Great Britain: Operation Sandpaper

In London last week, one bookmaker phoned another and said, “Something’s up at Dagenham today. I don’t know what it is or what race, but something’s up.” It was indeed. At the Greyhound Stadium in London’s thriving industrial suburb of Dagenham, a determined band of bettors was about to attempt one of the greatest coups in the history of gambling.

Before the sixth race of the day, which had an entry of six greyhounds, innocent dog players at the track also began to notice that something was up; they found it impossible to get to any of the 31 betting windows. Already ahead of them in line were tough characters who were taking their own sweet time placing two-shilling (280) bets, counting out the sums in small coins and brushing off protests with a snarl. The insiders were placing all their money on “forecast combinations” on the three dogs most likely to lose, thereby running up the odds on the three favorites. A forecast bet is similar to a quinel-la in the U.S., that is, picking the first two finishers in order. They did their job so well that only a single ticket was sold on the winning combination of Buckwheat and Handsome Lass, and the pari-mutuel payoff came to nearly $2,800 for a 280 bet.

Busy Signal. Meanwhile, other insiders were flooding London’s legal bookmakers with bets on the winning dogs. The bookies, who pay track odds, frantically tried to lay off some of the money at Dagenham itself. But the telephone circuits serving the tote at the track were blocked and busy for a crucial ten minutes before race time.*

When the tote payoff was announced at the staggering odds of 9,872 to 1, the stunned bookmakers realized they were on the hook for a possible $28 million. Gleeful gamblers were already calling the caper “Operation Sandpaper” because it rubbed the bookmakers the wrong way. Fifty of the biggest bookies in England—from Joe Coral and Ladbroke’s to Jack Swift and William Hill—gathered that evening at London’s Victoria Club. The bookies agreed to call the betting on that particular race null and void. All money wagered on the race would be refunded.

Noisy Protest. London’s Daily Express claimed that Operation Sandpaper had been masterminded by “a retired army officer, now a Midlands businessman,” and said the team that had tied up Dagenham’s betting windows numbered 170 men. The coup had taken three months to prepare, and the bankroll was £6,000 ($16,800)—”£4,000 for betting, £2,000 for expenses.”

Can the bookies legally avoid payment? Britons argued the pros and cons in bus queues and on commuter trains. Under Britain’s Gaming Act legislation, a bettor cannot sue a bookmaker and vice versa. The police indicated that they saw no grounds for action against anybody, but the bettors’ bible, The Sporting Life, warned that in refusing to pay, the bookmakers “have done themselves and their calling the greatest disservice possible.” Besides loss of public confidence, the bookies might have to face a protest when their licenses come up for renewals in February.

*U.S. bookmakers labeled the Dagenham caper a “builder play,” and have occasionally taken a licking from the same technique. The most notable builder play took place in 1932 at Agua Caliente race track in Mexico. Staged by West Coast Gamblers Baron Long and Harry Fink, it boosted the odds on a horse called Linden Tree from a logical 7 to 10 to almost 10 to 1. By betting Linden Tree heavily with U.S. bookmakers, Long and Fink made a killing.