Last Wednesday was of course transfer deadline day. As you are all probably aware by now, wherever you are in the world, you are never more than five feet away from someone on loan from Chelsea.
I was still over in Spain and spent the afternoon in a boozer called The Stretford End. It was a surreal experience pelting pints of Mahou beer into me while having a bet on the gee-gees with a Scottish bloke who may or may not have been called Brian (I needed a translator to understand him for the most part, to be fair). The Scottish gadge must read this f*cking blog as he took every bet I fancied without flinching. I ended up a few bob down but nothing too heavy. With me being about seven pints deep, I was fascinated by this celtic soul who sounded and acted like a character from your average Irvine Welsh novel.
I asked him what he thought about the irascible Jim White, who was getting all excited on the big screen behind us and fell silent when he shook his head and labelled the Sky anchor a “wee roaster wi a face like a skelped erse”. I laughed politely but am still unsure even now whether my temporary bookie was ‘Pro’ or ‘Anti’ White.
There was a big tip out back home on Friday for a horse running at Ascot called Muthmira.
Being the absolute shambles of a man I am, I trekked back to the boozer but couldn’t find my mate from a few days previously. I was still severely tempted to throw €200 of our dwindling holiday war chest on the nag at 4/6 though.
Yet while laying on the beach reading the racing section of The Daily Star and geeing myself up to lump on I saw a little spuggy bird in the sand. The animal was pecking away at a cigarette butt, which it later devoured. Now this could mean only one of two things:
1) The spuggy was addicted to nicotine and had no money for tabs.
2) This was in fact a sign from the big man upstairs to keep my Euros in my kecks.
After much soul searching I bit the bullet and swerved the race completely, figuring I’d come on holiday to relax and not to shout 4/6 shots home while sporting a terrible vest tan. In the event Muthmira was an absolute pig, finishing tenth of 12. Disaster had been averted and therefore I celebrated as one should on such occasions by investing in a couple of cheese and ham toasties and a bucket of watermelon Bacardi Breezers.
Sunday was a shocker. I had to be up for 05.45am (with a crippling hangover) to check out and head to Alicante airport. That moment when you realise your holiday is over and you will be back to work tomorrow though? For f*ck’s sake. My dark mood became even darker when I checked the Sky Sports app and realised Nick Kyrgios had been dumped out of the US Open after losing to a hopeless outsider. I’d had a £200 treble the day before and ridiculously decided to include the young Aussie maverick at 1/9 on. Now 1/9 shots in sports betting (you can get top sports odds at William Hill) have no business losing. Ever.
I was not the only person who was fuming at the loss. John McEnroe was up in arms as well, telling the youngster: “If you don’t want to be a professional tennis player, do something else.” It got me wondering whether Johnny Mac liked a thick bet and had also had him in a roll up. Kyrgios said on Twitter in the aftermath: ‘Not the way I wanted to end the last Grand Slam of the year. F**king sucks.’ It does Nick old son. It truly sucks like f**k.
Cheeky’s Punt of the Week: Middlesbrough to beat Crystal Palace at 13/10 (Bet Victor)