Their recent form had been poor but I still had Manchester City down as knocking bets last Wednesday night. Hand on heart this had more to do with the fact that Dynamo Kiev had not played a competitive match in almost two months than by being impressed by the Citizens’ recent performances.
I got 100/30 about City winning the match and both teams scoring and knew the bet hinged on whether Yaya Toure fancied the job or not?
For the last few seasons the big Ivorian has been an absolute colossus. Unplayable at times, the type of midfielder who could peel oranges with his eyelids. But for the most part this year he’s looked something of a flat-track bully. A lazy ‘luxury’ player unwilling to track back or pull his weight for the team, often to be seen wandering around with his hands on his hips like a schoolboy with the hump when City aren’t in possession.
Happily for the Mancs and my good self Toure decided to put a shift in on Wednesday, scoring and starring in a clinical 3-1 victory.
As I remarked to ‘er indoors afterwards, ‘If all 100/30 shots behaved like that, the world would be a better place’.
I nearly pulled off an audacious betting coup over the weekend after having a £25 four-fold consisting of three bets in Thursday’s Premier League darts and Rickie Fowler to win the Honda Classic golf. The bet was paying close to £800 and had a genuine shout by Saturday morning. By then all the darts bets had landed and Fowler had gone bogey-free through 36 holes to open up a one-shot lead at Palm Beach Gardens.
I text a mate of mine to see if he could lay Fowler on the betting exchanges for me as I was becoming anxious about my future happiness being reliant on a man who is the spitting dabs of Mickey Pearce off Only Fools & Horses.
My mate text me back that he wasn’t in good health and could I please bother someone else? I pressed him about the validity of his ill health and his response is worth repeating in full:
‘Listen mate I’ve had my balls in my doctors’ hand that many times over the past two weeks I feel like I should buy him some flowers. Now f*ck off.’
In the end I didn’t end up laying the bet off, and Fowler duly folded like a cheap ironing board, carding a round of 74 on Saturday and following that with a 71 on Sunday to finish well down the field.
After my boozy histrionics the previous weekend I was demoted to the couch for much of last week and only got back in the big bed after a ludicrous pledge to stay off the sauce until my 50th – which is roughly 13 years away.
The pledge was made without me factoring in that I’d already paid for a fight ticket and hotel in Manchester to watch Scott Quigg v Carl Frampton so ‘er indoors was thoroughly unconvinced by my claims that I would attend the fight but “just drink lemon tea and snack on raisins”.
Although another weekend abusing my liver wasn’t overly appealing I was secretly buzzing to be going to Manchester as it’s a little-known fact that I do a nice sideline in rubbish Liam Gallagher impersonations. I was at if from the moment I got off the train, walking like a monkey holding two rolled up carpets and calling everyone “our ked” and “sunshiiiiiiiiiiiiiine”.
I’d ploughed into Leicester to beat Norwich too earlier in the day so was well excited by the time we got to the Manchester Arena. Boxing crowds are often clichéd and Saturday’s didn’t disappoint. By the looks of the majority of them, and the queues for the cubicles, the sniffer dog outside the venue should clearly never, ever get another gig.
The fight itself was a bit of a let down (especially for yours truly, who had £80 on Quigg at 6/4) and we couldn’t get in a bar or club afterwards for love nor money, with bouncers clearly being briefed to say no to anyone who looked like they might have been to the fight.
It meant we were back in the hotel before midnight. Happily I had 12 bottles of Desperados tequila beer chilling in the fridge and spent the next few hours setting about them. My two companions elected to go to sleep but I was determined to pull an all-nighter after blasting out some Oasis via Youtube on my phone. By 5am there was no drink left so in homage to the Gallagher brothers I started necking those pots of UHT long-life milk and pretending they were chasers.
Cheeky’s Punt of the Week: Stoke to beat Newcastle at evens (Betfred/Stan James)