Ken Jones: White Christmases brought little cheer for Sulky the hustler

An absolutely dependable chore of sports journalism, any journalism, at this time of the year is the column or feature that steps aside from important matters of the day to settle on the aching cliché of chestnuts roasting on an open fire, jingle bells, all that jazz.

It is anybody's guess how long this has been going on, but it must be 30 years at least since the vaulting ego of a prominent sportswriter was indulged by the half-page publication of a Christmas card to all his readers. Since this fellow was employed by a popular print with a daily sale in excess of four million I guess he set some sort of a record in the dispatch of festive missives. Although I hesitate to get in on the act, past Christmases have not been without personal interest, which brings me, in no great rush, to Sulky Gowers. For reasons other than religious, Sulky approached Christmas with deep foreboding. Christmas brought an increase in the number of people likely to tap him for a tenner and a shortage of fresh carnations. A carnation, a homburg and a camel-hair overcoat were Sulky's badges of office. Sulky was a hustler.

The way Sulky ran 'The Madelene' a London drinking club popular with many footballers and some jockeys of the time, gave rise to famous yarns of colourful behaviour. Of a piece with this is the one about a leading player who arrived at the club one Boxing Night after a bad experience in the provinces. "How did you get on?" Sulky asked. "Lost four nil," came the reply. "Tell you what you do," Sulky said. "Give up football, take a six months course in etiquette and be my butler."

Another aspect of Christmas that caused Sulky heartache was the possibility that race meetings in which he was heavily invested would be disrupted by the weather. If Sulky went two days without a bet he developed a headache. He hadn't had a headache since he was 10. Sulky had a pretty good voice but nobody dare ask him to sing White Christmas. "That's all I need, bloody snow," he'd growl.

The relationship Sulky enjoyed with any number of footballers was partly to do with a generous nature, partly with the fact that he handled big-match tickets long before two other operators, Johnny 'The Stick' Goldstein and 'Fat Stan' Flashman made their mark in the field of private enterprise.

A painful experience quite early in life taught Sulky the irrelevancy of sentiment in horse racing. It also taught him that the bookmakers usually win. From that day on, his character was formed. "What Sulky doesn't know isn't worth knowing," people said about him. Anyway he was credited with considerable influence, an impression he did nothing to discourage even when things didn't turn out to his satisfaction. Sulky didn't like hearing sad stories because they were likely to cost him money. Shortly before one Christmas, a plaintive cry came from a footballer in the dire predicament of not being able to repay a shady loan. "So what's the problem?" Sulky asked, "when did this sort of thing ever worry you?" "This is different," came the reply. "I borrowed the money to buy some bent watches, turned a nice profit, then done it at the races. The geezer is threatening to make trouble." Sulky sighed, trying to think of something ingenious. "You'll be the death of me," he said. "Isn't it bad enough that Christmas is coming?"

Arranging a time and a place, Sulky turned up the next day posing as a solicitor, taking care to ensure that the Sporting Life did not slip from a hastily acquired briefcase. "Look," he said to his friend's puzzled creditor, "I understand the law are on to this and as you made the loan you could be deemed an accessory after the fact (Sulky had been in enough courtrooms to be fairly sure of the terminology). If I were you I'd take half of what my client owes and forget about the while thing."

Christmas gave way to a New Year's Eve that found Sulky in a London pub singing one of his favourites, My Yiddisher Momma. Quite by chance, the conned creditor entered the room. The friend gave Sulky a kick. "So what," he said, shrugging. "Can't a solicitor sing?" A rogue. But, as they say, loveable.