Events

At the Races - Brought to you by Nate Camponi -

Let's start by underlining the fact: I have absolutely no experience with betting. The reason for attending the races?

Well, I'd never miss Youd's 21st birthday for a start, and it was a big fat excuse to get dressed up in my suit and tie and attend an all day shindig, which, as we all know, I'm a sucker for.

We all piled onto the coach at 10:15am and rode the 30 minute ride to Wetherby Race Track, where we found it incredibly hard to decipher which corridor to walk down with our tickets.

We were ushered in by many well-to-do looking older men with very neat white hair dressed in khaki coloured trousers and brown shoes, who kindly took our tickets and told us to make our way to the track area. I like to imagine all these guys are rich men who have now retired on their past horse race winnings, and talk about horses and jockey's like they discuss their fine cheeses and wines, pontificating into the wee hours of the morning with a large cigar and a glass of their finest Glenfidich.

So with my unbelievable lack of experience in mind, I was fully expecting for that £50 in my back burner to go up in smoke within minutes.

First port of call? To the bar. As everyone placed their first round of bets, the select few hardcore members of the Sheen unit got the first round of drinks in.

Pint of John Smith's you say? Damn right.

So, after a good old round of happy birthday praise for the good Youd, we proceeded to take pictures of eachother in true Leeds Me Up fashion (you know the drill; funny faces, odd poses and pretty much anything Gazz can write a sex joke or a Nathan/Gem pun underneath). And it all went pretty well.

Caleb and myself decided to sheen on down to the track and stick a bet on a select runner. Number 2 was the chosen one. It had pretty good odds, but still stood to pay out a healthy £12 if it came in first.

The first race kicked off, and sure enough, Number 2 pulled through, banking us the first load of winnings for the day. What a healthy start!

Now, being the sly dog that I am, my dad had text me a list of favourites for each race, straight from the bigwigs at SkyBet. Apparently the list of horses was bullet-proof and each one was destined to make me a millionaire.

As always, nothing quite turns out as we plan it, but each horse still grabbed me a few quid.

So Why So Happy, I hear you say? Well, here goes...

The time was 3:25pm, and time for the last race. I took out my phone and checked out the last tip-off -- Kentucky Blue. Apparently, he was the favourite for this particular race and I was promptly up for sticking a fiver on this bad boy, seen as the other tips had been so successful.

I approached the bookie and stuck a fiver on my tip. He handed me my ticket and right at the last minute, I had a change of heart. No going back on my original bet, I understood this. But I spied a cheeky little number at number 7. I forget the name; Wasn't interested, just transfixed at the unbelievably shit odds of this poor motherfucker who, at this rate, was not scheduled to win a race until at least the year 2089.

So I stuck a couple of quid on him. A sympathy bet.

Upon entrance to the bar area, I realised I was about to watch £2 of my hard earned cash go up in smoke as Number 7 (known to us as Underdog) took the bum raping of it's life.

Whatever, it's only a bit of fun.

And they were off...and sure enough, Number 7 might as well have been a big lump of lead shit, sinking to the bottom of the abyss.

My £2 was definitely a thing of the past, forever lost to the smug bookie standing at his podium with his brick of £20 notes.

Then, two horses fell. Oh yes. Things are looking up.

They tumbled, one after another, like dominoes.

But it's still too late for my Underdog, whose now more than five seconds behind the remaining two horses. Not to worry, I thought, this race will still pay me out a minimum of £8, so it's not all that bad.

Then?

The next few seconds was the most Chariots of Fire experience of my life.

My Underdog took advantage of the two tumbling warriors, as the following two contestants slowed down to deal with the obstacles on the course.

And Underdog?

Oh, he flew. He flew like the wind. Nothing could stop him now -- he'd have even pissed all over Seabiscuit!

He overtook all four horses like a smooth operator and shot into the lead by at least 8 seconds!

Imagine my face as he approached the finishing line and all those unlucky bastards with their £20 bets on Number 2 threw their tickets to the floor in pure disbelief.

My Underdog had done it. My gut instinct had obtained triumph and everything suddenly appeared to register in slow motion.

I had successfully bagged myself £48 in winnings!

Now, one would say this had to be dumb fucking luck and merely the work of a bullshit artist like myself, taking a stupid bet that just so happened to pay out.

The truth?

Let's flashback to before the race: After I placed my bid on my tip, I caught a glimpse of the bookie making eye contact with a female gambler. He winked at her and pointed at my Underdog, making a clear thumbs up sign. I decided to take the bet on Underdog based on a subtle tip off I caught out of the corner of my eye.

Based on this sneaky backdoor gamble, I made a lot of enemies that day, in particular, Benny B and Gem, who both promptly decided to not speak to me for the rest of the day.

Oh well - I banked £48, so I was perfectly happy. I drowned my sorrows of lost friendship with a celebratory 1/2 pound cheese burger and an Earl Grey at the van outside our green room.

Plus, I'll find some new friends. Bellissimo!