The Death of Bookmaking

There was a time when bookmakers were legends—fearless, thick-skinned warriors who took on all comers, sweating bullets and biting their nails as the punters closed in. Bookmaking was a game of risk, a gladiatorial contest where knowledge, instinct, and the occasional longshot could turn the tables on the bookmaker. Names like William Hill, John Banks, and Stephen Little are etched into betting lore not just because they offered odds, but because they had the guts to stand behind them.

Fast forward to today, and the art of bookmaking has become as inspiring as a wet Sunday in Grimsby. The new generation of bookmakers has surgically extracted the soul of the sport, injected it with a dose of corporate spin, and wrapped it in a veneer of “responsible gambling” to hide the fact that they’ve become the dullest, most risk-averse operators you could imagine. Gone are the thrilling battles between punter and bookie. Now, it’s more of a tap on the shoulder followed by: “You’ve had a flutter, old chap. Don’t overdo it. Oh, and by the way, no more bets for you.”

Today’s bookmakers don’t want competition. They don’t want clever punters. They don’t want Alan Potts, Patrick Veitch, or Barney Curley sniffing around their odds, poking holes in their markets. They want losers, and they want them on a conveyor belt, reliably depositing their money and keeping the lights on. And if, by some miracle, you happen to win—well, enjoy your £2 maximum stake and your restricted account. This isn’t bookmaking anymore; it’s just financial hygiene.

From Grit to Guilelessness: The Rise of the Corporate Bookmaker

Let’s talk about the real bookmakers of old. William Hill wasn’t just a name above a shop window—he was a man who relished the battle. He’d give you a decent price, take a few losses on the chin, and then come back for more. John Banks? A character who thought nothing of taking on the sharpest punters in the game. He didn’t shy away from risk; he embraced it. Stephen Little? The man would bet you on the likelihood of snow in July if you had the nerve to take him on. These were men with grit. Real bookmakers. People who saw betting for what it was: a glorious mix of guts, skill, and calculated madness.

Now? Now we’ve got Simon Clare, Coral’s smooth-talking PR man, who could probably sell ice to Eskimos—except, of course, they’d be told after the transaction that only certain kinds of Eskimos are allowed to buy ice, and preferably only those who can be guaranteed to melt it. Clare’s job isn’t to take risks. No, no—he’s here to polish the image of Coral as a “responsible” bookmaker. And in today’s sanitized world of corporate betting, “responsible” means one thing: don’t let anyone win.

The genius behind Clare’s PR spin is that it makes Coral seem like a caring guardian of the punters, all the while quietly strangling the life out of anyone who dares to make a profit. It’s like being invited to a party, handed a drink, and then immediately being shown the door because you didn’t spill it all over yourself within the first 10 minutes. You want to win? You’ll be shown the exit. Clare and his colleagues have perfected this delicate PR two-step: they talk about fairness, transparency, and “responsible gambling,” while behind the scenes, they’re working hard to ensure that the only person making a killing is them.

And they’re not alone. Pat Cooney over at Bet365 has mastered the same act. He pops up on preview shows with that carefully rehearsed affability, providing odds and market updates like he’s handing out Christmas presents. But Cooney’s real job isn’t to educate punters—it’s to keep them on the hook, reeling them in just enough to get them to part with their cash before quietly slashing their stakes to oblivion when they start winning. It’s the PR equivalent of putting a lock on the cookie jar while telling the kids to “enjoy the snacks.”

The Hope of Winning: Surgically Extracted

What happens when you take the hope of winning out of betting? It’s like removing the drum solo from a rock concert, or serving pizza without cheese—pointless. The real thrill of racing was always the idea that you could outsmart the bookmaker. That by studying the form, watching the ground, reading the conditions, and spotting value, you might just walk away with the prize.

But today? The hope of winning has been surgically extracted from the sport with all the clinical precision of a bored surgeon performing an appendectomy. In its place, we’ve got a betting industry that doesn’t want to risk losing a penny. These new-age bookies want punters to lose consistently, and they’ve made sure that anyone with half a brain who might tilt the odds in their favour is quickly “dealt with.” The game is rigged, plain and simple. Winning? Don’t bother.

You think you’re clever because you found value in the 3.45 at Newbury? Think again. The bookmakers’ algorithms have already flagged you as a threat, and by the time your next bet comes around, you’ll be lucky if you can stake more than a fiver. Winning in today’s world of betting is like winning a game of chess where the opponent has changed the rules halfway through and removed half of your pieces without telling you.

PR Puppets and Racing’s Silent Media

And where’s the media in all of this? Surely Nick Luck, Angus McNae, and Matt Chapman, racing’s high-profile pundits, should be calling out the bookmakers on their scandalous behaviour? Nope. They’re too busy clinking champagne glasses in the Royal Enclosure, happily basking in the glow of bookmaker sponsorships. Their jobs rely on the same bookies they should be scrutinising, so naturally, they’re as silent as the losing punters they pretend to represent.

Nick Luck? He’s not about to bite the hand that feeds him. After all, a bit of bookmaker cash keeps the lights on at racing channels, so why would he rock the boat? Angus McNae? Same story. Both should be raging about how bookmakers are systematically shutting down the pros—the Alan Potts, Patrick Veitches, and Barney Curleys who used to bring excitement and sharpness to the sport. But instead, they’re happy to parrot bookmaker odds and market prices while the real action—the winners being silenced—is ignored.

Meanwhile, the Simons Clares and Pat Cooneys of the world sit back, happy in the knowledge that their carefully constructed image as “responsible” bookmakers is going unchallenged by a complacent, PR-addicted media.

A Sport for Losers, Built by Losers

And so, we’re left with a sport that’s been surgically transformed into a playground for losers. The bookmakers only want one kind of punter: the one who comes back for more, even though they’re losing. They want the guy who places a few bets for the thrill of it, knowing full well that they’re on the losing end, but happy enough to keep donating to the cause. And it’s a cause that serves the bookmakers, and only the bookmakers.

The thrill of outwitting the bookies? Gone. The hope of walking away with a big win? Forget it. We’re now in a world where the bookmakers have set up shop as glorified casinos, rigging the game so completely that punters are simply there to lose. The professional punter has been all but eradicated—Alan Potts, Patrick Veitch, Barney Curley, and the other legends of old are a fading memory. The sharp punters who used to give bookies sleepless nights are now left banging on doors that will never open again.

What’s left? A sport that’s been drained of its excitement, its risk, its fun. Racing without the hope of winning is like watching a soap opera where you already know the ending—and spoiler alert: it’s a tragedy. Bookmakers have won the short game, but in their pursuit of a risk-free, guaranteed profit, they’ve killed the golden goose. Racing has become a sport for losers, built by losers, where everyone is welcome—just so long as they never, ever win.