There used to be this talkative old lady with a polite English accent who roamed the betting shops of Glasgow being avoided by everybody. Whenever she appeared the heavily backed favorite was just about to get beat by a big outsider. And she would always cry out in a surprised way about how she’d managed to choose it, before going to collect her dough at the payout window. And when asked for her nom-de-plume she spoke loudly and clearly: Cute Chick!
It made the punters’ blood run cold.