‘What hurt most was seeing my mother’s reaction.. the shame of her son bringing the gardai to the door was extremely embarrassing for her’
PAT SHEEDY’S
compulsive gambling addiction led to nearly one hundred criminal convictions, more than €1million squandered on bets and time spent in some of Ireland’s toughest prisons.
Four decades on, the Limerick man has turned his life around and against all the odds he’s taken back control.
In this exclusive extract from his new memoir, A Hundred to One, he details in his own words how his addiction began to spiral out of control and the lengths he went to in order to place a bet.
In 1989 my gambling really escalated. The gambling was much more than a curiosity now. My popularity was at an all-time high, which thrilled me.
I had a pep in my step every morning and my optimism knew no bounds.
I’ll try and explain as best I can just how my mind worked at that time.
I took a look at what I was earning from my factory job.
I was taking home £188 a week, plus overtime.
That’s less than £40 a day for a fiveday week.
I believed that I would be able to turn a £20 stake into at least £80 every day.
If I gambled for five days a week and stopped as soon as I hit my daily target, I would have a minimum weekly income of £400.
Simple, right? I couldn’t understand why everyone wasn’t doing it.
Of course, the reality turned out to be very, very different. It didn’t take long for my master plan to unravel.
And the unravelling accelerated very quickly.
In the summer, I was arrested for the first time. I had become friendly with new neighbours, John and Mary, who were honest, decent people.
One afternoon, while I was in their house, chatting about Ireland’s chances of qualifying for the World Cup in Italy, I saw a chequebook lying idly on the countertop.
After ensuring I was alone, I proceeded to remove the last cheque from the book, safe in the knowledge that it wouldn’t be missed until much later, if at all. I made it out for £30, a minuscule amount, I thought.
When it hadn’t come to light after several weeks, I presumed that I had gotten away with it.
One morning, I looked out the window and saw a blue car with a big aerial on the roof pull up outside.
Two big, burly men in suits came to the door. They introduced themselves as detectives and I brought them into the living room.
It really was a “good cop, bad cop” thing: one was nice as pie, the other angry and aggressive.
When they questioned me, I immediately caved in and admitted everything.
They told me to report to the station the following morning to make a statement.
While I was scared of the consequences of this, what hurt me the most was seeing how my mother reacted.
The shame of her son bringing the gardai to the door was extremely embarrassing for her, and like all selfrespecting Irish parents, she was worried about being the subject of gossip on the street. dded to this was the fact that she wouldn’t be able to look her new neighbours in the eye for a very long time. I went to the station, as agreed, accompanied by my mother.
I gave my statement and was told I’d receive a court date later.
The first thing we did was go to the bank, where mam withdrew the £30 I had stolen to repay the neighbours.
She didn’t speak a word to me for the rest of the day.
Court came shortly after. I pleaded guilty and was given the Probation Act. This essentially amounted to a warning. I had to be a good boy for 12
Amonths, or else further steps could be taken. But in the life of a compulsive gambler, 12 months is an eternity. And to someone with the scheming mind and desire for money I had, being good for 12 months was one hell of an ask.
Towards the end of the year, I lost my job at the factory.
The official line was that they weren’t renewing the contracts of temporary employees.
But deep down I knew it was because of the increasing amount of time I was missing due to “illness” or to attend “doctor’s appointments” – both code names for my being in the bookies.
I was gambling constantly. I broke up with my girlfriend, who had gone to America to work for the summer as an au pair.
Caroline was the first relationship I’d had since my first love dumped me when I was 17.
She didn’t know whether or not she was going to come home from America – she thought she might live there permanently.
We both decided that the longdistance thing wouldn’t work and that it would be better for both of us to call it a day. This upset me, though.
But every cloud has a silver lining, or so they say.
Being single freed me up to gamble with less of a guilty conscience, and to avoid the disapproving looks Caroline’s mother cast in my direction when we bumped into each other in town.
Also, now that I was no longer in a relationship, I had more time to hang out with the guys in the pub.
More importantly, I could now spend more time in the bookies.
December came. I generally loved this time of year, with the build-up to Christmas and all that went on socially around this time. ne of the guys from the pub, Harry, had become a pretty close friend.
We drank together and went to matches together.
While he had no interest in gambling at all, I still found him great company, and a suitable wingman whenever we would hit the bars and
O
The first thing we did was go to the bank, where mam withdrew the £30 I had stolen...
nightclubs. We had tickets for the hottest gig in the country: the U2 concert on New Year’s Eve in the Point Depot.
These were like gold dust.
Harry had worked as a bouncer in a few clubs and a few months earlier he had been asked to work security at the shop when the tickets were going on sale.
He was in an ideal position to get tickets and he duly obliged.
We took the bus to Dublin that day. We checked into our accommodation and then went for a few pre-concert pints and a bite to eat.
The gig was electric.
Afterwards, we were on a total high and went out on the town to celebrate the New Year. The next morning, I woke early, around seven o’clock. Harry was seemingly unconscious next to me.
He always got bad hangovers and last night he had drunk more than normal.
New Year’s Day is traditionally a big gambling day, with a lot of meetings on. It’s a gambler’s dream.
On one occasion several months previously, we were in the pub, and I needed to go to the ATM to get cash.
Harry needed some too, so he tossed me his card, told me his PIN and asked me to get him some.
From that point on, I knew his PIN, which I memorised. If I’m being honest, I did this because deep down I knew that, at some point, Harry would become a victim of my gambling habit. I tried to rouse Harry, to no avail. That was my cue. I quietly went over to his jeans, which were thrown in the corner, and looked in his wallet.
There wasn’t a whole lot there, definitely not enough for me to enjoy a day’s punting.
I took his bank card and sneaked out of the room.
I remember the morning well. It was absolutely p***ing down.
I ran the few hundred yards to the ATM and helped myself to £180 of Harry’s hard and honestly earned cash.
I ran back to the hotel, and it didn’t come as a surprise that Harry was still in a coma-like state when I entered the room. We had breakfast around an hour later, and then we went down to the bus station and caught the 11am bus home.
We were back by 2.30pm, perched on our regular high stools in the pub, regaling everyone with details of the incredible set list U2 had belted out the night before, bragging about how good the seats were and how amazing the night had been.
I made excuses and slipped away some time around 3.15pm. fter all, there was still around an hour’s racing left, and I had Harry’s cash burning a hole in my pocket.
The plan was as simple as ever, get in and use what I had stolen from Harry, turn it into a nice profit and then figure out a way to return his
Amoney without him ever noticing it was gone in the first place.
I was at home before 5pm I barely had the bus fare back, and that was the princely sum of 35p.
Now I was racked with guilt, completely broke and wondering just how long it would take for him to suss out what had happened.
Would he just beat the s**t out of me, or would he have me arrested? Either option seemed fair. A Hundred to One is published by Gill Books and is out now, priced
€18.99