Gambling Reform Summit: Where Bingo Meets the Book of Revelation

Only in Britain could a summit on gambling reform feature Lord Foster of Bath, Clive Tyldesley, Alexis Conran, Iain Duncan Smith, Dawn Butler and a smattering of grieving families, campaigners, and psychologists. It was like a cross between a church service, a daytime talk show, and a very grim episode of Match of the Day.

The great irony is that this industry wasn’t felled by some mighty blow from government or the church. It died of incompetence—shuffling around Westminster like a drunk punter trying to find the exit in Ladbrokes. And at the Gambling Reform Summit, we finally saw the vultures gather: campaigners crowing, racing cutting loose, and the Treasury rubbing its hands like a bookie on Grand National day.

Lord Foster took to the podium with all the solemnity of a vicar at a funeral, reminding us that gambling ruins lives, destroys families, and makes politicians look like they care about something other than their second homes. His message: reform must happen, and suicides must be reduced. Stirring stuff—until you realise he was saying it to a room of people who already agreed with him. It was less a debate, more a group therapy session with better biscuits.

The Total Consumption Revelation

Professor Wardle rolled out the Total Consumption Model, a fancy way of saying “more gambling equals more harm.” It’s the sort of “insight” so obvious it makes you wonder if the government paid for it in instalments. Imagine standing in Greggs and declaring: “Yes, mate, fewer sausage rolls really would help.”

Yet in Whitehall this passes for radical thinking. It’s treated as divine revelation by mandarins who still think “Fruit Machine” is a healthy breakfast option. The real kicker? Even if the industry wrapped itself in more safety nets than a trapeze artist, the model says it’s still a failure. That’s like calling every brewery a crime scene because, shock horror, it sells beer.

Dawn Butler: Betting Shops as Plague

Labour backbencher Dawn Butler got in on the act, sounding the alarm about betting shops spreading across high streets like a biblical plague of locusts. She wants councils to have the power to stop them. Which is noble, but a touch naive. Councils can’t even stop Greggs multiplying, never mind betting shops. If her plan succeeds, expect a future where every high street is just vape shops, nail salons, and one big Aldi.

But Butler’s rhetoric—that gambling is a “public health emergency”—was music to the ears of the gathered crusaders. There’s nothing a campaigner likes more than the phrase “public health emergency.” It lets them wag their fingers with all the smugness of someone who’s never bought a scratchcard in their life.

Zarb-Cousin: The Industry’s Personal Poltergeist

Into this steps Matt Zarb-Cousin: the ex-addict turned moral spectre, with the badge of honour of turning £20k to zero with the self control of a hungry labrador with a sausage roll. To the industry, he’s the lodger from hell—always popping up in the kitchen, rearranging the fridge and lecturing everyone about self-control. He’s everywhere: Racing TV, podcasts, Westminster roundtables. Greyhound racing should be culled but horses are great based on invented statistics.

His masterstroke? Convincing horse racing—the respectable uncle of gambling, all tweed and binoculars—to ditch its chain-smoking, slot-spinning cousin. Racing was always wheeled out as the fig leaf for the industry; now it’s running off to shack up with reformers. An industry easily bought off without a credible strategy.

They’ve been sold a Brexit moment: sovereignty, dignity, a new dawn. What they haven’t been told is sovereignty doesn’t pay for jockeys’ silk trousers, never mind champagne in the owners’ tent. It’s all very noble until you realise the casinos were paying for the bar tab. His party trick is to split off and neutralise racing whilst taking aim of hitting gambling hard, any gambling.

The Treasury’s Jackpot

And then there’s the Treasury. Britain’s finances are so broken they’d tax oxygen if voters would stand for it. Rachel Reeves has spotted gambling as the perfect target: politically toxic, morally dubious, and conveniently profitable.

So we’re told a 35% tax on “high harm” products is about “reducing harm.” In truth, it’s about raising cash. The Social Market Foundation even floated 50% to soften the ground—classic Westminster theatre. Demand the neighbour’s wife and car so you can “compromise” on borrowing his lawnmower.

And to keep racing sweet? A sweetheart carve-out. Lower base tax, plus a “Racing Duty,” funnelled straight back to the sport. This isn’t policy. It’s bribery with extra paperwork.

The Christians’ Selective Outrage

Hovering around the summit were the Christian lobbyists, polishing their haloes and declaring gambling a plague upon the nation. To them, slot machines are the devil’s work, casinos are Babylon, and problem gamblers are lost souls to be sermonised over.

But note the hypocrisy. Bingo is exempt. Bingo, they insist, is “community.” When Ethel in Barnsley loses her pension at Gala, it’s fellowship. When Darren in Dagenham does the same on online roulette, it’s sin. Why? Because bingo halls smell of instant coffee and Battenberg, not neon lights and Essex.

And let’s not forget: every church fête runs on gambling. Tombolas, raffles, “guess the weight of the fruitcake.” Apparently God is fine with games of chance—so long as the prize is a jar of jam, not cash.

The BGC: A Political Masterclass in Losing

The Betting & Gaming Council, meanwhile, spent the last two years barking at shadows on Twitter. They thought the fight was about PR—stats, memes, and press releases—while campaigners were building relationships in Westminster pubs. It’s like bringing a Snapchat filter to a knife fight.

One insider compared them to a PR agency trying to run a political campaign with nothing but LinkedIn posts. Which is unfair—to LinkedIn. At least LinkedIn gets read.

The result? The industry has been outmanoeuvred at every turn. The BGC now looks about as politically useful as an inflatable dartboard.

Gordon Brown: From Gold Salesman to Prophet

As if things weren’t humiliating enough, Gordon Brown reappeared. Yes, Gordon “Prudence” Brown—the man who sold off the nation’s gold at bargain-basement prices—now preaches that gambling taxes should end child poverty. That’s like a fox arguing he’s best placed to guard the henhouse because he’s good at redistributing chickens.

But Westminster swooned. Reeves applauded. The APPGs nodded along. If even Gordon is telling you you’re finished, you may as well switch off the lights.

The Black Market Boogeyman

The industry’s last defence is the black market. Raise taxes too much, they argue, and punters will flee to dodgy websites run out of Cyprus or your cousin’s garage in Doncaster. And they’re right—it’s happening already.

But campaigners dismiss this as scaremongering, insisting stricter regulation will solve it. It’s magical thinking at its finest. Like saying shoplifting disappears if Waitrose makes quiche less tempting.

Racing’s Champagne Brexit

Racing is already feeling the consequences. Flutter pulled its sponsorship of ITV’s Champions: Full Gallop (possibly the most middle-class TV title in history), and more operators will follow. Yes, racing may get its lower tax rate, but without casino money, the champagne at Cheltenham will start tasting like Aldi Prosecco. The Bookies are fleeing racing, at least their advertising has dried up, which means the marketing arm of racing is now redundant.

This, we’re told, is racing’s “Brexit moment.” Which is apt: all sovereignty, no solvency, and the dawning realisation you’ve just cut ties with the only neighbour who actually paid your bills or we now have the Ex husband paying alimony until the new media rights deal, if there is a deal.

Conclusion: Betting on Misery

And so, Britain congratulates itself once again. The campaigners declare victory. The Christians polish their halos. The Treasury counts the receipts. And racing pretends it’s won independence while its sponsors sneak out the back door.

The licensed sector will continue to shrink. The black market and anti gambling grifting will grow. Suicides won’t stop. And the only thing Britain will have achieved is another great act of national self-harm disguised as moral progress.

Because in this country, gambling is always a sin—unless it’s bingo with tea, or a Christian lottery, a church raffle for a Victoria sponge. Jesus saves. The Treasury, as ever, prefers slots and gambles heavily in the bond markets like any addict hooked on debt chasing losses.