Plain Clothes, West EndPlain Clothes, West EndBefore the passing of the Betting Gaming and Lotteries Act in 1963, street bookmakers were a perennial problem for the police. Our mission was to control them rather than eradicate them, as that would have been an impossible task, given their popularity among the local people.
Effective policing by consent and with discretion is not easy at the best of times. We did our best to be fair and even-handed - clamping down hard on the troublesome cases, but not just letting off the rest of them either.
Basically, we worked our way round each bookie in turn, and when Tommy Wilson's time came to be lifted, my mate and I sauntered round to his usual pitch and duly nicked him. While we were waiting for the hurry-up van he pleaded his case. He was not a happy man.
"I'm having a hard time ye knaa. I could dee withoot this. This last
three weeks I've had a real hiding - losing every week"
"Why don't you pack it in then?" I asked.
"Hoo canna man?" he replied, "It's me livin'!"
Ronnie, the bookie at Atkinson Road corner must have been day-dreaming, as he didn't seem to realise that we had driven up until I put my hand on his shoulder. He was deeply shocked, and the object that he had in his mouth fell to the ground.
At this time drugs were were just beginning to make an uncertain appearance in the city and the word "reefer" sprang instantly to mind. Having no idea what a reefer looked like I at once put it to him that the brown rolled object he had been smoking was a drug.
"Not so." he replied, producing a small tin from his pocket, which bore the legend Tom Thumb Cigars. After an examination revealed that all was well, the prisoner and escorts duly arrived at the Station all smoking Tom Thumbs.
I acquired a new partner and looked around for a starter to get him off his mark in his new job. Will was a nice lad, fast enough on his feet to be competing at Powderhall.
I told him of a bookie at Cowgate who had been having an easy time of it, and that it was now time to put this right.
This bookie used to stand at the door of his council house and at the sign of a policeman would dart inside, so as we drove towards our destination I repeatedly emphasised to Will that he had to use his speed to race up the garden path and grab him before he could retreat.
As soon as I stopped the car, Will was away, and like a greyhound out of the traps he sped up the path and collared his man. As he walked back down the path with his prisoner he glared at me, muttering hurtful things about my parentage, or lack of it.
You see, I had forgotten to tell Will that the bookie walked with crutches.
Frankie was a superior type of back street bookie inasmuch as he actually had an office in a lane near Marlborough Crescent Bus Station. I met up with Frankie in the street on the morning of Derby Day.
He told me that he stood to lose a fortune if a certain horse won, as every full-time and even part-time prostitutes in the area had all backed the same horse.
Frankie had a bad Derby. The winner? "Hard Ridden".
Customer numbers had declined badly for Freddy in back Sycamore Street, and it wasn't long before he found out why. The local fishmonger was taking bets from customers in his fish shop.
After some thought, Freddy figured out the solution to this problem. One morning, he rose early, drove down to North Shields Fish Quay and bought several boxes of fresh herrings.
He borrowed a hand-cart from one of his 'tatter' friends and pushed it along Scotswood Road and parked it outside the fishmonger's shop. On his barrow he placed a large card which said "Lovely Fresh Herrings - FREE!"
Freddy soon gathered a large crowd eager to snap up these bargains. This brought the fishmonger out to inform him in belligerent tones that he was ruining his business.
Freddy drew himself up to his full five feet four inches and said:
"Well aa'll tell ye what. Ye stick to sellin' fish and aa'll stick to taking bets, then we'll both get a living.
Peace was restored.
Policing in the '50s and
'60s