Benjamin Myers

Salford, 1986

The National

I’ve developed a system. It’s taken decades, but I’ve got there.

See, what you do is – oh, hang on. They’re starting.

There’s mine in the green and yellow.

Late Night Extra, he’s called. I’ve put the rent on this one. A dead cert.

The odds are long, but he’s a sure-fire. How long? Long enough to feed and clothe the bairn for a year when I win. Long enough to silence the missus’s mithering.

Come on, lad.

Come on, Late Night Extra.

Come on.

That’s it. That’s it. Over you go. And the next one.

Time to dig in.

Come on, lad.

Clear it. Good boy.

Come on, Late Night Extra.


They’re pulling away, man.

Come on.

Who’s this jockey? He’s bloody useless.

Come on, Late Night Extra.

Come on, Late Night Extra.

Where’s he going?

Who’s this midget jockey?

Come on, you piece of shit.

Come on, you tin of dog meat.

Fucking come on, Late Night Extra.

Whip him, man. Whip him… oh, he’s down! He’s fucking down.

That’s it. It’s all over, man.

That’s it. It’s gone. Everything. The whole lot.

There’s nothing left.


She’ll kill me.


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