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.
OPERATION YELLOW
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
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
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 Barcelona
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
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
