Sunday, 8 December 2013

Operation Yellow

Hi all,

Been a while. Since the recent news regarding Sam Sodje and Delroy Facey, I thought it would be a good time to release some free content to those who haven't read Off The Chest. I wrote the book to educate the non-gambler and a tell a story that no one believed could take place in England. Well, it's happening. Although 'Operation Yellow' revolves around being booked to profit from the Spread Markets, it is still 'Cedric' pulling the strings of our hero. Cedric is a Caribbean match-fixer but of course he has similar traits to a certain person.

When the inevitable match-fixing film comes about, I hope to see some of my content in the script. This particular chapter marks his early descent into the real match-fixing. 


Towards the end of the 2002/2003 season and with my relationship with Ella blossoming, a man came into my life. A strictly heterosexual relationship, though this particular gentleman would certainly have been the ‘giver’ if we were both so inclined.

He hung around the executive boxes on match days. If you weren’t in the squad the management expected players to make themselves known to those who had paid well over the odds for few sandwiches and drinks and were able to watch the match from behind a glass. In fact, most of these punters watched the game on the telly, often with their backs to the actual action. They might as well have been at home! Not being a regular in the squad when I first joined the club, I’d seen him several times. He was always smartly dressed – properly suited and booted – and often had a woman in tow. He seemed to change women about as often as he changed shirts. Another thing I noticed about him was that, unlike most of the other box-dwellers, he wasn’t overawed at the prospect of meeting a footballer. Quite the opposite. It was if I should be in awe of him. Actually, I was. He gave off an aura of power and menace, a potent mixture. But I reckoned, right from the off, that he was good for a few grand – and I wasn’t wrong. If anything he was a little too anxious to be my benefactor and I wondered why. I was soon to find out.

He was a 6ft 2in Jamaican with the arms of a python and was immaculately dressed in a suit so sharp it could have cut the matchday programme I was carrying. He approached me after a game in one of the hospitality suites after a game. We’d done the biz 2:0 and the man seemed so pleased, you’d think he had shares in the club. Who knows maybe he did.

‘Dat was some dutty skills you had der in the match my bredda.’

Was he talking to me? Well he was looking at me.

‘Thanks. Appreciate that.’

‘Na na, me na jesta. Yu got dem skills. Ma name is Cedric. Blessed to meet yu.’

‘Thanks. Do you support us?’

‘Mos def but Imma business man wit some interests ere.’

‘Oh yeah?

‘Truss mi.’

Cedric grinned and sauntered off. I left the room as he tucked into a giant chocolate eclair.

The next day, I met up with Simmo and asked him about Cedric.

‘Yeah there’s something a little dodgy about him.’

‘I thought so.’ I was also intrigued.

‘From what I’ve heard he lends out money if you’re struggling. Sometimes footballers don’t want the banks knowing their business. Never had a need for him myself but rumour has it Silas borrowed a hundred large back in the day. Paid it off now though. Maybe he wanted 24-carat butt plugs.’

We both laughed at that one.

‘Thought as much. Good to know Simmo.’

‘No probs. I’d stay away.’

We spent the day together and even squeezed in a short poker session. Slummed it with the penny-pushers; talked football with the fans. We both lost a little but the amounts were wholly inconsequential to both our (very different) situations.

Despite Simmo’s warning, Cedric and I were destined to meet – aligned in the stars... In fact, screw the constellations, I was broke and he had money. After a few conversations off and on for a month, we went for dinner at the Dorchester where Cedric told me he was staying. We both knew what this was about but we’d an age to cut the chase. No more.

We both ordered the ‘Medieval’ French Onion soup with a side of breadstick shaped like a bayonet. Chomping away, Cedric decimated the ice and the wonderfully sized crouton in his mouth.

‘Yu got dem eyes for the bling, the suits, and di cars. Nuh true?

‘Yeah but struggling at the moment.’

‘Nuh worry bout it. Cedric provides the Manleys to his friends.’

He may have been speaking colloquial Patois but I caught his drift. Cedric was a human ATM.

‘That’s very kind of you but what’s the catch?’

‘Well I charge a lickle interest. A bredda’s gotta eat.’

‘How much?’

‘10% fi di month.’

‘Not bad.’

Cedric then explained the small print - if at any time I was unable to settle the debts within a three-month period, he would ask me to ‘help him out’. Failure to comply with these instructions could result in serious consequences. He was upfront and personable, explaining the credit was there to use but I should only run up an amount I could afford to lose.

I knew the risks but I had money to make and something from nothing is impossible according to the bible. So I had attempted to earn money legitimately and the £30,000 from the book in addition to my wages had swelled the coffers briefly. But I was hungry for more after said balance had bounced around like a yoyo inevitably finishing at that all too familiar round number – zero.

Considering how happy I was with Ella, you’d think I would have had no need to gamble, but the force was strong in me. My DNA and environmental background commanded me to win enough for things I didn’t need.

Ella wasn’t the necklace and fine wines kinda girl. We’d had many of our best nights, costing precisely zero. But my Yetzer Hara wouldn’t let it lie. YH told me that Ella wouldn’t love me unless I gave her the world – and punting was the only way to do it.


It was then that De Melo was approached by Sky Sports for me to do some punditry on a lower league match. Ordinarily, he would have ignored such a request as he felt it was beneath me but I had made it clear I was willing to take on such jobs. I explained that I was thinking about my future and wanted an extra string to my bow in case of injury or eventually when retirement beckoned. De Melo’s face said it all - he didn’t believe me but ever the professional he focused on the numbers. It would be an arrogant statement to inform you that by this time 95% of the viewers for this match would have heard my name and over 80% would have recognised my face. I had participated in some form in over twenty televised matches. My name rang bells but unlike Silas, I was no campanologist.

The fee promised was £2,000 plus expenses. The sensible side of my brain saw this as an opportunity for a semi-regular income and the opportunity to meet journalists interested in lucrative interviews. Unfortunately, the dominating self-destructor in me saw it as a chance to ‘freeroll’ - a £2,000 bet on a match of my choice and what better occasion than the match I would be commentating on. Of course, the well-reasoned side was forbidden from limiting the bet size to £2,000 and I eventually placed £20,000 (loaned to me by Cedric) on the home team at odds of 5-6 meaning my expected profit from the evening would be £16k and change in addition to the fee from those sports at Sky Sports. Only a gambler could convince themselves that extra income was a perfect opportunity to spend nearly ten times as much to alleviate the concerns which he sought the extra income for in the first place. There is a famous phrase which is genius in its simplicity. Gamblers gonna gamble. Can’t argue with that, right?

I arrived at the ground with a few hours to spare until kick-off. A top-tier commentator with a voice heard by millions greeted me with a handshake and a slap on the back. If he was wondering why a twenty-something happy-go-lucky chappie wanted to enter the commentary game, his expression did not give him away.

‘Good to have you on board’, said the voice. ‘Thanks for getting here so early. We need to run through a few things.’

‘Thanks’, I replied. ‘I’m a little nervous. Always am before a big match.’

‘Got any inside info on any of the players in action tonight? I think you might have played alongside one or two of them.’

‘Not really’, I said, ‘unless you wanna hear some gossip about their sex lives!’

The voice didn’t look all that impressed. Once more his expression didn’t change.

This was sign of a good commentator (and poker player). In any event, I was genuinely excited for my first on-screen performance not least because of the wedge I had on the match. I had prepared for the unthinkable, such as an away goal, but had convinced myself that my tone would be professional whatever happened on the pitch. Failure to hide my feelings would result in no further work as well as alerting the world to the fact that I was either a nut-job or had, in fact, done my conkers.

After a brief buffet lunch in the hospitality suite, we headed for the press box in preparation for the big kick-off. Excitement overcame the nervousness, helped by the knowledge that less than a million people would be watching. My mentor for the day told me a little condescendingly ‘You will make a mistake sometime today; just move on – also don’t talk over me’. Words of wisdom from a man who frequents some of the seediest strip clubs on his travels on the British football circuit. 

The teams kicked off the duel which would decide my wager on a Sunday afternoon. In the opening minutes, the home team played the more attacking football as was expected. Their star striker, who would be remembered by just a few readers, latched on to the end of a fizzing cross to score the opening goal. I was composed, smiling to myself, but described the goal perfectly to the viewer. I was allowed to be excited but chose to mask my joy with a thorough but complimentary analysis of the goal. I even think my patronising side-kick was impressed.

With the team I’d backed leading 1-0 at half-time, I was left with an unprecedented decision for a pundit on a live match. Either I could leave the bet to ride, hoping my team would win the match or I could hedge my bets by backing the draw and the away team at now inflated odds. After exiting the booth, I desperately flicked through the phonebook on my mobile in search of someone who could place the necessary bets. After no answer from three potential brokers and Cedric, I decided to call Will Hill. I had just £800 in my account and since it was taking too long to deposit, I decided to apportion my balance between the draw and the away win. My new profit and loss scenario looked as follows:

Home team: +£16,200 Draw: -£15,120 Away team: -£16,140

A pathetic attempt at balancing my books but some change – albeit loose change – from my initial outlay of £20,000 was better than a kick in teeth.

The rest of the match was thoroughly predictable. The away team won 1-2 and I believe you can excuse me when I say my commentary skills were less than par. In fact, as the winning goal was scored with just enough time for a comeback to tantalise me, I swore off camera which gave the game away. I was absolutely livid with myself and was expected to provide commentary for the remainder of the proceedings. I wanted to call each and every player a swear word rhyming with punt.

The producer in my ear asked me if everything was alright and I mumbled an apology. There was no direct admission that this match meant more to me than even the fans in the stadium but it was clear to everyone that I had more invested in this match than the players themselves.   

With every loss, the adrenalin rush experienced during the action is replaced by absolute revulsion of the gambler within you. It may have been a slight exaggeration when I claimed earlier that winnings and losses make one feel equally numb. When the losses incurred will have grave consequences, the depression is ten-fold. I left the stadium unable to speak, powerless to hatch a plan simply to stabilise my sinking financial ship. I hardly knew where my next meal would come from, never mind how I could pay off the debts which were simmering with interest. 


Cedric was happy to provide my next meal. He found me loitering outside, cursing and vulnerable.

‘Bad luck, bredda.’

‘Shit happens. I’ve lost a lot more than this in one go.’

Cedric smiled ruefully. He, like Darren, knew my kind all too well. And again, just like Darren, Cedric was a friendly spirit.

Nay, he was overly nice – a tad disconcerting though I couldn’t fully gauge his intentions in my demoralised and apoplectic state.

A late dinner was followed by drinks at a private members’ club. It was at this dinner that Cedric explained exactly what line of work he was in. A production line of printing money through a number of outlets: money lending, money laundering and match-fixing. He was confident I wouldn’t breathe a word of what I’d heard throughout the evening as he’d have me killed.

He delivered these words with the composure only a veteran of the homicide business could have managed. Cedric explained that my debt was miniscule and nothing illegal was expected at this stage.

‘It’s all gonna work like clockwork bredda as long as wi play by di rules’, he told me. It was clear the rules were his rules and they could be varied or modified at any time to suit Cedric. I wasn’t part of the equation.

But I wasn’t in a position to argue my case. It wasn’t as if I could walk into the local branch of NatWest and organise a loan for myself.

I don’t think even in my wildest dreams, I could have expected to hear the following conversation with the local assistant manager at NatWest:

‘And what do you plan to use the money for Mr xxxx? Home improvements, a new car, a much-need holiday?’

‘Well, actually, I was going to use it to punt my way out of trouble. But thanks for asking anyway. Now, where do I sign?’

I met up with Ella the next day and wanted to tell her everything, but I didn’t have any cahones. They were firmly in a vice grip operated by Cedric.

‘Is everything all right?’ she asked innocently enough.

‘Well, I haven’t scored for a month now.’

‘Now’s your chance, sweetheart.’ Ella lay back on the sofa and for a long moment I forgot all about my troubles.

Look, Ella was a beautiful lady and the sex was fantastic. Even more than that, she was a wonderful person. But she didn’t know my darkest secrets. The fact that I hadn’t shared them showed that firstly I wasn’t willing to quit; and secondly, didn’t think she’d understand.

Before I knew it, I was in familiar territory once again owing nearly £50,000. My wages were due at the end of the month - just five days away - but it felt like an eternity. I had mortgage payments, whip rounds for team-bonding exercises and a new lady to impress, all of which were dependent on my limited funds.

Who knows what I lost my money on? £1,000 per dog race; £500 football accumulators; the odd £10,000 on a bankjob which was in fact not as much of a certainty I had convinced myself it to be. 

I had exhausted every minimal overdraft available and had even entered loan agreements with the ‘big three’ of the UK’s money-lending services one of which was called Dollar Financial UK. Nowadays they go by the name ‘The Money Shop’ and are rivals to the ever-expanding Quick Quid and Wonga. Similar establishments – all of them legal and above board – offered up to £1,000 up front with nearly 40% interest on the month, equating to a cool 2,250% APR. Again, such figures did not affect me as £3,000 would be easy to pay off with one big win although such a life-changing success had eluded me since my almost-forgotten treble.

In the beginning, Cedric seemed to be a friendly enough chap – your average Jamaican Yardy, although clearly I knew what he was capable of. He rocked a blingtastically gold chain and a pair of Beluti brown loafers – only the pimp cane was missing.

We met for the umpteenth time to discuss business at my house. How could I refuse?

Sometime earlier he had said ‘I need to know where you live, boy – for when I send the boys round’. Cedric laughed alone. My pants turned as brown as his loafers.

Again, Cedric turned up unannounced with his Gucci man-purse, from which he plucked a sleek, leather notepad. He probably had three or four like me on his books.

Wah gwaan my man?’ – Cedric seemed in a jovial mood.

‘Well, it’s not going too well is it?’ I anticipated a lecture on how to gamble.

‘No problems. Everything Irie at the moment. But you been a Half eediat, haven’t yu?’ Somehow he’d become more Jamaican than at our previous meetings.

‘I’ve been a bit unlucky. I’ll get out of it if you’ll let me.’

‘Yeah, maybe yu mash it up soon. Nuh worry bout it. Plenty of Manleys left in the kitty. How much yu need now?’

‘£50,000 more credit would do the trick just in case. Then we’d be at a hundred.’ I was buying some time.

‘Wicked. But we can clear di debt now if yu like. But yu gotta play dutty. Know wot I mean bredda?’

‘It’s all good Cedric. We’ll just carry on as we are thank you very much.’

When Cedric left, I began to ponder my choices.

A desperate man with time on their hands will think of and discount various crimes for a variety of reasons, ranging from fear to impracticality. But one possibility niggled away at me like one of those innocuous hamstring strains. I fought against it but other players such as a prominent Southampton footballer had gotten away with it – why couldn’t I?

A new method of betting had made its way into football which appealed to the real risk-seekers. Spread betting, originally created for longing and shorting shares –   had been re-engineered for football fans to express their views on a match in a number of different ways. One could bet on the number of corners ‘buying’ or ‘selling’ at up to £10,000 per corner. In the same way, one could gamble on the number of bookings and even the ‘time of first booking’.

I had other options available to drag myself out of this dire state of affairs. As had been customary in the early days of sensible gambling, I wrote my choices down and assigned a risk and profit-making percentage to each idea:

1) Sell the house - Equity including deposit = £60,000 - Risk - 10% - Profitability - 20%
2) Work for Cedric - Clearance of debt + £30,000-£60,000 - Risk - 70% - Profitability - 50%
3) Operation Yellow (getting booked on purpose for profit) - £60,000 + chance of repeat - Risk - 20% - Profitability - 30%

Option one was discounted immediately. Even if I received the full £60,000, I would have nowhere to live and would have just £10,000 after paying Cedric. People would also ask questions as I’d only just bought it.

Being in Cedric’s pocket was a risk too large to even quantify. After all, match-fixing was one of the arms of the conglomerate which was Cedric. There was every chance I’d end up in prison or worse, no matter how careful and accommodating he seemed.

Operation Yellow sounded fucking cool and had a genuine chance of success. This last market would catapult me from destitution to above the Foccacia line.

Operation Yellow was simple in its form. I would be booked as quickly as possible and ‘sell’ the time of the first booking at a general spread of 24-27 minutes. My stake would be £4,000 per minute and therefore a booking in the fifth minute would net me 24-5 x £4,000 = £76,000. There was one problem. I could not place the bet myself. I also needed someone with enough money in their account to cover the maximum loss if no booking took place in the match, which we know was impossible. There was an option to ‘stop at a loss’ which in summary meant I needed £80,000 to place this bet. Since this was guaranteed and a form of match-fixing, I decided not to go to Cedric and use the credit line he’d offered me. He’d want a piece and would confirm I was ready to fix for him on a much larger scale.

Simmo lent me the money, no questions asked. There was really only one person I could ring to set up an account, be trusted with the money and to not breathe a word to anyone. Well the last part was difficult for Getcha as his lips moved faster than a hooker speaking double Dutch! Getcha and I had lost touch for a while but he had been joining me recently on my night raids on the casinos which usually ended in disaster. However, since I’d committed to the cause of Operation Yellow, the gambling had taken a back-seat. Failure was impossible. No, it was unthinkable. I’d break someone’s leg if I had to!

The risk is always in the detection after the event. Getcha followed my instructions perfectly. He set up a spread betting account three weekends in advance of Operation Yellow. He then injected the £80,000 in little bursts all the while placing small bets with the intention of raising less suspicion. Getcha was allowed to place as many bets as possible on a variety of different outcomes - Getcha heaven - with the proviso being that the losses could not be over £5,000.


I was hoping for an update from Getcha when one morning he interrupted my breakfast – two boiled eggs, brown toast, coffee and The Sun – with a call to my mobile.

‘What’s good fam?’ he asked.

‘Dunno. You tell me’, I replied. ‘How’ve you been treating my money?’

‘Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about’, he said. The alarm bells were beginning to ring inside my head.

‘I hope there hasn’t been a problem, know what I mean.’

‘Well’, he hesitated. ‘I’ve had a bit of a bad run.’

‘What do you mean, a bad run?’

‘Pretty bad’, he said.

‘How bad?’

‘Well, I lost £10,000 last week.’

‘But I told you that a five grand loss was your absolute limit’, I shouted down the line, my irritation turning to anger.

‘Not to worry, fam. I’m only joshing you. I did lose £10,000, but I won £17,000 the week before, so we’re £7,000 in front. How you like them apples?’

‘Why the fuck do you do that to me, Getcha?’ I asked.

‘Just a bit of fun’, he came back, not realising he’d put me through the ringer.

‘Anyways, how d’you win the dosh?’

‘Easy really’, he answered. ‘There was this novice chase at Plumpton where I had big fancy for this 5-1 shot who’d never jumped a fence before but had some decent form over hurdles not so long ago, well three years ago actually, and he’d been off the track with a leg injury since then.’

‘Go on’, I urged him.

‘Well, as it happens, he wasn’t going all that well. In fact, he was miles behind but the two leaders both fell at the second-last – and the rest, as they say, is history. Well, if not quite history, a five grand profit!’

‘You’re a lucky bastard, Getcha, always was, always will be. That’s why it’s good to have you on board’, I told him.

I was an arrogant prick on the day of Operation Yellow. I’d concocted an excellent plan which would in all likelihood succeed. I was sticking two fingers up to the bookies who always have the odds in their favour. Sneakily, I’d placed bets with the extra £7,000 (after giving Getcha his cut) on completely incorruptible markets with the possibility of winning huge. I was playing the role of a complete madman, not far removed from the actual truth. An early yellow card in my match, followed by late goals in the Milan derby could have netted me over £150,000!

How does one get booked within the first five minutes of a match without being sent off and without causing suspicion? I had a reputation for being a hard-working striker, booked only three times in my entire professional career and here I was studs up at the ready. 

Normally, I was one of the talkative ones in the dressing room pre-match. It was usually a barrage of gibberish and lame jokes to provide a sightscreen to disguise my nerves. But this time I was more nervous than ever – and I’d completely clammed up.

‘C’mon’, said Hollow. ‘Let’s hear one of your unfunny jokes. We all seem a bit down at the moment.' Moody as ever.

‘Leave it out’, I replied. ‘I’ve a lot on my mind.’

‘What mind is that?’ asked Wheezy and the rest of the lads dissolved into laughter.

I joined in – but I didn’t find it funny. I was too worried about my future. Actually, I was worried whether I had a future.

But once the game began my nerves seemed to settle down a little.

An opportunity presented itself after almost exactly five minutes. A midfielder from the opposition had collected the ball inside our half but had beaten a player with the intention of distributing it back towards his own defence. I latched onto his shirt and crudely sliced him from behind. He rolled around in agony, genuinely injured and yet incredibly the referee did not consider the tackle warranted a card. I couldn’t believe it. Every minute from here on would be costing me £4,000 in potential winnings but I felt it important to bide my time to execute Operation Yellow to perfection. I hunted the same player to make it look as though we had a deep-rooted grudge and finally hacked him down again in his own half. I was booked in the 11th minute and would be in line to receive £52,000 unless Getcha had spent it before I could withdraw the money.

As you would expect, the rest of the match effectively meant nothing to me although ironically, it was one of my best of the season. I spent the better part of the match inebriated on a cocktail of paranoia and adrenalin which unfortunately cannot be bottled and sold. They are feelings that can only be accessed in special circumstances which can rarely be replicated. 

After the game I showered and changed and met up with a few friends outside the main entrance. We were off to the pub to watch the Milan derby. It’s usually an explosive event with the two teams – AC and Inter – showing clear contempt for each other. But all that hatred seemed to negate the football and it proved a dull affair and, as far as betting was concerned, I was not in line for any bonus winnings. The bet had served its purpose of disguising the corruption of the disciplinary betting market. Over the next few weeks, I completed a number of errands including paying some of Cedric’s money back, as well as buying a cheaper car and, of course, treated Getcha to a trip to my favourite city, Barcelona. Simmo received his loan back in full.

But as the dust settled and we began to hatch a plan for another run-out of Operation Yellow - ‘the return of the hacksaw’ - my original paranoia proved to be well founded. Getcha was called up by the spread betting bookmaker and questioned over his relationship with me. Luckily, he gave the right answer saying that we did know each other a long time ago but hadn’t had formal contact for a number of years.

The best lies are always based on truth and I hadn’t seen Getcha for quite a while, much to my discredit. The money had been paid, I explained, and therefore this may just be a routine inquiry but the fact that my name was being spoken of by even just one person regarding possible inappropriate actions concerned me greatly.

Even through all the gambling, womanising and drug-taking, my reputation amongst those in football was more or less spotless. The immediate withdrawal of the funds had seen a few red flags hoisted by this particular company. They released a covert statement to the insular betting world that extra caution should be taken when laying bets for markets which concerned me. I had originally thought of selling my ‘goal minutes’ (with a goalless performance guaranteeing profit) but now had to think of a new strategy. Incredible as it sounds, I was even entertaining the idea of selling my team-mates’ goal minutes and preventing them from scoring!

For the first time in a while, I had a bankroll of sorts. I was happy again or at least I thought I was. But as we know the life graph of a degenerate does not run smoothly. I suppose like my first bet, it was 50-50 from hereon in.

Whilst broke, I was having to turn down almost every expensive night out but now could accept a few invitations. It was timely then that Simmo was getting married to a stunning Eastern European lady. She’d been in England since 1998 and had remained relatively clean on the WAG circuit - hence her attraction. 

2002/2003 Season stats

Games started: 14
Subbed in 2:
Goals: 4
Assists: 5
Yellow Cards: 3 (one on purpose)
Red Cards: 0
Money in Bradford & Bingley: £52,350
Money owed to Cedric: £35,000
Amount turned over: £500,000
Profit/Loss: Even!

Coke habit: Average 2 lines per day

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