Low rolling in London

	Nobody messes with Shaun 'Unflappable' Holden, a Del Boy-esque gaffer with a background in running tough boozers

As I write this, IE’s staff writer is off covering a poker tournament in Australia, the editor just got back from Monte Carlo and our publisher jets to Vegas more often than he goes to the khazi. Whereas, yours truly? I’ve just spent the afternoon at Totesport, Elephant and Castle, south London. And you know what? I wouldn’t have swapped it for the world.

A session at the Elephant bookies, for me, is the best fun you can have without getting your kecks off. Just as well, really, as there are no women in there at all. Not one. Just various cheeky chappies in shiny tracksuits, sheepskin coats, pimp outfits and assorted moody gear. It’s like appearing in an Only Fools and Horses betting shop special.

Walking the walk

The boss of this smoky, old-school punters’ paradise is Shaun ‘Unflappable’ Holden. Shaun is a native south Londoner and Charlton fan, and he’s just won the award for Britain’s betting shop manager of the year, courtesy of SIS and the Racing Post. Nobody messes with Shaun, a Del Boy-esque gaffer with a background in running tough boozers – not because he’s a hardcase in a smart suit, mind, but because he plays people right every time.

‘Round here, you bloody have to,’ laughs the crew-cutted Shaun. ‘You gotta be good at your job. In fairness, I am. You’ve gotta respect your staff and customers. You’ve gotta throw people out at times, too. But when people know where they stand, you’re laughing!’ I guess you’d call our clientele regular working class punters. Yeah, they’re ordinary people. Rough, some of them; but all common punters like you and me.

‘There’s never a dull moment in ’ere,’ he continues. ‘You’ve got to give as good as you get. If they swear at you, you swear back. You’ve got to be a realist. You can’t drink cans of lager in the shop, but when someone’s 18 foot tall and swigging Special Brew like that psychotic geezer over there, you’ve got to be a realist. Don’t take a picture of ’im, for fuck’s sake!’

So has he really had any serious trouble, such as facing down armed slags with sawn-offs, we ask?

‘Trouble?’ fires deputy manager ‘Dodgy’ Danny Rosse, troughing KFC behind the tills. ‘What do you want to hear about? The fella who followed me home on the bus, the fella who smashed up all the FOBTs or the geezer who smashed the front door? Nah, we’ve never been held up, though. We’re far too busy for that. There are too many regulars.’

If you’ve never been to Elephant, just form a mental image of a picturesque English village. Now imagine the complete opposite and you’re half way there. This place is as tough as old boots. Elephant is just down the road from where boxing was first invented in the 18th Century. It was also the epicentre of the medieval bearbaiting scene. Today it’s an inclusive mix of tower block living, crime and hard drugs. Which, when you come to think of it, only serves to make the warm fug of betting shop punting all the more magical.

Let rip on the slips

It’s an ambience that Nick, for one, really appreciates. He’s a massive man with a bulging gut, chain-smoking rollups. Now, Alexander Pope once stated that every man needs a ruling passion and Nick would definitely agree. His is the horses. He can’t resist the same punt on every single race, so it’s a bloody good thing he’s not into the dogs. Today, in thick Jamaican patois, he offers to get his picture taken for extra spend.

Before he gets the chance though, the 12.45 at Doncaster is under starter’s orders. A reverential hush falls in the shop, then there’s a hiss of assorted gasps as the leader falls. Soon a murmur from cloth-capped Irish blokes in their eighties turns into a cheer as Dolmur romps home at 7/1. Three guys in the corner rip up their betting slips in disgust before heading to the pub. We promise not to take their photos (something to do with the local mosque), and hook up with another regular, Paul, instead. Paul has done all his money that morning, and will give us a tip for a few bob. Not a proposition we’d normally accept, mind, but for the sake of the feature, well, why not?

Paul duly tips Ragasah in the 1.30 at Lingfield. On goes a score, and back comes £60 from an easy win on the all-weather. Shaun’s looking at us suspiciously as cashier Abigail ‘Princess of Ghana’ Opoku doles out the readies from behind the reinforced glass. Nick’s eyes are on stalks; his average bet is a mere £1.50.

‘The average bet here is probably no more than £10,’ says Shaun. ‘This lot are more into frequency than putting on thick ones. Racing’s the biggest sport by a mile, then football, then the dogs. Cricket ain’t bad. This lot’ll spend the afternoon down here and why not? It’s sociable, warm, and I know the lot of ’em, even their nicknames.’

Plastic fantastic

‘Like the Bagman,’ offers Danny. ‘Yeah, ’im,’ reflects Shaun. ‘We never found out his real name but he had a plastic shopping bag stuffed with cash. We only take cash, naturally. Anyway, he comes in and starts putting five grand each way on a load of horses. God knows how much he had in that bag, I’m just glad it didn’t rip like most shopping bags do. We kept a close eye on him. He won 13 grand on one race, which is pretty much the shop record. Then he disappeared and we haven’t seen him since.’

‘Under a bleedin’ motorway, most likely,’ suggests a punter, helpfully.

And then, as the fiftieth hare of the day is running – at Sheffield this time – and the joint jollies bolt out of traps two and six, Jamaican Joseph makes his grand entrance. Six foot five, skinny as a rake, in a shiny purple suit with a white fedora, he looks like a card-playing New Orleans pimp who’s fallen off a riverboat steamer.

‘Yah, maan,’ he shouts, doling out low fives to all and sundry. ‘Yah, Shaunie – how ya doin’? Check out The Vibrator. There’s a buzz on this!’

The Vibrator, it transpires, is the name of Joseph’s latest single. Back in the Yard, he is – or was – a big reggae star. Shame that he’s not such a big hit at picking winners. That situation fails to change when Lingfield jolly Trials and Tribulations is, to quote the commentator, ‘ridden with exaggerated restraint’.

‘Restraint, bollocks!’ blasts Paul. ‘That was my winner down the pan!’

But as another cloud of B&H descends on our happy group and they are sedated by the lyrical cadence of a commentator’s voice and the rustling of the Racing Post, you get the feeling the whole place is one big comfort blanket. Winning is nice, there’s no denying, but even more important is the constant buzz of punting. Remember Coleridge’s Lotus Eaters? Well this is the 21st century Elephant and Castle version.

‘Tales of the high street bookie’s demise have been much exaggerated,’ concludes Shaun later, after we finally manage to blow the last of our cash on a hopeless, but thrilling, each-way double at Lingfield. ‘Sure, we have to be innovative and use things like live poker machines to bring in the internet generation, but there will always be a place for bricks and mortar shops.

‘It’s people who make this business,’ he adds. ‘I love it here because of the personalities. I wouldn’t swap the interaction with punters for anything.’

Irish Ernie walks up to the counter. A silver-haired bloke of 80-odd with a walking stick, he has just won a monkey on the last race. He bows theatrically to Shaun, puts his cloth cap back on and walks out beaming.

‘See you tomorrow,’ he says. ‘And stay lucky.’

‘Know what I mean?’ smiles Shaun. ‘That’s what it’s all about.’