"I can’t believe I’m admitting this, here. No-one knows about this. We don’t do shit like that in Scotland. We just put a shotgun in our mouths…"
Gambling isn’t fun. I know you’re told it’s bad, don’t do it etc.
But no-one tells you what the silent shame feels like.
It’s like a black tide at the end of your street. You can’t necessarily see it closing in, but you feel it. Cold and insistent, like it’s pressing up against your very being.
I’ve had problems. I can openly admit that.
Well, openly, as in to a select bunch of internet friends on a men’s special interest blog.
But it’s under control, I tell myself, hopefully.
I’ve got a job. I’m not begging, borrowing (much), or stealing.
I’m only betting on pro surfing and the NBA right now. I consider that progress.
So the latest litany of shame.
I emailed Derek yesterday after my last story posted: Thanks for posting. I needed the distraction. I’m in a £370 hole for this comp.
Turns out I’d miscalculated. It was a £430 hole.
Not the worst place I’d ever been, not by a long chalk. But significant. More significant with two young uns and a single income household.
I’m sure some of you tech bro VALs spend more on lunch. Good for you. Most days at lunchtime I go out to the car park to see what’s left over from my weekend supplies. A pack of oatcakes, some bargain noodles, a handful of raisins.
I don’t do singles, for the most part. Not unless I’m desperate. I do complex accumulators, mainly on heats. There’s value in picking outright winners from the men’s and women’s sides sometimes. It’s all speculative. None of it is governed by sense, knowledge or experience. I didn’t bet on Italo pre-comp, or Medina, even though my gut told me one of them would win. The odds weren’t strong enough
Sometimes the pupils see me, clambering in or out.
Do you live in your van, Sir?
How come you don’t go to the staffroom with the other teachers, Sir?
So I was £430 ($US600) down.
Looking at my pre-comp bets I was nervous. I’d staked £200 straight off. But every bet hinged on Caroline Marks doing well.
Amazing! You might say. She won! What’s he bitching about?
But I never bet simple.
I don’t do singles, for the most part. Not unless I’m desperate. I do complex accumulators, mainly on heats. There’s value in picking outright winners from the men’s and women’s sides sometimes. It’s all speculative.
None of it is governed by sense, knowledge or experience. I didn’t bet on Italo pre-comp, or Medina, even though my gut told me one of them would win. The odds weren’t strong enough.
It’s a shitty gambler’s mistake that pros don’t make, just the dumb punters and addicts like me. I play the odds, nothing else. I’m the bookies’ dream.
Hence Caroline Marks. Ideal in every way. My gut was telling me she had a great chance, the odds disagreed.
20/1 for the outright win, 9/1 to make the final, 7/2 for the semi.
I won’t go through everything I laid down, because it’s in the region of 26 bets. That’s a lot of trying to hide the light from your phone in the middle of the night.
Roll on J-Bay, roll on Europe.
I thought Kanoa might make a semi (8/1), I fancied Freestone to do well (18/1 to make the semi), Yago was in with a shout (14/1 for last 4). I thought Owen might do well.
I was convinced Griffin and Callinan would have strong showings. In the end it was their failures that scuppered me mostly.
And when I start to lose early the faucet tends to open.
As I alluded to in comments somewhere along the way, I went to a dark place post-World Cup last summer. I’d been off betting from a long time, months. Then some mates started talking about their WC bets and I couldn’t resist. Had a 300/1 shot come in on the very first game.
I can’t believe I’m admitting this, here. No-one knows about this. Maybe it’s my therapy. We don’t do shit like that in Scotland. We just put a shotgun in our mouths or slink off to the woods with a rope to find a fat branch.
After that I was back.
But I lost it, of course. Then a whole bunch more. Death by a thousand failed accumulators.
By the end of the tournament I was staring into the maelstrom again. I chased it on the horses. It went bad.
Really bad.
Like £100-200 a day bad. For a couple of months.
I can’t believe I’m admitting this, here. No-one knows about this. Maybe it’s my therapy. We don’t do shit like that in Scotland. We just put a shotgun in our mouths or slink off to the woods with a rope to find a fat branch.
Anything to avoid discussing feelings. A farmer along the road from my folks did it with a chainsaw a couple of months back. He’d locked himself in the garage. His wife had to climb in through a window to find him there.
So I was £430 down.
Laid my last bets of the comp at Men’s round four, Women’s quarter-final stage.
Luckily, I’ve been busy the past couple of days. Trying to keep the wolf from the door. Otherwise I might have spunked a lot more.
But a double on Italo to win outright (7/2) and Caroline to do the same (18/5) was sweet. £25 on paid £517.50.
Roll on Bells.
Roll on the black tide.
