When it comes to punting, I pride myself on being rational. I’m quite smug about it, if I’m honest. Being asked by a friend to pick up a winning bet from a betting shop earlier this year, then, was a self-congratulatory experience: surrounded by such irrationality, it was hard not to be conceited.
But it was depressing, too. Folk shuffling back-and-forth between the counter and their chairs: a steady stream of money-they-couldn’t-afford being handed to the Customer Services Manager.