Wasting Time in Numbers and Rhymes

Seeing an advert for some tedious Sun/Deal or No Deal link up Internet game reminded me of one of the great mysteries of my youth: what is the appeal of playing bingo?

When I passed my driving test at the age of 17, one of the duties delegated to me by my mother in exchange for being able to take off in the car on a Friday night to take me and my mates bowling in the next town up was to pick up my nan from the bingo on a Saturday evening. Sometimes I'd be early enough that the last game was still going on, but the doors would be open to let any early quitters out. Peaking in, I'd see rows of people (of which about 95% would be women) sat in silence, waiting for their numbers to be called out.

It baffled me. How was it fun to tick numbers off a card. It was like some kind of communist nightmare idea of entertainment, regimented and intensely well-ordered even down to the quips of the caller. Though I never saw her play myself, I was informed my nan was a bit of an old hand at the 'game' and at her peak could have six cards on the go.

Earlier in my life, I can recall a rainy holiday at Butlins (or Pontins), being bored to the point of brain death while my mother played sodding bingo with my aunt. I imagine my dad and uncle had sensibly retired to the bar, while I was left to hope we got a win so I could convince my mother to give me a few 20p pieces to go amuse myself playing Chase HQ or Rampage at the arcade. I wonder if these experiences in part were what put me off the whole idea of going away anywhere for holidays.

Amazingly, even in the days of video games, DVDs and the Internet, it seems that people are still playing bingo, judging by the number of halls I see around Manchester and Salford. TV adverts showcased groups of glamorous young women getting dolled up to head off to spend an evening gawping at numbers as it were an attractive lifestyle choice, which made no sense at all as far as I could make out.

Perhaps my view was jaundiced by the knowledge that Don Revie, manager of the evil and cynical Leeds United football team of the late 60s and early 70s, held games of bingo (and carpet bowls, whatever the fuck that is) between his players as a form of relaxation. Enough to put off anyone who preferred their rose red to white.

Needless to say, I certainly don't blame the eponymous character of the Fall's Bingo-Master's Break Out for ending "his life with wine and pills" after years of the job. I think a week doing that would be enough to have me chewing off my own arm in despair.