William Hill

My local branch of William Hill has a new poster in the window. “We’re always up for a chat in here.” Beneath the text a forty-something woman named Maddie smiles. There’s another head in the picture. It looks female but she’s facing the other way. It’s fair to assume both women are having a good time. Say what you like about previous gambling adverts, at least they never laid bare the unspoken pulls which attract lost souls to this warm, non-judgemental space with clear social rules and plenty of chit chat fodder.

A lost soul myself, I’ve never been one for gambling. (You’ll find me in the library). But if I were a chancer, I dare say I’d want my institution of choice to go along with the fiction that I’m in it for the thrills, not the distraction. I’d want them to reaffirm my belief that I spend all day in there for the mullah, not the company. And I’d much prefer my abuser to just open the door than make me reflect on the fact that I’ve no-one else to turn to. Still, now William Hill is doing companionship, perhaps my local library will offer bingo.*

*It won’t. It’s being closed.