Old blokes, retired from the railway workshops, bowed by emphysema. Skinny men with bald heads and beards. There's an elderly, blind pensioner in the middle of the room who has obviously, with resignation, accompanied his wife. He sits down on an armchair and with great sang-froid plugs himself into a tape player and listens to audio tapes. He can see nothing and now, thank God, the only sound he can hear is a sonorous voice reading him a story.
Most people seem to be on their own.
When the gold coins clatter on to metal they don't shout or wave it about. And when they lose, they lose quietly, slipping out of the club discreetly. Try the All Seasons on a Friday or Saturday night. There's a huge room with boundaries dissolving under the confusion of lighting and machines. The folk are dressed up and on the town.