner and the other five were nowhere,” I told him.
Davey headed over to the table and opened the Racing Post; I went into the kitchen to make his black coffee.
Jimmy The Hat burst through the door singing at the top of his voice: “Bad boys, bad boys, watcha gonna do, watch gonna do when they come for you.” Jimmy had appeared on Britain’s Got Talent a few years back and was proud of his singing voice. The TV appearance had made him a local hero. He sat down in his usual seat next to Davey. “Alright, Davey, I’ve just seen Dekka heading up to the general, he’s away for the camera up the arse.” Davey leaned towards Jimmy with his hearing aid pointed firmly towards Jimmy’s mouth. He looked concerned, “Still fighting the prostate cancer aye? I bet he’s shitting himself.” They laughed loudly causing the other punters to stare. “Aye,” Jimmy said, “don’t know why, he’s had that many cocks up there he’ll not be able to feel the fucking camera.” They laughed even louder.
I placed the black coffee on the table, trying to avoid spilling it over their aged hands. Jimmy took his leave and headed for the papers on the wall looking for his next losing tricast. I sat in his grave. “How’s things, Davey?” I asked politely.
“Fucking shit sonna. Never getting fucking married, I’ve tried twice and it’s been a disaster both times.” There was a long pause.
“Ya nah sonna. I’ve got a bit cash put away. She nah’s fuck al aboot it and neither does the bairn. It’s not much y nah, just a few grand but I wanted to leave the bairn something when I died. Ah daint own the hoose, so there’s nae inheritance to speak of, just this few thousand I’ve got under the mattress. But the way things are gan, mate, there’s gonna be nowt left; with this fucking bedroom tax we’re paying another twenty-eight pound oot the weekly budget and am having to pay cooncil tax now n’all. Ah reckon if me n her last another three years there’ll be nowt left. The best thing for everyone is that we’re both oot of here in the next year, otherwise the bairn is getting fucking al when am deed.”
I looked at him. He looked fragile for the first time, almost defeated by life, he was usually quite lively, sometimes even aggressive, but today he looked like a man who was ready for the undertaker. I nodded sympathetically; I didn’t really know what to say to him.
“Anyway,” he said, “I’ve had a shave this morning so hopefully wor lass will let iz gan doon on ah the neet.” I couldn’t help but laugh. I’m pretty sure if he got down there they’d need a paramedic to get him back up.
“Here, Jimmy, lend iz a tenna. Ah fancy that Pink Lips at the 2:45 at Kempton,” Davey shouted over to Jimmy who was still reading the racing form on the wall. He had leant in so close his nose was touching the paper. “Hey, Davey, am ganna start callin ye depth charge......cos ya always lookin for a sub.”
Swearwords: A lot of strong ones.
Description: Another day at the bookies in Cameron's Britain.
_____________________________________________________________________
Davey Reid
They call the back office the fishbowl. Not because it is colourful and relaxing to look at after a long day at work; but because it is small, claustrophobic and smells of mould and damp. The front counter is made from a thick glass which reaches all the way to the ceiling to deter would-be thieves. The shop has been robbed four times in the past two years, so I suppose the glass isn’t scary enough to stop a broken youth with a drug habit to feed from trying his luck.
This bookies is known as an ‘estate bookies’. In other words, it’s in the centre of a council estate rather than on a shopping street, high street or shopping centre. Billy Connolly said only the English would have the arrogance to call a scheme an estate; as if the people living here had vast gardens, lakes and free roaming deer. Instead they have vast unemployment, flooded potholes and free roaming teenagers. A scheme is a scheme south or north of the border regardless of what Whitehall decided to call them.
Davey Reid, no taller than five feet and no younger than seventy-five, was struggling to open the front door of the shop. I rushed out to help him and was met by the usual wave of cheap cigar smoke that made Davey smell like he hadn’t been washed in a week and frequently drove some of the younger punters out of the bookies. He was being followed by his blind/deaf and soon to be dead Springer Spaniel Emma. “Alreet Nicky sonna? Howay emmaroid.” Davey turned to me and shot a comedy wink in my direction. “Ah call her emmaroid cos she’s a reet pain in the arse.” Emma shuffled along behind him bumping into a few customers’ legs on the way.
I went back into the fishbowl where Saggy Tits Beth was sitting stewing in a pool of her own self-loathing. The back office was so small that the staff would have to turn sideways in order to pass each other. This meant that when Beth and I were working I would frequently feel the soft brush of her nipples on my stomach as I passed her. It takes a vile woman not get me aroused and this monster struggled to raise a smile, never mind an erection.
Beth had worked at the bookies for thirty years; in the same shop for thirty years. That means that she had, roughly, spent six thousand, nine hundred days working in the fishbowl. That’s more than two life sentences, as the regulars would often point out, much to her annoyance. Her son now worked in a shop in another town and so it had became a family affair.
Working there for so long had given Beth an air of authority which she happily and sometimes viciously took advantage of. She treated the shop like her house, and the people in it were unwelcome guests who would have to obey her rules unless they wanted to be abruptly and loudly reprimanded. The staff hated her; the customers hated her more.
Davey’s hand reached up from behind the counter and placed two betting slips in front of me. I scanned them into the system. He had won £2.40 from two £1.60 Lucky 15 bets. Not so lucky for him, I suppose. “Is that al, Nicky, daint take the piss. They call iz Davey Reid not Davey Cunt.” “That’s all, Davey, two horses were placed, one winner and the other five were nowhere,” I told him.
Davey headed over to the table and opened the Racing Post; I went into the kitchen to make his black coffee.
Jimmy The Hat burst through the door singing at the top of his voice: “Bad boys, bad boys, watcha gonna do, watch gonna do when they come for you.” Jimmy had appeared on Britain’s Got Talent a few years back and was proud of his singing voice. The TV appearance had made him a local hero. He sat down in his usual seat next to Davey. “Alright, Davey, I’ve just seen Dekka heading up to the general, he’s away for the camera up the arse.” Davey leaned towards Jimmy with his hearing aid pointed firmly towards Jimmy’s mouth. He looked concerned, “Still fighting the prostate cancer aye? I bet he’s shitting himself.” They laughed loudly causing the other punters to stare. “Aye,” Jimmy said, “don’t know why, he’s had that many cocks up there he’ll not be able to feel the fucking camera.” They laughed even louder.
I placed the black coffee on the table, trying to avoid spilling it over their aged hands. Jimmy took his leave and headed for the papers on the wall looking for his next losing tricast. I sat in his grave. “How’s things, Davey?” I asked politely.
“Fucking shit sonna. Never getting fucking married, I’ve tried twice and it’s been a disaster both times.” There was a long pause.
“Ya nah sonna. I’ve got a bit cash put away. She nah’s fuck al aboot it and neither does the bairn. It’s not much y nah, just a few grand but I wanted to leave the bairn something when I died. Ah daint own the hoose, so there’s nae inheritance to speak of, just this few thousand I’ve got under the mattress. But the way things are gan, mate, there’s gonna be nowt left; with this fucking bedroom tax we’re paying another twenty-eight pound oot the weekly budget and am having to pay cooncil tax now n’all. Ah reckon if me n her last another three years there’ll be nowt left. The best thing for everyone is that we’re both oot of here in the next year, otherwise the bairn is getting fucking al when am deed.”
I looked at him. He looked fragile for the first time, almost defeated by life, he was usually quite lively, sometimes even aggressive, but today he looked like a man who was ready for the undertaker. I nodded sympathetically; I didn’t really know what to say to him.
“Anyway,” he said, “I’ve had a shave this morning so hopefully wor lass will let iz gan doon on ah the neet.” I couldn’t help but laugh. I’m pretty sure if he got down there they’d need a paramedic to get him back up.
“Here, Jimmy, lend iz a tenna. Ah fancy that Pink Lips at the 2:45 at Kempton,” Davey shouted over to Jimmy who was still reading the racing form on the wall. He had leant in so close his nose was touching the paper. “Hey, Davey, am ganna start callin ye depth charge......cos ya always lookin for a sub.”
About the Author
Lee Carrick is in his twenties. Originally from South Shields, he now lives in Edinburgh. His biggest passions in life are writing and travelling, and he likes to combine the two. He has been writing poetry since he was 15, but only recently began to write fiction. He was inspired to write by Ian Banks' The Wasp Factory and Neil Gaiman's Smoke and Mirrors. The Care Home, his first novella, is a McStorytellers publication.
Lee’s full profile can be read on McVoices.
Lee’s full profile can be read on McVoices.
