Marten Julian’s Weekly Roundup 19 January 2026

On hearing a racing journalist say in passing that he started his career as a board boy in a betting shop it brought back memories of my early days in the same role.

I actually started as a board boy at the age of 16, under the legal age I know, and I can remember most of the shops I worked in. There were the independents … Reg Pitt in South Croydon, a Ladbrokes in the Elephant and Castle, one in Caterham and my first was one of a couple owned by Ronald Lowe in Norbury, South London.

I can recall with great clarity, on his occasional appearance in the shop, the impression Mr Lowe made on me at the time. Blonde hair … it may have been dyed … gold bling around his wrists and always wearing, whatever the weather, a light linen suit. And, of course, always tanned. Looking back there was something of the latter-day Rod Stewart about him, although this was in the late-60s, when Rod would have been in his ‘mod’ period.

Ronald Lowe was the stereotypical image of ostentatious wealth, especially to a 16-year-old vicar’s son from a home where every penny mattered.

I also remember vividly something common to all the shops that I worked in … the look on the faces of the punters as they came in at the end of the day to scour the board to see if their selections were marked up in red … the colour of the felt tip allocated to winners. It was the look of hope and expectation, swiftly followed by a positive lunge forward, betting slip stretched out towards the counter, or a sharp about turn back to the door, aware that their look of ignominy had not gone unnoticed by the staff.

Of course there were ‘characters’, although these days many of them would score high marks in the problem gambling severity index.

There was Bill … we never knew his real name … who invariably greeted you with the words “lend us a deuce, Bill.” He called everyone Bill, was always short and … here’s the rub … he worked for a bank!

There was a guy in the South Croydon shop next to the Red Lion pub who we named Bob the Bok, such was his knack at finding losers. There was one occasion when all the regulars, to a man, tore up their tickets as he approached the counter to back the same horse. It lost, odds-on I recall.

I loved Mondays because we used to cover the first race at Ally Pally … invariably won by Sandy Barclay for Noel Murless … as that earned me a little overtime.

Then I could go on about the commentaries, which often bore little relation to the actual race. The Extel voice seldom provided any descriptive insight to the job, although I do remember him describing Mill Reef winning the Gimcrack Stakes in ‘a canter.’

I realised the amount of artistic licence adopted on my first visit to Lingfield, where you could stand in front of the betting shop outside board and simultaneously look behind your shoulder at the live action. The gap between the actual race and the commentary seemed an eternity … just imagine how the in-running boys with their drones would have cleaned up today.

At a shop in Chinatown I saw the club owners arrive at the same time each afternoon, betting in tens and twenties, and leaving a large chunk of any winnings behind on the counter for the pretty girl behind the grill. I think it was her day job.

Yes, they were formative years but I’m not sure the current betting shop environment would offer such a bountiful apprenticeship.

Bye for now

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