Last Wednesday night I threw the kitchen sink at ‘Both team to score’ in the Champions League semi-final between Real Madrid and Manchester City.
The bet was priced up at 8/11 and going over the match in my head I just didn’t see how it could lose with Rolls Royce players such as Ronaldo, Gareth Bale, Sergio Aguero and Kevin De Bruyne on the pitch.
It was still sunny at 7:30pm round our way and life was sweet as I tackled a Snickers ice cream while sat in my favourite pair of gambling pants. I began fist pumping upon hearing the Champions League anthem and even sang along with a lusty rendition of Handel’s Zadok the Priest.
Yet if it was still sunny at 7:30pm it had gone all dark by 9:47pm. Madrid won 1-0 on the night to reach the final but the big talking point was how clueless City were. The simply didn’t turn up and their failure to take a few risks and chase the game in the final 15 minutes had me screaming at the TV. They failed to record a single shot on target all night. And don’t even get me started on Yaya f*cking Toure.
Stoke forward Joselu was also not amused, launching a bizarre rant about the Citizens lack of effort and branding them “sh*tty”. Me? I was £220 in the hole and after ‘er indoors found out she began berating me. So naturally I bamboozled her by throwing a bit of Fyodor Dostoevsky her way as I dramatically drained a can of Foster’s before announcing amid a flurry of finger wagging that “pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth”. It didn’t wash. And I ended up sleeping downstairs for the next two nights.
I was faced with a straight choice on Saturday. Dress up as a Stormtrooper and make the 780-mile round trip to watch Hartlepool at Plymouth, setting off at 2am in the morning. Or have myself a nice lie-in and enjoy a lazy day of punting and eating bad food. It was a tough call but given that I nearly came to grief with the local authorities in Charlton a few years back while dressed as a Smurf, I ended up opting for the latter.
It was a good choice as well. My beloved Chimp Chokers failed to be inspired by support from the ‘Dark Side’ as they were battered 5-0 by Plymouth. Staying up north and sober also meant I cashed in after backing a Northampton/Fulham football double and also napping the brilliant Don’t Touch to win the 3:55pm at Haydock.
I even managed to go to the gym on Saturday tea-time. But having failed to inform everyone on Facebook before I set off that I was going, that ended up being a complete f*cking waste of time.
Sunday was a veritable mixed bag. My day started early as I set my alarm for 4am to watch Saul Canelo Alvarez thump Amir Khan in Las Vegas, but not before lumping on the Mexican to win inside the distance at 8/13.
The rest of the day was spent sprawled horizontally eating Doritos and making bad bets. I somehow thought it would be a good idea to include Ajax at 1/9 in a football treble.
My other plays, Fleetwood and Liverpool, both won easily but Ajax were held to a 1-1 draw at De Graafschap.
So less than 24 hours after witnessing 5000/1 outsiders Leicester City crowned Premier League champions, I was getting 1/9 shots turned over in Holland.
I chased on Justin Rose in-running in the golf late doors and the Englishman hit the front in the Wells Fargo Championship down the stretch.
Bogeys at the 12th and 16th did for Rose however, who showed his customary lack of cojones and ultimately finished one stroke back.
It was William Shakespeare of course who once said ‘a rose by any other name would smell as sweet’.
That’s an absolute crock of sh*t by the way Willy. Unless of course that name was eventual winner James Hahn, a South Korean who had missed eight consecutive cuts going into the tournament.
Cheeky’s Punt of the Week: Russia to win Eurovision at 11/10 (Hills)