Independent on Sunday, The: A croupier's life: Casino creatures

Six months spent working at the casino, and what have I got to show for it? Only dark circles under my eyes, a speedy way with my 35 times table, and an intimate knowledge of the gambling fraternity. So the least I can do is draw up an anatomy of the sub-divisions that make up the genus Gambler.

There's the Casual, who only calls in occasionally. Dressed smartly for his visit in a shiny shirt, he has pungent aftershave and a glad eye. Unlike the addicted gamblers, who see dealers as just the suppliers of their drug, the Casual sees them as prey. So, for example, as I leaned over the wheel to spin, a Casual once breathed in my ear "I love your body." "You'll love my elbow in a minute," barked the table inspector in my defence. Repulsed, the Casual melted into the crowd, disappearing with a hiss.

Next, there's the Junior. Exemplars of this type are the Two Jolly Barristers. Well-fed and fresh-faced, like two overgrown schoolboys, they arrive in their loud pinstripes grinning guiltily and saying "Us again". For, like social smokers, they do not count themselves as gamblers, no no! They only like to indulge once in a while, just twice or thrice a week. They're perhaps the worst kind to deal to, since with every spin of the wheel you feel you're tightening the noose of addiction around their necks. But they seem to enjoy it. At the small end of the morning I can hear them laughing at a nearby table, calling out to each other: "Got to be in chambers in a few hours!"

And they even seem to be pleased to win - the true mark of a Junior. For the Maniacal takes no such pleasure in her game. She is a tight fist of anger, playing feverishly, pupils dilated and hands trembling. She plays to outwit the cards, and when she wins it is as if she had caught them in the act of conspiring against her. She is the woman Pepys saw winning, shouting out "A pox on it, that it should come so early upon me, for this fortune two hours hence would be worth something to me, but then, God damn me, I shall have no such luck."

Ms Maniacal catches her fever before your very eyes. She breezes into the casino saying: "Give us a quick spin, love - I'm only in here for my lunch break." After six hours, she's still at the same table, playing roulette. She holds up a five-pound token: "My last. Go on, take it," she says, placing it wildly against the odds, straight up on zero. As I spin, she gathers her things to leave, zipping her jacket and scorning to even watch the ball. She sneaks a look back just in time to see it drop into zero. Fourteen hours later, when the last spin is called at the end of the croupier's double overtime shift, she finally leaves. Her next stop? Another casino, which doesn't close until 6am. Her gaming bender lasts a furious two or three days. Then we don't see her for another month or so while she lies dormant.

The gambling family suit is completed by the King Pin. He sits in state at the table, contemplating the game and repetitively stroking his column of chips. Each spin, he builds a tall stack up on the number 23, relentlessly neatening it into a proud skyscraper. Relentlessly, I demolish it with every spin. The King Pin groans as I crumble his priapic edifice, tugging at his grey sideburns. Some deep abscess in his psyche compels him eternally to repeat this cycle of hope and humiliation. As long as it has the King Pin, the casino will never close.