My new diary by kyle the CG

CHAPTER 1

Its raining outside. Again. The fine droplets of water run down the dirty window, which my head is pressed against. From outside, it serves to mask my own tears. In case an early rising pedestrian with a Samaratin consciouns happens to take an interest in my misery. It’s 8am and I’m sitting alone. In my hand are several letters. All sterile white with thin film windows. All look severe and are stamped 1st class. Red ink draws the receiver immediately to intimidating words. I don’t have the strength to open them, but I know exactly what they will contain. They are final demands and threats for more money than I could possibly hope to repay. There is no cheer in this bundle. No friendly hand written envelopes. Holding colourful cards with cartoon pictures and light hearted jokes about my age,. No one has sent messages of love and best wishes. No familiar friends. No unconditional acceptance. Just Lawyers with letters of demand and Banks with bailiffs.

Today I’m 33. January 11th 2008. I have not slept all night. Not for excitement at my impending birthday celebrations, but for worry about my approaching eviction. My rent is long overdue. All deadlines have been missed and my 6th last chance has come and gone. How did it all go so wrong? I close my eyes and wonder. I drift off with the fine rain.

It’s my 17th birthday. I have £50 birthday loot burning a hole in my pocket. I’m going out later tonight, but for now I’m bored. I have no thoughts whatsoever about gambling. To me that’s a raffle ticket, or a punt on the grand national. I have never been into a bookies and wouldn’t know what they looked like. I’m flicking through a newspaper, and something catches my eye. Its the name of a horse. Through the illegible words and numbers that could just as well have been hierogliphics, this name stands out as though it has been embossed. SURE SHARP (my last name is sharp) wow, Mr compulsive thinks 'is that a sign' its 9-1. I’m not sure what that means, but i have a guess it means £50 turns to £450. I’m not yet 18, but I got into the pub last night and that went well. My boredom wears off. I’m slightly excited and I start to imagine what if...... my jacket is already on.

I get to the bookmakers in the town centre. The sign above the door is a good sign. Its Blue. My favourite colour.

I enter. I do not smoke, nor will do for 5 years more, and the smoke that hangs around my face makes me cough, and offers me a stay of execution me from this vulgar habit. I look at the screens. We have only 2 TV’S at home. They have 20. I’m not sure what to do and look to the other customers for help. They don’t look friendly. There are only a handful but no one is together, each one is on their own. One man is shabbily dressed and he is old beyond his years. He looks both angry and sad and has a ring of smoke around him, like the orbit of Saturn. He is muttering to himself. It sounds welsh. . He reads the newspaper walls with his fingers, like ancient Sanskrit. His fedora hat resembles that of the raider of the lost ark. His belt wraps around his skinny waist so easily, the end hangs down to the side like a bullwhip. I call him Dr Jones.

On every wall there are charts displaying newspapers. Pages from the ***** ****. A helpful display in one of the corners states HORSES so I walk NORTH EAST.

I find what I’m looking for. SURE SHARP in the 3.45. I look at my birthday present from my generous parents. According to Rotary it's 1pm. How am i going to fill 2 hours and 45 minutes in this dump. I will ask myself the same question many times in the next 16 years, albeit with a more Positive outlook.

There are more races, every ten minutes or so, from places i have never heard of, and many famous sounding places that I have. I know what to do. A trial run, just to make sure i don’t embarrass myself and muck up my great and almost certain opportunity. I peer over Indiana's slack shoulders as he is writing 'a line' I don’t make out a single character of word or number. Maybe he is a doctor for surely this is ancient Latin.

There is a raised platform to the WEST which is behind glass. A lady sits behind, like a bird on a perch. She is watching me closely. Her features are sharp but behind her thick set glasses I hope her eyes are not. I feel uncomfortable. She KNOWS I don’t belong. I’m 17. I’m illegal.

I walk up to her. The floor is uneven. The blue carpet tries to trip me, but i keep my head up. must remember the step. 'Help you my love' She is friendly. She has not called the police. I relax.

There then begins a quick lesson. Date, time, meeting, name of horse, stake + 9% tax. I'm studying O level Accounting at school. I do not embarrass myself. I smile confidently. I now have a free pen.

11th January, 1.30pm, famous racetrack, hmmmmmm go with the favourite, 5 pounds + 9%, ................. carry the 2' and yes. Easy. I give my homework to teacher for checking. She smiles, her underage student has done well. Her name is Bridie. Bless her!

Now I choose my personal TV screen, away from the other locals. Dr Jones finger appears glued to the wall. Its1.29pm... I’m waiting...............I’m not conscious of it, but my legs are crossed as I sit on the stool. my arms are crossed over my chest and my fingers are crossed under my moist arm pits. There are 20 TV screens. My eyes probably look crossed too as i try to watch them all.

DING DING DING. I think for a split second, I’m at school. I quickly regain composure. I’m confident. I’m an underage adult. The bell prompts a mass attack to the WEST from the punters. The normally slow moving punters rush an attack at Bridie. shoving slips of paper toward her and notes of various currency. She deals with it like a Seasoned City Stock Broker, and returns fire with completed slips and correct change. The punters scurry back to their corners, clutching their slips like their last will and testament. Bridie, blows out air in a sigh. She looks at me and rolls her eyes. I am A+ student.

THEY're OFF...... its all a bit slow really. I don’t know what colour horse i have. Although I can read the numbers across the bottom of the screen I don’t know what they mean. I check the wall there is a colour code. My Jockey has a green and white head and a red jacket. euch! Not stylish. I cant see him. Shouldn’t this be over. I check the distance. Its 3 1/4 miles. This should take me to 3.45. Lovely.

The punters start to stir. No one is seated, . The shouting begins. Echoes of encouragement. Mumblings at first, the commentator is building. There is tension. It sweeps through the room and cuts through the heavy smoke. Some punters are waving mock whips in their hands. They appear deranged and they’re shouting intensifies. My ears adjust to the barrage of noise. Thundering hooves, from high above speakers and the octaves rising from a pitch perfect pundit. Then I see him.... Green and white head, red jacket. I cant remember his name... to me and my slip he is NUMBER 5. His odds are 2 -1, and he is the Favourite. He is my boy. He screams up the outside. The punters are going wild. They are savages of an age long gone. I imagine a large fire in the middle, that they dance around. There is no fire, only smoke. Its neck and neck. The hairs on the back of my neck stiffen. The air is full of electricity and I feel like I’m floating. The finish line is coming. The commentator runs out of octaves. The punters throw their hands in the air. I forget to breathe. And its all over.............

CHAPTER 2

Beaten by a nose. a photograph will be checked to confirm. but i can already see the result. The gallant number 5 has been held. 50 yards more.... and its a different story, but the nostrils of number 13 are flared and proud. He is the second favourite, he is 5/2. His colour scheme is more pleasant to the eye.

I'm still unsure what has happened. Do i still win for second place? unlikely, but i refuse to bin my ticket. it is creased and damp in my hand. My sweat has left a pattern on it. I have transferred part of myself on to it . Ultimately the ticket has transferred part of itself to me. It is a forensic fact. It is called Locard's Theory. But as yet, I don’t know this. I am 17.

I scan the room. The punters are back in their corners. Their frenzied animated antics have ceased. I think i can still see them dancing, but it is just the smoke swirling in the room. The grey outlines, of grey men. If anyone picked the winner, they do not show it. They again turn to Stone. Granite faces. Dr Jones returns to his wall and seeks another treasure hidden in the mystic text.

I'm not unnerved. It was only a test, and i have passed. I succeeded in placing my first bet. Although I have lost, I justify this easily. It had been close, and my horse almost won. I have no regrets. Next time will be different. The colours were wrong. Pick nicer colours. Don’t pick the favourite, too obvious. I'm now an expert.

Its not yet 2pm. I’m having fun. The surroundings still make me nervous and I'm aware I’m breaking the law, but.... no one seems to care about me. The punters are all lost in their own worlds. No one has spoken to anyone else. I have not seen or looked in their eyes. They may even be blind. The wallpaper information stations, for all i know, are in braille.

Occasionally Bridie looks over and I think she cracks a smile. She is behind thick glass and sits higher than everyone. She is in charge. I think she is looking out for me. I now belong. And I’m getting more comfortable. I’m feeling brave. I’m having a go at the 1.55.

A live broadcast plays throughout the shop. Wise men talk in mellow voices. They give information and share anecdotes. Expert pundits throw tips around and they seep through the speakers, like drippings to the poor. I listen out for information in the 3.45. Will they mention SURE SHARP?. Is he a hot tip?. I need confirmation from an expert. I need someone to tell me I’m doing the right thing. These men sound friendly. They are trying to help me. To steer me. To warn me. They sound genuine. We are all mates.

I check on SURE SHARP in the NORTH EAST corner. What is he wearing this season?. Black and white head. Black jacket. Classic. Never goes out of fashion. He is a good choice. In the absence of expert confirmation, I back myself up with my own irrelevant feelings and findings.

I’m studying the so called 'guide' for the 1.55. Nothing is jumping out at me and its already 1.51. I’ve left it too late. I don’t want to miss it. I don’t want to be involved in the rugby scrum while trying to get my ticket on at THE BELL. And even worse, face the wrath of Bridie, my only friend and protector. An expert is tipping an Outsider over the airwaves. The name means nothing to me, but I find its number. Perfect. I check the colour scheme. Fantastic. I scribble the information onto my ticket. I take it to Bridie a full minute before the bell. She calls me 'Darling' I smile sweetly. If not for the thick protective glass, I think she would ruffle my hair.

I get away before the charge, and again settle, in what I have now come to think of, as My Seat. I’m smiling. I’m an adult and I’m interacting in an adult world. I belong. Im looking at my ticket. The price of my confidence has been staked at 10 pounds. And for very good reasons. The horse has been given a blessing by the expert voice from above. Its number is 17, and its colours are Blue. It cant lose.

The bell sounds. Like Pavlov's Dog I drool in anticipation. This race will be faster, the distance is shorter than before. Its a sprint. Adrenaline release will come quicker. I check the screen to my Left. I’m beginning to recognise the numbers. I’m cracking the code. The odds on the runners are displayed. Number 17 is shown at 16 - 1. I freeze. My eyes dart from left to right across the screen 3 times. Triple checking. 16 - 1 at 10 pounds. I have a C in Math. The calculation is instant. My eyes enlarge, pupils constrict. In an instant my heart thumps into life, and beats like a drum trying to burst from my chest. My huge eyes dart back to the action. The field are stretched, and out in front is the Big Bold Beautiful Blue.

Doubt starts to creep into me. 16 - 1 is too much. He cant win...can he? I’m sweating. I feel like my stomach is in my throat. I’m willing the line to come, where the hell is it?. The punters are back on the dance floor. They shout encouragements to other contenders. The outsider is not welcome in front. I am betrayed. I see some posts with ever decreasing numbers on them. The line is getting closer. The signpost shows the number 3. 3 furlongs left to go. My 160 quid is way out in front. The Punters perform their dance of despair. They did, it seems, not have my foresight. They have shunned this gift from the tipster. They have denied the word. I feel no pity for them. The sign post shows a large 2 and, as though it was a pre conceived plan, everything changes. From behind, a tide of colour begins to surge forward in a line, like the white horses crashing onto the beach in an oil spill. It races faster and faster towards my horse. The Bold Blue is being swept up. I urge him on, too proud to call out like the wailing punters, i scream in my head. My hands are fists and I’m punching them onto my legs, mimicking the action of the nameless jockey. The sign post shows a large and solitary 1. Its almost over. The commentator esculate’s the tension and raises his voice beyond his vocal range. The line is coming. The cavalry are charging. Big Blue is flagging. He is being swallowed . Devoured. And S**t back out the other side. He is 7th.

CHAPTER 3

My Right hand is shaking slightly. There is the hint of a bad taste in my mouth and my eyes narrow. It's probably the smoke, but I don’t think so. I breathe slowly in, hold and exhale hard. I’m coming down from my adrenaline rush. For a few seconds after the race is called, i hold no thought in my head. There is Nothing. 3 - 2 - 1 and I’m back in the room!

There is no panic. I’m perfectly calm. I seek the screens for information. I’m logical, I will work out what went wrong. The winner flashes up on one of the smaller screens above my head. The winner is the favourite, a healthy 7/2 return for a safe investment. If I were a mime artist, I would theatrically slap my hand off my head. Why didn’t I see this? I fix one of the speakers with an accusing stare. Unaware of my disgust, high above amongst the cobwebs, my invisible advisors *** jokes and laugh.

There are two races about to start simultaneously. I try to pick winners from each list. Too much information. I’m bombarded. Its still foreign to me and instead of solving this time sensitive puzzle, my brain shuts down. My eyes just rise to the top of each list and i resolve to pick both favourites. Instinct overcomes me. I grab for a betting slip to write my selections down. Where is the pen? I check my pockets. Nothing. I see a stand in the corner, it dispenses them like a candy machine and i snatch at the bottom of the pile. Little blue bullets. Another falls to replace where it sat, ready and waiting should another emergency arise.

The bell sounds and I almost jump. I’m out of time. I look over at Bridie, she is busy. There is already a queue. I run over and join at the back. I’m too polite to push through, and too scared. The locals get their prescriptions taken. I patiently wait. Bridie shakes her head at me. The races are well under way. I trudge back to my stool and discard the slip amongst 100 other unfulfilled wishes. I put the pen behind my ear. It feels comfortable. I will find it again in a hurry. My Bookies earring. Years from now, when I look for a pen I will instinctively touch my Right ear A compulsive quirk is born.

I settle down on my stool to watch the double header. I’m annoyed that I’m not involved this time. I feel left out. Isolated. As though to punctuate this point the light bulb above my head, flickers and goes out. It makes little difference to the overall lighting. Dim just got dimmer. I wonder if I should tell Bridie, and earn some kudos. Its then I realise that at least half of the other lights are extinguished. Bridie is probably on the case already. I look over, as she turns the page of a magazine and lights a cigarette.

Both races are reaching their climax. I’m suddenly concerned. What if the favourites win? My un-stacked choices. I didn’t get a chance to place those bets. I feel cheated. I’m suddenly very anxious. It feels similar to the excitement of the previous races, but it grips a different part of me. It is cold and painful. There is no fuzzy warmth. I frown so hard that it almost pushes my eyebrows into my eyes. My throat dries faster than a raindrop in the desert, and I’m unconsciously shaking my head. One race has the favourite so far in front, he could trot home. In the other he is 2nd by the 3 marker, and eating into the leader like a ravenous snake.

I’m grinding my teeth. my knuckles are white and i feel sick. they have both won. Within the space of 60 seconds, they each pass their respective winning posts. To underline the ease of their wins, one canters over the line, the other has slowed to a trot. I once more check their odds. 6/4 and evens. I consol myself with the comparative low expected returns. But I’m gutted. There is a twitch developing in my left eye. I stare so hard into the wall I can feel my eyes blur. I close them so tightly I don’t see black but flashes of white.

I’m really angry. I look for someone to blame. I scan across the room. Too much choice. I look at the dance floor. If these idiots didn’t leave it so late to stake their pennies I would have had time. I look at the speakers. Too many jokes and adverts, I need plenty of warning before the races start. I look at Bridie, sitting on her own, you need more staff in here. You cant even change the bulbs. As I stare at Bridie through the glass, my own reflection beams back at me. An angry little boy with a petulant scowl. Ironically, I don’t look at him.

CHAPTER 4

Its January 1992. We are 9 miles from Glasgow. Bohemian Rhapsody, by Queen, is number 1 for the second time. A deep reccession grips the UK. Interest rates are 13%. Thousands are losing their homes. Unknown to me, back at my house, my Mother bakes her boy a cake. Its his 17th Birthday. She is proud of him. My Mother works in an office. She has brought up 3 children of which I am the youngest. She has sacrificed everything for her them, for they have never gone without. My father works in a factory. He works shifts. He works hard. He is just an ordinary man. Unknown to me, he is slowly becoming my hero.

Tonight, for my Birthday, I’m going out with my friends. We are going Ten pin bowling. We will eat burgers, play games, and if they don’t ask for ID, we will try Beer (again). It has been arranged for weeks. We are meeting at my house At 7pm. I’m looking forward to it. I love my mates. Lindsey Smith may be there. I will ask her to dance.

For now, I’m in the North East Corner of a well established blue liveried bookmaker, and I'm trying to pick a winner in the 2.35. It stinks of cigarettes and I’ve known brighter cinema's. The punters scare me so much I move to avoid them, like they are Zombies in the night of the living dead. I have never before used a bathroom that i had to place a deposit for the key. and I’m so out of my depth I feel I have The Bends. Every instinct that I have screams at me to Go. Walk out the door. Don’t turn around now. Your not welcome any more. But I have a date with fate. And he is buying the drinks.

By 2.30 I’ve made my choice for the 2.35. I’m 5 minutes ahead of local time i guess. The last 3 races have been won by favourites, so ...... and you’ve probably guessed it...... I’m going for a horse with my dogs name. Barney's Boy.

I have a dog called Barney. He is a Chihuahua. He is faithful. He belongs to me. He is a family pet. He is my dog. My dad bought him for my Mums birthday. But he is my dog. Everyone thinks he is the cutest thing they have ever seen. He's mine. This is a sign.

I check the odds. 4 - 1. He is 4 years old and has 4 legs. The horse is grey . Barney is white and champagne......Its close enough.

10 quid + tax. The little fella will never let me down. He loves me. I take the pen from my ear and fill out the slip. I stride across the floor towards the counter. Dr Jones is shuffling across my path. He stumbles in front of me. The uneven carpet has captured him. He grabs hold of a nearby chair to steady himself, as his hat topples from his head and falls to the dirty floor. His left knee drops to the ground and he winces with pain. I make no move to help him. I treat him like an obstacle. Side step and continue. He is ignored. I don’t even look back.

Whilst at the counter I make small talk with Bridie. I deepen my voice, just in case. maybe I overdo it. She must think I’m a Barry White impersonator, paled by comparison. There is a commotion behind me and I turn. A group of men have entered the temple. The have shiny hats and scruffy boots. They wear yellow jackets that reflect in the dim light. Around their waists are belts, which hold an arsenal of weapons. They are dirty and their language is no better. They are Labourers.

They approach the North East where I have set up camp. This unnerves me. Unlike the other punters, who keep themselves to themselves, they are boisterous. They are loud and intimidating. They are armed.

I collect my change from Bridie who is deep into her magazine and stiffs me by 1 pound. I hesitate at the counter.... i'm poised to challenge her....and then I leave it. I do not like confrontation. It is not economically worth it to me. I am a coward. I sulk away. I don’t go back to My Seat, for It is occupied by a very large man with a huge beer belly. He is swinging back on it like a clumsy child. I fear for its integrity lest it be made of Titanium. It is mere plastic. It wont last long.

Resentfully, I look for another alcove. I scan the territory. There are some empty chairs to the South west. This is bandit country, but It is as far away from the newcomers as possible. I walk diagonally.

The 2.35 is about to start. I acclimatise myself with my new location. Im facing the wall There is a large TV screen ahead of me. Its twice the size of the one in the North East. Still, its not like home. I squirm uncomfortably. My superstitions stab at my brain. This dosen’t feel lucky. I look over my Left shoulder. The Labourers are laughing like loons. I resent the rabble who have chased me from my comfort zone. My pad in the town. I have been evicted from my own home. Sent downtown with the down and outs. The fluorescent f*****s have repossessed me.

The race is on. Like a hypnotists finger click, I’m focussed. I stare at the screen. My vision is Tunnelled. I’m Blinkered. I know my horse is a grey but I don’t know his outfit. I scan back. He is midfield. There is a long way to go. The punters assemble behind me. I’m now in the thick of the action. I can hear their gruff voices and the creak of their bones as they jump up and down just yards from me. Thankfully, I am a wallflower. No one asks me to dance.

The race is open. We are all in with a shout. I feel the breath of the punters on my neck as they scream from behind me. Like surround sound their voices engulf me. My chair is vibrating. Its a five horse race. The commentator is verbally dexterous. He sings out their child like names like a Shakespearian Sinatra. Barneys Boy is a contender. I’m willing him home. I’m pleading him home. The 3 marker has come and gone. They are separated, but only just. A five way tie. like a gaggle of geese as they fly in a V formation. 2 marker, no one makes a move. Barney Boy's grey stands out like a plaster on a Vulcan’s hand. Its down to the 1. COME ON BARNEY BOY. I shout this in my head, although my lips are at least moving, such is my impassioned cry. The line is coming fast. The formation is still like the graphic equaliser setting on my Sony. BB is 2nd maybe 3rd. Make your move, come on, please. I need this. I really, really need this. But the Head of the pack is pulling away from the others. He kicks back turf into their faces. Like a missile from a catapult he is sprung forward. He romps it. He flashes past the post. For the 4th race in a row, the favourite wins.

CHAPTER 5

I crumble the worthless ticket in my hand. It rolls itself into a ball in the palm of my closed fist. There is a bin to my Right. Its about 5 yards away. I extend my right arm quickly, it shoots out in the direction of the refuse can. At the last milli-second i release the crude ball of scrap and it fly’s off, dead on target. it catches the front of the metal receptacle, kicks up and fly’s over the gaping hole. It falls directly to the floor. I am not in the slightest bit surprise by this failure. I am a loser. My first instinct, being brought up correctly, is to retrieve the litter and deposit it appropriately. I don’t have the energy. I sit slumped on the chair. I stare at the floor. It is covered in discarded slips. The bin serves no purpose here.

I finally manage to stand. My legs are shaking. I don’t want to perform my next task, but my hands are invariably moving towards their target. I pull the remainder of my cash from pockets. I stare at the sum in disbelief. I count it twice. I have 2 x ten pound notes and a handful of silver. My mouth hangs open for all to inspect my dental work.

My throat constricts and cuts off a portion of my oxygen supply. I let out an involuntary groan. What the hell have I done?. I immediately feel a deep rage flowing up my body. I kick the bin hard with my Right foot. Its tougher than i think. A pain shoots up my leg and i physically wince at the pain. In a moment of clarity, possibly caused by the pain in my toe, I turn and i storm out of the shop. There are stairs leading down into the main shopping centre. 6 in total. Despite the throbbing pain I take this on in two bounds.

I’m outside the shop, I don’t look back. There is a bench to the Left. It nestles in a fake greenery section, designed one presumes, so people think they are sitting in a park. They are in fact sitting in a gigantic concrete shopping mall, with all the charm of a cardboard box. In years to come it will be voted by the people of the UK as Britain's Worst Building. I sit. I am surrounded by a cavalcade of retailers The plastic ferns above my head drape down and provide me with unruly curtains, through which I again stare at the entrance to the Bookmaker.

I’m here to think. I need to make a decision. I have just over 20 quid left. To lose it would be unthinkable. All my Birthday money. At 7pm tonight a group of friends will arrive at my house in high spirits. We will go to the local bowling alley, a fairly cheesey but never the less, pretty fun teenage hangout. There are lanes booked. Plans made. Promises to keep. To leave now with the meagre cash I have left, is do- able. I could still go out and have a good time. It is still enough for me to celebrate my birthday. Not all is lost. Just get up and start walking. I look at my watch. Its 3PM. I do not move. I’m glued. Another thought, from a place unknown, starts to steal into my conscience.

I came here for a reason. I should not have deviated from the plan. I’m being punished for this but i can get back on track. 'The 3.45 is still to come, Your horse SURE SHARP has yet to run, Muchos money can still be won and pay for all your Birthday fun' (authors apology for terrible poem). I’m gripped by fear. Am i really brave enough to risk everything. Or stupid enough. I have a real dilema. I sit in the concrete jungle and contemplate. It takes 10 minutes. I stand, my mind is made up. Its all or nothing. I walk towards the entrance. I quickly climb the staircase to heaven. On the second to last step, I catch my foot and stumble forward. I fly throught the open door like superman. I’m back.

CHAPTER 6

Im in the North East Corner. The Builders and Labourers are leaving. Their luch hour has expired. Plastic wrappers and styrofoam packets are strewn across the area. They have made an awful mess. The kicking post in this corner is also redundant. The Squatters have left the building.

I check on the latest info. The pundits are discussing the 3.45. My ears P***k up. As though they are satalite receivers searching the sky, I turn my face toward the sound. The chief tipster, is dispensing his advice. He has picked lots of winners today. He is congratulated by his peers. They are in awe of him. When this man talks, everyone listens. He is the lead authority of horses. He is Equas. I imagine he lives in a stable.

Thanks to Brian, the horse picking God, I have a real problem. He has tipped, The favourite. Not only has he tipped him. He has vouched, pledged and affirmed the horse the winner. I would go so far as to say He was Guaranteeing the Win. I don’t know what a NAP is. Brian tells me, his name is Fools Gold. Oh brother!

I check the odds. He is a lowly 6/4, not great. A thought then occurs to me. If I put my remaining money on this Champion of the pundits, I could break even. I would walk away with my 50 pounds. If i have learned nothing from the last few races, its that the favourite invariably wins. All the outsiders have stumbled. They are high odds for a reason - they generally don’t win. No one has Tipped SURE SHARP. Only I have, and its clear i know nothing. Yes, I'm going with Brian. I’m going with the Clear Favourite My honour and my Birthday money will soon be in tact. That’s not being greedy, its only fair. I realise that is all i want. I don’t want a profit. I just want my money back. That’s all. Just give me back my money. Then i will walk away, never to return. I will put aside this terrible experience. I will go home to my family, where I’m looked after and loved. I will celebrate my birthday with my nearest and dearest. This will be a distant memory. Yes. Its a deal. I’m making a deal with myself. Right now, to get away with this, I would make a deal with the devil.

Its 3.20. The big race approaches. I’m starting to fill out my ticket. I notice a man, i have not seen before. He is tall and wiry. About 20 - 30 years of age. It is hard to tell. He wears tracksuit bottoms, that look like they double as pyjamas. They have zips at the ankles, which look like they have been ripped long ago and they expose dirty trainers of an indescribable colour. He does not appear to wear socks.

He walks straight towards me. I do not make eye contact, instead i stare at my ticket intently, as though solving a complex mathematical problem. I’m aware he is standing directly in front of me. I can smell him. It is not pleasant. I refuse to look up. I will him to walk away but he does not. Seconds pass like minutes. I swallow hard and it sounds so loud in my head, I’m convinced he hears it. There is no way to escape this confrontation. As I look up, he speaks. “Can you lend me a cigarette please mate“.

I look into his face, which is not attractive. His skin looks yellow. He is pale and gaunt. His hair is dirty and untidy and I can almost smell the grease. He has scabs on his lips, which have crusted over and he appears to be recovering from a Black eye. “Sorry” I stammer back politely. He re adjusts his footing, He cant keep still. Swaying. Dancing to a tune I cant hear, as though it is beyond my sonic capacity. He puts his face closer to mine. I can smell his breakfast, he is on a liquid diet. He repeats “Cigarette” he puts his hand up to his face, holding two fingers horizontally parallel in front of his mouth. he waves the fingers back and forward, mimicking a smoking action. He even blows air gently from his mouth. He uses this rough sign language in the belief that i don’t know what a cigarette is.

“I’m sorry I don’t smoke” I manage, hoping the conversation will end. It does not. “Oh” he says disbelievingly, pulling his head back, as though he has been slapped. I don’t know why he distrusts me. I’m the only one in the entire room without a cigarette in their mouth. Yet he has singled me out. He has chosen to speak to me. He has ignored the half dozen other punters. He is a wolf in wolf's clothing. I am not yet helplessly cynical, if i were i would wonder what he really wanted. I would tell him exactly where to go. But in January 1992, am a trusting sole. I smile politely. I’m hoping he will not attack me.

“You like the dogs” he indicates a screen above my head. A 6 dog race round an oval track in underway. They bolt round an anti-clockwise track so fast their rear legs almost pass their noses. They are vying for a chance to rip apart a soft toy. Their caged mouths, will see to it that they never will. I don’t see where he has nodded towards, as the screen is behind where i stand. In truth, i attribute the quick flick of his head to a nervous tick. I am sure he is afflicted by many such things. Which is the reason I reply “Yes. I have a Chihuahua“. He looks at me suspiciously. Does he think I’m mocking him?. Oh God. I quickly realise what he meant. I start to explain but he just talks over me “mugs game you know mate. The horses, that is, don’t waste your time. Dogs, now that’s different. No corrupt jockeys, just the mutts. you cant bribe a dug” He is a philosopher. I look at my watch. I don’t even see the time. I’m doing it as a social response. I’m hoping Plato is socially conditioned enough to realise he has overstayed his welcome. I assume he didn’t go to finishing school, as he continues “listen pal, could you lend me a quid. just so i can get the bus home'“ The penny drops, or in this case the pound. He has chosen his victim wisely. I’m a school boy. I’m terrified of this scrounger. He knows i will pay up. He is the big bad wolf. In the years to come i will deal with his like, with a hard stare and shake my head. If they persist i will affect a psycotic demeanor and become physical. I am a brick house. For now, I’m a wee boy. I’m genuinely frightened of this man. I pay up. I’m little Piggy number 1. My house is made of straw. He looks at me and smiles. His teeth are black. A fresh pound buried in his filthy paw. I bet he wishes now, he had asked for two.

He walks away, im glad he did not try and shake my hand. He could have grown vegetables in his fingernails. He almost smiles as he walks up to Bridie and hands over my hard earned pound. In return he receives a ticket. He dosent even try to hide what he has done. I feel like a fool, but i'm stronger for this. OK, a check of the time, its after 3.30. I look at my completed slip. Number 1 - FOOLS GOLD. 20 POUNDS + 1.80 tax. After my charitable donation, I am left with just coppers. I receive the price of 6/4. Bridie, writes these odds on my ticket. She circles this. She wishes me luck. I ignore her. I return to 'My seat' it is vacant. It is an appropriate place to watch the final act.

CHAPTER 7

Its 3.45. The horses are being stuffed into little boxes. This reminds me of an aboitoir. This is it. My breathing is rapid. I wish I had never come in here. Just let me win this ONE race. I will never, never, do this again. I don’t even need that much help with fate. The result, as I listen in on Brian and his Pundit Peers, is practically guarenteed. The ticket in my hand, as good as 50 quid. I actually start to make myself believe this. In the years to come, I will convince myself of many things. I will program myself to cope. I will believe what I tell other people to believe. I will become so adept at lying, I will believe my own lies. Back on Saturday 11th January 1992, I’m feeling a little more confident. FOOLS GOLD looks a cut above. His Jockey wears Yellow.

They are off. The gates crash open and the turf is attacked by 10 horses. They neatly assort themselves into a line. The yellow of FOOLS GOLD is striking. He has a large NUMBER 1 printed on his side. I cant take my eyes from him. Nothing else matters to me. Im shaking so badly i have to cross my arms over my chest to stop myself vibrating off the stool. I suddenly realise the enormity of what i have done. If I Lose. Im dead. I really will not be able to cope. I shut it out of my head. I push it from my thoughts. Negative energy is not welcome here. The Horses settle themselves out. It seems to be going to plan. The Pundits, are not concerned, they are still talking up Number 1. It still seems a foregone conclusion. We are nearing the end. The commentator, gets down to business. He dosent hit the high notes yet. I think he is also aware the end will be a foregone conclusion. No need to ruin your larynx. He can rest his lungs till later. He still has a long shift ahead of him.

The 5 post is not even approached as the Supreme number 1 starts to make his move. He slowly starts to pull away. 3 lengths, 4, now 5. We approach the 4 marker. No one is closing. I’m smiling. My heart still beats like a techno soundtrack, but Im growing with confidence. Still the pack follow but don’t close. We go to the 3 marker. As it was gentleman. The commentator, is lazy. He has not reached a quarter capacity, and the race is almost over. I forgive him, my nerves cant take much more anyway. The Yellow cap of The Favourites jockey checks over his Right shoulder. He is a top jockey. He is experienced. He is in control. We approach the 2 marker. Is he slowing? I cant tell. The gap is 10 lengths i have estimated. but its shrinking. The pack is pulling back. Too little too late i presume, and the inclination in the commentators voice seems to agree. Almost there. I close my eyes and kiss my ticket. I am no longer self consious of myself. I don’t care who sees me. I hear they are approaching the 1 marker. My eyes are still closed.

Suddenly from the darkness, my ears sharpen and I hear the award winning commentator's voice rocket into gear. Something has happened!. My eyes adjust again to the dim light and i focus on the screen. The final chapter in the final furlong unfolds. There is a horse bolting from the closing pack and has closed the gap to about 5 lengths. As though The yellow jockey had heard the commotion, he checks to his right again. He sees him, Bearing down on him. He seems to do a double take. He has not expected this. In a flash he once more urges on his ride. The jockey it seems, is not the only one who did not expect this extra effort. His horse, has nothing left to give. The commentator can not believe this. He suggests this rapidly closing horse has not read 'the script'. I think he has. He just thinks its s**t and has P***** on it. The 1 marker has come and gone. The race has10 seconds to go. The magnificent beast who has broken away is Huge and muscular. He looks like he is about to take off. He is Pegasus, and he is charging down the favourite. There is no response. The timed to perfection run, is being cheered by the punters. It seems they have all backed him. Where did they get this info. Who the hell is he. As he edges in front of my horse, 10 yards before the line, they whoop is frenzied delight. The black and white hat of the jockey looks to the sky. He raises his whip above his head in celebration. His black satin jacket is a classic. It will never go out of fashion. As the floor opens up and i start to sink down to hell. The result flashes onto the screen. The Winner is the outsider. He is 9 - 1. And his name ..........I close my eyes to block it out, but I hear it anyway.

CHAPTER 8

I do not know what to do. I’m paralysed. I feel my senses shutting down. They all still function, but they are significantly reduced. I can hear but it sounds like im in a long empty hallway. I can see, but its like I’m looking through a pin hole. Darkness fuzzes round the edges and there is a strange echo. Time seems to have slowed. An explanation of this, i discover years later, is that if you think at twice the normal speed, it appears as though you have twice as much time. And boy am i thinking fast.

I’m looking around. I'm trying to think of a plan. There must be some explanation. This cant have just happened. This is not fair. I start to walk towards the counter. I will ask for the Manager. There has been a mistake. Bridie will vouch for me. I’m only 17, they have to give me my money back. I will call the police. They have corrupted me. I’m going to tell my Mum.

I stop mid step. I know this will not work. I would be in trouble too and my parents will find out. I turn back. Something else! I’m thinking. I know that I have no more money, but I actually start to look through all my pockets. As though my mum has sewn emergency fiver’s into my pants. I have found my change. I drop it onto the breakfast bar. One of the coins starts to spin, it mesmorises me for a second. I blink. And then i slam my hand onto it, stopping it dead. Heads or tails?. I count. There is 27 pence. I wonder, can I place another bet?............ Wait.................. My pound, Bridie ows me a pound. I didnt ask for it before, but i need it now. She will remember, wont she? I walk back to the counter. I stop, she is serving a customer. A man in a suit has just walked in. He has a briefcase. He looks respectable. He has come to collect a winner. Bridie counts it out. I have never seen Red currency before. It looks foreign. There must be over £2000 in £50 notes. It is carefully counted out and it is placed in an envelope. He takes it and stuffs it into the inside pocket of his pin stripe jacket. As he turns around to walk out, I see his eyes. It has meant nothing to him. He does not even appear happy.

'Yes Love' says Bridie. I just look at her. My eyes are wet and I stare at her with an open mouth. I look pathetic. She smiles sympathetically, but her features are firm. I know she will not break. I just turn and walk away. I stop in the middle of the room. defeated. What have I done?

I stare at the clock on the wall. Its 4PM. I try to imagine the hands going backwards by 3 hours. I try to wipe out time with my mind. Irrational thought seems logical. Cant I go back to1pm?. I imagine I see myself walking through the door for the 1st time. I am a shadow of myself. I do not yet know the pain I will feel in just 3 hours time. I try to stand in front of the figment of my imagination, to block my way, but of course, The imagined me just passes straight through to the other side.

Realisation starts to dawn on me. That’s it. Its over. There is nothing left to do but leave. Its all gone. This I know, but i cant bring myself to leave. Whilst I remain, there is hope. This is a field of dreams. I look at the floor. someone may have dropped a winning ticket, or better still, cold hard cash. I begin to look, I would get down onto my hands and knees, but i know its hopeless. I just stand where i am, and deflate.

Then the anger hits me. I’m bubbling with fury. My fists are clenched and my face is contorted in rage. My mouth is dry and eyes are red. I’m talking to myself in a voice i don’t recognise. I appear to me a madman. If i were a cartoon, steam would vent from my ears like a boiling kettle.

Why has this happened to me? I feel like crying out. I’m looking at the wall. Above the newspaper decor there are brightly coloured posters. They look appealing. There are pictures of smiling idiots cavorting with each other whilst money literally rains down on them from above. They patronise their patrons. One in particular I focus on. A man and woman, provocatively dressed and oozing sexual appeal, are jumping for joy. They are holding on to each other. They appear to be jumping out of the poster itself. They both hold aloft tickets in each of their hands and their over-the- top, open mouthed, inane expressions suggest they have just won about 100 million pounds. I will never once, in 16 years, see this couple, or anything resembling them, in any bookmaker my future self will frequent. I stare at them. I hate them. I want to kick their stupid toothy faces in. I stare through the picture. The colourful background of the poster disappears. Instead I project another background. It is a picture I have seen recently in school from Dante’s Inferno. It is the inner circle of Hell. The couple are still jumping, but they are now surrounded by a lake of fire which licks around their feet and climbs up their bodies. Satins minions prod and torment them with evil and vicious looking implements. They still hold aloft their prized tickets and their facial expressions are exactly the same as before. Only now it appears that they are screaming in terrified agony.

CHAPTER 9

And so, with nothing else to do but accept my fate, I begin my long walk home. I exit the shop. This time I descend the 6 stairs slowly, one at a time. I feel like I’ve been beaten up. I physically ache. I am weak. I realise I have not eaten all day. Although I am hungry, the thought of food turns my stomach. I start to shuffle home.

The walk normally takes 10 minutes but I don’t arrive till after 5pm. I open the gate and trudge up the long thin garden. The normally colourful garden, looks dead. The house is modest. It is a split level, 3 floor, family home. The middle of a terraced row. I slide back the patio door, and enter the kitchen. I can smell baking. My mother is by the sink. She turns and smiles. She has flour on her right cheek. 'Hello Birthday Boy', She walks over to give me a hug. 'Where have you been' She embraces me and kisses my check. I do not want attention and try and resist. I am a teenager, and hate such displays of affection. But I suddenly feel half my age. I’m a little boy, and I’ve fallen. I want this hug so badly I cling on. It feels warm and comforting. I fight to hold on to my emotions, but my trembling body is giving me away. I can feel her concern immediately.

“What's wrong Honey” she looks in my eyes and brushes the hair from my face. 'I don’t feel well' I stammer, and I fall back into her arms. She is an ex smoker. I know she can smell the cigarette smoke from my clothes, but she has chosen to ignore this, for now.

And so I begin to lie. Small at first, just to get out of the kitchen. I want to get to my bedroom, get into bed and sleep till this day is over. But a concerned mother is not so easy to get round. So I have to lie BIG. I have been robbed, a bigger boy did it, he pushed me to the ground. He was smoking, yes, they all were. all 10 of them, that’s right. He hurt me. I tried to be brave. He had a knife. It flicked up with the push of a button. He put it to my face. I thought I would be killed. I was kicked and punched. There was nothing i could do. I don’t feel well now. Mum, I don’t want to go bowling tonight.

The police are on their way, to report this disgusting crime. I have been excused to go to my room. I’m standing in the middle of the floor. my curtains are drawn and a dim light from a bedside lamp throws out a glow across the room. On one wall there are various posters of forgetable 1992 heroes. I face away from them and am staring directly into my mirror. I stare so hard at myself i start to cry. My eyes blur and the reflection that comes back looks hazy. I have aged about 20 years. My teeth are yellow and I have lines creased into my face. I appear to be wider, fatter, uglier. I just stare. I don’t know if this is an illusion or a glimpse of the future.

I’m 33 years old. I have nothing and no one in my life. I am broke bankrupt and homeless. My health, although not terminal, is disgracefully poor and all self inflicted, through alcohol, nicotine and grease. I’m staring into a dirty mirror. I’m staring so hard I’m in a trance. My eyes are damp and i feel more sadness than at any other time in my life. Through my wet eyes and the dirt on the mirror the image of myself has changed. It is distorted. I appear to be a young man. My skin is fresh and i look innocent. I’m healthy and slim. I can smell aftershave and spot cream and my head swims with nostalgia. A song from the early nineties plays quietly in the background. I stare at this boy and i notice a tear run down his face. At the same time i feel the feather-light trail running down my own cheek. I put out my right hand to touch the glass, he does the same and our palms touch. I try to talk to him, but as i open my mouth, nothing comes. I want to pull him through the mirror and show him my life. I want to show him what his life will become. I want to scream at him to help me, to change me, to save me. But he is just a boy. A distant memory. He cant do anything for me here. He will have to help himself. But he does not know i am real. He thinks I’m just a trick of the light, or an overactive imagination. He does not know what is waiting for him. That I am waiting for him. The monster inside him, still sleeps. Like a time bomb. When he looks away I close my eyes. I open them and re focus on the glass. Time has returned. The boy is gone. Forever. All that remains, is the dirt and regret.

THE END

Well Kyle, what can I say ? Your SURE SHARP story must be one of the most brilliant posts ever seen on here ( I won't of course mention Neighbours as I'm sure you've heard them all before. How can a missing ' i ' cause so much confusion ! (lol)).

I doubt I'd be far wrong in assuming you must write for a living ? I'll bet most of us on here wish we could be such wordsmiths but, as most of us aren't we'll just have to get by as we are.

What you've written sums up how all CG's feel. It's all such a pointless exercise yet something draws people in.

I wish you the best of luck in your fight - first round tomorrow of course - and I look forward to reading more of your delightful posts as the days and weeks unfold.

Blackjack, thank you so much for reading it and your kind comments. I hope it inspires people on here to give this up. I hope, especially the younger posters on here can learn from it.

I hope it encourages everyone to write from the heart. Despite what you think i dont write for a living (have you seen the terrible grammer!!!!) but your assumption has flattered me 😉 I had always wanted to but never got around to it. Isnt it funny that it takes a deep and personal experience to bring the best out of you.......

Its dedicated to everyone on this site

Kyle

Wow mate, what a read, I settled down with a beer and I loved it. The real crime is I read it for free, great writing, so descriptive of times we've all had.

Bear this addiction as the final chapters then get it all down in print.

We are all on Ramsey Street together and we can beat this.

Thanks for the tip-off I know I shouldn't of but in a dark way I loved it, coz I know the story will end happily.

I can no longer marry you though as I thought you were female lol

I wil still be Robinson though. Cheers Charly.

Great writing Kyle:),......you should think about sending some short stories off to magazines mate.

Must say the assumption that you are female has amused me a great deal over the last few days.

Seano.

Haha yeah smokey and sean, i am a boy. Tut tut for assumption. Just shows this illness can affect anyone. The fact my name is kyle unfortunately didnt help you then lol.

But thanx so much for your help and support. That story is very personal to me and im really proud of it. Having people enjoy reading it is a huge bonus. Having anyone learn from it would mean the world to me.

Payday in 2 hours --- i know i wont gamble because of the support im having here

KYLE THE BOY

Kyle, what a fantastic post, well written and straight from the heart. Puts my story to shame. I, and I am sure many others, would like to hear the rest, from your 17th to 33rd birthdays, what happened and I'm particularly interested to know why after that experience of losing all your birthday money you returned to gambling.

Interestingly, although my vice was fruit machines, I did try the bookies once and had a similar experience to you. That put me off, not because I'm clever, but because I won nothing whereas on fruit machines you usually get some winners although I'd lose it all and more.

I understand if it would be too painful to write and I understand if you don't, but I feel it may be of help to me and maybe others.

Thanks again, 1 hour to go, you will win this battle, I'm rooting for you.

Simon