THINGS have come to a pretty pass when, as reported in Tuesday’s finance pages, the only source of optimism on the Irish Stock Exchange was “a good set of numbers from Paddy Power”.
No harm to Paddy. I’m happy for him. It’s a relief to know somebody still has a good set of numbers. Even so, the company’s recession-proof performance – it still plans to open more branches rather than close any – confirms a worrying suspicion I’ve had for some time: that bookmakers and bankers are gradually changing places.
This hasn’t happened literally yet, so far as I know. That is, I’m not aware of a case where a bookie’s shop has moved into a premises formerly occupied by a bank, or vice versa. But the general drift is in that direction.
It’s not so long ago that bookmakers were hidden down the side-streets of Irish towns, forced to operate behind blacked out windows and the code-name “turf accountants”, lest the public find out what was really happening in there and be led astray.
Since then, most have moved on to Main Street, where they occupy shiny new premises and sit confidently alongside the banks. The question now is how long the banks – none of which has a good set of numbers these days – can afford to remain there.
The latest giant stride in the bookies’ march to respectability coincides with a period when the financial services sector is heading the opposite way, just as rapidly. If current trends continue, the banks will soon be in the side streets, blacking out their windows and operating under a euphemism.
To some extent, the bookmakers moved into the mainstream by mimicking high finance. The advent of spread betting, for example, where punters “buy” or “sell” projections for anything from Ireland’s points total in the Six Nations to the length of Sebastian Chabal’s beard in France’s next game, lent sports betting the veneer of commodities trading.
And at the same time as this was happening, financiers were being being rebranded as straightforward gamblers. It became common in recent years to hear about bankers making “bets”. Maybe financiers have always talked this way about their investments and I’ve only noticed it of late, when all the bets were losing ones.
But from Nick Leeson to Anglo-Irish, a succession of financial disasters has undermined the once popular notion that your banker knew what he was doing, while making the option of putting all your money on a three-legged horse at Fairyhouse instead look relatively sensible. Jumps racing is just another kind of hedge fund, when you think about it.
Wrestling with its own horrendous set of numbers, the Government will hardly take much comfort in the bookmakers’ success, although it could certainly claim some credit. During the boom years, you could have called an emergency cabinet meeting in the parade ring of any big race meeting. On a bad day, there would still be enough for a sub-committee.
When politicians weren’t backing horses, they were backing themselves. And if the media weren’t always invited to the placing of the bet, they would certainly be invited if the bet was cashed in. I remember attending just such an occasion after the 2002 election when, against all odds – or at least those of Paddy Power – Mary Harney produced a betting docket predicting that the PDs would win eight seats.
To most observers beforehand, such a prospect was the political equivalent of the three-legged horse. Suspicions lingered that the PDs had dockets predicting several other results too. Even so, Harney’s collection of her winnings generated more media excitement than the arrival of Charlie Bucket at Willie Wonka’s chocolate factory. You could almost hear the bookies singing that line from Abba’s Waterloo: “I feel like I win when I lose.” Despite all the help they enjoyed in their rise, the bookmakers’ feat in portraying themselves as the punter’s friend is still perhaps the greatest public relations success of our time.
In an era when bankers are invited on air only to apologise or to say how big their pay cuts are, no radio programme is now complete without a slot involving an amiable bookie – usually putting up the money for a charity bet and, inter alia, offering free advice to the public on how to impoverish him. Generous as his odds are to start with, he can nearly always have his arm twisted to add a point or two in the name of a good cause. He will do this with the air of a man who knows he’s a soft touch, but can’t help it because he came down in the last shower.
As I write, the build-up to the Cheltenham Festival is under way and with it the phenomenon of “preview nights” all around the country. These are a bit like the foreign property seminars we used to have during the boom, albeit with a wider range of opinions about the products on offer. Panels comprising trainers, owners, jockeys, celebrity gamblers and the odd journalist assess each race and predict the winners and losers, as punters avidly take notes.
The friendly bookie will be there too, outlining his range of attractive investment options. He may even chip in with his own tips, and these will be at least as good as anyone else’s. But he can always offer them safe in the knowledge that, although he may lose a few bob here and there, in the long run the numbers will look after themselves.