Reluctant Rickie makes for a seriously foul night

Saturday, February 27

It was officially still winter according to the Meteorological Office, but I headed into the weekend full of the joys of spring.

It had nothing to do with budding bluebells, a red admiral flying past my face or witnessing a frog emerge from hibernation to plop into a pond, though. My joy was stemming from the fact I had more golfers incontention in the Phoenix Open than you could shake a ruddy seven-iron at – Anthony Kim (£62 at 70), Ryan Moore (£55 at 75) and Rickie Fowler (£50 at 110) were all ten under par and one shot off the lead at the halfway stage.

I was in such a strong position and assumed I would be winning a fortune the following night. I made for the pub early, buying drinks for pals as if I had just become a lottery winner, gleefully ignoring the fact there were36 holes to be played and about 36 other golfers who still had a chance to win.

Full of beans, I popped into an internet cafe to get some bets on Chelsea’s lunchtime fixture with Man City, confident the 50 pence it cost me would be won back in spades by either a 1-0 home win (£90 at 8 on Betfair) or a goalless draw (£66.34 at 16.5).

I was disappointed to find a gaggle of City fans gathered around me for the match. One of them insisted on loudly shouting “Come on you blues” at regular intervals despite the fact Chelsea were playing in blue and City were in their white away kit.

I know his brain is probably programmed to instruct his mouth to bark “Come on you blues” whenever he is watching his team, but you think he would find a way of tinkering with the grey matter a little when City are playing against a side who are wearing blue.

Maybe I’m a pedant. Maybe he’s a moron. Maybe we should all just try to get along – society won’t work without tolerance I suppose.

At half-time, with the score 1-1, I spent another 50 pence having £50 on no third goal at 4.8 on Betfair, before giving up on the game completely from a betting perspective when City took the lead.

Not that the goals were ever the main talking point. I lost count of the number of times somebody in the pub dramatically announced “Ooh, Bridge and Terry are getting close, they’re getting close...” as our depraved nation yearned for a punch-up between former best friends.

The Wayne Bridge-John Terry saga certainly sparked some heated debate at my table.

“Would you shake my hand if I’d shagged your Mrs?”

“Well, when do we ever shake hands anyway?”

“Alright, would you talk to me if I’d shagged your Mrs?”

“Only to call you a **** before I headbutted you.”

The general consensus was that when greeting Terry, Bridge should have used one of those comedy buzzer things that gives out an electric shock. He may have done that before they came out of the tunnel given the state of the Chelsea skipper’s hair.

After City scored a fourth, I marched straightto Coral to have £400 on Sunderland to beat Fulham at their 5-4 coupon price, then had £60 on draw half-time, Arsenal full-time at 7-2 with Bet365 for the Gunners’ trip to Stoke.

Cesc Fabregas’slate penalty meant I was level for the day, although Kim and Moore then dropped away in Phoenix, leaving Fowler my only hope of a golf windfall.

Sunday, February 28

There were so many babies screaming away while I tucked into my roast dinner. I quite like the idea of becoming a father, but only if the midwife could guarantee to provide me with a baby that doesn’t scream.

I was doing some screaming of my own during the afternoon football. Sunderland failed to break through Fulham and my hastily assembled opinion that Man United would beat Villa in extra-time at Wembley (£100 at 11 on Betfair) fell apart when Wayne Rooney headed over Brad Friedel from what appeared to be just inside the halfway line.

Still, Rickie was going to come to the rescue, wasn’t he? Fowler was 6-1 second favourite behind Brandt Snedeker, who I fancied to fold like apack of cards from the front, and I pinpointed the chief dangers as Charles Howell, Camilo Villegas and Hunter Mahan. I decided to go for the jugular again, with £150 on Howell at 33-1 with Bet365 the only bit of hedging I bothered with.

When Fowler eventually took the lead deep into the final round, the TV coverage became increasingly poor, and my stress levels rocketed.

But fortunately Saving Private Ryan was on Channel 4 at the same time, so during adverts in the golf I could get some instant perspective.

The golf became a straight match between Fowler and Mahan – once YE  Yang found water at the 17th there was no other realistic winner – and I had some token bets on Mahan just so I would have some ammunition supplies for next week if Fowler botched the final few holes (watching Saving Private Ryan was pressing home the importance of ammo).

I had £250 at 2, £50 at 2.58 and £25 at 2.4, and with Fowler trading around the 1.8 mark I could have secured around £3,000.

But I didn’t lock in the bags (because I never do) and when it emerged that Fowler had laid up from prime position on the par-five 15th hole (that’s how bad the coverage was – shots were ‘emerging’ rather than viewers being able to watch them) my mood plummeted.

I presumed my old mate Tim Clark hadjetted into Phoenix and somehow bundled Fowler out of the way to take the shot for him.

Position A on the fairway, a perfect lie, no wind and 230 yards to the pin? A smooth four-iron to a soft green? My great grandmother could have hit that shot and she’s been dead for 20 years! A power-packed, young go-getter who is averaging 290 yards for driving distance this season should certainly be taking it on.

I hobbled forlornly to the fridge (I was so crestfallen I couldn’t even walk properly) to get some Stella Artois as Fowler’s foul-up enraged me. Mahan took full advantage.

Still, at least I had Saving Private Ryan to remind me life could be a lot worse. If I had been born a few years earlier, I would have had to spend my time dodging bullets and tanks, and wrestling with Germans who were trying to kill me.

My generation don’t appreciate how lucky they have been.

I usedto get angry about the fact I had been born at a time which meant I was at university during the height of the Spice Girls boom – the Girl Power craze meant female students were not quite as liberal with their loving as they are these days – but I should be grateful for the 1978 birth date given the hell that others (like 1888 or 1918) would have brought me.

I obviously now wish I had guaranteed the three-bag return when Fowler was odds-on, but if he had won and I had not pocketed five-and-a-half bags, I would have felt like I had been robbed. I can’t suddenly change my laying-off policy now – the horse bolted long ago.
And what is there really to be gained from becoming a trader, ekeing out a little profit here and there?

There is a scene in Saving Private Ryan where a pathetic excuse for a man is crying like a baby on some stairs when his mate is getting knifed to death by a German above him. This tearful character was supposed to be supplying ammunition to his comrade but he was too afraid to help and will forever be remembered as a feeble disgrace.

I don’t want to be remembered as a feeble disgrace. I want to die a hero. We are around for such a short time and you will quickly be forgotten if you die having spent your life negligently crying on staircases, trading for small profits on Betfair, etc.

The Fowler bet has obviously not worked out, but if I had won five bags on him, I could have had five bags on Phil Mickelson to win the Masters, then 40 bags on Rory McIlroy to win the Open, then given 700 bags to Children In Need and died safe in the knowledge I was a hero.

Monday, March 1

A mate who had made a brief visit to my flat the previous night rang up to see if Fowler had won and weighed in with a very annoying question I have been asked many times before.

Him: “What could you have got for the each-way then?”

Me: “20-1.”

Him: “Why didn’t you do that then?”

Me: “Goodbye.”

Tuesday, March 2

After 24 hours of ducking, diving, ordering, waiting, sighing, etc, my golf bets were all in play.

For the Malaysian Open, I had £200 on Thongchai Jaidee at 10-1 with Hills, £38 on Danny Willett at 65 on Betfair, £35 on Johan Edfors at 70, £29 on Shiv Kapur at 85, £25 on Alejandro Canizares at 120, £19 on Danny Lee at 160 and £12 on Nicolas Colsaerts at 250, and for the Honda Classic I had £197 on Ernie Els at 27 on Betfair, £125 on Robert Allenby at 18-1 with Betfred, £85 on Padraig Harrington at 28-1 with Stan James, £28 on Mathew Goggin at 90 on Befair and £27 on DJ Trahan at 95. I also chanced a £40 each-way double with Hills on Kapur (66-1) and Els (25-1).

In the evening, I endured a swim, remembering this was the year I was supposed to be getting fit.

There is a designated slow lane, medium lane and fast lane, and a bit where kids just splash about.

I opted for the slow lane but still found myself getting lapped by old ladies. A lifeguard I got chatting to even suggested I could use a float if I wanted to make it a bit easier. How did the 1988 Perth Junior Iron Man champion regress to this state? Ronald McDonald has got a lot to answer for.

I had so much momentum after the swim, though, I went to have a peek at the gym. It didn’t look a fun place to hang out – two musclebound men were stretching each other’s calves between iron-pumping sessions and achieving that notoriously tricky macho-gay look – but I was guided to an office to speak to a girl called Danielle who was in charge of the gym membership.

Unfortunately, Danielle is the sort of girl you just don’t say no to. I wasn’t even listening to what she was saying as her glorious lips glistened through some sort of magical balm – I just kept saying yes and before I knew it I had signed up to a £33-a-month membership.

They know what they’re doing in these places, don’t they? If they had put a Daniel in front of me, I would have told him I had a life-threatening heart condition and been out of the door within seconds, but Danielle was always going to get the result they wanted.

Wednesday, March 3

Short of ammo, I had a token and joyless £30 on a 0-0 England-Egypt draw at 15 on Betfair.

Thursday, March 4

After the first round in Malaysia, I had £50 at 38 on Thomas Bjorn as a little early cover-shot on Betfair, then £300 at 5-6 with Coral on Phil Taylor minus 3.5 legs against Raymond van Barneveld.

Friday, March 5

It is such a shame Taylor is almost 50 years old – he’s the most dependable betting proposition in world sport.
Nothing last forever, though, eh? You only have to watch Saving Private Ryan if you need reminding of that fact. Lest we forget.