Colourblind

I come originally from a town called Widnes, in Northern Cheshire, smack bang between Liverpool and Manchester. You probably won’t have heard of it unless you follow Rugby (we have a bad team), or international treaties concerning the targeting of intercontinental ballistic missles (there are two pointed at Widnes: one at the bridge between Widnes and Runcorn, and another at Fiddler’s Ferry power station). I try to disassociate from it. I’m not a scouser, by any means, but I live close enough, and feel attached to the place enough that I consider Liverpool my home city, if not my home town. Aintree, then, is my local racetrack really. So, once a year, when everyone has a flutter on the Grand National, where I come from it’s almost unheard of NOT to place a bet, regardless of your usual betting habits. Children have bets made in their name by their fathers, picking names out of the paper.

This year, I did something I’ve never done before: I made a bet with my own money. Those who know me best will know that of all my many vices, gambling is the one I have the least time for. But, The Grand National doesn’t count, as far as I’m concerened. It’s not a bet, it’s a tradition. An offering of money to the Goddess Lady Luck, to see the next year through well. So, I went to the bookies, and I put £5 each way, on a middle-of-the-spread horse. I handed over my £10, and buggered off, expecting to have no greater use for the betting slip than something to dramatically rip up when my horse stumbles, throws the rider and lands on him before being shot.

The Horse’s name, if you’re interested, was Silver Birch; and I took the bet at 33-1.

What I did not expect was that Silver Birch would actually win the Grand National.

my £10 original stake

+ 33 x £5 for the win

+ (33/4) x £5 for the each way (each way you take quarter odds).

comes to £216.25.

Evidently, I am still very much in my lady’s favour.