Big Barry Langdon and Battery eyed Bob.
I first Met Big Barry Langdon when I was stopping on a local authority Gypsy site at North Anston nr Dinnington in South Yorkshire. I would have been about 17 at the time.
Barry Lived 2 or 3 miles away on a rough housing estate called the White City at Laughton Common, but he spent a lot of time mooching around the Gypsy site. He always had his finger in some or other unsavory pie, or a "Get rich quick" scheme that required finance, or some hooky goods to sell. I suppose in his mind he saw the Gypsies as some kind of kindred spirits.
He saw himself as a gangster, but in reality he was just a petty crook, a thug and a bully.
You know the type, you've see him a thousand times. 6ft-ish, bald, or with close cropped hair, sliced loaf neck, well muscled, but running to fat, poor quality tattoos, collarless teeshirt, (fag packet up sleeve) tracky bottoms and trainers in all weathers.
He is never wrong, but he wins all his arguments by shouting louder than anyone else. Every other word he uses is a swear word, and he thinks that breaking wind loudly in public is not only acceptable, but is actually enhanced by the fact that he is holding someones head close to his bottom, (I know, I was that soldier) or by a tough guy comment along the lines of "Gerrout and walk, you bastard."
Barry was dispicable, and to me as a 17 year old, he was also quite scary. (Especially when he shouted, or got me in an armlock, or sat on my head and farted) but, he did have one redeeming feature. He used to play snooker for money, and I could beat him at snooker....
If you wanted to play big Barry at snooker, you first had to coax him out of the bookies.
In those days, betting shops seemed to me to be pretty grim places, and the one in Laughton Common was no exception. A shabby brick shell containing one small drab windowless room. There were newspapers on the walls, a stark wooden bench in the middle of the floor, a solitary speaker that hissed and crackled above your head, and a high counter topped by stout iron railings.
There seemed to be two kinds of people in the betting shop. The ones who had money to bet with, but no idea what would win the next race. They studied the newspapers intently. Then there were the ones who had no money to bet with. They knew exactly what was going to win the next race, and they paced around the room in ever increasing panic as the start time drew near.
If their selection didn't win, they would just move on to the next race, just as convinced as before that they could predict the result, but if it did win, they would spend the next few hours saying "I told you so" " didn't I tell you?" and generally cursing their bad luck in losing their money before (apparently) they suddenly knew everything.
For some reason that I never could fathom, it was against the law for the punters to watch a TV while they were in the bookies. They could have a bet and then go home and watch the race on their own telly, or they could listen to someone describing the action on the crackly speaker. but they couldn't watch a TV in the bookies.
I could be wrong, but I think it was illegal for bookies to provide drinks, food, padded seats, or creature comforts of any description, even the most basic ones like a toilet and washbasin.
Once they got to know me though, I became privy to a secret. when a televised race started, a lookout would be posted on the door and then 20 or 30 punters would squeeze behind the counter to watch a tiny little black and white portable TV.
I used to squeeze behind the counter too. Not because I had had a bet, but because I wanted to cheer Big Barry Langdon's horse on. (I think I wanted it to win even more than he did). In fact, the only two people who didn't squeeze behind the counter during a race were the lookout and one other.
Battery eyed Bob didn't like to move if he didn't have to. One look at him and you would understand why. He just couldn't spare the energy...
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