GAMBLING IN THE SNOW

I sat down twice last week to write something and then ended up writing about something else.  I wonder what it is I originally intended to write.  Do you ever do that?  Sit down to rant about something and then find yourself starting to write something else?  That's what comes of having so much to say that's important and world-changing I suppose.

I think I was going to comment on the boom in online gambling in this country.  Of course telephone gambling has been around for a while.  I believe betting on anything other than a set number of sports is still illegal in the States.  Here, you can bet on anything.  And I think it's legal for Americans to bet in the UK.  When I was working in London almost 20 years ago, I needed to keep abreast of public mood in the US during the Presidential elections.  One good indicator was the telephone betting from the States on one or other candidate.  I had a contact in one of the betting companies, through whom I 'knew' before many others that Clinton was going to win comfortably.

But the advent of mobile phone betting has transformed the industry.  I was going to say how interesting I found it that casino gambling is promoted by attractive young ladies, but football and poker is promoted by rugged males.  Bingo on the other hand is promoted by suggesting that there is some sort of fun community involved.  The truth is that it's a lonely old game - you lose your money in sad isolation, not in company with partying friends, or rugged men, and certainly not attractive females (family excepted of course).  Anyway, that's presumably the demographic - mature men gamble on football and poker, women on bingo, and young men on roulette.  The only issue here (apart from the morality of inducing people to gamble away their money) is that it appears to be legal to advertise on TV before 9pm.  I was trying to watch the Africa Cup of Nations this afternoon and was constantly bombarded with ads for gambling.  So kids are exposed to these ads too.

There has been an extraordinary increase in the gambling industry, perhaps underlined by all the ads.  If you watch football on TV, almost every ad is for gambling.  During early evening TV, most ads are for bingo sites.  And so on.  So no surprise to learn that Brits now spend £2b on online gambling (I'm not sure about the period of that payment, perhaps this is just the value of the industry?) and that there are now 500, 000 addicts.

Anyway, that's what I was going to comment on.  Despite the £2b industry, and the 1m people at risk of addiction, advertising has become even more seductive and frequent and earlier.  I don't know anything about the millions who do gamble online, but I suspect there are many young and many who can't really afford it.

I was also going to post some pics of my road.  Here are a couple and one on the main road.  I thought they were pretty.

 

 

 

I haven't, in the process, mentioned my holiday.  I'll try too post something later.

NOT MISS SNOW

OK, so coming home this morning wasn't the best timing.  After a week, where the only matter requiring serious effort was deciding which open air cafe to sit in for a coffee/beer (if you exclude the apparently allied problems of which top goes with which sandals and 'does my bum look big in these?'), we then come back to the one week when the entire country is paralysed by snow.

I had sort of expected to arrive here just as the neighbours were beginning to emerge, like hibernating bears, scratching themselves and lumbering off to Tescos for fresh supplies of honey.  All I can say is that they had at least cleared the snow from our road, so that, when we eventually reached home, I could roll straight into my drive (they hadn't cleared my drive, but they had allowed me to gain enough momentum to plough my way in).  Actually, I was able to reverse back out again this morning when we went down to Tescos to restock with sausages, shortbread biscuits, honey, etc.  We'll be OK now if we get cut off in fresh snow falls.

But here's the sight that greeted us at Fuerteventura airport when we checked in at 6pm:

 

Yes, we were headed to London.  Not taking the flight to Liverpool, which was leaving on time; not to Dublin (or Hanover for that matter) which were boarding, nor to Manchester, which left only a little delayed.  So a bit of a wait.  In fact, it became quite exciting.  Fuerteventura airport closes down at 11pm and our flight hadn't actually left UK, four hours away, by 7pm.  At 8, we were told that the flight had taken off and that, if it could arrive and leave before 12, we would be away.  So a nail-biting few hours (which I spent rather pleasantly in the bar - why should I fret about being unable to leave this balmy island paradise?).

Anyway, the plane landed at 11.15 to the combined cheers of the assembled observers, rather like the way passengers onboard Aeroflot flights cheer when the pilot manages to land safely (the next flight was due out at 7am, so only our fellow passengers were sitting there) and we began boarding immediately.  And, with a bit of a fudge of ICAO cleaning requirements (and not much of a stopover for the crew), we taxied out at 11.55, fully loaded, and took off without delay.

It was similarly an easy journey at this end (if a few hours later than we intended) with main roads cleared of snow and not so many other cars around at 4 in the morning.  And here we are -  bronzed and poorly camouflaged against the snow drifts, feeling the 25 degree difference in temperature, but health and morale improved after the break, and enjoying the reversion to wholesome, filling stews and root veg soups.  Yes, on balance, it's good to be back.

And not only that, as we hunker down in front of a roaring fire, wondering whether we should be feeling guilty about not going out - the Africa Cup of Nations tournament has just started . . .

SNOW FUN

Here we go with another series of blogs with titles punning on the word 'snow'.  Actually, I hope we aren't going to have that; not because of the writing you understand, but because I don't want all the misery of all that white stuff again.

I had to go up to London yesterday.  We have had a house guest for the last 2 weeks and I offered to travel with her up to London and get her and her suitcase onto a taxi.  One of the sad features of travel in this country is that there is hardly any provision on trains or in stations for travellers with suitcases.  If you arrive at a mainline station in London and want to pop into the toilet, how do you get your suitcase down all the stairs that lead to the inevitably subterranean, and misnamed, conveniences?  And what do you do with your suitcase while you use the facilities?  And, even before that, where do you put your suitcase on the train?  If you are going to an airport, you inevitably have to travel on the train when it is packed to the gunnels with commuters.  I once went to Heathrow on the train.  Lovely to have an underground train that speeds you to the airport, but by the time I had stood on trains and lugged my suitcase around for a couple of hours, I had had enough.  Next time taxi! I promised myself.

Anyway, yesterday, first thing in the morning, it decided to snow.  Fearing problems on the road, we arranged for a taxi to collect us and take us to the station.  Fearing problems on the railways, we set off at 10.15, instead of 12.15.

The roads were fine.  Actually the journey to London was OK; we caught the 10.15 train from Haslemere which arrived at the station at 10.45 and reached London before 12.00.  Not too late, although perhaps I should have been suspicious at that stage that things would only get worse.  But it had actually stopped snowing by 09.30 and it hadn't laid anyway, the roads were clear and dry.  Unfortunately, it had obviously been the wrong sort of snow.

We had a coffee at Waterloo to warm ourselves up and I put my friend onto a taxi, with suitcase, at about 12.30.  I then took advantage of being in the Big City by going to Oxford Street and doing some Christmas shopping.  I wanted to find something appropriate for She Who Enjoys Aerobics.  Eventually, in Lillywhites, I found just the thing - they were selling off sports socks at half price.

Anyway, that's a digression.  Having finished all my Christmas shopping for this year, I got back to Waterloo at 1.30 to take the train back home, only to discover that there were no trains on the indicator board stopping at Haslemere.  There was no explanation for this.  There were two of my usual trains departing within the next hour, but both missed out my station.  I went to the information desk and asked their advice.  They rather helpfully suggested I didn't go to Haslemere.  There are trains to Woking and Guildford,  I pointed out.  'Might I be able to board a train from there to Haslemere?'  'No idea', was the sympathetic response.

I know we ask this every year, but how does this happen?  And given that the smallest and shortest-lived dusting of snow imaginable can totally knock out the entire rail network of Britain (well, Haslemere anyway), why can they not be prepared and able to rectify the problem?  And maybe more to the point - why doesn't the information desk know anything or have any advice? 

I bought myself a sandwich and stood there for half an hour watching trains going everywhere but Haslemere.  Eventually, I decided to take the train to Guildford.  At the worst, She Who Will Receive a Rather Fetching Pair of Socks for Christmas could come and pick me up.  Then, just as I was entering the platform, Haslemere appeared on the list of stations at which the Guildford train intended to stop.  I jumped on exultantly.  But an hour later, at Guildford, the conductor (or driver, not the lady who speaks the names of the stations anyway - she was still saying 'the next station is Haslemere') announced that the train wouldn't after all stop at Haslemere.  Again, no idea why not.

As I got off the train, a station employee (guard?) was waving everyone onto the train on the next platform - 'all stations to Portsmouth.  Hurry!'  So I boarded that.  'This train stops at Southsea', assured the lady over the tannoy.  'Actually it goes to Portsmouth Harbour,' contradicted the conductor (or driver).  I quite thought the female announcer was going to start arguing a la Airplane! 'Oh no it's not; it's going to Southsea!'. 

But it did stop at Haslemere.  So it took an hour to go to London, but it took 3 hours to return home.  And still I don't really know why.

Ah well, in 2 weeks time the days will start to get longer and it'll be spring soon after.