Roving Reports: “Hey! Student”

If you’re wondering why “Hey! Student” is the title of my latest meanderings, well, two reasons, the first of which is obvious enough, writes David Massey. What follows is about Haydock’s Student Day, which took place at the weekend, and for which I was working in the ring; and secondly, I’ve always wanted to crowbar a The Fall song into the title of one of my pieces. For those that care, which I am aware is very few of you, it was originally called “Hey! Fascist” but rebadged once Mark E Smith realised he disliked students more. 

There’s barely a workman alive that won’t have done a racecourse Student Day at some point. They tend to vary from course to course, with some allowing mingling with the crowd to those - like Haydock’s - where the students are penned in to their own area, presumably as much for the safety of the annual members who, it is safe to say, would have limited knowledge of the dubstep classics that the DJ bangs out between races. 

The key piece of kit today is the card machine. If you haven’t got a working card machine, prepare to have a very quiet afternoon. On a normal, civilian, raceday the split of the take would be around 85% cash, 15% on the debit card on average. On a student day, you can pretty much reverse that. The younger generation do not believe in “cash is king”, instead “tap ‘n’ go” is very much the phrase that pays. 

The weather forecast is playing a part, too. Most are suggesting some rain after 4pm, which will mean the last two races could be a bit of a washout. If it’s no worse than that, then we can just about live with it. If it comes earlier, that could badly affect business.

Which would be a shame, as it’s a card of two halves - the first four races, small fields with some odds-on chances, but bigger fields for the handicaps in the second half which give you a chance of taking better money and getting a result. 

An early-ish start of 8.15 (the nights are starting to get longer, aren’t they?) and the fact I’m now on a diet (lousy high cholesterol) mean that the McD’s breakfast is foregone in favour of two Shredded Wheat and some toast. For snacks later in the day; one apple, one orange, and one Tunnocks chocolate wafer, my treat for the day. Welcome to my new, joyless, world of food. 

It’s all quiet on the Preston front when we get there, with the first of the coaches not due until around 11.30, but that gives us plenty of time to get the first pitch up (we’re running two, I’m single-manning the second one) and make sure the card machine is in working order. It is. We get going and straight away a few lads want a bet. In the meantime I’m putting the second pitch up and once I’m up and running, there’s a steady trickle of lads and lasses having a flutter. 

Unsurprisingly, quite a few need a crash course in how to place a wager, and I’m happy to oblige. A bit of a chit-chat with a few reveal many of them are from the Manchester universities, which is where my kids are. (Neither are here.) When I tell them my daughter is also at Manchester Met, one of them asks what halls she’s in. I honestly haven’t a clue. I think about sending my daughter a text to ask but as any of you out there with a teenage daughter knows, if you send them a text, you’ll get a reply around four days later. If you’re lucky. To be fair to my daughter she replies to my query within five hours, which in her world is almost instantaneous. 

One lad, who appears to have been on the ale already, tells me he has to have a tenner on You Wear It Well as “it’s his cousin’s horse.” Now, I’m not saying his cousin isn’t Sir Chips Keswick, but… well, he isn’t. Later, the same lad will perform a quite incredible acrobatic feat as he careers down the steps in the stand, loses his balance, somehow jumps down three steps in one go, not spill a drop of his beer as he regains his balance and runs off in the direction of the burger van. 

I take 40 bets on the first race for the grand sum of £300. You can work out the average bet size yourself. Stainsby Girl is actually popular with those having their fivers on and gets an enormous roar as she wins. Because they’re all betting on cards but getting paid in cash means you need plenty of money on a day like this, too. 

After the first it busies up and there are queues waiting to get on. Almost every bet I take is either a fiver win or fifty bob each way, and whilst the processing time for each punter is a bit longer than normal, there are no complaints and the banter is good-natured. In fact, perhaps to my surprise, I’m quite enjoying the day, despite some terrible dance music between races. 

And what’s this? “£150 win Salver, please.” Cash, as well. Where’s he come from? “He can’t lose!” he tells me. I’m rather fretting that whether Salver wins or not will determine if the lad can eat properly next week, or if he’ll be living off 20p packs of noodles for the foreseeable. I needn’t have worried, as Salver does indeed win with a bit in hand, and the £50 profit he picks up will buy another round or two. He even offers to buy me one. What a lovely lad. 

Butch is very popular in the next. One young lady comes waving her ticket at me, proclaiming “I’ve won, I’ve won!” When I point out to her that they have another circuit to go, her mates rightly laugh at her, and she sheepishly wanders back to the stands. 

And then, disaster. The weather forecast is wrong. The rain arrives a good hour earlier than predicted, and the waterproofs are reached for. It’s such a shame, as the afternoon was building up quite nicely, with the better races to come. It quickly turns to heavy rain and the umbrella goes up. Only thing is, the firm have packed the wrong umbrella. Instead of the big mush, I’ve got the tiny rails umbrella. I might as well stand on the joint with a colander on my head. I have to cover everything, laptop, printer, card machine, money, as the rain comes in sideways. It kills business stone dead. 

I’m now taking half of what I was, and with each race it gets less and less. Worse, the card machine packs up. This is game over. By the time we get to the seventh, the boss tells me to pack up, as it’s pointless carrying on. Everything is soaked, and that includes my clothes, as the waterproofs are now starting to leak too. I pack the kit away, and go and help out on the main pitch for the last race. Behind us, one bookmaker, also packing away, drops the lightboard on the floor as he tries to pack it away. It’s so wet it slipped out of his hands, and crashes to the floor. That could be a very expensive mishap, as a new board will cost him well over a grand - even the cheap ones - if it’s not working. 

By the time we get in the car, at half five, there’s barely a word being said as we’re all so knackered, tired and wet through. It hasn’t stopped the students partying - after the last the music cranks up another five notches, and I offer the paracetamol around. 

A genuine shame that what was promising to be a good day for everyone has fizzled out. And it isn’t as if I’ve anything nice for tea to look forward to. Broccoli, anyone?

- DM

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