Woman at odds with the punters

OVER the years there have been many changes in the socially accepted

Things To Do. Naturally, a woman must still wear a knee-length skirt to

Henley; hats, of course, are still de rigeur at Ascot. But children are

allowed into pubs and football fans are even buying shares. However,

there remains a tight knit community where women are still viewed with

utmost suspicion.

Enter The Woman Who Goes To The Bookies Alone or as the punters view

her, The Woman With Two Heads.

I like football and racing and am not averse to a wager on the outcome

of the 3.15 at Wincanton or the result of a third division tie between

Caley Thistle and Ross County, but the problem starts with crossing the

threshold of the bookies.

All credit to the major chains. They have made every effort to make

their offices more user-friendly, but it's hard to get away from the

smoke-filled, down-at-heel atmosphere, especially as the changes have

mainly entailed soft drinks machines, nasty plastic seating, and patches

of carpet. Recently I visited a betting shop in Glasgow city centre, but

at the mention of a ladies' toilet there were only blank stares. That's

hardly the way to encourage a mixed clientele.

The first hurdle for The Woman Alone is actually going into the shop.

First, the furtive glance up and down the street to see if anyone

recognises you; second, the dash through the door before anyone does;

third, the embarrassing silence.

Once inside, for the uninitiated it's like the command centre at Nasa.

The screens blink and flicker, and mysterious phrases blare over the

tannoy. On the way to the post, under orders, and the magic words

''they're off''. Pictures flash in from all over the world: one minute

South Africa, then the quaint cosiness of National Hunt racing from

Kelso, the 'crack' from Fairyhouse and finally the delights of greyhound

racing at Catford. A daunting experience, and that's before placing a

bet.

To a stranger it would be a minefield; to The Woman Alone it's like

gatecrashing a Masonic meeting. And the phrases are just as alien. What

kind of bet to put on? A placepot, a jackpot, a Yankee, a Canadian, or

the strangely named Heinz. Where did these names come from and why isn't

there a Burmese, a Gambian, or even a Venezuelan?

Having steered a course through these complexities the moment of truth

arrives. You've glanced through the form, made your selection, handed in

the slip and now all eyes are on the screen. Just as well, because The

Woman Alone still has to contend with the suspicious stares of regulars

bemused by her presence.

Racing is often described as the sport of kings, and the Queen's

interest has long been documented, but the men who frequent the bookies

are a long way from the royal enclosure at Ascot. The betting shop is a

sociologist's dream . . . or nightmare.

The Man Who Knows It All has swaggered across and derides the choices

of the other punters. His Saturday has begun by watching Channel 4's

Morning Line. He is sure of success. This will be the day when it will

all come right for him. He begins to shout strange phrases at the

screen. ''Ease up'' he boasts as his horse romps home or ''How far'' as

it gallops 10 lengths ahead of its rivals coming round the home bend.

That's on a good day. On a bad one there will be a questions over the

jockey's pre-race activities.

There are several other stereotypes in betting shops from Inverness to

Stranraer. There's always The Drunk. (Often more than one). There's also

the Old Man With Nowhere Else To Go; and The Medallion Man. The most

fascinating members of the cast is The Man Who Has Bet His Shirt. He's

the hardest to spot. For nonchalance is the key here.

After his selection goes on its nose going over the last while 20

lengths clear, the only indication that he might be suffering is a

slight tightening of his frame and possibly a blink of his eye. This man

has ice in his veins. For him it's not always the winning that matters,

but merely the taking part. Meanwhile, The Man Who Knows It All is

throwing his #1 slip on the floor in disgust.

But for all the suspicion and dread of being The Woman Alone there is

something entrancing about the atmosphere and the sense of excitement

when your selection wins at 8-1, especially when you're the only one

collecting that magic word . . . winnings.

One final mystery: We often hear of the luck of the Irish. Surely they

must believe that themselves because I've never been in a betting shop

where there wasn't an Irish accent. And not all of them were priests.