Why did the kids flocking for Tom Waterhouse’s signature become a tipping point for concerns about gambling? Have we just had enough of gambling becoming the national sport of choice, or is there something about seeing kids go mad for a bookie that makes our collective skin crawl?
The other day, after a relatively short conversation about how I manage to pay all the bills, finding a job you like doing when you grow up and how the two might one day be related, my kid suggested a possible life path for herself: I think I might marry a rich man. Happiness, feminism and self-responsibility aside, I could see where she was coming from. The odds aren’t stacking up from her vantage point and she’s looking for a safer bet.
We’ve gotten so het up about gambling after watching kids flock to get Tom Waterhouse’s autograph because it’s only when we see our own behaviour mimicked by littler people that we get the true extent of our own sorriness. When my daughter indulges in a momentary fantasy of solving her money worries by marrying some, I can see all my own tragic attempts to get my act together financially coming home to roost.
But some of what’s grabbed our attention is even more sinister than a new generation of addictive gamblers. Admittedly, problem gambling is a serious issue for kids, and starting to gamble when you’re young is not a good sign for your future ability to resist compulsive punting. But there’s more than a concern about gambling at play here. When we look at the kids lining up in admiration in front of this well-suited baby millionaire, I think we may be gutted about what Waterhouse is telling us about the fundamental flaws of hero worship.
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