‘A licence to print money.’ Some wit observed in 1961, when off-course betting became legal in Britain – was previously only available trackside, or under a counter via backstreet bag. This liberalisation wasn’t a rejection of Methodist morality, more an estimation of totalizer tradings going untaxed.
  As the sporting citizen elects to live in hope – whether beggar or billionaire – we love to have a bet. It’s a sad reflection of our primal proclivities that a huge percentage of internet traffic features gambling or porn; as the only growth businesses in Eastern Germany after the Berlin Wall came down were gambling and porn – Realpolitik.
  We are not here discussing sins or vices; cruelty to animals; socially constructed bio-masculine gratification; cultural-positivist ethical upshot – as salient smokescreens of your free-marketeer – it’s all about parting the fool from his money. In the wild or the boardroom predators devour any passing prey, and gullible gamblers sure fit that bill.
  So, these greedy mothers cram our hustling highstreets with gaming arcades, betting shops, bingo halls, lottery concessions – low flashing lights, mounting muzak, smoke and mirrors – cod casinos snatching devil’s dollars from idlers’ hands. The VIZ-is-that-still-going-Comic has a definitions entry for, ‘fruit machine’ as: scaffolder’s laptop. And say what you like about Russell Crowe but his banning of pokies from the South Sydney Leagues club was a practical, positive, elegant act.
  The cheapest thrills will always enthral your human being; the deeper drives don’t matter why. But, as drug-taking dramas amply illustrate; to lower opportunity reduces the urge. Get rid of the dealers and your casual user will disengage – applies to gambling, double ditto. I wonder how bookmakers reconcile this, particular piece of lowdown logic?
  Racing is funded by owners and punters; every other party fills the credit column, subtracting not adding; trainers, jockeys, drivers, stable staff, club administrators, bookkeepers, bankers, brokers, breeders and top of the list is the bastard bookie whose personal input amounts to pennies begrudgingly gifted in sundry sponsorships of measly Monday minor meets. Their profits from racing are well disguised in multi-entertainment global corporations which barely break even, and often show a loss. If Sheik Mohammed stopped subsidizing the British breeding and racing regime it would battle on lamely as a backlot bungle; if punters stopped betting it would end in a week… have THAT discussion with your Honest Bob Bookie. The Sheik has bankrolled the industry flagship Racing Post paper since the Sporting Life went belly bust up in 1998 – to the tune of a million guineas per annum – is another topic they’ll never address, as they staple the afternoon’s race-form pages to their welcoming walls.
  Like convenience takeaway food purveyors they rationalise provision of innocent fun – partaken responsibly by independent adults. Reminds of that fickle Facebook flyer as excuse for recording every move you make: ‘We are the good guys. Facilitating your happiest hopes. Helping to share all champion choices.’ The lying cunts.
  And isn’t it time we banned the Lotto. A covert tax on the working class. Bolstering the arts and curated crafts of the bourgeoisie who seldom indulge. As the proletariat blithely underwrites their civic-receptioned symphony orchestras, opera, ballet, gay pride marathons – a righteous rote of eternally recurring charity scams. To encapsulate the class war motto: NEVER GIVE A SUCKER AN EVEN BREAK.