In many ways, I'm glad it's York that's the end of the line as far as my life as a bookmaker's workman has gone, as it's one of the more pleasurable tracks to work, writes David Massey. Nice crowds, little trouble over the years, and with many punters returning time after time to the Ebor meeting, I've made some new friends too. More on that in a moment.

I say this is the end - the door is always open, I've been told, so who knows, perhaps the odd guest appearance here and there might still be a possibility? And of course, you'll still see me through the winter at good ol' Southwell, working for Rob and the S&D mob, but as far as the summer work goes, York is very much the final stop. But pastures new beckon, and exciting projects to get stuck into.

These tales won't disappear either, but they'll obviously have a new slant. I'll now have more time to take in my surroundings, which means a lot more complaining about roadworks, bad food, awful digs (have I told you about Yarmouth? I will do, shortly...) so these articles might start reading less like the humorous pieces they're supposed to be, and more like two-star Trip Advisor reviews. [DM, we need to talk..! - Ed.]

So Yarmouth first - I went there for their two-day meeting earlier in the month and, after my usual landlady couldn't find me a spot in her hotel, I admit to leaving booking somewhere rather late, but found a place that looked okay on the website. Not a palace by any means, but somewhere to rest my weary head.

On arriving at said place, just after 3pm, the first thing I can hear is a lot of shouting from round the back of the hotel. The second thing I see, as I enter my digs, is that there hasn't been a Hoover pushed around the floor for quite some time. I'm already getting nervous as I pick the room key up from the receptionist, who has a face like he's worn out, although presumably not from vacuuming.

I get to the room and open the door. The horror.

The bed is unmade with last nights sheets on. The shower and bathroom are full of used wet towels. There are half-drunk coffee cups everywhere and whatever that stain is on the carpet I don't know, and don't want to know.

I return downstairs and hand the keys back. I'm offered another room but the damage is done. I'm out. A sheer piece of luck ensues as I bump into my usual landlady who goes into crisis mode and starts ringing around her B&B friends. I'm delighted to say this ends well as I'm found a great room for the night that's so near the course I could walk in.

Do I name the hotel of horrors? Put it this way - my new work partner Victoria is great, but clearly not all Victorias are as good as she is....

And so to York. The first thing to say is how quiet it was for the first three days. The Thursday in particular was very poor business-wise. Seven races, and in five of them, I couldn't take £300 a race. Wednesday first though, and a cracking day of racing ahead.

No sooner have I set up in my usual position than a group of ladies who come on this day every year appear in front of me. "DAVE!!!". I know that voice. It's Emma, who asked me out last year but sadly for her, as I told her then, I was getting married the following month. It's literally the first thing she asks me. "Did you get married, then?" I inform her I did. "I don't suppose you want an affair, do you?" Emma, ladies and gentleman, is a bad influence. However, they are a good laugh and keep me entertained all afternoon.

The racing itself is fantastic but in terms of taking a bet, the biggest I manage all afternoon is a £300 on Los Angeles, who gamely scrambles home by a neck. The strong wind that's almost behind them means track records are falling, and I will be proud to say I was there to see City Of Troy win the Juddmonte. I was one of the doubters beforehand but that particular crabbing-club is now surely defunct.

At the end of the day the ladies are back for the yearly group photo. Emma hasn't given up. "Are you sure there's no way I can tempt you into something naughty?" she asks. I stand on the joint and the ladies gather around me for the photo but Emma grabs the fake-grass mat I stand on, puts it on the floor and kneels on it in front of me. We will stop at his point as this is a family-friendly column but I will leave it to your imaginations, dear readers, as to the pose Emma took. I repeat - Emma is a VERY bad influence.

So a quiet start to the week, and it's back to the usual digs which I have to say I won't miss that much. The rooms themselves are fine, just that the walls are paper-thin, so when the bloke above you comes back at midnight after being in the pub and falls asleep with the telly on too loud, a ticket to morningtown does not come easily.

Thursday. The wind is getting up again. My good friend James, who cost me £20 yesterday as part of his placepot (we went out leg five with 8 x £1 lines on the go at the time, then doubled up again last leg, ouch) is back with another perm which I once again invest in, having gone so close yesterday. We go out leg 1, and promptly get the next five legs up. I hate placepots.

As stated, business is no better than yesterday, worse in fact, although a well-known ring bookmaker has a grand at 7-4 Arizona Blaze for the sales race with me. It looks home for all money when 22-1 chance Diligently comes out of the pack from nowhere to nab him on the line. He throws a grand at me with the line "hope it chokes you" afterwards. He's taken defeat well, clearly.

Vicki's on good form with the paddock picks, finding both Thunder Run and Angel Hunter on the afternoon. I tell her she doesn't need me after all. Sadly, she agrees. This partnership might be over before it's even started..!

It's burger and chips at the pub that night and clearly someone's had a word with matey boy upstairs, as he's as quiet as a mouse when he gets back. I sleep better until around 6am when something crashes to the floor in my room. Having left the window slightly open for fresh air, the wind - now gale force - has blown a small ornament that was in the windowsill to the floor. It's absolutely howling outside. I decide to get up and go to York early to use the press room to do some work.

The wind is so bad there's a tree down outside the track, which Highway Maintenance are chopping up into pieces to take away, and the course itself has taken a proper battering, with upturned benches and tables strewn around the place. A couple of the bookmaker joints have gone over too - one has had the leg snapped off, that's going to be hard to fix, and expensive too.

Business is a little better on the day but results are tremendous. There's one bet of note, and it's a good one - one guy wants £5k at 6-4 Asfoora in the Nunthorpe. Let me tell you how good a bet this is to lay - next door but one are 13-8. How he's missed that I've no idea. For all Asfoora isn't beaten far she never looks like winning and we have a good winning day.

Better still, Vicki and I both found Canoodled at 25-1 and it pays for our food that night. Live jazz and Cajun food, it's an amazing place she's dug out. But before we get there, I've a major problem with my phone.

In the press room earlier that day, I managed to spill a bit of tea on it. Not much, and it was soon mopped up. But when we get to Vicki's to get changed for our evening out, my phone - already down to 12% battery - won't charge. It keeps telling me damp has been detected in the charging socket and is making some alarming noises at me. I frantically start giving the phone the hair-dryer treatment but to no avail, it won't charge. I send the wife a message saying I'm turning it off for a while to try and save some battery for later and to call Vicki if there's an emergency. After food I turn the phone back on - I'm down to 3% very quickly, and after dropping Vicki off in town, it dies completely. It's at this point I realise I don't know how to get back to the digs.

I stop and have a think. I just need to find signs for the A64. Once I do that it'll be fine.

I set off, driving blind around York on a Friday night, dodging revellers left, right and centre as I do so. Finally, a sign for the A64 by-pass. I start to relax and keep following the signs. At the same time, an idea strikes me - what if it isn't the phone that's damp, but the charging lead?

I hit the A64 and wind the window down. It's probably a good job there's not much traffic around as I waggle the charging lead around with my right hand in the wind whilst driving (steadily) with the left. I give it five minutes and try charging the phone again. Yes! Success! The battery level starts creeping up. Smug with my victory, I continue driving along until I suddenly see a sign for Scarborough.

Yes, in all the phone-related malarkey I'd managed to go the wrong way up the A64, taking the Scarborough route rather than the Leeds one, which is the direction the digs are in. What should have been a 20-minute journey back has taken well over an hour. I feel a bit of a fool and am glad to reach my bed, later than expected.

Matey upstairs comes back and puts the telly on. I keep telling myself this is the last night I'll ever spend here.

And so to Saturday. The wind has died down, thankfully. There aren't many of us in the press room that morning and with most of the written work done, we have time on our hands. As most of us in there are degenerates (well, some of us) a game of Dog Roulette ensues.

A quick reminder of the basic rules - six of you throw a tenner in the pot, and roll a die. That will be your trap number for the first ten races after 11am - five from Romford, five from Monmore. Three points for a winner and one for second. After ten races it's a dead heat between myself and Ken Pitterson. We agree to a run-off in the next and I win!  A great start to the day. Someone mutters about "money coming to money" but I don't care, I'm a bullseye in front before York even begins!

If the first three days have been modest, then Saturday is much, much better. It's busy from the word go and the day flies by. The £4k bet on Audience stays in the satchel although the usual Saturday problems come with trying to explain what a Rule 4 is to novice punters, with Lake Forest ensuring a 20p in the pound deduction. I'm called a thief, of course. I'll not miss this part of the job. For the last time, racecourses - USE THE BIG SCREEN TO TELL PUNTERS WHAT HAS HAPPENED.

Betfair goes down for the last and it's suddenly like the old days, with back bets flying around the ring. We get a result with old Sir Busker, and it's been another good day. Good week, in fact, and I'm pleased my last week on the firm is a winning one. I pack up, shake hands, get paid, and then it's time to go home.

I've enjoyed my time as a workman and I hope you've enjoyed the tales too. There's more to tell, of course, but I've got to save something for the autobiography...

See you all on a racecourse this autumn.

- DM