“You off to Royal Ascot, are ya? Like having a week’s racing holiday, isn’t it? Swanning around, drinking champagne, take a few bets from the top hats. Easy week. ” Yes, friend, that’s what happens, writes David Massey.
My week begins on Monday night at Windsor, where the firm I’m working for is standing but my services are not required, so I can have an evening off and some pre-Ascot chat. A few of the Northern lads are having the night at the races too, sucking wind through their teeth at the prices they’re having to pay now they’re down South. However, we all back John’s Dragon in the second, which pays for the overpriced burger and chips I’m having for tea.
I pick the keys up for our digs, which this week is in Datchet, about eight miles from the track. We’ve an Airbnb house, which means we all get our own rooms, and there’s a lovely garden area out the back to enjoy a beer each night. In fact, it’s a really lovely house, although not a quiet one - it’s directly on the flight path to Heathrow, and when you can’t hear the planes, you can hear the noisy parakeets instead. “They’re classed as vermin, you know,” says Liam, one of our party for the week. “If I’d got my gun, they’d be a lot quieter.” Liam does a lot of field sports and I don’t think he’s joking.
As well as the bookmaking - and this will be my last year at Ascot in that regard - I’ve a whole heap of writing to do daily, and I find myself working in the media marquee in the centre of the track each morning. It’s a huge, greenhouse-like fixture, basic but functional. “Like working in a cannabis farm”, as one of the bookmakers PR’s describes it, and he’s probably not far off (not that I'd know, you understand). Last year, this place started off well and fell to bits as the week went on. Let’s see what 2024 brings.
In terms of a loo, we’ve a gents and a ladies Portakabin behind the greenhouse. After three cups of tea I need to go. It’s disconcerting to hear a noise that resembles water hitting a wooden Portakabin floor as I do, and lo and behold, the plumbing is broken. Worse, because the Kabin is on a tilt, the stream appears to be heading back my way. I bet Charles doesn’t have to put up with this.
I report the broken urinal, and warn others in the Press tent that might think about using it not to.
The lunch food is decent - picnic boxes - and there’s plenty of cold drinks, which I snaffle into my bag as I make my way over to the ring. I’m on the rail all week, which means dealing with the Royal Enclosure mob. I’m hoping the Arab punter I had last year is there, and remembers me (he had about 6k on with me, all told); sadly, he's nowhere to be seen.
Next to me on the rail is the Aussie bookmaker Rob Waterhouse, and my neighbour for the whole week will be the lovely Erin, from Melbourne. Erin is young, enthusiastic and fun, all the things I’m not, but we get on well, and we help each other out when needed. Erin tells me she’s just got her bookmaking license in Oz, and relays the way she works, which is very much at odds with how many British bookmakers would work. She’s more than happy to stand one, even if her price is bigger than Betfair, it seems. At one point I saw she was 13-2 a horse that was a 5-1 chance on the machine - come racing, get the Aussie value, it appears!
It doesn’t take me long to bump into a bet, a 7000-2000 Charyn. I’ve backed Charyn myself, which now puts me in the difficult position of not being able to cheer it home. “Never cheer the favourite home”, was one of the first pieces of advice I was ever given by a bookmaker, “or you’ll not be in a job long.” I don’t say a dicky bird as Charyn bursts through to win. Jason comes over with seven grand for me to pay the punter out. “Try not to lay any more winners”, he jokes. “You’ve already made a dent in the float, and this is a long week!”
Our Charyn punter comes back for another go and has a grand each-way Camille Pisarro in the Coventry. The good news is it’s well beaten with a furlong to go; the bad news is that one lucky punter, guessing, has had £50 win on Rashabar at 66-1 with me. The float takes another whack.
It's a very quiet start to the week, and for the last three races trade dies a sorry death. Since going to seven races a day at Royal Ascot, it is noticeable how business often drops off late in the play, with many preferring to go home early and avoid the worst of the traffic. Very few stay for the 6:15, and despite it being a competitive handicap, it’s my worst take of the afternoon. We pack up and go for food, which tonight is the Turkish restaurant in Windsor. (If you’re looking to lose weight, don’t work Ascot week.)
Wednesday. The plumbing in the Portakabin has been fixed! By fixed I mean the offending urinal has now got a bin liner with police tape all over it, and a bucket placed under the corresponding piece of piping. Tremendous. The coffee machine also appears to be giving up the ghost; I ask it for a latte, and am returned an empty paper cup. “Please enjoy your drink!” it chirrups. I would if you’d given me one.
Every day Bet Victor’s Sam Boswell is relieving me of a tenner for some placepots. We can’t decide what should go in for the Queen Mary, other than the favouite. “Stick Leovanni in,” I say, “ it won well enough at Nottingham”. I’m not overly hopeful of getting past Leg 1 today.
The coffee machine is fixed - turned off, turned on again, has that ever worked before? - and I crack on with the rest of my writing. I really fancy a couple on Thursday and get them over to Rory (Delargy) for tomorrow’s column nice and early.
If I thought Tuesday was quiet in the ring, welcome to Wednesday. It never gets busy until the Royal Parade has gone past, whatever day it is, but it seems to take an eternity today. However Leovanni is a good result, ignored by most punters, and it isn't until I get a text from Sam reminding me I picked it for the placepot that the result even clicks with me. Two 50-1 chances fill the frame; 95% of the placepots have bit the dust. Five more good results and I can take the rest of the week off. Illinois keeps the dream alive in the second but that’s as far as we go; I had managed to talk Sam out of Laurel in the Duke Of Cambridge and that’s the end of that. Of course we got the last three results up. Of course we did.
No big bets to speak of all day, lots of twenties and fifties (one bloke peeling them off from a roll as big as any Andrex) but at least a winning day, although again, trade dies a sorry death for the last three. That’s becoming a habit.
Back at the digs and the boss has finally made an appearance after three weeks in Las Vegas playing poker. He arrived at Heathrow around 2pm, got a cab straight to Datchet, and now wants to go to sleep. It’s only 7.30 but he can’t keep his eyes open. We start to watch the Euro match but it’s no good, Rob’s totally jetlagged, and at half eight he’s snoring his head off. We give him a kick and tell him to go to bed. Wednesday night food is a BBQ, with the lovely Heather, the fourth member of the team this week, doing the honours.
Thursday 6.50am. The alarm goes for Day 3 and I go for a shower. Sadly, the water pressure is now very low and I can’t fix it, so it’s like a shower in tepid rain. It’ll have to do. I’m hoping this isn’t a bad omen for the day, as I do like a few, and have invested quite heavily in Assailant, Skukuza and Carrytheone.
My car park at Ascot for the week is 7B. This has both its advantages and disadvantages. The main advantage is that I’m not in Car Park 2 and as such, don’t have to climb the North Face of the Eiger every morning to get to the track. Last year, I was knackered and in need of another shower before I’d even sat down at my desk. 7B is on the inside of the track, next to the pull-up area for the horses; I can actually see my car from the Queen Anne Enclosure on the other side of the track. So there’s no long trek to my workspace, which is great, but getting out, it means I’m right at the back of the queue. Good job I’m not in a hurry.
Thursday is Ladies Day and so we’re hoping business will be a bit better. Thankfully it is, small stuff but workable, and helped in no small part by IT issues from those around me. Erin is struggling to get her lightboard working properly, and then the wifi appears to go off completely just after the Royal Parade has gone to post. (There is a theory that this happens every day of Royal Ascot - namely if something dreadful happens, the police and emergency services need all the bandwidth going, which I can sort of see.) It gives me around 15 minutes of betting time on my own for the first, which I make the most of. I take an even 2000 Whistlejacket, which stays in the hod and repairs a bit more of the float damage. The new problem with the float is fivers and pound coins - we’ve not brought enough of either - which means a call to a friend on course who helped in a similar situation last year. I won’t name her for fear her employers will read this and she’ll get in trouble, but she once again comes to the rescue with £200’s worth of golden nuggets and five pound notes and the promise of more tomorrow.
Assailant runs a cracker in the King George V Handicap and looks a likely winner at one point before just fading late. I’ve had a good run for my money, at least, and got half back in-running, so no disasters. I’m against Diamond Rain in the Ribblesdale and my place lay cops; Skukuza runs a mighty race to be second to the Aussie-bound Mickley in the Britannia, and Carrytheone rattles home for a place at a big price in the Buckingham Palace Stakes. (Wins the Bunbury Cup. You’ve been told.) As good a day at Ascot betting-wise as I’ve had in a while. Sharing the wealth, as I always try to do, I buy Heather a thankyou for all the work she’s done at the digs this week (she put a wash on for us all Thursday night, and even hung it all out. What a star!) and get her a couple of pouches of tobacco, as she loves a roll-up. I nearly die when I’m told the price of Ready Rubbed in the shop; I genuinely thought it was about a tenner a go. Best part of a bullseye for the pair! Don’t moan Massey, you’ve had a winning day. Pizza for evening food; I fear the scales will not be kind when I get back home.
Friday. Liam has fixed the shower. The joys of a proper hot power shower cannot be underestimated. I swear the parakeets are noisier than they were on Tuesday, though. I have at least taken the precaution of bringing my own breakfast food, namely five packs of Shredded Wheat, probably the most healthy thing that’s gone down my neck all week. Sadly I forgot to buy milk at the shop when I got Heather’s baccy last night; as such I can inform you that almost-dry Shredded Wheat are not my idea of fun.
The weather has started to take a bit of a turn, too. The sun we’ve had for most of the week is starting to disappear as the clouds roll in. There’s even chat of a bit of rain tonight. Given I don’t work well in hot weather this is a bonus for me, although Erin thinks otherwise. “It’s bladdy FREEZING!” she complains. To an Aussie I suppose fifteen degrees is a touch on the cold side, but to this Midlands bumpkin it’s ideal, thankyouverymuch.
The money is usually better on the Friday, and so it proves, although the first two results are shocking. Fairy Godmother attracts plenty of £100 and £200 bets and one lad has £800 quid on at 2-1 with me. Two out the money is staying with me; by the winning post, I’m in need of another float topup. Second home Simmering was a skinner. They play it up on Inisherin and his backers barely have a moment’s worry. I’m concerned that if I ring Rob for more dosh again I’ll get a mouthful. However, on his joint in the ring they only wanted Givemethebeatboys and so it’s not the disaster I think it is. And the rest of the afternoon’s results are corking, with no sign of the jollies; only a £100 each-way on Soprano at 14s in the Sandringham stops it being a near clean-sweep for the firm. Food is leftovers from the last two nights, which we need to start mopping up (you don’t want to be packing up a lot of on the wane tuck Saturday morning, do you?)
And finally, to Saturday. We’re all knackered and ready for home, but there’s one last day to get through. But we have encountered a major problem.
Liam and Heather have, somehow, managed to leave the keys to their vehicle (which hasn’t moved off the drive all week) with Jason, who is now in Newmarket. Frantic calls have been made to and fro, as the car has to be moved by 2pm latest for the incomers to the Airbnb; it is arranged the car keys will arrive at Ascot (via a jockey) around 11am. That means I’ll have to drive one of them back to the digs to collect their vehicle when the keys get to Ascot, and if the keys are late, it’s going to make getting back into the track a nightmare; we could even miss the first. And as it turns out, the keys are indeed late, not arriving until after midday, so it’s decided Heather has to get an Uber back, or it’ll mean half the team going missing, which we can’t afford to do. Heather makes it back easily, as it turns out, with an hour to spare, and disaster is averted. The stewards’ enquiry as to whose fault it was the keys ended up in Newmarket in the first place are still ongoing, I understand.
Bedtime Story gets punters off to a winning start, but Isle Of Jura, Khaadem and Haatem make sure we get it back with interest. And then, one of the highlights of the five days as Valerie, my Punter Of The Week Royal Ascot 2023, makes a welcome reappearance.
Those of you with long memories might remember Val turned up on the Wednesday last year when she started with a couple of fiver each-way bets in the first, backing the winner Crimson Advocate, and from that point onwards, never looked back as she went on the rampage, following up with Villanova Queen, Rogue Millennium, Mosthadaf and finishing the day off with £25 each-way Sonny Liston and Jimi Hendrix in the Hunt Cup. She took well over a grand from the firm and was almost apologetic as she picked her final winnings up on the day. “Do you remember me?” she asks. How can I possibly forget the luckiest punter I’ve ever come across? It’s an absolute delight to catch up with her and her son, but sadly she can’t replicate her luck of last year, and her two in the Wokingham were well beaten. All the same, it is lovely to see a familiar face.
As the day progresses, the Ascot wifi starts to drop out a lot, to the point where we reach the Golden Gates Stakes, and three bookmakers near me are struggling to get prices up on the board. In fact, they give up completely for the last, the Queen Alexandra, and I’ve got it to myself. I’m taking absolute chunks - it’s my best take of the week by a country mile. All we need to do now is get a result.
Uxmal, the 2-1 favourite, romps home. You can’t have it all, can you?
On the way home, I call in at the services on the M40 for food. I see a bookmaker I know quite well struggling to use the touchscreen as he tries to order his KFC. It appears bookmaker IT issues aren’t just confined to the track.
I’m back at 10pm, and am asleep by eleven. That’s a wrap, as they say. My week’s “racing holiday” is over for another year. See you all at Goodwood, yes?
- DM
