The machines that ate my life

Forget super-casinos: worry about the brash "virtual roulette" in the high street

Three days ago, I got paid and put all my money into a machine in a Coral's betting shop around the corner from where I live. I didn't mean to. I didn't want to. But I did. It's called a "virtual roulette" machine; the gaming industry calls it a "fixed-odds betting terminal", or FOBT. Walk into any bookies in the country and you'll see several, all with the sounds and effects of a real roulette wheel, usually with a crowd around them. It took less than an hour to lose my money. I walked home, sat in front of my window and wept. Occasionally, the word "probation" crossed my mind and I found myself slamming the window sill.

That is the word that our Secretary of State for Culture, Tessa Jowell, used during the second reading of the Gambling Bill in November to describe how the government views the 20,000 unregulated roulette machines that have been in betting shops up and down the country since 2001. Frankly, it was nothing more than an aside. Last month, during the third reading, she didn't even mention them. The remainder of her speech - indeed, the rest of the near-six-hour debate - concentrated mainly on the issue of deregulating casinos.

This is nothing new. Over the past several months, I have listened to politicians, journalists, editors, bishops, social workers, experts, members of the public and even a "professor of gambling" talking or writing about the consequences of relaxing the gambling regulations. Talk has centred on the so-called super-casinos and fears that this country is about to be turned into Las Vegas. The debates on the Gambling Bill have followed the same pattern.

Why is no one talking about this or showing what is happening? This government has already relaxed the gaming laws to such an extent that there are now thousands of "mini-casinos" in the country, and each one houses one or more of these roulette machines - a far more addictive and lethal game than anything you will find at a "proper" casino.

Put simply, you can now walk up any high street, in any town, on any day of the week, at ten o'clock in the morning, and be able to feed - literally feed - anything up to £500 into a machine for one spin. A few seconds later you can do it again. If you are short of ready cash, no problem, because you can use your credit card. If you find feeding £20 notes into a machine a bit laborious, just give the cashier your money and she will "top up" the machine for you, automatically. And if you find it a bit tedious having to press the start button for each game, there's an auto button, and then a repeat button. The cumulative effect is that there can be only seconds between each spin: exactly the formula for turning anyone into a potential addict. You can win or lose thousands of pounds in minutes.

Jowell calls these machines "very popular". That is an understatement. British gamblers are staking more than three times as much money on them (£290m) as they bet every week on the National Lottery (£88m).

This new betting craze, the annualised turnover of which is estimated at more than £15bn at the "big five" bookmakers, has become far and away Britain's most popular gambling product. Since the machines were introduced in 2001, betting-industry turnover has had a fourfold leap to £29.4bn. Gambling addiction has leapt, too. Only this month, GamCare, the gambling addiction charity, linked the rising number of calls to its helpline to the spread of roulette machines in betting shops.

Gambling in general has cost me dearly, but these machines especially so. A few years ago, I moved to a town that doesn't have a casino. This meant I would have to travel for miles to get to a roulette machine.

It was a good disincentive. Then the virtual roulette machines arrived and my world fell apart. I was like a heroin addict who suddenly could get a fix five hundred yards from his front doorstep.

It's what I did again this week. And it is why the debate over the Gambling Bill, again, has left me close to tears with frustration. You have got to understand that for me - and thousands like me - it's personal.

James Burton will be the subject of a 90-minute documentary special, The Confession, on BBC2 in April this year

This article first appeared in the 21 February 2005 issue of the New Statesman, Condoleezza Rice

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Donald Trump’s hollow coronation

The presidential candidate was forced to wheel out family members at the Republican National Convention, as party grandees stayed away. 

For a member of what Donald Trump calls his silent majority, Jim Morrison, a haulier from California, talks a lot. “He is touching on things I feel – that millions of Americans feel – but I don’t have the microphone and can’t take on Washington,” Morrison said. The words tumbled from his mouth as he stood beside the blood-red cab of his lorry, which carried him from his home state to Cleveland, Ohio, on a seven-day journey in a “Truckers for Trump” convoy.

Trump had promised an unconventional Republican National Convention and Morrison was typical of the new breed of political activists attending their first Grand Old Party summer jamboree. The start of the four-day convention also offered both a taste of what a Trump administration might  look like and a summary of the factors that helped a bombastic billionaire and political novice secure the presidential nomination for the Republican Party.

The answers lay not just in the cavernous interior of the Quicken Loans Arena, where the delegates assembled, but also among the lawn-fringed public squares heaving with supporters and protesters vying to fly the most outrageous banners. Above all, they lay in the wide boulevards where heavy, concrete barricades had been laid to prevent terrorist attacks, and in the flags flying at half-mast overhead, marking America’s latest mass shooting.

The convention began just a day after three police officers were shot dead by a gunman in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. “It’s pathetic that our society has got to the point where they are doing this to our cops,” said Morrison, the trucker, firing gobbets of tobacco-coloured spit on to the pavement.

If one theme sums up the issues at stake in this election – from jobs to terrorism – it is insecurity. The terrorist attack in Nice merely stoked fears that had grown during the past year as Americans dealt with Islamic State-inspired attacks on home soil, the murder of police officers and a gaping racial divide.

In Cleveland, all this manifested in the city ordering an extra 10,000 sets of handcuffs, deploying 5,500 law enforcement officers and buying 300 bicycles for officers tasked with crowd control. Some of the measures were farcical – such as banning anyone carrying tennis balls from the convention environs – in a state where citizens are allowed to carry assault rifles openly.

This is the backdrop against which Trump delivers his hard-line message, warning that terrorists could arrive among Syrian refugees and that the country needs a wall on its southern border. Indeed, Monday’s theme was “make America safe again”, and outside the centre vendors hawked T-shirts portraying Trump as Captain America or Iron Man. “He’s a man to get things done, even if that might upset the PC crowd,” is how one delegate put it as she queued to get into the arena.

Political scientists have identified a trend in this election, suggesting that America’s two main political parties are shaking up not along the lines of left and right, but in terms of attitudes to authoritarianism. Many Republicans are looking for a strongman, according to research carried out by Matthew MacWilliams, founder of the political communications firm MacWilliams Sanders. In this context, Trump’s message – strong v weak, winners against losers, and a new nativism – is a guaranteed vote-winner.

For his opponents, it is not a new message. Edmund Berger, a writer and activist, said that Trump was just the latest “1 per center” to go after the working-class vote by ripping Band-Aids off society. “He’s stoking the fires of racial tension with his stuff on immigrants and hard-line foreign policy,” he said, sitting in Public Square, an open space that has been turned into a sort of Speakers’ Corner. “The hate can come out finally.”

The presumptive Democratic candidate Hillary Clinton was attacked relentlessly. “Trump v tramp”, read one banner, and the convention programme followed on from there. It included sessions on Bill Clinton’s sex life and scrutiny of her handling of the Benghazi attack, in which four Americans died in 2012.

Yet even the best-laid plans have a habit of coming unstuck around Trump’s idiosyncratic approach. During one of the most powerful sessions, as Patricia Smith, the mother of a state department officer killed in Benghazi, delivered a searing speech holding Clinton responsible for the death of her son, Trump phoned Fox News. Because of his live interview, the channel cut away from Smith’s speech, leading one of Fox’s analysts to call Trump’s timing “interesting”.

Nor did the programme live up to Trump’s frequent promises to add more showbiz to the convention. Republican royalty, such as the Bush family, stayed away, as did the party’s biggest celebrity supporters, including Clint Eastwood and Jon Voight.

Instead, the roster was padded by the sort of people known only to fans of daytime TV and wackier reality shows – and by Trump’s wife, Melania, and four of his children. The risks of that approach were evident on Monday night, after Melania’s speech bore more than a passing resemblance to a convention address by another prospective first lady, Michelle Obama, in 2008. The plagiarism controversy will reinforce existing concerns about the Trumps playing fast and loose with the rules.

Others in the audience saw another problem with relying on relatives rather than heavy-hitting conservatives. “I know he’s selected them to reflect the different facets of his personality,” said Theodore Golubrinski, a member of the Michigan delegation, “but this looks like a coronation.”

The suspicion is that Donald Trump’s Republican National Convention would also look like Donald Trump’s White House, with low-rent celebrities, fringe Republicans and naive family members making up the numbers.