The old man has an uncanny knack of being able to walk into a betting shop and place money on a horse that is destined to come in second. Unfortunately he always bets that the horse will come in first.
Over the years money has been regularly siphoned out of our modest rented prefab abode and into the splendid detached house owned by the There Is One Born Every Minute bookmaker. The old man remains serenely philosophical about the financial costs exacted by horse race betting on our domestic economy and says it is "just a bit of fun." It certainly is a bit of fun for the bookmaker.
On Saturday mornings the oldman joins a small platoon of betting enthusiasts in either the Saracen's Head, the Green Tree, the Empire Bar or (more often than not) Smith's Wine Vaults. At half hour intervals eighty-six year old Harold - the oldest and physically most precarious member of the group - is hurriedly dispatched to the There Is One Born Every Minute bookies with a clutch of betting slips shaking in his trembling hands. A quotation from Immanuel Kant has been painted on one of the walls of the betting shop:

It frequently happens that a man delivers his opinions with so much boldness and assurance that he appears to be under no apprehension as to the possibility of error. The offer of a bet startles him, and makes him pause.

(There are not many startled pauses in Smith's Wine Vaults).

Once we were awoken from our late afternoon slumbers by an enormous thud against the front door. It was followed by the spectacular sight of the old man dragging a brand new multi-layered Persian carpet into the sitting room. His system had 'worked' again - the chosen horse had come in second - but this time the 'winning' horse had been disqualified.
Even a modest sized win by a member of the Smith's Wine Vaults platoon triggers a switch into nostalgia mode. The group's founders - Arthur, Monty, and Harold - will recall the momentous day when the entire wad of Jim Smith's rent money was placed on a rank outsider called Rent Boy which - of course - won by a mile. The majority of horse race betters dream of 'A Big Win' which will enable them to sup ale not just on Saturdays but on week-day afternoons as well. However the Smith's Wine Vaults platoon takes a more balanced and pragmatic stance. They dream of a sequence of modest wins which will leave their existing style of life essentially undisturbed but provide them with an extra helping of largesse.
Arthur is a postman, Monty a hospital porter, and Jim a civil servant ('industrial grade'). Whenever a referee's name is required for some official form 'civil servant (industrial grade)' comes to the rescue. For the last thirty years Jim Smith has worked at a top secret Ministry of Defence underground arms depot (unmarked on any maps) that lies six miles to the east of Bath. It has been designated as a reserve bunker for key Government personnel in the event of a nuclear attack. During the second world war Jim Smith was taken to one side by the authorities and warned to "watch his step." His hard-heeled shoes always make a piercing rat-tat-tat sound as he paces corridors and pavements - you can hear his approach a mile off - and he had been half expecting to be told that the noise of his heels had been getting on the authorities' wick. In fact the infuriating rat-tat-tat sounds did not even get a mention. The severe reprimand he was given was for making remarks about the German origins of the Royal Family.
Before moving into his present flat in inner city Walcot (his neighbours are newcomers from the Caribbean) Jim Smith lived on the grand Blackway Estate which overlooks Twiverton. On Saturday mornings he would rat-tat-tat his way down the hill, call into our prefab for a smoke and a cup of tea, and then head off towards one of the neighbouring town's watering holes. Prior to taking his "egress" (as Laurel and Hardy like to say) he would remove a shiny silver coin from a trouser pocket and place it in the palm of my hand with a resounding "and the best of luck!" This sequence became as predictable as the water butt filling up after a heavy downpour of rain. However a Saturday morning arrived when Jim Smith donned his overcoat and was half way out of the back door without a backwards glance or even a hint of giving the obligatory cash donation. Custom and precedent cannot be flouted in this way! He even had the nerve to look offended when I shouted out "Got any money then!"
Despite this faux-pas Jim Smith continues to allow his name to be used as a referee or witness in any 'official applications. He is one of the few people known in our circle who holds the coveted 'professional' (albeit industrial grade) status that the authorities require. The Dublin-born Jim Smith also acts as a referee/witness on Britain's political record in Ireland. Drinkers in Smith's Wine Vaults have learned a lot about the dark side of Oliver Cromwell and the atrocities carried out at Drogheda and Wexford in 1649. "For people in Ireland these events took place just three
lifespans ago !" he says. (He was using the Twiverton "one life span = one hundred years rule"). Once Jack Paisley from Belfast looked into Smith's Wine Vaults and there was an acrimonious debate which had glasses clinking nervously on the bar. According to Paisley Cromwell's actions had been "reprisals" for the massacres of 1641 when thousands of Anglo-Scottish Protestant settlers had been slaughtered).
You might think that someone like Jim Smith would be inclined to empathise with the plight of other peoples who have been subjected to the torments of colonial domination. But it never seems to work like that. The downtrodden get akick out of keeping others who are downtrodden downtrodden.
"Pass over the race page and pipe down!" said the old man in the Empire Bar after Jim Smith's talk about his inner city neighbours had taken a turn for the worse. "Or I will put a pound on that horse called Oliver Cromwell!"