STEVE PALMER

Weblog: Seven days in the life of a man born to punt

Choking back tears as El Tel revives memories of Euro 96

Saturday, March 6
Every dog has its day! You can’t beat a good saying, can you? I’m a big fan of sayings. How boring would it be if we all just went around using straight-laced, functional sentences without even attempting to jazz up our communications?

Every dog has its day is my favourite saying at the moment because when a pal uttered those five words while we were studying the formguide for the 7.52 at Nottingham in a Coral shop the previous evening, it inspired me to forgive the fact Trap One was still a maiden after no fewer than 18 races and have £30 on at 3-1.

I was so pleased for the little blighter as he cantered round the final bend well clear – you could almost lip-read him barking “every dog has its woofing day you sceptical formbook students” as he danced over the winning line in front.

It’s so reassuring, isn’t it? Has your life been miserable ever since you emerged from your mother’s womb? Well, don’t worry, because every dog has its day. You may not be a dog but don’t let that worry you either – ‘every life-form has its day’ is a less well-known saying which is built on just as much truth. So look forward to your day. Today might be your day. Imagine that!

I decided I had better invest some of the dog winnings on a haircut, given I was starting to resemble a tramp again and had a fancy sports journalism awards bash to attend in a couple of days’ time.

I have a private arrangement with a young lady (mate’s girlfriend’s sister), who is a former salon stylist, that allows me to get my barnet cut at her house at relatively short notice for £10. It’s usually a good set-up and I prefer it to the hurly-burly of a public venue, but on this occasion her dog Poppy was being ridiculously unwelcoming.

Maybe Poppy was just over-excited about the success of Trap One in the 7.52 at Nottingham and bubbling over at the prospect of her ‘day’ arriving some time soon, but she seemed very eager to let me know she was the boss of the house.

I was feeling slightly nauseous anyway, with eight pints of Carling Black Label still swilling around inside me from the previous night, but having an enormous furball throwing itself at me while I was being groomed just added to my woes.

At one point, I thought I must have been hallucinating through distress as a female postman passed by the front window (sign of the times, eh?), then I cracked and had to request five minutes of fresh air to recover from Poppy’s relentless perversions (what is it with dogs and their obsession with nether regions?) as the lawless beast threatened to end my hopes of fatherhood.

The “she’s only playing” line obviously made an appearance on many occasions. It disturbs me how owners always justify their dog’s behaviour in this way. It’s only when a limb or an eyeball is removed that ‘play’ seems to cross their line. You would never let your kid get away with screaming in the face of a stranger and then lunging at their genitalia, so why is it alright for your dog to do so?

After an hour of torturous trimming, I had to vacuum my locks off the carpet, and some deeply-ingrained dog hair came up too. The stench of mutt swept up my nostrils. Maybe this is a way to cure problem gamblers who are addicted to dog racing. I’m not sure I’ve got it in me to even look at another dog after vacuuming up the stale hairs of this rancid mongrel.

Anyway, my Malaysian Open golf bets were providing crumbs of comfort during this difficult morning. Thongchai Jaidee (£200 at 10-1), Danny Willett (£38 at 65), Johan Edfors (£35 at 70) and Alejandro Canizares (£25 at 120) were all in contention going into the final round and I pressed up (£50 on Jaidee at 5.1 on Betfair, £25 on Edfors at 15, £20 on Canizares at 20 and £5 on Willett at 65) to make the following morning even more exciting.

The Honda Classic was proving my worst betting tournament of the season by a long way, though, so I needed to reload the gun shockingly early, firing a couple of very optimistic bullets on two players who were well off the pace (£75 each-way on Rory McIlroy at 66-1 with Bet365 and £50 each-way on Charles Howell at 100-1 with Stan James).

I had an impulsive losing score on Pasco in the 3.10 at Newbury because it looked so shiny and healthy (unfortunately they were betting on which horse won the race rather than best-turned-out), then devoured three large meals at McDonald’s, enjoyed a few frames of snooker (using the rest for any shot that would have meant leaninga belly full of burger over the table), and settled down in the pub to see if my £150 at 6-4 for Tottenham to beat Fulham would be successful.

After Fulham cost me dear yet again, I popped round a mate’s house to order a taxi home, and I got a real snapshot of married life.

His pregnant wife was slumped on the sofa watching an Ant and Dec production, another stinking dog (this one was called Ted) was roaming free, and before long the wife’s 14-year-old brother was banging at the front door begging to stay the night because he had drunk himself silly on alcopops and did not want to have to face his parents.

I felt sorry for my friend. Surely it is only financial constraints that stop everyone living alone. I could understand the value in
co-habiting in caveman times – the more club-wielders there were to fight off dinosaurs the better – but in the year 2010 (when the most dangerous animal alive is the dog) there is no need. Don’t own a dog, live alone, and hey presto, you’ve got a safe and peaceful existence.

Sunday, March 7
Awoke to Malaysian Open heartbreak – Jaidee, Edfors, Canizares and Willett got close but no cigar. Well, Noh cigar to be more precise, as Korean teenager Seung-yul Noh was victorious.

I had intended to get stuck into some footy betting but I popped into thepub for a lunchtime pint and got distracted.

The barmaid called Sophie at my new local is definitely in the top five most beautiful human beings I have ever set eyes upon and she was gliding gloriously around the pub, lighting up the place with her smile as she served up the Sunday roasts.

I decided at that point that I spend so much time gambling in monetary terms, with varying degrees of success, I should not be afraid to do a bit of gambling in other walks of life, namely by gambling my dignity and risking the embarrassment of rejection by offering Sophie my phone number.

Sounds straightforward, doesn’t it? Give her your phone number – five easy-to-say words – but for someone who is not exactly a star graduate from the Russell Brand School Of Seduction it was the equivalent of climbing five Mount Everests.

I attempted some ‘banter’ every time Iordered a pint, looking for a natural way of dropping the digits, but it was so tricky. Sometimes I would end up getting served by the barman (why does he have to be so ruddy alert?) so it would be a wasted trip. I was beginning to lose heart and about to abandon my plans, but then during another banter raid she mentioned her step-dad works in a Ladbrokes shop and I grew more confident.

“Gosh, we’ve got so much in common – I love betting, your step-dad works in Ladbrokes – when do you want to get married?”

I didn’t actually say that – I just nervously mumbled something far less extravagant and returned to my seat – but the fact she had said the word Ladbrokes somehow galvanised me and four or five ales later I had completed my mission.

It was a good job I didn’t have any golfers in contention in the Honda Classic because I had endured enough stress for one day.

What shall I do for my next non-monetary gamble? Jump off a cliff and see if I can avoid dying? Imagine the buzz if you walked away with nothing but a few cuts and bruises. You would feel invincible – you would be throwing your number at pretty girls willy nilly.

Monday, March 8
I consumed a KFC brunch with more caution than usual – one drop of mayo on my shirt or tie and my trip to the SJA Sports Journalism Awards would have been thrown into jeopardy.
It was hellish being back on the London Underground again. Sensible people only go underground when they die, but I had no real choice if I was to make the awards venue on time.

Event sponsors Skybet had made me their 10-11 favourite for the Betting Writer of the Year award and I was finding the pressures of favouritism intolerable. I turned up last year expecting not to win and really enjoyed the night, but this year, evenallowing for my natural pessimism, the odds-on quote meant I clearly had a strong chance of having to go on stage to do a speech.

I hate public speaking. I’ve been best man twice – once in a small Dorset village called Portesham and once in the African wilds of Malawi (it’s a long story) – and I thought nothing could be worse than that. But awards ceremonies trump it and I was on edge all night.

I would probably have been buzzing after claiming the award had I beaten some people I dislike. But fellow nominees Kevin Pullein, a dear friend and colleague for ten years, and Derek McGovern, the Daily Mirror man who also seems like a tremendously good egg, are not the sort of characters you want to wave your gong at while blowing raspberries.

Once the champagne came out to bolster the two bottles of wine already inside me, I stepped into a different universe, and was last seen explaining the virtues of punting to Terry Venables (who described betting as a vice he had never followed) while taking a wonderful trip down memory lane.

We were so close in ’96, eh Tel? Oh, we were so, so close.

Tuesday, March 9
A quick McDonald’s breakfast at Waterloo, then a train back south, getting my golf wagers sorted as soon as possible (£205 on Phil Mickelson for the CA Championship at 11 on Betfair, £80 on Geoff Ogilvy at 28, £50 on Nick Watney at 42, £40 on Ernie Els at 50 and £25 on JB Holmes at 85; £100 on Bryce Molder for the Puerto Rico Open at 21, £80 on Alex Prugh at 26, £30 on Carl Pettersson at 70 and £25 on Spencer Levin at 110).

I was too exhausted to speak to telephonists, so I had my double on my Paddy Power internet account, placing £70 on Mickelson (8-1) and Molder (18-1) for a potential £11,970 return.

Wednesday, March 10
A quick McDonald’s for lunch (if I keep using the the word quick I don’t feel such a glutton), then I endured my ‘induction’ at the gym.

I don’t like the word gym. I think I might end up hating everyone I know who is called Jim just through some sort of subconscious negative association.

Thursday, March 11
Stiff as a board (not in a good way). Jim’ll Fix It, my arse.

Friday, March 12
Sophie hasstill not made contact. I must have written down an incorrect digit, eh? Yeah, that’s right – it’s definitely nothing to do with me coming across as the most peculiar customer ever to have set foot in the pub. Right, I need another gamble. Let’s find a nice cliff.