Orange and Lemons

When "Rory Farrell" (a pseudonym, "in case the wrong people are reading") first informed me that he earned his living playing slot-machines, my automatic response was to inform him that I was currently dating Claudia Schiffer. He asked me to convey his regards. Then, over the next hour, he proceeded to extract £35 from the saloon bar's fruit machine. Sheer luck, I said, and challenged him to repeat it. He did. This time, over two hours, he took £20.

"Most nights, I'll expect a minimum £20 from a £5 investment," he said, flaunting his largesse. "Usually, it's more in the region of £30. Even in a worst case scenario, I'll usually get my stake back."

If they ever do work out exactly how big Life is, Rory, born in Brighton and now living in Balham, will doubtless still be larger than it. In every sense. If he were an actor, he'd be a natural Falstaff. As it is, this highly rotund 50something was once the archetypal 60s' drop-out. For about six months, anyway, during which time he scraped a pittance as, amongst other things, a life model. However, as the pounds accumulated and it became increasingly more difficult to accommodate him economically on a canvass, he decided it was time to drop back in again, and subsequently ended up with a D.Litt in English Literature from the University of London. All that now remains of his swinging 60s' past is his hippy hairstyle, a couple of ex-wives ("Though we're no longer on speaking terms"), and assorted girlfriends, who occasionally pop up "usually when least required." In the interim, he's worked, variously, as a journalist ("I shook hands with Quentin Hogg in The Cheshire Cheese."), a magazine editor and, most recently, a computer systems manager.

So what makes a man with these qualifications, who is, in addition, extremely well-read, witty, and the life and soul of most parties, want to now entrust his livelihood to the vagaries of spinning lemons? And most important, how's it done?

The one universal fact about fruit-machines is this: By law, they're required to pay out 70 per cent of whatever is put into them. So if the machine contains £100, it is actually programmed, on pain of writ, to part with £70. The trick is to be around when it does, and not be the mug who's always feeding money in. What's the secret?

"No secret. Although the computing power in a modern fruit machine is enough to run Dounreay, its mechanical side is still based on rather dated technology: spinning disks mounted with magnets. Like all mechanisms, each has its foibles. You just have to learn to recognise them, and what they mean. It's this learning curve that takes time and money. It may take me several weeks to learn a new machine. Occasionally, one defeats me."

Knowing exactly when to play is also important. There's no point trying to coax money from a machine that doesn't actually contain any. So how do you recognise potential fecundity?

"Observation and intelligence. For a start, there's a camaraderie amongst people who play for profit. If one of us knows a particular machine is due to pay, we'll share the knowledge. Bar staff are usually very obliging with information, too. And, of course, the disgruntled punter is always useful; the man who moans, 'Don't play that machine - you'll never win a penny.' I say to myself, 'Thank you very much', because that means he's been playing for some time without success, so a significant payout is pending."

From theory into practice, then. Rory's most consistent performer resides in the saloon bar of The Grove, in Balham. "I regard it almost as a hole-in-the-wall machine, except it doesn't use PIN numbers, and takes somewhat longer to pay out." Yes indeed.

We started at 5.00 pm with a £3 stake. Rory maintained a running commentary. "Ignore the flashing lights - they're just there to distract you ......See the three anchors? That means a small win is due ....... It's offering me £2. Ignore that. Never take what it gives you, take what you can get out of it ....... On this machine, when a significant payout is due, the third cylinder spins slightly slower than the others ... There, there's a payout sequence coming now .... I have to use the 'Nudge' button .... Blast! I've just thrown away £6. But you've got to be prepared to do that." And so on, winning, losing, and winning again, unto the late hours.

By 10.30 pm, we were up £25, and I have to say it was fascinating. But only in the sense that a railway timetable must be fascinating if you happen to have a thing about trains. Otherwise, it seemed an extremely tedious way of earning what was, basically, an hourly-rate of just £4.20. McDonald's could do better, and they'd supply a free Happy Hat. I put this to Rory, and pointed out that a man with his qualifications could easily be pulling £35K a year, guaranteed. So why this?

"It's been a very slow night," he agreed, as he bought the bar a round, "but haven't you ever had a boring day in the office? Yes, this evening, I had to work at it. But yesterday I took £50 in just two hours. Which meant the rest of the time was my own, to have a few drinks, to talk to my friends, to basically enjoy myself. I take more out of the machines than they take out of me. When and if that changes, I'll change. In the meantime, it's free money, no strings, no responsibilities."

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