Innocent kiddies in predatory leisure centre gambling addiction hell

It looks innocent enough. In Purley Wonderleisureworld, the machine in the corner is brightly coloured, with a picture of an attractive woman in sportswear, pouring liquid over her muscular body. I’m here to learn of a very real threat to the financial health of the nation; one which, chillingly, is legally available to children of any age. As I watch, a woman pushing a buggy approaches, inserts a coin, and a few seconds later is rewarded with a bottle of Evian. Her young child watches the whole process.

Beside me is Owen Chumley, Tony Blair’s water machine detection (WMD) tsar. Dressed in an undercover stained raincoat and brown crimplene trouser ensemble, he explains his mission with a campaigner’s passion rare in government departments: "I firmly believe that gambling should be regulated, and we have made a start by banning fruit machines in places like chip shops and seaside arcades. However, we overlook these ubiquitous machines which pollute shopping centres, train stations, and, most importantly, leisure centres.”

I present the argument used by liberal left wingers to excuse these machines: they don’t involve gambling, as you insert a pound coin, as advertised, and get a bottle of water in return, as promised. Owen shakes his head.

“Just as cannabis can be a gateway drug to heroin, vending machines are a gateway to the horror of fruit machines, blackjack, and those weird contraptions you only get at the seaside where you operate a sort of hooky thing to pick up a really rubbish toy that’s worth less than the price of having a go. The secret is that water vending machines promise a reward every time, and deliver, lulling unsuspecting citizens into a false sense of security. After years of this brainwashing, gambling is irresistible.”

As we watch, a disturbing incident unfolds. A woman with a girl of about five, dressed in Gap For Kids, pauses by the machine. Owen shakes his head: “Scary isn’t it? All sections are society are poisoned by these machines.” The woman takes a coin from her purse, gives it to the girl, and lifts her up so that she can put it in the slot. I’m shocked that the child is allowed to do this, and confront the woman. Does she normally allow her daughter to use the water machine?

“Oh yes, Briony needs rehydrating after all that splashing about in the pool, and she likes to put her own pound coin in. It helps her to learn about money.” Owen tries to tempt Briony away from her mother with a carton of Ribena while I probe for the woman for any moral sense.

“Does it worry you that this is a form of slot machine? That you might introduce her to a twilight world of gambling, debt, bankruptcy, despair, cans of Special Brew, and looking so rough and plebby she won’t even get onto Wife Swap?” The woman ignores me and verbally attacks Owen: “Leave my child alone! She doesn’t take things from strangers. And it’s not even Ribena Toothkind! And take your mad friend with you!”

Owen shakes his head. Addicts, he says, react angrily when their behaviour is challenged. Luckily, he extracted Briony’s address and her mother’s name in the few moments they had together. He has a gift for persuading children to do things, he explains. As Anna Timms of 8 Westwood Drive, Banstead, gets into her car, I ask Owen about the life little Briony must lead.

“Anna may gamble to boost her income as a single parent. Her life will be chaotic, involving prostitution, drugs, and parties with orgies and women getting their baps out and everything. Briony will probably live on stuff like Arctic Roll and pork scratchings.”

As I leave, a young man, muscles bulging, uses the machine. Owen notes: “At that age, they’re old enough to know what they’re doing. I’m only interested in youngsters like Briony. I only hope that my research in the community pays off, and that we amend the bill to include these machines.” I‘m left with one thought. Owen feels these words should be printed on every water machine: Just because you put in £1 and get back water worth £1 doesn’t mean it’s not gambling.

Apologies

In our article of 8 November, we referred to an incident at Purley Wonderleisureworld involving Mrs Anna Timms of Banstead, Surrey. We would like to make it clear that Mrs Timms is not a single parent, being married to Alexander Timms, a barrister.

She does not have a gambling problem, and her daughter, who we accept should not have been named, has never eaten Arctic Roll. Indeed, we are not aware that this desert is still available. Pork scratchings are also unknown to the household.

Mrs Timms has never been involved in prostitution, orgies, or parties with women getting their baps out, apart from New Year’s Eve 2001 when Auntie Maude had a couple of Bacardi Breezers.

We accept Mr Timms’ concern that no government department has ever heard of Owen Chumley. In future, The Rockall Times will not accept invitations from civil servants issued from a payphone in The Diamond Geezer Pub in Croydon, and have passed on all relevant information to the local police, as requested.

Previously

• Robbie Williams' descent into gambling addiction hell
• The Curse of the Windsors
• UK to host World Fruit Machine Anecdote Championship