The Prince Of Deansgate

THE PRINCE OF

DEANSGATE

Memoirs of an enjoyable few years around Manchester and how that led
to Aretha Franklin jeopardizing the future of the UK red squirrel population.

25th March 2020
Eh up sausage!
Thanks for your interest in this online version of The Prince Of
Deansgate. I hope it helps you spend an enjoyable hour or so.
It was originally self-published in 2013 and I managed to make
my money back. It also earned some 'rave reviews'. I know, it
came as a shock to me that reviewers wear lycra and dance about
with glowsticks, too. Anyway, some people laughed while reading
it, which is the main thing.
Furthermore, it has since made a few more quid for the Steve
Prescott Foundation. As you will read, that is a cause especially
close to my heart.
If you do read this and enjoy it then please go to JustGiving and
spare what you can for them - I know they'll be grateful. Put in
the comments that you're donating because of Griff's book, or
because of The Prince Of Deansgate or something.
Oh, and please recommend that your social media contacts have a
read of it, too.
Peace, love and red squirrels!
Griff

2

Preface

I’m not an author. I’m not a comedian either. So it’s a bit surprising that this is a
book designed to amuse people. When I first decided to write this I never intended
it to be a memoir but it just seemed to make the most sense to do it that way. I
moved to Manchester in 2002 and had a great time for the next eleven years.
Some of the more entertaining anecdotes about my time there are contained
here. They are mainly based around the time I spent working in betting shops and
serve to link together some of the letters that I sent while I was living in the city.

Sometimes I have trouble in believing it myself but all of the incidents and
characters contained here are real, as are the letters. The only thing that’s been
amended from the original letters is my name and address. It’s not my attention
to mock people when I recall some of the events that have happened. In telling
these anecdotes I hope that some of the characters are celebrated for what they
are – truly unique individuals that make the world a much more interesting place
by their very existence.

Based on the last experience I had of putting a book together, I don’t anticipate
this will make a profit. That’s not the main motivation. Yet if it does manage
to become profitable then the profit from the first edition of this book will be
donated to The Steve Prescott Foundation, for reasons you will read about. With
this in mind I would ask that if you enjoy reading it then please recommend it to
others and encourage them to buy their own instead of lending them your copy!
Any feedback on social media, such as a retweet mentioning @GriffTalksBalls
or a Facebook status mentioning the book would be much appreciated. If you
think you know people that would like to read it then please direct them to:

www.ThePrinceOfDeansgate.blogspot.co.uk

They’ll be able to buy their own copy from there. Things like that could make
this whole project worthwhile for a very deserving cause.

As I said, I’m not expecting to make an actual profit; my only hope is that you
enjoy it. If it makes you laugh even once then it will have been worth the
effort. Who knows, maybe there’ll be another book some day!

Cheers!

Griff

3

FOREWORD
Isn’t it funny when you are walking north and another is walking south,
But you are both equal distance from east and west?
You try to dodge each other by moving the same way,
You end up saying ‘sorry’ and laughing on your way.
It must have happened to you, I know it has to me.
It happened just this morning, the third time it shall be.
Have you ever said ‘Hi!’ to someone you didn’t actually know?
Not just being friendly, but mistaking them for Joe?
That’s happened to me on several different days:
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and four more Wednesdays!
Rather embarrassing, you may have thought it was,
Well it really was bemusing...’a strange looking Loz’!
What could I be thinking? I must have had a drink!
Well no, it’s my imagination and twice I had to blink.
Have you ever entered your bedroom when you meant to get a drink?
Or opened up the fridge to put your plate into the sink?
That happens to me a lot! Sometimes I think I’m going mad,
Then I remember I’m only human and figure it’s not so bad.
I burnt some toast this morning, remembering to check it slipped my mind...
The smoke alarm bollocked me, piercing my ears with its whine!
So, in the bin it went, white bread turned into black toast.
It made me sad to do it and waste a Warbies loaf!
Turns out I wasn’t hungry, just fancied it at that mo.
Now I remember why it burnt! It’s ‘cos I stubbed my blinkin’ toe!
It‘s a bugger when you do that, the pain is just too much!
Tears well in your eyes and you wish you had a crutch.
Well just for a few minutes, until the throb subsides,

4

Then suddenly you take note of your steps and really open your eyes.
Not that they’re usually shut or closed.
However, you try hard to avoid more throbbing toes!
Iroaumndthoenperoduayd, owner of four rubber ducks, Scarlet Gooseberry brought them
I couldn’t believe my eyes and still can’t to this day!
(Confused?)
You see it’s because I can’t remember having one in the bath.
So when I was holding these ducks, I chuckled, just had to laugh!
Rubber ducks and a potato - yes a spud I got sent,
The postman looked confuzzled and stumbled as he went.
Have you ever sat at the computer and started writing utter crap?
I think that’s just what’s happened....I think I need a nap.
Karen Todd

5

Part One

6

Griff
The Prince of Deansgate

Manchestershire

Rt Hon Gordon Brown
Big Cheese and First Lord of the Treasury
10 Downing Street
Westminster
London
SW1A 2AA

30th July 2009

Dear Gordy,

How are you diddling? Hope all is well as it can be in these times

of uncertainty. After all, it can’t be easy running a country when it’s awash with

panic about the likes of swine flu, recession, war, climate change and you have

colleagues claiming their supply of first class stamps and rubber bands costs

the equivalent of Christiano Ronaldo’s right leg. What with these issues and the

troubles currently facing Jordan and Peter Andre it surprises me that the country

is able to function at all.

However, I have to inform you that my own mind is not preoccupied with any
of these issues. This is due in equal measures to my natural sense of apathy, my
healthy appetite for booze and doing things that serve to occupy my mind instead
of thinking of such terrifying prospects for the country. For example, one thing I
did recently was to attend a tribal gathering in your London neck of the woods that
celebrated the music and cultural impact of the band Madness. It was so good that
not only did it take away any concerns I may have had about any of the world’s
problems, it also made me forget just how difficult it is for anyone from outside
London to navigate their way around the capital by public transport without the
help of a personal Sherpa, the majority shareholder of Ordnance Survey and an
accompanying pearly king or queen.

One of the things that struck me about the gig was the glorious mixture of people
that were present. A crowd that crossed generations, races, classes and sexes in
a way that is seldom seen these days. It was a pleasure to be present to see this
genuine cross-section of society united in joy by the music that was being played
to us. Due to the several glasses of cider I consumed to quench my thirst at the
gig, I must admit this wasn’t immediately apparent at the time, but when I recalled
the gig the next day (I also recalled the little git that ran away with my fez) I had
an idea. I believe that if you implement it, you would safeguard a positive state

7

of mind for the country for generations. It would be akin to Andy Murray winning
Wimbledon every week, a full tank of petrol costing the same price as a packet of
rizlas and the Ashes being on terrestrial TV again.

When I recalled Madstock I remembered the impact that the song ‘One Step
Beyond’ in particular had on the crowd. Previously when it has been played
live by the band, the audience reaction has been so positive that it has actually
registered on the Richter scale. When you consider the diversity of the public that
were present that day it is my firm belief that the song is universally popular with
everyone in the entire country. This is why it is my firm belief that this song should
now replace ‘God Save The Queen’ as the national anthem.

No matter how silly I personally feel it is to have a Royal family in the twenty
first century, I can’t say I have anything personal against the Queen or any other
Royal. Indeed, I shall leave it up to others to discuss the current anthem and make
statements such as, “who are we to invoke a non-specific deity to bail out these
unelected spongers?” However, I do feel the anthem is in need of an update as
the current one does not represent the multicultural demographic of the current
population. After all, there are several different faiths that are prominent in
today’s society and if we are to grant them genuine equality in our society then
we should respect that no matter how stupid some of the clothing associated with
most religions looks. There’s no need to highlight the cultural differences between
us every time we sing our national anthem. Don’t get me wrong, you’d never find
me going out in a pair of oversize pyjamas and a hat that looks like it’s been stolen
from the tomb of Tutankhamun but each to their own, I say. People may worship
a different God or something that isn’t actually a God or a giant ladybird that
wears ladies underwear but I reckon they could do the dance that is traditionally
associated with ‘One Step Beyond’. This would mean that they, too, could join in
with their national anthem with gusto!

Obviously it would be quite a bold move of you to instigate such a change in
the identity of the nation but, let’s face it Browny, the polls don’t lie; it’s likely
that your premiership isn’t going to last for much longer and we’ll be left at the
mercy of that gormless fucknugget Cameron. This could be the gamble that helps
you to win the next election! If not then at least you can say you gave it a shot.
Admittedly you’d have to persuade the Queen but from what I can gather she’s
not an unreasonable woman. Maybe you could butter her up by sending her some
amusing texts about Michael Jackson or something before presenting the idea to
her. Trust me, I can’t see her kicking up too much of a fuss, especially if you suggest
that this new anthem would inspire our athletes at the 2012 Olympics in a way
that the French could only dream of!

8

So there you have it. I believe I have put forward a more than reasonable case for
‘One Step Beyond’ by Madness to become the new, official national anthem of the
United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and I look forward to your
response.

Yours sincerely,
Griff

9

As you can tell from my letter to the PM, I enjoy music gigs. The Aretha Franklin
one I was about to attend in Chicago was set to be one of my best ever. I had
planned it in meticulous detail and couldn’t believe I was actually on the bus to
go to the gig! Though, to be honest, I probably shouldn’t have been there in the
first place. Not just at the gig but I shouldn’t have been in the city. Possibly even
the country! I mean, I haven’t got the best of records when it comes to travelling
overseas. I’m frequently asked why I don’t go on holidays very often, which is a
fair question. After all, most people enjoy getting away to foreign locations for a
bit of sun, sea and shenanigans. And I can see how it must be very appealing for
those people but in my case it’s about as tempting as being invited to exhume
Bernard Manning. Take the ‘sun’ element to begin with. I’m so white I could get
third degree burns in Barmouth, let alone Barbados. As for the ‘sea’, whenever
attempting anything other than backstroke when swimming my legs have a habit
of dragging me below the surface and trying to drown me. Factor in every single
creature in the sea taking great pleasure in either killing humans or stinging them
to the point of permanent paralysis and you’ll see why my philosophy is,‘If we were
meant to be in the sea, we’d have webbed feet’. As I don’t come from Shropshire
I’m not blessed with those so tend to avoid water wherever possible. So that’s
‘sun’ and ‘sea’ ruled out. As for the ‘shenanigans’, I’ve never had much success
with women. Well, none that matter, anyway. I have a face that resembles a half-
munched pickled onion and a body shape that is more Mini Cooper than Bradley

10

Cooper. Don’t get me wrong, I love women, have a ten inch tongue and the ability
to breathe through my ears but I seldom get the chance to show this off to ladies
these days, though loads of them like me ‘as a friend’. Kind of like a faithful dog,
but a little less furry and without the ability to lick my own knackers.

Those are the reasons I don’t usually do holidays. However, they are insignificant
when you take into account the other reasons that fuel my reluctance to
leave these shores. Honestly, I reckon an Afghan sherbet salesman would have a
happier time travelling around the globe than I do. Previous form includes a trip
to visit my brother in the US when I was nineteen. Upon landing I picked up my
suitcase at the carousel and, late at night, I got driven three hours north to my
brother’s flat. Upon arrival I found that some twerp had replaced the entire
contents of MY suitcase with those of a couple from Anglesey who were on their
honeymoon! This meant the next day was spent hiring a car at great expense,
driving for a total of seven hours and nervously trying to avoid an irate Welsh
brother and sister. The next time I reached the US, a lovely time was had by all
until I actually left US soil. My connecting plane from Atlanta to Manchester
went ‘BANG!’. It was scarier than a clown with a boner. At that stage the pilot
returned to Atlanta, which was enjoying the coldest spell in the city’s history.
There was no replacement plane, I had one dollar to my name and the room
the airline had found for me to spend a night in had an air-conditioning unit
which wouldn’t switch off. In my sleep-deprived state I tried everything to
switch it off, including wrenching the thing off the wall and cutting through the
power cable. My desperation to get it to switch off was not just because of the
cold, but also because it sounded like a Formula 1 pit stop was taking place at
the bottom of my bed. At least my flight from Atlanta the next morning was a
straightforward affair, though I did have to change at New York. And then again
in Paris. My luggage arrived in Manchester a mere three days after I did.

Who could forget my trip to the south of France with the lads? The one on which
I had booked the plane home for a Monday. When we arrived at the airport
on the Monday it transpired that the website had automatically booked the
flight on the Tuesday because there weren’t any on the Monday. I would
expect such a change to be highlighted in huge, flashing lights at the time of
booking, but no. We were left to pool together our meagre leftover holiday
money in order to pay for a hotel for our unexpected extra night. The best one
we could find and afford happened to be a shabby effort in the scruffy part of
Toulouse’s red light zone. Between the four of us we got two rooms, one either
side of a room inhabited by two hookers that charged by the hour. Imagine, if
you will,Geoff Capes and Frank Bruno in lingerie going on the game for a night.
That’s what these ladies looked like when we passed them on the way back into
the hotel after getting our supplies of booze and Cadbury’s Fingers.

11

Oh, and while I’m reminiscing about my holidays I might as well mention the time
when my employers failed to update my bank details on their payroll system,
leaving me with no option but to sleep rough for a night in Dublin. What a hoot
that holiday was! Honestly, if I went to Portugal you can bet that I’d be the one to
get back to find a blonde, Scouse infant girl had stowed away in my suitcase.

Not that I take sole blame for having bad travelling experiences. I think it’s a
hereditary condition. After all, my Dad’s first trip overseas since I was born was a
business trip to Holland. He sailed over the North Sea in 1987. I remember the year
as it was during the famous hurricane that Michael Fish said would never happen
and nearly killed the bloke that played Rene in ‘Allo ‘Allo. Retrospective reviews
frequently mention the storm as being one of the worst in living memory. My
Dad is someone that once got seasick on a boating lake at Butlins so you can only
imagine how ill he was feeling in the middle of a hurricane on a boat in the middle
of the North Sea. A few years later, he and my mother went to the ancient Italian
city of Pompeii. It was an enjoyable experience for them but a week later the city
was destroyed in one of the biggest Earthquakes ever seen in mainland Europe.
My brother was at the top of the World Trade Center on September 4th 2001.
Seven days later the World Trade Center was a pile of rubble and it’s demolition
sparked a few wars that rage on to this day. And I dare say the German hosts of my
Taid’s holiday in the late Eighties (Taid is Welsh for Grandfather) didn’t appreciate
the conversation when they asked him if he’d ever been to Germany before.

“Yes, I was over about forty years ago,” replied my Taid.

“Were you on holiday?”

“No, I was IN a Lancaster!”

So you see, it’s for altruistic reasons that I seldom take holidays. I quite like travelling
but travelling doesn’t like me. Add to this the general lack of companionship I have
for holidays and it takes a very good reason to make me travel for the sake of a
holiday. And yet I thought I had it.

12

I moved to Manchester in 2002. Well, I say ‘Manchester’ but technically I never
actually lived in the city. For the first three years I was living in Timperley, a
small hamlet that’s actually a suburb of Altrincham, in Trafford. This seemingly
unremarkable place about a twenty minutes tram ride from Manchester city centre
has produced Frank Sidebottom, some of the Stone Roses and Vimto. (None of
these were a factor in me moving there, though I do enjoy a glass of Vimto). I then
lived in various parts of Salford for seven years. From what I’ve been led to believe,
mainly by people that have never lived in Salford, I should have recognized each
part of the city as they have surely all featured in the background scenes of Ross
Kemp In Afghanistan at some stage. I must say that I didn’t find it that way and
am pleased to report that in spite of the city’s fearsome reputation I didn’t ever
encounter any trouble there. In fact I know the idea of Lancastrian community
spirit to be wildly over-romanticised at times but it’s definitely alive and well
around parts of Salford. In several of the ginnels between the backs of terraced
houses, for example, there are some wonderful flowers and picnic benches that
the residents have arranged so they can socialise in what are now lovely urban
gated off oasises.

They’re very sensitive souls in Salford and immensely proud of their city. They’re
very keen to point out that Salford was a city before Manchester was, for example.
Further things to consider are that it’s the place about which the song ‘Dirty Old
Town’ was written. Dr. Who, Gandhi and Jesus Christ are from there (or Christopher
Eccleston, Ben Kingsley and Robert Powell, as they’re also known). Most of the
BBC is now based there. However, as glorious as I found some elements of the city
to be, the place didn’t get the reputation it has without reason and they did have a
habit of shooting people in the roads I lived on. (Well, one was in a pub around the
corner, to be accurate). I’m not sure if the BBC was greeted to the city of Salford
in the same way that I was – by youths attaching fireworks to a kite in their local
park – but I’d like to think they were and that I wasn’t the only one afforded such
a special, ‘Welcome to Salford!’ greeting. Following Salford I moved to Bury for
some peace, tranquillity and black puddings. Bury bloke Robert Peel invented the
police, they have a big market and Elbow are from there.

Manchester can be a strange place and there is a particular mood around the city.
It may be caused by the weather; apparently the location is the perfect distance
from the sea and Pennines for damp conditions, meaning it seems to rain about
90% of the time. This climate was ideal for the cotton trade during the industrial
revolution and so has made the city what it is. It has also given the inhabitants a
uniquely melancholic outlook and dry sense of humour. I’m not one to generalize,

13

but they’re all the same. For example, where else would they take their most
miserable inhabitants and make them into rock stars? Manchester celebrates the
likes of Morrisey, Mark E Smith, Ian Curtis and Liam Gallagher because they are
a representation of themselves and the area takes great pride in their exploits.
There are outsiders that would say that there is a certain ‘attitude’ amongst
Mancunians, a confident swagger that others would misinterpret as a chip on their
shoulder. This isn’t necessarily true but there is certainly a civic pride in the city
that is overwhelming. Speak with any Mancunian about music, sport, night spots
and atmosphere any you’ll have a hard time convincing them that their city is
beaten by any other city in the world. Certainly the city centre is a glorious place
to spend time and I wouldn’t hesitate in recommending it.

The city centre hasn’t always been that way. I remember visiting for a day years
before I lived there and thinking what a dump it was. Subsequently they had the IRA
bomb that went off next to the Arndale Shopping Centre and then the gargantuan
out of town retail complex The Trafford Centre opened a few miles down the road,
so when I first moved to Manchester I didn’t quite know what to expect. I feared
the city centre would be a ghost town after all that had happened, but the opposite
was true. The city centre was a thriving, hustling, bustling and exciting place. As it
turned out, the bomb had proved to be a unique act of urban regeneration within
the city centre (Jason Manford tells how many people in Manchester feel about
that terrible day: “Nobody died and we got a new Next!”) And the Commonwealth
Games was coming to town. The Trafford Centre was always busy, but so too was
the city centre’s shops. Whether or not this had anything to do with The Trafford
Centre having one of the more unbelievable signs I’ve ever seen is uncertain. There
is a door that has the following written on it in large letters:

CAUTION. THIS DOOR OPENS OUTWARDS. PLEASE DO NOT STAND DIRECTLY IN
FRONT OF THE DOOR.

Nothing untoward about that until I noticed that they had written the exact same
thing underneath it in braille! I sincerely hope that nobody with a visual impairment
has been seriously injured while standing in front of the door trying to read what
the notice says but if that’s the standard of The Trafford Centre’s attention to detail
then it would come as no surprise that there are those that prefer the city centre,
despite the rain.

I lived around Manchester for eleven years; more than enough time to get a feel
for the place. I saw the city, and especially the skyline, change dramatically. I
worked in and around the city centre for a number of years and got to meet a
variety of interesting people while doing so. One of the advantages the city centre
has over The Trafford Centre is the Metrolink service, a tram system that when I

14

first moved there linked Eccles, Altrincham and Bury with the city centre but went
nowhere near The Trafford Centre. On the handful of days in the year when Serco,
the service’s operators, manage to get everything working this can be a great way
to travel. It’s a clean, green way to travel and allowed me to travel to a few jobs
that I held along the tram route during my time in the city.

Most of the trams had to go through Piccadilly Gardens at one stage. For many,
this is their first taste of Manchester, being situated as it is near the main train
station, bus station and in the main shopping area. It was originally intended as
a tranquil oasis amongst the inevitable hubbub that the location of the Gardens
would bring and, from what I’ve been told, this used to be a glorious place in years
gone by. It had actual gardens in it, for a start. You know, with gardeny stuff like
flowers and grass that you may expect. I once told a friend when he first went
there that there are more oddballs per square inch in Piccadilly Gardens than
anywhere else on Earth. In reminiscing about the place, I think that description
was hugely understated!

I’m not sure what happened to those gardens but they’ve been replaced now with
some fountains and concrete. To add some colour they added an office block at
one end of the gardens which is made of red bricks. All of which provides the local
perverts, paedophiles and drug-pushers with somewhere to spend some quality
time ‘people watching’, especially during the summer. These days, parents hurl
their almost-naked children enthusiastically into those fountains with flagrant
disregard for the‘70s Communist State Chic’ of the huge breeze blocks that
surround them or, indeed, the shady people watchers looking on. It also offers
office workers a place to come to sunbathe on lunch hours during the summer.
Many expose themselves there so they can absorb every single available ray of
sunshine because there’s no guarantee it won’t be raining in a fashion not seen
since Noah got busy with a Black and Decker drill when they finish work a few
hours later. Within the never ending concrete they imported from an old Estonian
gulag are a variety of takeaways that give sustenance to those about to board one
of the trams or thousands of buses that set off from the bus station behind the
gardens. So many buses, in fact, that shortly after I arrived, the city was brought to
gridlock on a daily basis because there were too many of them.

Of course it’s not just pervs, nonces and smackheads that spend time around
Piccadilly Gardens. There’s also drunks, tramps and those that are just plain
bonkers. I overheard a conversation there once, which was typical of the area.
A young gentleman enquired about the welfare of a young lady. Once he had
discovered she was OK he then asked what she was up to.

“Getting drunk and shagging Pakis!” was her response. If I was anywhere else then

15

I would be quite shocked and taken aback at such a comment being bellowed
in public at 6pm. There again I became immune to such behavior after a while.
For example, I didn’t break stride when I was in a local supermarket (back in the
safety of Salford) minutes later and heard a lady, who was wearing pyjamas, say
very loudly into her phone in a voice that was 40% Vera Duckworth and 60% Les
Dawson, “I’ve come out to get cigs for you so you will go down on me tonight, you
cunt!”

With those two examples, you could be forgiven for thinking the city is a rival
for Venice when it comes to romantic destinations. I was presented with an
opportunity to confirm just how romantic the place could be when I was
approached by a scantily clad lady whose colour contrast of make-up and fake-
tan gave her an appearance similar to an exotic aquarium fish. She had teeth like
a burnt out fuse box and asked if I was looking for a ‘sexy time’. I responded by
telling her “There’s nothing sexy about crack abuse, love.” She said a rude word
and we went our separate ways. She looked to be heading to the Piccadilly Tavern,
which is in equal parts a pub, asylum and zoo. It’s the local hostelry of choice for
most around Piccadilly Gardens as it’s very cheap. Nobody can deny that but so is
drinking your own piss, which would be a more pleasurable experience. I’ve been
into the place a few times and felt about as comfortable as Jimmy Saville’s ice
cream man on each occasion.

With most of the trams going through Piccadilly Gardens it means that several
journeys I’ve had have been enlivened just by observing the characters that use it
to get around. I once saw a shabbily dressed, middle-aged man casually travelling
alone on the tram with the European Cup. I swear that due to the shininess of
it and the words ‘Champions League’ being embossed upon the outside of the
trophy, this was no replica – it was the real thing! Whether the man was the most
laissez faire thief in history, was en-route to the football museum or TV coverage
of a European game at either City or United is unclear. What was clear was that he
was dressed like an extra from The Royle Family and was travelling alone on public
transport carrying European football’s most treasured artefact like a labourer
would carry a high-viz jacket after a sweaty shift.

On another occasion I was getting on the tram in Bury after finishing work. It was
Halloween and almost inevitably the tram had been delayed. There were a couple
of young ladies dressed suitably for the occasion, though I’m not exactly sure when
girls started dressing in stockings and suspenders for Halloween. Whenever it was,
it deserves to be celebrated, certainly with the way these two carried off the look.
They both had witches hats on, though, so that was OK. They then got approached
by two blokes wearing firemen’s uniforms.

16

“Why are you dressed as firemen?” one of the witches asked, “That’s got nothing
to do with Halloween!”

“We are firemen,” was the deadpan response.

I was in Manchester for so long that to the untrained ear my accent now sounds
like I’m a native of the place. Metrolink played a major part in my being able to
enjoy my new home. Whenever I moved house while in Manchester (four times)
I purposely looked for places to live that were in close proximity to a tram station.
I used it to travel to work, to meet up with friends in the city centre and when
everything was running as it should do I found it to be a great service. It was an
integral part of many of the memorable moments I had while I lived there. It helped
me to get to places where I made loads of lifelong friends and found things that I
never dreamed would be major parts of my life. It helped me fall in love with the
city. And one of the main reasons I fell in love with the city was that it helped me
to find my sporting passion. In a way Metrolink helped to make that possible, too.

I come from a place called Deeside in North Wales. It’s about 5 miles inside the
Welsh border and I don’t think it’s unreasonable to describe it as being ‘like
Chernobyl without the publicity’. The factories that once made the area thrive are
now closed or employ very few people. Local towns in the area, such as Shotton,
are now filled with little other than thrift shops. Shotton was once a vibrant town
with thriving steelworks but the Thatcher government took exception to this
and during that time the amount of people employed by the steelworks reduced
from 15,000 to 1,500. With the red brick buildings that line the high street in the
town and the unique shininess of the pavements that make me think Shotton
suits the rain. In the rain it looks lovely, but in the sun it looks like an inhabited
ghost town yearning for a bygone age. When you consider this, it’s unsurprising
that the property prices are relatively low. Factor in the excellent road and public
transport links the area provides, it’s plain to see why the area is now a popular
area for workers that commute to Chester, Liverpool and Manchester. Any sense
of community that existed has been diluted in recent years, partly because there
aren’t enough people that can afford to go the local pubs and social clubs, many
of which have closed down. Other enterprises crucial to sustaining a sense of
community, like the corner shops, are closing because of massive supermarkets
moving in. Where once people attended churches on a Sunday, they now head to
the shops or stay in and watch sport instead. There isn’t a sense of pride in the
area but there is an abundant sense of despair and an overwhelming amount of
pessimism.

The scary thing is that nothing much has changed since I was growing up. When
I was a kid there wasn’t much in the local community that I could take pride in.

17

What do you take pride in as a child? I mean, I was proud enough of the area to
launch the Deeside Olympic bid when I was 14, but that was just to prove we
had about as much chance as Manchester of getting those particular games. The
nearest football teams (Chester and Wrexham) played in the lower leagues and
didn’t get any press attention to get me or any of the other kids interested. I wasn’t
any different to any other child in the area when it came to following sport - the
choice was football and it was either Liverpool or Everton. Everyone supported
one of those teams. It helped that Liverpool was a city relatively close to Deeside,
it helped that the star players for each team at the time, Ian Rush and Kevin
Ratcliffe, were both Deeside lads. Of course it also helped that those were the
teams winning everything in the mid-Eighties. I was a Liverpool fan as a child and
supported my team as best I could, which meant watching them on TV, listening
to them on the radio and looking forward to attending games regularly when I was
old enough. I thought that’s how it would be forever.

As well as football there was always rugby union. Well, the Wales national team in
any case. There is a huge sense of national identity in the Deeside area. Welsh flags
are in abundance, possibly because the area has no noticeable Welsh accent due
to the generations that moved in from Manchester, Liverpool and the Potteries
for work in the now closed factories and steelworks. So whenever any team
representing Wales was on TV it was always a big deal, especially in our house. I can
remember Wales winning the ‘Triple Crown’ with Jonathan Davies being the star
of the team in 1988 and immediately going outside to practice playing rugby. I had
nobody to practice with but that didn’t matter to me. When Davies controversially
signed to play rugby league it was such a big deal that it was impossible not to take
notice. The way the media went on about it, I’d imagine it was like the Prophet
Mohammed becoming a Scientologist. Around this time I overheard my Taid
saying how rugby league was a much better game for a spectator to watch than
rugby union. This was news to me – I hadn’t ever watched a game of rugby league.
Duly noted, I watched my first rugby league Challenge Cup final and was rooting
for Wigan during that match. They won and I’ve been a Wigan fan ever since. I
think I was 10. Geographically I didn’t actually know where Wigan was but I looked
forward to being able to go to games regularly when I was old enough. I thought
that’s how it would be forever.

And so I got older (never to be confused with ‘growing up’). I was able to go to
Anfield to watch Liverpool but quickly came to realize that this was not, actually,
my team. I wasn’t from Liverpool and, as I saw it, I had no affinity with the city
or the locals. The players were merely there for the money (it took me until they
signed Paul Ince to realize this) and I lost all interest in the fortunes of Liverpool
FC very quickly. Instead I realized that Wrexham FC were my local club and that as

18

they were struggling financially I should show more than the passing interest that
I always had in the team. Having attended several games with my Grandad while
I was a teen, I found myself thinking Wrexham was my team. And I suppose they
are. However, I’m not actually from the town so don’t feel an affinity with the team
in a way that others do. I’ll always wish them well but can’t get as passionate about
them as I feel I should to justify going every week to actively support them. You
have to remember that in between me realizing Liverpool weren’t my team and
Wrexham probably were, I’d been discovering other interests. By the time I got
around to attending football matches again it stood out to me like a sore thumb
that when you go to watch a game of football the clubs tend to give you a view
of the match and nothing else. You’d think they’d do more for those creating the
atmosphere they pass off as their own but, generally, football clubs give their fans
nothing. They can’t even have a beer while watching the match!

I got to finally go and watch Wigan play rugby for the first time with friends when
I was 21 and then had a season ticket for years. The game of rugby league is, for
me, as good a spectator sport as you’ll ever find and Wigan have given me some
of the best times of my life. Many of my friends joined me in becoming avid fans
and I’ll always have fond memories of having so many of my mates with me at
some of their big games. However, I’m not from the town, I’ve never lived there
and as I choose to use public transport these days, getting to the games became
a bit of a chore after a while. This is largely due to the club preferring to play the
home matches on Friday nights. Going to support your club should never feel like
a chore. It should be enjoyable, it should be social, it should be fun. Going straight
to the matches after work without any chance to socialise wasn’t the best way
of doing this. When friends of mine found themselves in circumstances meaning
they couldn’t go, even sitting in the stands with relative strangers for the duration
of the match wasn’t ideal. Having to come straight back on the train after the
match doesn’t heighten any sense of belonging with a town. I also thought of the
overwhelming support I received from the fans of our biggest rivals St. Helens
when I did a charity walk in 2011 (their fans supported me much more than the
Wigan fans) and so even the animosity of the fiercest rivalry in rugby league
was stripped away. Over the years my sense of belonging at Wigan matches has
dwindled considerably. In my mind I’ll always be a bit of ‘an outsider’, even after
all the years of loyal support especially since I’ve found something else that seems
to have won the race for my affections.

Around March 2010 I went to watch the Manchester Phoenix for the first time.
I’d always enjoyed watching the ice hockey at the Winter Olympics on TV and it
turned out that a friend of mine felt the same way so on a whim one evening we
got on the tram which stopped outside the Phoenix’s home rink in Altrincham.

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The Deeside Dragons had always had a team across the road from my Grandma
and Taid’s house when I was growing up but I didn’t pay them any attention,
mainly because nobody else did. So when I went to watch the Phoenix for the
first time it was my first game of ice hockey and I immediately felt welcome. I was
transfixed by the ice resurfacing machine to such a degree as to become obsessed
(especially with the Zamboni brand. I was amazed at the game of Chuck-a-Duck
and vowed to play until I won it (which I eventually did on 18th December, 2011.
Following that first visit I returned several times the following season, having taken
advantage of the Phoenix’s offer of free tickets for those that had never been
before. I encouraged friends to do the same and was soon part of a small group
that regularly attended. There were ten of us there when the Phoenix clinched the
2010-11 league championship. I had a season ticket for the following two seasons
and, even though I’ve now moved away from the area, I still have a season ticket,
such is my affection for the club and the way that they do things.

I don’t know whether it’s because they felt like my local club, whether it’s
the game of ice hockey, the game of Chuck-a-Duck, the ice resurfacer, the way
the players seem to give everything they have and fight (yes, actually fight!) for
their teammates, the way I’ve got to know most of the staff and owner of the
club, the way the players are so easily approachable and accessible, the fact you
can enjoy a beer while watching the match or the fact that I found them myself
without any influence from the media. It’s more likely that it’s a combination
of all of these things. Whatever it is, for the first time ever I feel like I
belong. I feel an affinity with the club in a way I’d never done with any
sporting team before. They’re MY club. And they’re certainly a lot more
pleasant than some other sporting institutions in Manchester. For example,
take into account the politeness of the following letter I sent to Manchester
United. It was only a small request to make and they didn’t even have the good
grace to reply!

20

Griff
The Prince of Deansgate

Manchestershire

Sir Alex Ferguson
Manchester United
Sir Matt Busby Way
Old Trafford

Cheshire

18th June 2008

Dear Sir Fergie,

How are you diddling? Hope all’s well and you’re enjoying a relaxing
summer after another momentous season – for which I pass on my congratulations.

I am writing to you to ask for your assistance in helping one of Trafford
Borough’s most promising sporting teams to realize their potential. Their progress
is currently being threatened in a way that you can stop. I’m asking you for
assistance because I’d imagine your stature within football gives you considerable
clout with the powers that be these days.

You see, I play darts for the Bridge Inn darts team in Sale each and every
Wednesday throughout the year. Last year we won promotion to the top tier of
our league and have started the new season in impressive fashion, gaining some
notable scalps already. I expect you’ve read about our exploits in the local papers.
He problem is that at least two of our players have difficulties getting to fixtures
whenever Manchester United have a match on a Wednesday evening due to the
increased traffic and use of public transport. Another of our players (who we will
refer to as ‘Joe’) is saying that due to the amount of excitement and hullabaloo that
takes place in the local pubs when your team are shown on television, he cannot
concentrate on his darts and is considering stopping playing altogether. This would
deprive the local community of one of the great sporting talents the area has ever
seen. Not only this, but ‘Joe’ also has several behavioral issues, which make the
local constabulary keen to ensure he is seldom seen outside his house. Let’s face
it, if he’s playing darts at least we know where he is and that he’s not getting up to
any mischief among the local dogging community.

I have come up with a number of suggestions of how you can help to save
our team. I think that all it takes is a little cooperation. Call it ‘being neighborly’.

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Whilst making this request I realize that Messrs Barwick, Platini et al may need some
persuading but surely you are the man to make them see reason. (Incidentally, if
you’re speaking with Platini, could you remind him about the letter I sent to him,
please? The ‘Champions League’ name is misleading and should be renamed to
stop breaking the trade descriptions act. I’ve pointed this out to him but he didn’t
have the good grace to reply to me and it seems nothing has changed. After all,
Chelsea and Liverpool will be playing in this year’s ‘Champions League’.)

My first suggestion for you to save our darts team is the most practical for
all concerned, I think. All that’s involved is that Manchester United stop playing
any matches on a Wednesday evening. I don’t think this would be too difficult to
implement as there are a whole six other days to choose from and by introducing
this change, you would undoubtedly allow ‘Joe’ to stay focused throughout our
matches and remain playing the game he loves.

My second suggestion is that if Manchester United insist on playing
matches on a Wednesday, to play them at the traditional kick-off time of 3pm.
This would mean that most fans will have gone from the roads and trams by the
time our players are making their way to the Bridge. It would also bring benefits to
Manchester United. Obviously the Glazers will be happy that they won’t have to
pay so much for the electricity to power the floodlights. On top of this, the reduced
use of the floodlights would also drastically reduce the ‘carbon footprint’ of the
club. This will lead to many more environmentalists becoming fans, a market that
I doubt David Gill even knows exists to try and milk for all they’re worth.

My third and most radical suggestion is to move our team completely from
the Bridge and play our matches at the same venue that your team is playing. We
could easily fit into one of those quiet areas of the Old Trafford stadium that Roy
Keane once famously described. You know, the ones where our matches would be
interrupted by nothing more intrusive than the sound of some cravat wearing toff
munching on a prawn sandwich?

Your cooperation on this matter would be greatly appreciated. If you have
any reasonable suggestions as to how overcome the problems faced by our team
that I haven’t covered then you are welcome to convey these in your response
or, indeed, would be welcome down at the Bridge any Wednesday to discuss the
matter further.

Cheers my old sausage!

Griff

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I’m not an ice hockey fanatic. For example, there are many of the rules that baffle
me and I’m happy with that. I find that knowing too many rules can spoil an
otherwise enjoyable sport. However, partly to get a better understanding of the
rules but mainly to ogle some American cheerleaders I decided that in addition to
the Phoenix I also needed to follow a team in the National Hockey League (NHL),
the league in North America where all of the game’s greatest talents ply their
trade. Without any allegiance to any city that has an NHL team I chose the Dallas
Stars because Dallas is where Stevie Ray Vaughan was born and is also the home
town of ZZ Top. Oh, and they have the Dallas Ice Girls who had the potential to be
a pleasing distraction if the team turned out to be rubbish.

I know these are hardly the biggest reasons to choose what should be a lifelong
allegiance but I knew I’d never be their biggest fan. After all, what would the
Phoenix say if I was to get all passionate about a team in the same sport? These
superficial reasons to follow a team suited me fine. They gave me an interest in the
Dallas Stars. I looked out for their results and knew some of the players’ names, but
not too much more. Occasionally I’d browse their website (my favourite Ice Girl is
Rachel) and whilst doing so one day I noticed their fixtures. I had some money set
aside and decided to head over for three home matches at the American Airlines
Center in Dallas over Christmas and New Year. It was set to be my first proper
holiday for five years. The flights were booked and I started to look into things to
see and do in and around Dallas.

With my previous experience of travelling being as it was, it came as no surprise
that I got an e-mail from the company I’d booked with to say there was a problem
with the flights I’d booked. The flight had to be changed. No reason was given
for this and I was given three choices. Option one was a 3am flight on Boxing
Day morning via Amsterdam which meant the travelling time would be a total
of around 24 hours. Option two was to go a day later than planned and miss
one of the hockey games I was planning on attending. Option three was to get
my money back. I weighed up the options carefully and took several things into
consideration. Of primary concern was what Dallas had to offer to a tourist outside
of the normal season. Sadly there didn’t seem to be much, apart from going to see
where President Kennedy got shot. Call me old fashioned but it hardly seems to
be in the spirit of Christmas to go to the site of the most notorious assassination in
history. Not that I’m a fan of Christmas. In fact, being a single man with no children
and not being particularly religious I see it as being a bit of a pain in the arse, if
truth be told. The idea of spending indescribable sums of money to have special
lunches and parties with work colleagues up to a month beforehand to celebrate
the fact that you won’t see them as often for one week of the year makes me
despair. One of these days I’ll have a conversation that will go something like, “Are

23

you up to anything this August bank holiday?”

“Yes, I’ve got a Christmas party with the gang from work. We couldn’t find anywhere
nearer the time as everywhere is booked up. Still, that John Lewis advert with the
nauseating cover version is doing the rounds and I haven’t worn a ludicrous jumper
for a while so it’s close enough to get in the spirit of things. After all, I have an extra
day off between 24th December and 1st January so I’m looking forward to hiring a
tuxedo for the price of buying a sports car and getting drunk with the bloke from
accounts that I’ve never spoken with because, you know, that’s what Christmas
is for. I’ll miss him for the one extra day I won’t get to ignore his very existence.”

I know it seems ungrateful but being forced into happiness by various corporations
for months before the festive season has the opposite effect on me. No amount of
special editions of TV shows that I don’t normally watch will make Christmas any
more special for me. Neither will the annual invasion of Germans beyond even
Hitler’s wildest dreams selling tat and hot wine out of a shed in a packed city
centre square. But even these cynical views weren’t enough to persuade me to
substitute one third of the ice hockey games I’d planned on attending by going to
downtown Dallas with the taste of my Mother’s glorious Christmas dinner still in
my mouth to gawp and think, ‘part of JFK’s brain must have landed over there’. Yet
Dallas does have one thing that would encourage me to go there, no matter what
time of year it was: it’s close proximity (in relative terms) to Austin, state capital
of Texas and one of the primary live music locations (blues music in particular)
in the world. Amongst other things it had a statue of one of my all-time heroes,
Stevie Ray Vaughan, on the banks of the river. And so I looked into the possibility
of spending my down time between games in Austin.

My fondness for blues music stems from an early age. It was mainly the unique
sound of the guitars on various blues songs that used to feature on Budweiser
adverts when I was a child that first made me take notice. It sounded so different
to what I was used to hearing and as soon as I was old enough to have my own
taste in music I was hunting out the back catalogues of people like BB King, Muddy
Waters, Howlin’ Wolf and Buddy Guy. For the uninitiated there are several different
kinds of blues music but the one that appeals most to my ears is the unmistakable
sound of ‘Chicago Blues’. The richness of the sounds coming from an electric guitar
in the hands of someone playing with intense passion can be jaw dropping to
listen to. Guys with names like Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, Little Smokey Smothers and
Johnny ‘Big Moose’ Walker that have lived a tough life which give the majority a
weather-beaten, rum-soaked and world-weary vocal that no other kind of music
on Earth can possibly compare to. This is what has always given me the desire to
visit Chicago. And that is why I started thinking less about Dallas and more about
Chicago. If nothing else there would be no end of bars and clubs with blues players

24

that were on the doorstep instead of a five hour bus ride away. And the Chicago
Blackhawks also had three home matches so I could satisfy my ice hockey thirst
while I was there.

I decided to get my money back from the original flight and rebooked my flight to
Chicago. It would prove to have far reaching consequences far beyond what I could
have imagined. It didn’t take long for me to feel justified in my decision. The NHL,
in their wisdom, decided to hold all the players in the league to ransom by refusing
to agree a deal to pay them what they were worth. The ensuing dispute meant
that the NHL ice hockey season didn’t get underway until the end of January. As
I’ve mentioned, I don’t have the best of luck while travelling and there aren’t many
people that could plan an ice hockey dominated holiday to the USA and have the
league flick two fingers up and say to each other, “Have you heard who’s coming?
He leaves a trail of disaster that makes Hurricane Katrina look like a balloon
bursting! Let’s scrap the first four months of the season to be on the safe side.”

As the focus of the trip turned from ice hockey to music I began to do some online
research into the places that existed in the city. You can only imagine how excited I
was at the prospect of visiting Blue Chicago on Clark, the Downunder Wonderbar,
Buddy Guy’s Legends bar etc. The choice seemed overwhelming! I had pencilled
in an itinerary that would see me go to a different bar on every night of the week
I was in town, apart from New Year’s Day. It seemed to me that, as I had tickets to
be in Legend’s on New Year’s Eve, I may need the night prior to coming home to
recover from the excitement. As if being in Buddy Guy’s own bar to see in 2013
wasn’t going to be enough excitement I then found a ‘What’s On…’ guide that
mentioned Aretha Franklin was in town on the Saturday I was there. The actual
Queen of Soul herself! After double checking that she was still alive and this wasn’t
a wind up, I looked at ticket prices. She’s not my favourite artist of all time but the
chance to see musical royalty comes along very few times in a lifetime. Aretha
very rarely, if ever, tours outside the USA and the chance to see her was too good
to refuse. The chance to see her with a VIP ticket including all booze and food for
$129 was scarcely believable! The way I saw it, the regular tickets were about
$60 which meant I had to get through a mere $69 worth of food and drink to
make myself better off by going VIP. As long as I could keep Aretha away from the
buffet (the Queen of Soul is no stranger to a fish supper, after all) I knew that was
going to be a doddle. I could barely contain my excitement! I kept telling my flat
mate, Fenners, the details of the gig repeatedly, not because I wanted to gloat but
because I couldn’t believe the words falling out of my mouth. I was going to see
Aretha Franklin in Chicago! I just knew it would be one of the best nights of my
entire life!

25

I lasted five years in the betting shop industry and then had to leave it for the
sake of my own sanity. Not that too much of that remained. I started working
for William Hill in 2005. If you’ve never been into a betting shop then imagine
a branch of Argos. Then replace the laminated catalogues with a copy of the
Racing Post and plaster newspapers featuring details of all horse races on the
walls. Then replace the tills with machines that enable the playing of roulette
and replace the counter area where you pick up your goods with a counter area
where you take betting slips (normally featuring a screen made of bulletproof
glass to prevent robberies) and you won’t be far wrong. When they first open,
most betting shops will smell a bit like a school does first thing in the morning
due to the cleaning products that are used and the similar floor tiles. By the
time they close a few hours later they’ll usually smell like the arse end of a waste
disposal truck due to the lack of cleaning products used by a number of clientele.

I chose to try working in betting shops because, at the time, I felt it was better than
having a proper job. The cashiers started at 12pm, the shops closed at 9.30pm
for a few months but mainly were only open from 10am until 6.30pm. However,
as cushy as I thought the job would be at the time, it wasn’t my first choice for
employment in the gambling industry. There was a casino at the top of the road
where I was living in Salford, right next to where an Indian student was shot and
killed on boxing day 2011 and less than a five minute walk from ‘Gooseberry
Towers’. Gooseberry Towers is a seventeen storey council block of flats next to
Ordsall Hall which casts a shadow in the shape of a giant cock and balls if the
sun’s shining in the right direction. I’d never been in a casino in my life so before
applying for the job there I decided to go in for a look around. I was informed by
the front desk of the place that only members were allowed inside so in order
to do my reconnaissance I had to enlist. Joining would only need some photo ID
and so I went home, retrieved my passport and was back at the casino reception
in less than ten minutes. True enough, joining was so simple that I was accepted
as a member within two minutes. I then spent an entire five minutes (maximum)
inside, mainly wondering why on Earth they needed the photo ID to become a
member. Why not ask things like, ‘Are you able to count cards?’, ‘Have you ever
robbed anywhere holding lots of cash at gunpoint?’ Or, ‘Have you a history of
violent behaviour after losing vast quantities of cash in a game of Top Trumps?’ The
inside of the place seemed OK to me, though, and so I went back to Gooseberry
Towers to apply for the job. The reason I didn’t get the job? Grosvenor Casinos had
a policy of not employing members! As you can imagine, when I read the reason
they hadn’t given me the job I was as angry as a wasp under a pint pot! That is the
perfect frame of mind to be in when applying for a job with William Hill.

When I started with Hills I was stationed in places of outstanding natural beauty

26

such as Harpurhey, Openshaw, Clayton and elsewhere around the outskirts of
Manchester. These were places where it seemed that for the vast majority of the
locals, a window of opportunity usually involved a brick. The first shop I was to be
stationed in was the Clayton shop, which I was cheerily informed at my induction
had been subjected to armed robberies three times in the previous two months.
Once sounded dreadful, twice sounded slightly careless but THREE TIMES??!!!
Putting a complete novice like me in there seemed as fair as putting a dwarf in
the NBA! My first couple of days were spent in the relative serenity of Newton
Heath, though. It’s quite a telling fact that my manager that day, Lorraine, is still a
good friend of mine now. Of all the memories that I have from my days working in
betting shops, the best thing that happened by far were those that I was working
with; the camaraderie of the staff was better than anywhere I’ve worked before
or since.

Of course, there were occasional oddballs that worked in the shops, like the lady
about 4ft 10” in height who claimed she was a white witch. Among her other
claims were that she had once been a bodybuilder. She once came to work with
a bleeding chin (“I cut myself shaving”, was her reason) and appeared to get as
drunk as a monkey by drinking ‘Ice Tea’ that she’d made at home. I think the main
reason the spirit among the staff was so good were that the conditions of work
were so bad. When I started working there the hours were good and during the
winter months they would have been sociable, even. However, before I got to see
those winter hours the powers that be decided to open all year round until 9.30pm
and these days the hours are utterly ridiculous, which puts a huge strain on those
that work in them. Even when I worked for Hills, it was a bit like trench warfare. We
were kept in a glass box processing bets that were placed by the types of pond life
that, without betting shops, would have been hanging around Piccadilly Gardens.
This, of course, was in the days before the smoking ban. So whether you liked
it or not, you were inhaling enough smoke to announce the election of a dozen
new Popes every shift you worked. Second hand smoke that had previously been
exhaled by someone with so much muck under their fingernails you thought they
had burrowed their way into the shop.

I eventually moved from the Clayton shop (without being robbed or shot but having
missed out on a 410/1 double that still annoys me to this day) to be made deputy
manager of the Deansgate branch in the centre of Manchester. The Deansgate
branch had relatively few lunatic customers due to it’s slightly hidden location. It
was popular with footballers and minor celebrities (including one of my sporting
heroes, Joe Calzaghe, when he came to Manchester to fight). It was underground
and down a side street just off Deansgate.

27

I stand by my assertion that the Deansgate branch had very few loonies in there.
That is unless you class rich people putting hundreds of pounds on a greyhound race
as being eccentric behaviour, which lots of the punters in there did. I remember
one bloke once put two thousand pounds on a virtual horse race. A VIRTUAL RACE!
The most annoying thing was that he won. Smug git! Normally when anyone won
I’d be really happy for them; some would even give the staff a tip if they won
anything big. But this guy was an obnoxious fool who obviously had more money
than sense and treated those around him with utter contempt.

Contrast this with Geoff, an elderly gent with a true north Manchester accent. He
was always immaculately dressed in a way that elderly gents tend to be. Grey coat,
regardless of the weather, jumper, tie, shirt and glasses that were meticulously
adjusted or removed whenever he had to study anything important like the form
of the horses. He was always pleased to see me. The reason he was so pleased
to see me had very little to do with me, it had more to do with the way Geoff’s
mind worked. He loved talking about racing and sport but especially complaining
about life on the public transport system in Manchester and sharing his views on
how the problems he faced could be solved. He didn’t see how he could do this
with a woman. He was also of an age when he thought no black person was able
to speak English as a first language. Diego was a colleague of mine, a Nigerian that
had been living in England since he was about eight years old. He was studying at
university to be something important like a doctor or barrister and was about as
well-spoken as anyone I ever worked with. I couldn’t help but cringe as Geoff came
up to the counter one day with a bet and spoke reeeeeeeaaaaaallllllllyyyyyy slowly
and deliberately when he asked for the price on his bet. After Diego had replied
with “OK,” Geoff took it upon himself to smile with pride as if he’d just taught a
jellyfish to unicycle, raise his forefinger and thumb in a sign language ‘OK’ gesture
and slowly and very loudly pronounced “OK!”

Geoff was never anything other than polite with the girls or those of a different race
that worked there but he blatantly couldn’t bring himself to discuss something as
important as sport with them. That was beneath them. I’d say the others got away
lightly, as some of Geoff’s rants were almost impossible to listen to with a straight
face. One that will forever live in my memory is when he had been on a tram as it
passed the stop near Old Trafford football ground on a match day. Apparently the
amount of people that had been crammed onto the tram had completely ruined
his shopping trip to Sale. Instead of questioning his wisdom in going shopping in
a place that would involve going past Old Trafford on a match day I sympathised.
After all, I had frequently been on trams so overcrowded it’s a minor miracle I
haven’t been part of an involuntary paternity suit before now. Geoff had begun
really softly spoken and feeling slightly sorry for himself when telling me about

28

an uncomfortable 15 minute tram journey. As he did when he was discussing
something he felt strongly about, though, even thinking about it meant he had
whipped himself up into a frenzy. Geoff had his own theory about how to stop it,
though.

“You know what they need?” he asked, rhetorically. I wondered to myself, what
would Geoff advocate? What’s he about to suggest? Perhaps a letter to the
local MP? Maybe a complaint to Metrolink? Possibly even arrange a peaceful
demonstration?

His face reddened, his eyes widened, saliva began to appear around the corners of
his mouth. He was getting passionate about this!

“A DISASTER! That would sort them out! They’d have to do something about it
then, wouldn’t they?!”

Mercifully, I never heard of a major tram disaster for my remaining time in
Manchester. If there had have been one, Geoff would have been the number one
suspect. I can only imagine what he made of the tram crash they had once on
Coronation Street.

Diego was not alone in being an ethnic minority that worked in the Deansgate
branch. None of the customers seemed to notice the creed or colour of the staff as
long as their bets were being placed and it certainly didn’t matter to anyone behind
the counter. It gave some of us an education from time to time. For instance, we
had Xin, a Chinese girl that used to be a cleaner and part-time cashier. In spite of
her name she was known as Selina at her own request. I didn’t know at the time
but apparently this is common practice for Chinese immigrants in this country;
they choose a Western name they’d like to be known by which is easier for their
Western friends or colleagues to pronounce. We eventually persuaded Selina that
her name Xin was easy enough for us to pronounce and she eventually reverted
to her original name. We had a different problem with another Chinese colleague,
however. His original first name eludes me as it was longer and more complex
than ‘Xin’ but I remember him coming in with a big smile on his face one day. I was
standing with the area manager, who was an entertaining and outgoing Scouser.
Like most people from Liverpool, the more excited he got the more out of breath
he got and the more high-pitched his voice got.

“Alright, lad!” he said to my Chinese colleague arriving for his shift, “you look
pleased wit yerself!”

“Thanks,” came the response, “I decided on my name.”

29

This was evidently a big deal. He had been striving to find something suitable for
about a week since starting with the company and what he’d found had obviously
given him immense satisfaction. He looked as happy as a rat with a gold tooth.

“I want you to call me Dave.”

Both myself and the area manager nodded in agreement. Dave was fine. He
didn’t look like a typical Dave but we would have no trouble pronouncing it. Dave
it would be. Then suddenly the Scouser started getting short of breath. His face
started getting redder and he had a quizzical look on his face. “Hang on,” he said. I
suspected he’d discovered a flaw to Dave’s plan. He then started looking confused,
but in a way that was evidently amusing him. He began stifling a chuckle as he
began to speak again, short of breath and in a pitch that would normally only be
audible to dogs, “Your surname’s Dong. There’s no figgin’ way that I’m having a
member of staff on my books called Dave Dong!”

Another member of staff that was an absolutely amazing experience to work with
was a girl called Candia. I have to hold up my hands and say that I doubted Candia
would ever become a worthy addition to the William Hill estate. She was an angel
of a girl from Guyana with one of the most radiant smiles and infectious laughs of
anyone that you’ll ever meet but there are some that would say she had trouble
getting to grips with working in a betting shop. There are others that, to this day,
would say she was as thick as a whale omelette. This was obviously not the case
though, as I know for a fact that she went on to become a duty manager for Hill’s
and nobody is more pleased for her than me, because I was her manager when
she first started as a part-time Sunday and evening cashier. I may have been close
to a nervous breakdown every time I worked with her.

On about her third shift I was leaving the shop for a five minute break when I
recognised a customer that liked to use Euros whenever he placed his bets. He
was a regular traveller to the Republic of Ireland and Hill’s had recently started
accepting Euros as payment for bets, albeit charging the customers an extortionate
exchange rate for the privilege. I turned on my heels and watched as he strode up
to the counter, Euros in hand, and placed a €20 bet. Candia accepted the bet and
smiled at the punter who disappeared into the ether of the shop. I went back
behind the counter.

“Candia,” I began, “the bet that you just took there. How much was it for?”

“Twenty pounds,” she informed me, confidently.

“Oh right, and what did he pay with?”

30

Candia looked as if she may have made a bit of a boo-boo at this stage. She giggled
and shrugged, nervously. “I don’t know,” she muttered. Then she smiled one of
those smiles that made me think she may have been getting away with boo-boos
just because of that smile for most of her life.

“OK, let’s try it another way,” I responded, going back to basics. “Was it money?”

After a few more probing and similarly testing questions like this, we had managed
to establish that the bet was, in fact, placed in Euros. That was progress. Due to the
nature of the shop, stakes could at times be extremely high and even a five minute
spell with large volumes of cash going around could mean mistakes being made to
the value of thousands. If that happened there would only be one person whose
arse would be in a sling – mine (after all, I don’t have a smile like Candia does). So I
had to make sure Candia knew about the situation in case it arose in future.

“Do we use Euros, Candia?”

“No.”

“Which country uses Euros, then?”

Candia did that sheepish thing again where she shrugged,tentatively. She
answered, “Canada….?”

I never left Candia alone in the shop during any shift I shared with her for the rest
of the summer.

She did show signs of progress, though. You can only imagine how much pride I
felt when, during the 2006 World Cup, she asked me a question about football.
“Thierry Henry,” she began, “He’s French, isn’t he?”

I guess the paternal side of me came out. I gasped in amazement! I guess it’s what
it must be like for a parent to see their child take their first steps or make their first
brew.

“YES!” I shouted, narrowly avoiding punching the air, quite obviously overjoyed
that had only taken a few months of working in a sports-based retail environment
for her to get to know something about arguably the most famous footballer in
the land.

“Well,” she continued, “How come he’s not playing for England at the World Cup?”

I think I may have cried a little.

31

One day not too long afterwards I got a phone call from my mate Stephanie, who
was managing Candia for the first time. I’d prepared her for what to expect and
naturally enough she thought I’d been exaggerating. “I think she’s probably fine,
it’s just you,” I was told.

I answered the phone and could hear stifled, frustrated giggles coming from the
other end as Stephanie started the conversation with the following, immortal
words: “She’s just asked me where bread comes from. She thought it grew on
trees!”

Like I said, nobody is more pleased than me that she made a successful career for
herself at William Hill. It shows great determination and perseverance that she
was able to do so, not just from Candia but from those that had to show her the
ropes.

The Deansgate shop was located in a basement. I suspected this location was
selected tactically in case of nuclear attack so that the regulars could head
somewhere to spend their last hours of hurling thousands of pounds into the
roulette machines. It had a dingy feel to it as there was no natural light and the
steps down to the shop floor could be very treacherous. This led to one extremely
nasty incident (when I wasn’t actually working) when the shop manager, Bev, had
fallen on the stairs and broken her arm in several places. She was off work for
almost a year afterwards and unable to claim any compensation. I was gutted for
Bev who had become a good friend as we worked together, her as manager and
me as deputy manager. After her fall I managed the shop for most of her absence.

In my time as stand in manager I always wondered how Bev managed to cope as
the shop was a very peculiar shape. This meant that there were lots of little nooks
and crannies that had to be negotiated in order to do the duties of manager. I don’t
think Bev will mind me saying that at that stage she was built for comfort rather
than speed, so her ability of nooking or crannying was severely impeded. I felt that
after my time as The Prince of Deansgate I was about to be made King until Bev
was able to return to work. Unfortunately for me, the William Hill hierarchy had
other ideas. That honour went to a lady named Sue. I remember feeling slightly
betrayed by the company that they wouldn’t give me a shot at being a full time
manager. I vowed never to let them take advantage of me again. (The next time
they tried to do so I stood my ground, got three weeks paid leave while suspended,
got reinstated and then resigned for a better paid full time manager’s job with one
of their competitors. We’ll come to that later). Now, if it’s fair to say that Bev was
built for comfort and not speed, it’s fair to say that Sue had moons orbiting her.
She was an enormous girl who could have made a fortune if she’d have sold shade.
She eventually tried to fix a raffle in the shop so that her own mother could win a

32

day at the races and got dismissed from the company. It may have been Sue that
inspired me to write to then health secretary, Andy Burnham, with advice about
how to stop the nation’s growing obesity problem. It was shortly after the Labour
party conference in Brighton, which came soon after the ‘expenses scandal’.

33

Griff
The Prince of Deansgate

Manchestershire

Rt. Hon. Andy Burnham
Secretary of State for Health
Department for Health
Richmond House
79 Whitehall
London
SW1A 2NS

22nd October, 2009

Dear Andy,

How are you diddling? Hope you had fun in Brighton, in spite of

the inevitable restrictions that will have been in place when it came to charging

things to your hotel room. Can’t have you bringing shame on the department with

unnecessary expenses now, can we?

The reason I am writing to you is to advise you about my revolutionary
idea of how to deal with one of the main health issues that faces our nation today.
No, not the involuntary state of inertia that the majority of the country is subject
to whenever the finale of X Factor is looming. Rather, my concern is with obesity.

As you will be aware, boffins that know about these sorts of things have
forecast that unless something drastic is done soon then by the middle of this
century, nine out of ten Britons will be overweight. Inevitably, having a nation
containing so many bloaters will produce numerous health problems on an
unprecedented scale, thus draining the resources that we have at our disposal in
the already stretched National Health Service. One of the most obvious would be
that if you have a doctor’s waiting room full of Beth Ditto look-a-likes then due to
the constraints of body mass against available space then less people will be able
to get seen by a doctor. This will increase the amount of people that aren’t treated
for conditions such as diabetes, heart disease and other nasty things that can afflict
a serious porker. This is why I implore you to implement my recommendations as
a matter of government priority.

I believe the way to reduce many of the problems we are faced with
would be to stop becoming obese in the first place. The way to achieve this is to
address many issues at the point of sale of food and drink. We need to educate
those that retail food and drink and get them to be more responsible. This has

34

already brought advantages in other industries, such as alcohol retail, where the
‘responsible drinking’ campaign has been a great success. Only recently I saw Big
Fred in the Red Lion taking three slurps to finish his pint of Stella instead of the
usual two slurps. Also, we are now accustomed to seeing those that have reached
what is perceived as their acceptable level of intoxication being refused any more
alcohol. The decision as to whether or not they’ve ‘had enough’ lies with the
retailer, be that bar staff or shop owner. Admittedly there are exceptions to this
rule, such as Frank The Tramp who recently managed to get himself a bottle of
White Lightning in spite of quite obviously shitting himself while he was queuing
up to pay for it. Perhaps whatever was afflicting him is cured by 7.5% abv cider that
tastes like paint stripper, who’s to say? I’m certainly not planning on getting close
enough to Frank to ask.

Such responsible retailing is not yet commonplace in food retail, though.
This is something I believe needs to be addressed if we are to safeguard a healthy
future for our country. Which is why I have devised a plan that I believe is harsh
but fair. The pros far outweigh the cons in refusing to sell unhealthy food to
anyone that appears to have a weight problem. This could be combined with
a catchy phrase, along the lines of, “Sorry, Lardo, you’ve had enough already.
Here’s an apple instead!” Whilst these ten words may seem to be a little crass
and insensitive at first (and obviously there’d need to be great attention paid to
identify pregnant women), what better way to motivate somebody to lose weight?
I can foresee some consternation from the customers queuing at the local drive-
thru McChicken King or at the counter in Abdul’s kebab shack but, in fact, whilst
people may initially be slightly infuriated, it is my firm belief that in the long term
there will be a massive outpouring of gratitude once the health benefits become
apparent. What is more, if the “Sorry, Lardo, you’ve had enough already. Here’s
an apple instead!” campaign is adopted then the sales of apples will skyrocket,
making you very popular indeed with farmers. And those that enjoy scrumping.

I hope this insight proves valuable for you. I await your response with
great interest to see whether the government will implement my idea and, if not,
what viable alternatives you have. I feel the future good health of our great nation
depends on the adoption of my recommendations. Who knows, one day Jamie
Oliver could be asking for your autograph!

Yours faithfully,

Griff

35

36

The previous holiday I’d been on was when one of my brother’s friends, Captain
Tony (he was a captain in the US Air Force), was getting married. I was to be my
brother’s ‘plus one’ as his wife had recently given birth to their first child, Bryn.
I met Capt. Tony when he came over for my brother’s wedding and we basically
spent five days getting drunk together. We became friends and so it was the natural
choice for me to accompany my brother to the wedding in Sicily. As circumstances
had it, one of Capt. Tony’s groomsmen was unable to attend the ceremony because
he was on active service at the time and so I had the additional honour of stepping
in for this particular duty, which I did to the best of my ability.

Some years earlier I had liberated a garden gnome from a garden near my mother
and father’s house. The gnome, Nobby, was made from grey stone and looked
a little dishevelled. That meant that he stood out a mile as being neglected in a
garden full of pink objects. He was surrounded by pink gnomes, pink flamingos
and a pink driveway with pink cars. I felt sorry for him and so launched a daring
raid under the cover of darkness (and under the influence) one night on my way
home from playing football. Aided and abetted by a bemused but increasingly
enthusiastic taxi driver, I hopped over the wall kangaroo-like and snaffled him. The
intention was to show the poor, neglected soul a good time. And so for the next
year he got taken around a variety of European destinations, including Edinburgh,
Dublin and Ayia Napa, having his photo taken in as many as possible. After about
a year we returned Nobby to his owners, accompanied by the photos from his
journey in a little suitcase. A few weeks later a collaborator of mine, who can only
be referred to as ‘Fred’ for legal reasons, went past the bungalow where Nobby
once again resided. He noticed that Nobby was once more being neglected – he
was under a bush and open to attack from slugs, green fly and other unsavoury
garden dwelling critters such as Bill Oddie. So, once again, Nobby was rescued. He
had never been to Sicily and so it was decided that he would accompany me to
the wedding.

When I met Capt. Tony at Catania airport he was understandably thrilled to see
that Nobby had made the journey and immediately requested his presence at the
wedding a few days later. When the day came, I did indeed take Nobby along to
the wedding but felt it may be disrespectful to take him into the actual service.
After all, I didn’t know which religion Nobby was and didn’t want to offend the
lad. The ceremony was held in the crypt of the massive cathedral in Siracusa that
was popular with tourists. It was also quite popular with beggars and on the day
before the wedding I was at the rehearsal and got approached by someone asking
for money. I had done my best to learn some Italian, which came in handy to repel
this inappropriate intrusion. I shot him the most disgusted look my face could
muster and told him, firmly but quietly and in Italian, that this was a house of

37

God. I followed this up with a tut. The man looked ashamed, almost as if he hadn’t
noticed, and went away to ask someone else. I noticed someone looking at me out
of the corner of my eye. I turned to look at him and noticed that he was evidently a
local. He greeted me with an approving nod, as if to say, “The cheeky bleeder! You
put him in his place – all power to your elbow!” Yes, I was on nodding terms with
a Sicilian (even if I couldn’t really have cared less what kind of building the cheeky
beggar was operating in).

In light of this I decided to find a place to stow Nobby during the wedding ceremony.
Preferably it would be out of sight of tourists, who may have mistaken him for
some kind of religious icon and started worshipping him, and also the beggars,
who may have kidnapped him and sold him to shady gnome traffickers. Knowing
how he was used to undergrowth, I found Nobby some bushes that were out
of sight of the public and promised him I’d return after the wedding so he could
have a starring role at the lavish reception.

All went according to plan. The wedding ceremony was a beautiful event,
conducted mainly in Italian. Being a substitute groomsman I had the best view
in the house (apart from Capt. Tony and his bride, Anarita). After the ceremony I
went to retrieve Nobby….only to be horrified to discover that he’d gone! Panic set
in. I felt like Andrew Ridgeley must have felt when he heard that George Michael
was leaving Wham! There were no clues and seemed to be no witnesses. The
only people I could find to ask about his whereabouts were some shifty looking
ground workers tending to the grassy areas and car park of the cathedral. I asked
three of them but my Pidgin Italian was even worse than their Pidgin English. The
completely blank expressions I received would suggest that I was asking for the
whereabouts of Hogwarts instead of ‘uno piccolo statue’. Just as hopelessness
was turning to despair, I was directed to a portakabin. There’s nothing particularly
palatial about most portakabins but this one looked to be especially ramshackle. I
expected to be greeted by an elderly Sicilian in a vest who would chase me away
with a pitchfork but instead was greeted by a man in his early forties, wearing an
expensive designer suit and even more expensive shoes. I had no doubt in my
mind that this man was very well connected within the Sicilian underworld and
that one wrong accusation would see me sleeping with the fishes (and not for
pleasure, this time).

Mercifully for me, Capo di Capi had a better grasp of English than his henchmen. I
was somehow able to describe what Nobby looked like and his importance to me,
thanks to my pidgin Italian, sign language and puppy dog eyes in a performance
that would have earned several encores at the Palladium. The negotiations had
been tense but eventually, he nodded to people, probably informed them that

38

I knew people that knew people, clicked his fingers and waved. One man tutted
(he was never seen again) and another disappeared into another hut. After
what seemed like an age, Nobby emerged. Only Nelson Mandela can possibly
understand what he went through. I received him, thanked Capo di Capi, kissed
his ring (steady on!) told him I wished his first grandchild was a masculine child and
walked away, quickly but not appearing to rush. I didn’t look back. Nobby attended
the reception, where he later caught the bride’s garter. Sadly, there were no lady
gnomes for him to take advantage of.

The break in Sicily came shortly after I had left William Hill in somewhat
acrimonious circumstances. I was working in the Piccadilly branch where I was
working alongside Tracey, the manager. Tracey was the only manager I ever
worked with in betting shops that had first-hand experience of being held up at
gun point. Her recollections of that episode perhaps give more of an insight into
the psyche of betting shop customers than any other. She was behind the counter
when the masked gunman stood facing her, brandishing a sawn-off shotgun and
barking instructions about handing over money. A couple of seconds later, one
of the customers approached the counter too, brandishing a betting slip for a
greyhound race that was about to start. Understandably, Tracey couldn’t process
the bet, which was greeted by a loud tut of disdain from the disgruntled punter.
“What?! I’ve got a shotgun up my nose!” Tracey informed him, in case he hadn’t
noticed.

Between us we were making a very good effort of running that betting shop in some
very trying circumstances. The shop overlooked Piccadilly Gardens and so we had
to contend with all of it’s associated pond life, including a great number of drunks,
down-and-outs, homeless, drug addicts and every single oddball from within a
twelve mile radius. We had a regular (named ‘Madman’) who was convinced his
erratic behaviour and paranoia stemmed from the Yorkshire Ripper enquiry, for
which he was arrested as a suspect, rather than the copious amounts of cider he
used to get through each day. Another regular had appeared in the Manchester
Evening News for stalking the cast of Coronation Street. Then we had the elderly
Irish chap that chose to communicate in nothing but bird noises. I remember on
one occasion he was looking particularly happy, so I asked him what he was up to.

“I’m off to hide now!” he announced, proudly.

“Who are you hiding from?” I asked.

He started chuckling. “No, Hyde!” he replied, referring to the Cheshire town
about a forty minute bus journey from the bus stop outside. That was the only
conversation I ever had with him that didn’t involve him whistling.

39

In addition to the ‘characters’ that frequented that shop we had to contend with
a constant siege of youths that were under eighteen years old who would try and
put money into the roulette machines. William Hill were placing huge emphasis on
eradicating under-age gambling at the time and each branch had to keep track of
how many attempts were made each day. In our branch, the average number of
daily instances was more than every single other branch in the William Hill estate
had per week. Most would leave peacefully (by peacefully, I mean not attempting
to smash one of the machines to pieces but still hurling obscenities and insults
toward those behind the counter) but occasionally there would be those that
refused to leave. I take great pride in only letting the red mist to descend once.
That was the time when I grabbed one such spotty Herbert and dragged him the
length of the shop before hurling him onto the pavement outside. I felt a grudging
respect from a number of his peers from that day forward, not that it stopped
them trying to come in.

It wasn’t just the underage crowd that tried to push their luck. We had a number
of customers that were barred for anti-social behaviour or trying to con the staff
into giving them money. Each of them had a nickname that the staff would use to
describe them. Rat Boy (so-called because he was a boy that looked like a rat) was
an effeminate Asian lad that always wore a ridiculous flat cap and had one friend
in the entire world. This friend obviously thought Rat Boy was a true inspiration
and would accompany him like the Chihuahua that accompanies Paris Hilton. On
the day of the rugby world cup final between England and South Africa in 2007,
I was wearing a cheap South African rugby shirt due to my particular hatred for
the English Rugby Union (I can’t help it – being both Welsh and a rugby league
fan I have two reasons to hate everything that ‘Twickers’ stands for). Rat Boy
entered and began his usual tirade of nonsense when he was asked to leave the
shop. I went out to speak with him but thought actions, in this instance, would be
better than words. I plucked the hat from the top of his head, stomped down the
shop with Rat Boy flailing behind me like the chicken hawk flailing after Foghorn
Leghorn in the cartoon, went outside and tossed the hat on top of the bus stop
outside. Rat Boy looked at me, with the words SOUTH AFRICA emblazoned on my
chest and used a truly unique insult that I doubt will ever be directed at me again.

“You fat, South African cunt!”

After all, I’m not South African!

It’s not surprising that the Piccadilly branch didn’t attract the celebrity customers
as readily as the Deansgate branch, though I remember being in work one day
and receiving news that Alex Higgins had been in the previous day. Alex had been
a childhood hero of mine and I had previously read a brilliant biography of him

40

which made frequent reference to his time in Manchester betting shops during
his eighties heyday. It transpired that he was barred from virtually all of them for
misdemeanours of varying severity, so it came as a surprise that he’d been allowed
into the shop at all. Yet The Hurricane was a shadow of his former self. I had seen
publicity for his forthcoming exhibition match in Manchester against Jimmy White
and, as a former fan, it was especially painful to see how frail and gaunt he looked.
Even if he had been a pain in the arse it would have been worth putting up with him
just to give him some pleasure in his ailing state of health. And so I was delighted
that, after asking how he was, it was reported to me that he was really nice and
very quiet. Due to the biography I’d read this came as some surprise.

“Really?” I said, sounding surprised, “Because I’ve heard people say that he’s a
complete tw”.

As I began to describe him by using a slightly rude word, I looked up. As I did so
that word stuck in my throat and struck me dumb. The reason for this is that my
gaze was met by someone waiting patiently at the counter to put a bet on. It was
Alex ‘The Hurricane’ Higgins! And I’d almost called him a twat!

The shop was a pain in the arse. Everyone knew it and I think the management
at Hills understood it. So they decided to reward our hard work in the face of
adversity by extending the opening hours of the shop by an extra half an hour.
This now meant that the working day for those managing the shop would be
8.45am until 10pm. Not that this was communicated to me by the district or area
managers. I only discovered this when I called in from a week off to get my hours
for the following week. After the way they’d overlooked me in deciding who to
pay a manager’s wage to while Bev was away from the Deansgate branch I was
determined they wouldn’t take advantage of me again. In the three days before I
returned to work I looked into these hours and discovered that they didn’t provide
the eleven hours consecutive rest between shifts that was required by the EC
working time directives. That was as much as I needed. I decided that on my shifts
when I returned to work I would be fully justified in closing the shop at 9.30pm. My
area manager asked why I had done it and, after I explained that it was against the
law for me to do the hours that were being requested, he did precisely nothing.
For three consecutive days I closed the shop ‘early’.

The next time I turned up for my shift I set up shop as usual, opened the doors
and within fifteen minutes I was escorted from the premises. I was suspended for
a total of four weeks on full pay while they investigated the circumstances behind
what I had done and I was then reinstated, on condition that I didn’t work in the
Piccadilly branch. In terms of punishments it was like putting Michael Barrymore
in charge of a private swimming pool in Brighton! I was delighted, when they

41

suspended me as I knew I was in the right and there was nothing they could do
about it. I was also delighted to be reinstated but by that time I had already had
an informal chat in a pub with Nick Thompson, the Operations Manager from a
rival betting firm, David Pluck’s. As I supped on a pint of Guinness, this informal
‘chat’ was interrupted by a phone call and Nick informed the person on the other
end of the phone that he was ‘interviewing’ someone for the position of manager
in their new shop in Longsight. I was informed that the hours would be longer in
Longsight than they were in Piccadilly but I didn’t actually mind that. At least I was
made aware of it in advance and had a choice of whether to take the job or not.
I had previous experience of managing a couple of William Hill branches in the
notorious Longsight district. You know the bloke in the Skittles advert that makes
everything he touches turn into Skittles? Well, I have to say that I looked forward
to the prospect of working there every day with about as much relish he looks
forward to a wank. The huge pay rise convinced me, though. And so I handed in my
notice as soon as I got back to Hill’s. After all, I wasn’t getting any younger.

42

Griff
The Prince of Deansgate

Manchestershire

HM Queen Elizabeth II
Buckingham Palace
Buckingham Palace Road
London
SW1A 1AA

31st December, 2009

Dear Mrs. Queen,

How’s your fanny for love bites? Hope you had a nice Christmas

and that Santa brought you some nice things.

I am writing to you with regard to my birthday. I was born on XXth

XXXXXXX 1978 but, unlike yourself (I know you like to milk it and have two per year)

I am generally not one for celebrating birthdays. To me it seems like I’m forced to

celebrate something with which I had very little influence. After all, surely it’s my

parents that deserve a pat on the back and such like. In fact, suck is my apathy for

these occasions that I haven’t truly celebrated a birthday since my 21st. On the day

I turned thirty, for example, the most spectacular thing I did was clean my kitchen.

No, I decided some years ago to celebrate ‘metric milestones’ and have had two

rip-roaring celebrations on both my 10,000th and 11,000th days. My next one is my

12,000th day, which I shall celebrate on 15thJanuary 2011 (feel free to come along.

You can bring Phil if you like – I reckon he’d be a wow at parties like that).

However, I would like to celebrate big milestone birthdays. The

only thing is that I would like to celebrate each of them while I am still in a physical

condition to celebrate them in a manner that befits the occasion. And, after all,

there’s no rule that says you have to celebrate the birthday that coincides with

how old you actually are. This is why I would like to celebrate my 100th birthday on

XXth XXXXXXX 2010.

I’d dare say you will have deduced that this date will be the 32nd

anniversary of the date that I was born. After all, you’re not as green as you are

cabbage-looking, are you? I plan to have a celebration and party with a few of my

friends and colleagues. I may even get a special cake made. However, I do feel that

now is an appropriate time to be celebrating my 100th birthday as I don’t want to

be a gibbering, drooling loony that stinks of wee and is barely able to get out of

my chair when I celebrating such a milestone and I’m guessing that is inevitable

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whenever someone gets to be 100 years old. Not that I’ll be doing anything too
extreme like commandeering an army helicopter and flying home in it or dressing
up like a Nazi as some people do, but I would like to celebrate the milestone now
to ensure that I am in a suitable condition for such a noteworthy celebration.

I have no doubt that I shall reach the ton as my health record
so far is immaculate. The only day off sick that I’ve ever had was through over-
sleeping after a drunken day at the rugby, though I did subsequently make myself
ill trying to continue the excuse I’d concocted for having that day off sick (I’ll tell
you the full tale at my 12,000th day do if you like).

What I am asking, therefore, is for you to send me the traditional
telegram that you send to those celebrating their hundredth birthday a little earlier
than anticipated. Sixty eight years early, to be precise. Looking at the way prices of
postage are rising this not only makes sense because of the reasons I have outlined
but it also makes sound economic sense as who knows what the price of a first
class stamp may be in 2078?!

Yours sincerely,
Griff

P.S. – What do you think of the song ‘One Step Beyond’ by Madness?

NOTE: Not only did Her Majesty ignore my request but she didn’t have the good
grace to reply to my letter. I have vowed never to vote for her ever again.

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I began working at David Pluck’s with a certain degree of excitement but an
overwhelming sense of danger. After all, Longsight was the neighbouring district
to the more well-known (and therefore notorious) Moss Side and Hulme districts.
Gun crime was common and we were a brand new betting shop. Even though I
had worked for two of the William Hill branches in the back streets of Longsight
during the previous months I still felt nervous. As it happened, I didn’t get robbed
in the two years that I was there. Seriously I don’t know what I was worried about!
I mean, in those two years we had nothing worse than verbal abuse. And death
threats. And I was spat on. We had an enormous lump of concrete thrown at us
(which proved the protective screen was up to the task). The shop was broken into
twice. The roulette machines were vandalised on a weekly basis. There were drug
dealers constantly in the shop. We were once the epicentre of a near riot between
gangs of Kurds and Albanians. All in all, it wasn’t as bad as I feared. And the mix of
characters was truly incredible, even by Manchester’s standards.

Longsight reminded me a little bit of Shotton in that it looked better in the rain
than it did in the sunshine. It was full of take away cafes and thrift shops and had
a demographic that was about as diverse as you’re likely to find anywhere. The
council celebrated the fact that all the different cultures that lived in Longsight
got along without much trouble. In truth, it was one of those unique areas
where everyone looked at everybody else with suspicion, slagging each other off,
robbing and abusing one another but as long as they weren’t shooting or stabbing
each other the perception was that there was a true sense of community spirit.
Unfortunately, the only community spirit that seemed to exist was with the drug
dealers and users, which perhaps explains why the district has suffered over the
last few years.

The first customer we had in was Naweed, a local guy that I recognised as a punter
from my days in William Hill. It was nice to see a familiar face, especially as Nick
, and Frank, the managing director, were present for our grand opening. Naweed
put some bets on, commented on how nice the shop looked, had some free bets
and a free cup of tea. He then got locked in the toilet for about an hour due to a
faulty handle. The rest of the customers had their first experience of David Pluck’s
to accompanying,anguished shouts and banging coming from the toilet door.
“How long will I be in here?” BANG! BANG! BANG! They may have thought we’d
stored him in there deliberately as some kind of wacky PR exercise.

In some kind of perfect symmetry, Naweed would later become the first person
to self-exclude himself from the shop. Self-exclusion was a practice promoted by
the betting shop industry which meant a customer that felt their gambling was
becoming a problem they could voluntarily have themselves barred from one

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shop. For six months. Not an entire company worth of betting shops and not the
entire industry, just one shop. It enabled the customers to delude themselves
into thinking they were doing something positive about addressing the problem
they had and the gambling industry to delude itself into thinking they were being
responsible. I didn’t think Naweed had a problem and he may actually have
done it just to get some attention from whichever girl was working behind the
counter at the time, but self-exclude he did. And when his six month period of self-
exclusion came to an end, Nick took his name and address away with him. In true
Machiavellian style he planned on sending Naweed a letter to inform him that his
period of self-exclusion was now at an end – and enclosing a leaflet with details of
all the David Pluck special offers and promotions. That’s the equivalent of showing
someone out of the Priory after rehab and giving them some vouchers for Bargain
Booze as they leave. As if I didn’t know it already, that reaffirmed to me that this
was an interesting company to work for!

My deputy manager was a girl called Lauren, who lived a short bus ride away. She
was an average looking nineteen year old girl prone to wearing tops that made
her look like she was smuggling the brothers from Right Said Fred behind the
counter. Gok Wan would probably say this “made the best of her ample bosom”.
I would probably say that it gave the punters an eyeful the like of which hasn’t
been seen since the days of King Harold. To the regulars in our shop she was
the personification of glamour. In the eyes of our clientele (who were made up
mainly of Iraqis, Kurds, Pakistanis, Chinese, West Indians, the unemployable and
the elderly) she made Beyonce look like Lassie. This attention was something that
Lauren enjoyed. After all, she had a very high sex drive and was naturally flirtatious.
I could make a sweeping generalisation and say that her vagina had more users
than Facebook during the time I was working with her, which was only a period of
around six months. I can be more accurate and say that she averaged about three
different sexual partners per week during that time. The reason I’m able to make
such an accurate estimate of her number of conquests is because she would come
into work the mornings following the previous night’s liaisons and give me all the
ins and outs. Literally! Sometimes with photo evidence! A typical exchange might
go like the one on the first day that I was working with her. We were talking about
previous betting shops we’d worked in when I mentioned that I had worked at a
shop in Openshaw.

“Oh,” she smiled, “I had my first threesome in Openshaw!”

This would all be fine and dandy as banter between colleagues, but the fact that
everyone in the entire shop could hear the conversation made it like a spoken word
version of Reader’s Wives’ Confessions. As the customers had heard her then, so

46

they could hear her when she came in wearing a short skirt and announced to me
(the World) that she’d lost her knickers the night before. As they could hear the
time when she informed me about the virgin she’d been with who had the biggest
cock she’d ever had. As they could the time she told me about getting cautioned
by police for sucking a guy off at a bus stop, which had embarrassed her because
she didn’t know the guy’s name.

When you consider the clientele in the betting shop it’s not surprising they were
taken aback and that Lauren quickly became a favourite of theirs. She wasn’t just
processing their bets, she was giving them first-hand accounts of sexual deviancy
that they’d store safely in the wank bank to put to good use later. Yet there was
only one customer (that I know of) with whom Lauren ever had any kind of sexual
relationship. (She’d kissed one of the Pakistani customers once in return for a
bottle of wine, but that didn’t count. She was deeply embarrassed about this and
once told me that she wished she’d have sucked him off instead as it would have
been less intimate than kissing him.) Mike was fifty years old, so thirty one years
older than Lauren. He was a nice guy compared with most in that shop but I’m not
sure he was prepared to be the plaything of a horny teenager. It was a matter of
days between her telling me that she thought Mike ‘had nice eyes’ to her coming
in and telling me (and therefore the World) she had ‘fucked Mike last night’.

A couple of weeks later Nick came to the shop with a letter received by head office.
Nick had found it hilarious in a cringey kind of way. He was far more discreet about
Lauren’s antics than she was herself and so only I was the only one informed that
the letter was written by another customer and described in detail how Lauren
had taken Mike behind the counter while working in the shop on her own one
evening, gone into the kitchen area and given him oral sex. The tone of the letter
left nobody in any doubt that the anonymous author was extremely jealous of
this without actually saying, “WHY COULDN’T IT BE ME???!!!” However, if the
accusation contained within the letter had been true it would have been gross
misconduct and, for that, Lauren would need to be sacked. This had nothing to do
with the sexual acts involved, but more to do with the fact that it compromised
the security of the shop. Nick informed me that he was getting tired of establishing
whether or not staff had been fornicating with customers on the premises and so
he left it to me to investigate further.

The next time Lauren came into the shop, I asked her straight. “Someone reckons
you gave Mike a blow job in the kitchen the other week. Did you?”

She looked genuinely shocked. “Did I FUCK!!” she replied, looking repulsed at the
very accusation, “I mean….as if I’d be so stupid!”

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Before I could be too relieved at the professionalism of my deputy manager,
though, she followed that up with, “I did let him finger me while we were outside
having a fag the other day, but I’d never do anything behind the counter!”

Like I said, in light of this kind of behaviour it wasn’t surprising that Lauren had her
own fan club in the shop. Some became bigger ‘fans’ than others, though. Most
notably a Scottish lad called Pete, who never had a bet in the shop. Pete spent
almost all day, every day in the shop, helping himself to the free cups of tea and
coffee on offer and occasionally talking nonsense about football with the rest of
the punters. He had a body you could grow tomatoes off, a grade one crew cut,
wore a plain white T-shirt, black jeans and trainers regardless of whether it was
the height of summer or the depths of winter. He claimed his inactivity in the job
market was due to his ‘depression’, which would always be associated with a smile
and a wink. He remains the most pathetic individual I have ever met, not least
because he was making a mockery of those with a genuine mental illness. Fair play
to him, he’d absolutely nailed the ‘stereotypical Hollywood movie sex offender’
look. Bearing all of this in mind, it was hardly surprising that Lauren rebuffed his
advances when he asked her out. Even she had her standards! I believe that she let
him down gently so as not to hurt his feelings. Maybe this was a mistake.

Some guys take rejection gracefully and move on, but not Pathetic Pete. In a bold
attempt to woo the woman of his wet dreams he then got a tattoo of a heart with
her name across it on his arm to try and make her change her mind. I’ll have to
write that again as to this day I still cannot believe it. He got a tattoo of a heart
with her name across it on his arm! After learning of this, the poor girl didn’t
know what to do or say or where to put herself whenever he was near, which was
understandable. In the book ‘One Million Most Ludicrous Ways To Woo A Woman’,
getting her name tattooed on you when you don’t actually know her that well
comes a close second to trying to shoot the President to impress her. Thankfully
after a while, Pathetic Pete’s appearances in the shop began to get less frequent –
perhaps understandably. We hoped that maybe he had got the message. Maybe
he was having some laser removal work done. After a short while I found out
the reason he wasn’t hanging around the shop so much was that Lauren wasn’t
working there. She was managing other branches and somehow Pathetic Pete was
getting to find out her shift rota. I’ve never seen stalking at first hand before but this
was quite scary for me, let alone Lauren. She had to delete her Facebook account,
change her phone number and eventually left the company without telling anyone
where she was going for fear that one day there would be an obsessed Scottish
sponger with a heart tattooed on his arm waiting to pounce on her or do damage
to either her or those close to her.

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Pathetic Pete was just one of a number of peculiar individuals that chose to spend
their days in the shop wasting time. Some of them wasted their money, too. All of
them made the shop look busier than it actually was, though. This was something
that I encouraged, even if most of them did smell like a herd of soggy sheep, as
it was a deterrent for thieves. Every so often we’d hear on the grapevine that
another local betting shop had been held up at gun point and I didn’t want to be in
a situation where that happened if I could avoid it. I was asked countless times why
I allowed Asian young men to hang around the shop when they weren’t gambling.
The answer was simple – they had been gambling earlier, they would be again
soon, they were probably carrying a knife and could be used as eye witnesses after
a robbery if push came to shove. Occasionally, push did come to shove but I never
actually got assaulted in the shop in the two years I was there. I tried to get along
with everyone, regardless of their belief, race or skin colour. It’s a policy I have in
everyday life and was a policy that served me well in that shop.

Everyone seemed to be having a good time most of the time, which meant that
some people thought it was a bit too lively. The Jamaicans enjoyed shouting loudly
at the horses or dogs that they’d bet on (“Blood clot dog!” being a particular
favourite of mine) and sometimes danced around mimicking the actions of the
jockeys on their horses. On one occasion there was a Chinese man that spoke no
English who placed a bet on a greyhound race. He had been in the shop for an hour
or so and had evidently been influenced by the Jamaican crowd that had been
watching the racing. As soon as his dog had lost, he flung his betting slip to the
floor in disgust, while shouting “Shit jockey!”

As well as the Jamaicans there were a notable number of Pakistani customers in
the shop. Some of them could speak English perfectly, others could hardly speak a
word. One that struggled with English was Wajid, who also liked to drink whiskey.
This was an eye-opener to me. After all, I thought that Muslims were forbidden
from both betting and drinking and Wajid was doing both! (He did his drinking
outside the shop) I know now that Islam is like any religion – there are some rules
that need to be observed by everyone but there are others that aren’t quite as
serious. For example, Wajid’s behaviour is probably akin to a Christian having
sex before marriage and such like. It may be sneered at by those in their own
community but, as someone that managed a betting shop and enjoyed a drink I
was in no position to judge him and so I let him be as long as he didn’t drink the
booze on the premises (without offering me some). He liked to encourage his dogs
by shouting at the screen almost as much as he enjoyed winding up the Jamaicans.
Sometimes he would dance jigs even though his dog had lost, just because he
wanted the Jamaican guys to think that he had won. At other times (usually when
he was drunk and hadn’t had a bet) he would shout, “Come on seven!” repeatedly

49

for the duration of the race, knowing very well that there are only six dogs in every
race.

On top of the customers interested in the horses or dogs we had four roulette
machines (or ‘fixed odds betting terminals’ to give them their proper title). These
were the cash cow for the shop, which was due mainly to the Asian customers.
And by Asian, I mean from virtually every country in Asia, but notably Kurdistan,
Pakistan, India and China. Chinese customers would think nothing of putting a
thousand pounds into a machine in an hour. One of our Chinese customers once
asked me to load credit onto the machine for him instead of him putting money
into the machine. Nothing strange in that, but then he handed me two Scottish
£100 notes. I’d never seen one before so called Nick for advice.

“What does the bloke look like?” asked Nick.

“Well, he’s Chinese, he’s…..”

“Oh, he’s probably just a Triad,” replied Nick, “Accept his money but if he wins then
make sure you pay it back to him.”

The Chinese customers hardly ever came in on their own. There would be three
or four of them all huddled around a machine while one played. There were very
few of them that spoke any English and they would all roar their approval or
dismay, depending on how the game of roulette was going. All of which made for
an interesting atmosphere. Imagine walking into the shop to be greeted with a
cacophony of noise in a variety of different languages. The Chinese shouting at the
roulette wheel, the Jamaicans pretending to ride their horse while shouting abuse
at the jockey who actually was and a pissed up Pakistani dancing around shouting
“Come on seven!” at a greyhound race. It was utter pandemonium at times, which
is why the perfectly sane and reasonable customers stood out a mile. Customers
such as Dave.

Dave was a very mild-mannered guy that enjoyed betting on novelty events, such
as the winner of Big Brother, or minority sports, such as snooker. His aim was
simple – he aimed to win but would also hedge his bets to minimise his losses.
He was friendly, about thirty years old and always seemed to have a smile on
his face. There were no obvious personal hygiene problems and he would speak
rationally about current affairs and sporting events. Basically, he was a daily dose of
normality amongst the pandemonium. The only slightly peculiar habit he had was
ripping up betting slips. Not merely ripping it up as if he was throwing something
away, it was more systematic than that. He’d hold the paper in line with his eyes
and then rip down, fast. Then he’d do the same but ripping the slips crossways.

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