STEVE PALMER

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

Poults gets the party into full swing before winnings soon perish

Saturday, February 20
I think the worst kind of hangovers are theones where you do not deserve to be hung over. Sometimes circumstances conspire against you and, despite your best intentions, excessive drinking materialises without you being able to do anything to control the situation. That is why I was feeling particularly sorry for myself on Saturday morning.

I was actually making my way home from the pub in a reasonable condition on Friday night, en route to the Chinese takeaway, but the temperature was so ridiculously low that anyone staying outside for longer than five minutes would almost certainly have died.

My toes were attempting to get inside my feet and a large stalactite was forming in my pants.

So I had no choice but to dive in another pub for shelter, abandoning hope of making it to the Chinese alive, and by the time I returned to the icy streets of broken Britain my body had been so numbed by drink I could have gone skinny dipping with some polar bears in Alaska with a fair degree of comfort.

You know the drill, though. Such warm glows tend to turn to firm woes overnight, and it was with view to watching the lunchtime fixture in the recovery position that I had £200 on Man United to beat Everton at 1.87 on Betfair.

Dimitar Berbatov’s exquisite half-volley was just the tonic I needed, but my joy lasted only three minutes (I’m sure there are unsatisfied wives up and down the land who can empathise with me) before Everton equalised. Two more Toffee-coated kicks to the ribs later – Berbatov’s flavoursome tonic had turned into a Bilyaletdinov-Gosling-Rodwell-conjured cow-crap casserole – and I was regretting my decision to consider football a potential healing aid.

The golf betting was not going well either. Stewart Cink (£150 at 42) was my only player left in the Accenture Match Play at the last-eight stage and he had a bang-in-form Paul Casey to overcome in the quarter-finals. I felt it was time to add another string to my bow and I fancied Ian Poulter to come through the other side of the draw, so I had £300 on the cocksure Englishman at 5.6 on Betfair, hoping for a Cink-Poulter final.
I did not have time to watch the opening exchanges of the quarter-finals, though, as I had to make an extremely rare visit to a supermarket to purchase items for a long-overdue housewarming party I was staging in the evening.

Doing something you hardly ever do is never easy, is it? The phrase “unaccustomed as I am to public speaking” roughly translates to “this is going to be a rubbish speech” and I felt like putting a warning sign on my front door which read: I have never hosted a party before so don’t get your hopes up – it’s bound to be seriously lacking in one way or another.

As it turned out, the supermarket was by far the most challenging aspect of being the party host. It was packed to the rafters and I found safely guiding my trolley around other shoppers was tough enough without even worrying about what I was going to put in the ruddy thing.

Clearly annoying more seasoned campaigners with my lack of trolley etiquette, I must have used my catch-phrase “sorry, I’m not a regular shopper” about 15 times, blazing my way around the store like I was at the wheel of an Asda Mazda.

Anything that looked remotely ‘party-esque’, I chucked in the trolley. Lots of stuff actually has the word party on it, so if you’re shopping for a party you feel almost contractually obliged to buy them. I wonder if anyone has ever eaten a ‘party sausage’ while not being at a party? That would be extremely naughty, wouldn’t it?

Even when you reach the checkout counter, you’re not out of the woods, because putting your goods into carrier bags can provide a further headache. I learned the hard way, as a couple of custard slices were crushed in my desperation to get out of the firing line, that fragile items need to be allocated a bag of their own.

It was harrowing stuff. I took stock by a relatively quiet newsagents-like section of the supermarket as I steeled myself for the trolley-push to the car park, being drawn to a dinosaur magazine which appeared to be offering a free plastic replica Tyrannosaurus Rex skull with every purchase.

I was about to buy the magazine – I had always wondered about the exact dimensions of a Tyrannosaurus Rex skull – but then an old man who can only be described as a mentalist appeared out of nowhere going bananas.

“Ooh, you don’t want to buy that, son – it’s a con. You have to keep buying the next part, then the next part, and they keep putting the price up each time. It’s a con, it’s a con...”
I threw the magazine back down and assured him I was not going to buy it, by now regretting my little trolley pit-stop, but he still kept shouting at me, “it’s a con, it’s a con...”, tailgating my trolley as I tried to escape, clearly under the impression he could not emphasise the point enough.

I honestly believe at least one policeman should be stationed throughout the day at every major supermarket. Trolleys are more incendiary devices than any bombs known to man, while opportunist mentalists lurk in the supermarket undergrowth looking to prey on the weak.

I returned home to watch Cink defeated by Casey, but Poulter beat Jaidee and then Sergio Garcia to keep my spirits high enough for me to host a party.

Sunday, February 21
My flat resembled a landfill site when I awoke – the house had certainly been warmed.

Highlights included a wonderful argument between a husband and wife, the latter having been banned by the former from wearing a sexy black-lace dress she had originally put on (because he haddeemed it “inappropriate” for the party). I offered her £20 to get a taxi home and return in all her glory, but the warring couple soon left.

It wasn’t all fun, fun, fun for me, though, because at some point my toilet seat was broken beyond repair by one of the revellers.

As the night wore on the Toiletgate scandal turned into a bigger storyline than Who Killed Archie Mitchell? I’ve got a prime suspect in mind (the bigger they are, the harder they fall) but it is not a crime that is easy to prove.

I popped out for a roast dinner before settling down for the golf, which proved a bad decision because Reg from the flat downstairs was waiting to giveme all sorts of grief about the previous night, leaving the main door unlocked being the most serious misdemeanour.

I apologised profusely but throughout my dressing down I couldn’t help wondering how long it would be beforethere is no-one on Earth called Reg. No-one christens their boy Reginald anymore, do they? So many great names appear to be falling by the wayside – Bernard, Harold, Herbert, Cyril, Stanley, Arthur, Dudley, Maurice, Percy, Adolph...

It’s a shame. I might call my son Ian in tribute to Mr Poulter, who won me £1,380 by defeating Casey to keep my punting engine ticking over nicely.

Monday, February 22
I supped on an apple and raspberry j2o drink that a pregnant party-goer had left from Saturday (I wish I could get pregnant – they’re delicious) while sorting out my Phoenix Open wagers on Betfair.

With only one golf tournament to worry about, I didn’t feel the need to shave my shortlist so much, and I ended up with a Magnificent Seven. I had £540 on Phil Mickelson at 9.4, £205 on JB Holmes at 26, £62 on Anthony Kim at 70, £56 on Steve Marino at 75, £55 on Ryan Moore at 75, £50 on Rickie Fowler at 110 and £32 on Charley Hoffman at 130.

I noticed a sign had appeared on the flats entrancefrom the Management Committee explaining the importance of locking the main door overnight. I wonder if Reg is related to that bloke from the supermarket? You’ve made your ruddy point, mate.

Tuesday, February 23
Coral had sent me a Champions League bet offer (place £25, get a £25 free bet), so I had it on draw half-time, Barcelona full-time for the Spaniards’ match at Stuttgart. The price was 10-3 but whenI had both £25 stakes on the same bet, it became a 13-2 chance (best at 7-2 elsewhere).

At half-time, with Stuttgart winning 1-0, I weighed in with £250 on under-2.5 goals at 1.99 on Betfair and despite an early Barca breakthrough it ended 1-1. It felt great to get that footy-winner buzz back – every tackle, every wide shot, every stoppage was a joy to behold – and I could feel the addiction coursing back through my veins.

Wednesday, February 24
I struggled to get my head around the Inter-Chelsea game and ended up having a hopeful £300 on under-1.5 goals at 2.74 on Betfair. Three minutes gone, 1-0. Marvellous. At half-time, I had a £50 cover shot on the 1-1 draw at 4.8 on Betfair, then after Chelsea equalised and Inter went 2-1 up, I had a desperate £60 on Inter to win 3-1 at 6.4 on Betfair.

I managed to lose £410 on a game in which anything could have happened and on which anyone betting on it with anything more valuable than peanuts should have their own nuts removed as punishment for being so silly.

The woman in the flat upstairs added to my woe by seemingly being oblivious to the fact her grandfather clock was malfunctioning and donging incessantly at 11.14pm. I might have to bring this up with the Management Committee.

Thursday, February 25
I was informed by a pal that bets I had placed on Betfair on Mickelson to win the Masters were placed in a market in which all bets will be voided if Tiger does not start at Augusta, so I swiftly baled out, laying my £300 back for a small potentialloss.

In the evening, I had £260.21 on Mervyn King to beat Ronnie Baxter at 1.5 on Betfair, then £300 on Adrian Lewis to beat Terry Jenkins at 1.72, then £165 on Raymond van Barneveld to beat Simon Whitlock at 2.56, then £500 on Phil Taylor to beat James Wade at 1.33.

Friday, February 26
Gorged on some party leftovers – trifle, chocolate-filled crepes, meringue nests, Ferrero Rocher, etc – to forget about the previous night’s arrers anguish. Tomorrow is another day, God willing.