I won €6.50 at bingo the other night. Not a life-changing amount, sure, but a win is a win. And to think, I nearly didn’t have the nerve to shout out my victory.
Wherever bingo happens, it’s taken seriously. I’m a blow-in at the local sports and social club. My friend Sean is the bingo caller there and a little gang of us pop along sporadically to take part. Every time I go I think, “I should do this more often.” It’s similar to the urge I feel every time the lights come up at the cinema. Both activities produce a sated and cosy feeling that begs to be repeated. Both also come with implicit rules. There’s a common policy that talking is forbidden once the main action has begun. The cinema then asks that you keep your chomping to a minimum, refrain from vaping, and resist the urge to light up your big gormless head by checking your phone.
At bingo, though, the stakes are higher. Once you step into the hall there’s a tacit agreement that you know the procedures and are not there to act the clown. Break the social contract of the cinema and you might get some tuts and sighs. Break the policies of the bingo hall and you’ll never live it down.
And so, a few games in, I found myself waiting for just one number to complete my line. Once my line was full I should then confidently shout out, “check!” In this particular hall the only acceptable shout is “check”. Not “line”, not “house”, not “bingo”. My heart was already in my mouth in case I made a balls of the shout. It would be like me to get too in my head about it and end up roaring out “CHINGO!” My next fear was unintentional cheating. What if I’d somehow marked a number that wasn’t called? How could I live with the shame? How would I survive the ribbing?
Then, just like that, Sean called “three and zero, 30”. The players muttered “tríocha” in response – more on that in a second – and I fully stuttered and flapped my arms before shouting out “CHECK”. My heart was in my mouth as another player confirmed my numbers. But I was clean. I had won fair and square. Three of us had, in fact, and the prize was split evenly. The €6.50 didn’t even cover my 10 quid entry fee, but I was thrilled nonetheless.
Hyperbole about the rules and proceedings aside, what a gorgeous way to spend an icy January evening. One of our group called it “mindful”, and that was it exactly. Nothing to concentrate on but the numbers and the page in front of you. Pushing down on the specially made “dabbers” – markers with giant flat nibs and pink, purple and red inks sloshing around inside. Despite my earlier claim that the stakes are high, on this particular evening in this particular hall it was safety personified.
Sean is a no-nonsense bingo caller with natural wit on his side. When he calls out “the Lord is my shepherd, 23” and his bingo parishioners respond “amen”, he rewards them with a curt “thank you”. Twenty-three, of course, refers to a number in the Book of Psalms. When Sean calls “50” he expects a decent attempt at the theme tune from Hawaii Five-O, including an enthusiastic “book ‘em, Danno!” Where “3-0″ brings the “tríocha” response, the “4-0″ refrain is also as Gaeilge: “daichead”. “Fifty-seven” brings on a full singsong inspired by the Heinz 57 varieties marketing slogan and the 1960s ad jingle “don’t be mean with the beans, mum”.
Some of the calls are standard and some are bingo-hall specific. When Sean first took on the role several years back – he had recently moved into the community and wanted to get involved in some volunteering work – he familiarised himself with the likes of “Gandhi’s breakfast, 80”.
“Why is it ‘Gandhi’s breakfast’?” I asked in a whisper the other night.
“Because he ate nothin’,” was the hushed response. (Eight-zero.)
I remember a few years back, Sean delivered the exciting news that he was getting a new bingo machine. The old one had a failing display and troublesome buttons. The new contraption is compact but has a large, clear number screen and gives Sean no problems at all. My favourite thing about it? The box its stored in, battered and torn, with “new bingo machine” written in marker. It’ll stay the new bingo machine until it too gives up. Long live the new bingo machine.