I nearly ended up as another UK crime statistic on Thursday morning. There I was in the gym sweating my chebs off, winding down after a gruelling session with a leisurely ten minutes on the punching bag.
I had recently got a new iPhone upgrade and so placed my blower – which was literally two days old – and my keys on a window ledge so it didn’t fall out of my tight shorts (think Argentina 78 but with more arse hair on show).
While I was throwing leather a massively obese female began doing weights right next to my phone while eyeing it up. Her partner, who looked like a full dodge pot and was wearing one of this moody ‘Tapout’ t-shirts, also made his way over and while both were pretending to look out of the window they were clearly eyeing my phone with a view to putting it in the pawn shop and getting loose on some chicken nuggets and Three Hammers Cider.
The big unit left the scene momentarily, then when I still didn’t go for the phone, she returned and went to pick it up. I immediately downed tools and shouted “Haaway what are you doing, you?” She went purple and mumbled something about ‘thinking it was hers’. Or course you did love. You’ll be telling me you can see your toes next.
I reckon I intervened just in the nick of time. She was absolutely huge – if she hid it in her rolls I would never have found it.
It was a crazy old Sunday. I woke up thinking I had somehow lost 11 years as I turned on Eurosport to see Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal battling it out for the Australian Open title. The two legends were showing their age – thinning hair, dodgy choice of footwear, tight shorts – but their level remained brilliantly true. For five sets they hammered away at each other, the match ebbing one way and then the other before Federer dramatically pulled it out the fire in the fifth set, winning from a break down.
I had been smashing him all morning at prices ranging from 11/4 to 4/9 and was well in front at the finish (I didn’t consult a Matchbook bookmaker review). The degenerate in me immediately lumped the whole £340 in my Coral online account on a Barcelona – Man United double. The Catalans were odds on to turn Real Betis over but were toiling at the Estadio Bennito Villamarin. I didn’t like what I was seeing so cashed out at 0-0 to the tune of £250, literally 40 seconds before Betis went ahead. The matched finished 1-1 so I was happy enough. For as the old saying goes ‘Half a monkey saved in-play is worth two in the nest.’
So it’s Tuesday and I’m getting out of the passenger side of a car at the train station. Unbeknown to me my phone, my shiny week-old new upgrade, is between my legs and drops to the floor with a clatter before skidding along the ground and landing right over a big old drain. Not any old drain either. A drain with huge gaps between the metal girder things.
How it didn’t disappear into the dank, s**tty abyss I’ll never ever know. I was frozen in fear before dropping smartly to my knees to rescue it. I’d clearly had a touch, so the irrational gambler in me knew it was a clear sign to smash a coupon. So before you could say ‘My phone has no insurance’ I backed Burnley at 2/1 to beat Leicester City. The logic was simple. Burnley = Class at home versus Leicester = S**te away.
Trouble is I doubled them with Arsenal. At 1/5. You know Arsenal. Second top of the league. Fresh from a 5-0 FA Cup rout of Southampton. Team full of international ballers? That Arsenal. Burnley of course gritted out a 1-0 win, while the Gunners crashed to a 2-1 defeat against Watford. It was pure greed really to clag the Gunners in at such skinny odds, and as Rusty Eric once mused ‘As long as greed is stronger than compassion, there will always be suffering’. Bugger.
Cheeky’s Punt of the Week: Chelsea to beat Arsenal at 21/20 (Hills)