Gambling

Letters: Why the left loves Larkin

From our UK edition

An irresponsible drama Sir: Britain is faced with a fabricated panic which has prioritised personality over policy. Keir Starmer has been forced out of office largely to provide the media with a piece of theatre, a drama of great irresponsibility in which Act One has been written but nothing sketched out beyond it. Michael Gove’s brilliant account (‘Butterfly effect’, 20 June) has shown that Britain’s economy has benefited greatly from our detachment from the EU, but points to an area where the misnomer of ‘Exit’ has magnified problems of national identity, which remain and require what amounts to therapy on a grand scale.

Whoops, I’ve given my children a gambling problem

From our UK edition

The problem with my gambling, Caroline has always maintained, is not the fact that I nearly always lose. I only ever bet on QPR, so that’s inevitable. No, the issue is that I might pass on the habit to my children, particularly the boys. My bets rarely exceed £25, but my sons might have less self control. What if they become addicts, she wants to know? It will ruin their lives. In her eyes, gambling in front of them is like snorting heroin off the kitchen table. Well, it pains me to say it, but she was right. My youngest recently celebrated his 18th birthday and the first thing he did, at one minute after midnight, was open a bet365 account. The fact that his becoming an adult coincided with the start of the World Cup didn’t help.

Is the survival of prediction markets a safe bet?

On a cold January night in New York City, Chris Hayes walked off the set of CBS’s Late Show with Stephen Colbert only to face a pressing ethical dilemma. As he left the Ed Sullivan Theater and walked on to Broadway, he got a text from a friend who covers technology for NPR with a screenshot of a Yes/No market that had been spun up on the prediction market Kalshi, based on what Hayes might say on the evening’s broadcast. What would he say about Donald Trump? Would he talk about affordability, Russia, China, Greenland or other topics? It was just a $22,000 market in volume, a minor amount. But what struck Hayes as truly bizarre about the market was this: it was a prediction market about something that had already happened.

prediction markets
prediction markets

Prediction markets have turned the world into a casino

How might the ayatollahs know an American strike force is coming? Advanced radar technology, perhaps, or a mole somewhere in the Pentagon. Or they could just look at Polymarket. There is currently around $125 million wagered in the largest market predicting when the US will next strike Iran. Given the current odds, traders reckon an attack will take place in the second half of this month. If Nicolás Maduro had checked Polymarket on the night of January 2, he would have seen his odds of losing power spike from around one in ten to 66 percent, hours before Delta Force arrived. One trader has racked up $150,000 in profits in seven months, placing trades on military activity by Israel Polymarket and its competitor Kalshi are prediction markets.

Labour is doing all it can to kill off horse racing

From our UK edition

In July, Victoria, Lady Starmer was photographed at Royal Ascot, celebrating with friends after backing the winner of the Princess Margaret Stakes. Lady Starmer, whose grandmother lived near Doncaster racecourse, is a keen follower of flat racing, a passion she apparently shares with her husband. In 2024, the Prime Minister flew home from Washington D.C. to attend Doncaster’s St Leger meeting and told reporters: ‘There aren’t many better days out than the races in the sunshine.’ So it’s odd that Keir Starmer and his government appear to be doing all they can to kill off horse racing. Swingeing tax rises on the gambling industry, introduced in Rachel Reeves’s Budget, have left the sport, the second most attended in the UK, in a fight for its future.

Is bet365 punishing me for being a peer?

From our UK edition

On my way to the QPR game against Hull last Saturday, I was astonished to discover that Ladbrokes had made QPR the favourites. Eh? Going into this game, the Rs were 18th in the table, whereas Hull were sixth. They’d won four of their last six, whereas we were winless in five. ‘It’s almost worth putting a bet on Hull,’ I joked to Charlie, my 17-year-old son. Then I thought: ‘Why not? At least that way, if QPR lose I’ll make some money.’ But if I was going to do it, I might as well get the most favourable odds, so I did a quick trawl of the online betting apps, all of which I’ve signed up to, and discovered that bet365 was offering 3/1 – by far the best. I transferred some money from my bank account and stuck £25 on the Tigers to win.

Very pretty and pretty gruesome: Ballad of a Small Player reviewed

From our UK edition

Ballad of a Small Player opens with Lord Doyle, played by Colin Farrell, hiding from security in his trashed casino suite in Macau. After they’re gone, he slips into the corridor and sees a trolley holding a bouquet of flowers and a knife. I kept my eyes on the knife, expecting the jittery, paranoid gambling addict to grab the weapon. Instead he places a white rose in his green velvet lapel. Director Edward Berger (All Quiet on the Western Front, Conclave) enjoys playing these games of misdirection. It feels appropriate. Casinos – with their chandeliers, gaudy frescoes and croupiers in black tie – are contradictory places. Opulence in these temples of luck is both a way of hiding the brutality of emptying bank accounts, and a show of deference to the gods of fortune.

Was I the victim of a sex crime?

From our UK edition

Dante’s Beach, Ravenna I went up to her and got straight to the point: ‘What are you using for bait?’ I say ‘her’ but you never know round here. We live a mile inland from one of the last unspoiled stretches of Adriatic coast, part of which was stolen several decades ago by highly trained nudists. The nudists, who seem to be mostly men, attract several fringe groups, such as trans women (men who identify as women). One of the best-known was christened Cesare but is now a peroxide blonde called Cesarea. ‘She’ is taller than anyone else in the village apart from me and has enormous hands. Besides, it is not exactly every day you come across a real woman fishing, is it?

The ‘idiot Disneyland’ of Sin City

From our UK edition

In italics at the very end of the preface to Slouching Towards Bethlehem (1968), Joan Didion spills the beans: ‘Writers are always selling somebody out.’ It’s hard to improve on that, but we can at least specify that she had journalists in mind, not poets or novelists, though probably she looked on all scribblers with a cold eye. Six years later, Didion’s husband John Gregory Dunne published Vegas: A Memoir of a Dark Season, which isn’t really a memoir, more a queasily auto-biographical novel. Or, as he puts it, ‘a fiction which recalls a time both real and imagined’. A time and also a place – Las Vegas, Nevada, in the early 1970s.

Vegas’s seedy soul will save Sin City

I vividly remember the first time I saw Las Vegas. It was decades ago, and a friend and I did the classic LA-Vegas mini-road-trip, across the burning desert, arriving in Nevada around dusk. As we crested the final sandy hill, I saw this thing. This glittering neon jewel-box of a city, glowing in the twilight. I fell in love at once, a love that was only confirmed when we actually entered Vegas, and I realized I was motoring down Hugh Hefner Way.That love didn’t quite last, however. Not long ago I returned, and something felt very different. Sadder, somehow. Yes, I was shown a Damien Hirst-designed bedroom with a fridge full of diamonds, but I also saw too much druggy homelessness, and too many stickers that gave me a shock.

Vegas

How Italy’s ‘new young’ party

From our UK edition

Dante’s Beach, Ravenna The Feast of the Assumption began for me just after midnight with a WhatsApp message from my eldest son, Francesco Winston, 20, which said: ‘Papà don’t come, the police are everywhere.’ He and my eldest daughter, Caterina, 21, had invited me to a party on the beach organised by their group of friends to mark Ferragosto, the most important day of summer. There would be a bonfire and sausages, booze and guitars, and all the rest of it, until the blood-red sun emerged out of the sea at about 6 a.m. to bring it to an end. The huge, shimmering sun rose up out of the sea, a wondrous way to end a party I cannot remember the last time I went to a party. I avoid small talk if possible and am currently not drinking.

It was drug addiction that killed Elvis, not his greedy manager

From our UK edition

Colonel Tom Parker (1909-97) was the man who ripped Elvis Presley off and worked him to death. That’s the received wisdom about the person who managed the King from 1955 until his premature death, aged 42, in 1977. Peter Guralnick’s book, written with full access to Parker’s unpublished, witty, clever letters, now owned by the Elvis Archives, gives a more nuanced, sympathetic picture. The author is no biased sensationalist. His Elvis biography, Last Train to Memphis (1995), is one of the most serious and reliable. So, yes, Parker was a serial liar, not least when it came to his identity. Born Andreas Cornelis van Kuijk in humble circumstances in Holland, he fled, aged 16, to America and was then kicked out. He returned three years later, changing his name to Tom Parker.

The insoluble link between government and crime

From our UK edition

In the 18th century, the cash-strapped British crown imposed customs duties on tea imports that rose as high as 119 per cent. Unsurprisingly, such huge tariffs sparked a smuggling boom in coastal towns such as Deal, in Kent, where the cliffs were pockmarked with secret tunnels and half the inhabitants lived off profits from such illicit activities. When the government tried to crack down in 1781, it had to send in a 1,000-strong militia, headed by 100 men on horseback. Yet smuggling may have accounted for more than half of England’s trade at the time – and it often involved respected figures in communities who regularly bribed officials. This underlines how the imposition of taxes creates illegal markets that can eat into state revenues and corrupt society.

Racing is being regulated out of existence

From our UK edition

As a parable that sums up the dysfunction of the modern state and the over-regulation of industry, this has it all: government by unaccountable quango, ministers whose actions are the opposite of their words, puritanical campaigners given the power to dictate how people spend their money, a refusal to recognise glaring trade-offs and the cost of regulation, and the complacency with which a great British success story might be killed off. The success story in question is horse racing. With five million fans a year visiting 59 courses, racing is Britain’s second most popular spectator sport after football. And we are good at it. We have the best horses, the best trainers, and four of the top ten races in the world. The industry contributes£4.

Ludere in Leone: who made money from the new pontiff?

Was the first American Pope ushered in on a wave of suspect, last-minute betting? Something odd seems to have been happening on at least one online gambling platform – Polymarket – in the minutes before the new Pope was announced. I know because I happened to place a bet just before Pope Leo XIV walked out on the balcony of St. Peter’s – and watched the odds dramatically shortening before my eyes.   Before his election as Pope, Leo was Cardinal Robert Prevost. I’d barely heard the name until a week ago, when I joined a tour of the Vatican laid on by the Holy See press office. We were not, disappointingly, to be shown the Sistine Chapel, the world’s most splendid polling station for the few days of a papal election.

Pope

My brush with a rabid monkey

From our UK edition

India A crowded bus station. A lady monkey with a baby clinging to its neck sidled past me, eyeing the banana I was eating. I barely noticed them. A moment later, claws dug into my back. A skeletal hand darted forward to grab my banana. The baby monkey was on my shoulder. I leapt up and shrugged vigorously but it climbed on to my head, so I twisted sharply this way and that to unseat the little nuisance. I felt a painful scratch on my neck. The furry bundle leapt off me and scampered away. I’d been bitten. A few bored locals gathered around to see if the kerfuffle was worth getting overexcited about. A samosa seller helpfully dabbed my neck with a rag soaked in oil from his smoking cauldron. I thanked him diplomatically for this pointless gesture. The crowd retreated.

Rein in the rainmakers: gambling apps aren’t going anywhere

"I've been losing all my money sports betting, so I’m selling my car at CarMax so I can get some money and bet on tonight’s Cowboys-Bengals Monday Night Football game,” TikTokker ReeceMoneyBets told his 9,000 followers in early December, gesturing to a faux-gold Ford in the CarMax lot. “They just gave me $3,000, and I know I shouldn’t do this, but I’m betting it tonight on Monday Night Football.” He bet his car on a same-game parlay — all his bets needed to hit in order for him to win — that included the Bengals’ Ja’Marr Chase getting fifty receiving yards, Bengals QB Joe Burrow throwing two passing touchdowns and Cowboys QB Cooper Rush notching 200 passing yards. “Easiest bet ever...

gambling

Why I quit poker

I played my last hand of poker on an innocuous Saturday afternoon in October. My pocket Kings lost to 4-7 offsuit. They shouldn’t have been in the hand at all, but I still did everything wrong at the end, and there went $500 to some sweaty moron directly to my right. “Clock me out,” I said to the dealer, my hands shaking. They’d seated me at the table right by the door, so I at least was able to contain my temper tantrum until I got outside. “FUCK,” I screamed loudly enough so they could hear me inside — and also probably down the block. “SHIT SHIT GODDAMN IT FUCK!” I bashed my lunchbox against the wall. It tore at the handle. I kicked a post. It bent my toenail back. And I kept screaming, cursing my luck, damning the gods, destroying my lunchbox.

poker

Confessions of a political gambler 

From our UK edition

What could be more exquisite than the life of the professional gambler? I began my career in 2016 with a modest punt of £1,000 on the London mayoral election. Bingo. Sadiq Khan won and I banked a profit of £100. Then Brexit. My guess was that the pollsters had overestimated support for Remain and that the country was keen to evict the conjoined twerps, David Cameron and George Osborne, from Downing Street. The referendum was our chance to vaporise both their careers simultaneously. One cross, two graves. That’s what happened. And I cleared another tidy sum. I cursed the day that I’d ever started gambling. I was a fool. A dunce. A clueless moron But I was haunted by a wager I’d laid in the winter of the same year while watching Fox News over a relaxing pint of Tesco claret.

Portrait of the week: gambling politicians, gender rows and a free Julian Assange 

From our UK edition

Home The Conservative party withdrew its support from two parliamentary candidates, Craig Williams (who was parliamentary private secretary to the Prime Minister) and Laura Saunders, both of whom the Gambling Commission had been investigating after allegations that bets had been placed on the date of the election. Two Conservative party workers and six policemen were also alleged to have been involved, one of the policemen being under criminal investigation. Others remained under investigation. Labour suspended a parliamentary candidate of its own, Kevin Craig, after being told the Gambling Commission was investigating him betting on failing to win the seat, which he now might. The candidates’ names would still appear on ballots as standing for their parties.