Something for the weekend?

When is a casino not a casino? When, apparently, it’s a Bingo hall. When debate raged over the licensing of ‘super casinos’ – Vegas-style, ‘destination’ gambling dens – there was nary a mention of the existing. Sharon Osbourne-endorsed venues overseen by the Gala Bingo chain, which operates 175 clubs throughout the UK and boasts around five million members. Bingo, it seems, is not a pernicious, big business money spinner, wheedling hard earned cash from the vulnerable – it’s a Great British Institution.

As a friendly punter sneaking a game-break fag on the conveniently situated, covered terrace of a nearby bar put it: “it’s not about gambling – it’s just a good night out!”. And indeed, the Bath branch of Gala is perfectly situated for such shenanigans, being right opposite the Theatre Royal and snuggled into a building that was once a big, old fashioned cinema. Due to the heritage city’s planning regulations, you won’t find the huge neon signs or the flashing lights around the door that pull Gala punters in elsewhere. But once inside, it’s all about the balls: a cavernous, cathedral-scale hall furnished with hundreds of Formica topped tables, a stage (altar?) at the front and a chapel full of slot machines off to one side, with a bar and diner offering ‘refreshment opportunities’ completing the scene.

We visited on a Monday evening, joining around 70 other optimistic, fellow punters ranging from friendly pensioners to serious young singletons. After registering as members (which is free), we each bought a £10 book that allowed us participation in 10 games (all of us, that is, except for one of our party who got a bit carried away, spending another £7 to join the live, national link-up game and a couple of other extras that we cheapskates opted out of). A very friendly instructor patiently explained the process to us: the caller reads out the numbers; you use a big fat fluorescent marker pen to stamp your game card appropriately. Drinks at the ready, eyes down – and we were off.

Anybody who enters Gala Bingo Bath expecting a seaside postcard scene of jovial ladies in flowery frocks chuckling along to the call of ‘cluck cluck! Two little ducks’, will be deeply disappointed. The bingo caller’s traditional script involving Two Fat Ladies (88), Getting Plenty (number 20) and Meal for Two (69) have been deemed politically incorrect, their innocent cohorts swept away with them. Similarly, the number generating, bouncing ball machines have been replaced by a computer, from which a sweet voiced young woman recites the destiny of your game.

You know those really annoying ‘brain training’ gadgets that are advertised on TV? Imagine playing one of those, with the added stress of possible prize money replacing personal kudos (or whatever the point of those gizmos may be), with further pressure heaped upon you by a group of friends who suddenly turned into a gaggle of recalcitrant teenagers the moment the first number was called: that’s what game one felt like, to me. But by the time we’d swiftly moved on to the next game, we’d all calmed down and there was no time for slacking; those numbers come thick and fast. “Here!”. “House!”. “Yes!” - the shouts went up all around us, as one-line, two-line and Full House games were won, mainly by solemn looking stalwarts who played with the concentrated dedication of the professional. Then suddenly, it was our turn: “Me!”, he shouted – and indeed, it was him. £15 was duly claimed, and we played on, each of us convinced that Lady Luck had joined us at our table. Except she hadn’t. Two hours later (including several even faster moving games played on tabletop boards for an extra quid a time), and it was all over. Someone, somewhere had won quite a nest egg on the national link-up, the couple sitting down the lane from us had won about eight games (although it has to be said, each of them had three times the amount of game books than we’d invested in) and someone else at the slot machines had, by the sound of it, struck gold. Between five of us, we’d spent £57 on game books, £24 at the bar and £3.60 on pie and chips (with the sort of curry sauce your grandma used to make) – a total of £84.60, minus that one, Full House claim.

But remember, it’s not about gambling – it’s just a good night out.