Cheeky Punt: Blaming that sh*thouse Berdych

Date published: Wednesday 27th January 2016 10:45

‘She says when she feels like crying she starts laughing thinkin’ bout…glory days! Well they’ll pass you by, glory days. In the wink of a young girl’s eye glory days. Glory da-aa-aa-ys….’

So sang Bruce Springsteen and I enjoyed a glory day of my own last Wednesday thanks largely to the woeful capitulation of the Indian cricket team.

I had backed Australia as part of a treble with two tennis bets that had already scooted home through the night. Australia posted a fearsome 348/8. At that point they hit 1/6 and I was moonwalking around my office at work feeling genuinely chipper.

But India’s batsmen had other ideas as they set about chasing down the total as a fat man might set about a Greggs cheese and bean melt.

I was watching the carnage unfold with utter disbelief, my eyes bulging like Pierluigi Collina on MDMA, and my heart sank as they reached 277/1, and hit 1/66 themselves in-play.

Then it all went a bit f*cking nuts. Basically India somehow managed to be all out just 46 runs and 12 overs later. On an absolute road of a pitch. It was truly one of the great batting collapses – a collective a*se nip for the ages!

I was firing staples into the air in my work office and chanting “Aussie Aussie Aussie” as bemused colleagues looked on suspecting, quite incorrectly, that I was drunk again.

But the drama didn’t end there. Later that night I had £60 on Barcelona to beat Athletic Bilbao and both teams to score at 100/30 in the Copa del Rey. The Catalans were 2-0 up and cruising but in the dying embers of a rather pedestrian encounter, Artitz Aduriz popped up to make it 2-1, taking me to bed that evening with a fully formed erection. Glory days indeed…


Obviously the big news to break during the first week of the Australian Open was a BBC expose that apparently uncovered widespread match fixing in professional tennis. Over the last decade 16 players who ranked in the world’s top 50 were flagged to the Tennis Integrity Unit (TIU) over suspicions that they threw matches.

My mate Johnny Fat Pants reckons it’s so bad the ATP headquarters in London were recently burgled, with thieves getting away with the names of the winners for the next three Wimbledon Championships

One man who isn’t a match-fixer, but is a pain in the f*cking a*se, is Tomas Berdych. Berdych is my worst sportsmen ever. And I do mean of all-time. There is no player I have lost more money on down the years and I just can’t get on the right side of him. Every time I bet on him, he plays dog sh*t. Yet whenever I back against him, he plays as if he was Boris Becker and Steffi Graf’s secret love child.

He was at it again at the Aussie Open. On Friday I had a bundle on Nick Kyrgios to beat the Czech Down Under at 6/4. Krygios is the next big thing of Australian tennis, a maverick who runs his mouth just as quickly as he can chase down a drop shot. But Berdy dusted him off in four sets meaning I had to wave bon voyage to £130. Honestly and truly if Berdych had never picked up a tennis racquet there’s every chance I would be writing these blogs while wearing chinchilla underpants. But I just couldn’t help myself. To add insult to injury, in the wee small hours of Tuesday morning I had £160 on him to win a set against Roger Federer at 8/11 in their quarter-final. Right on cue he rolled over like a dog and lost 3-0. So I did what any sane individual in my position would do. I went on Twitter and started calling him a sh*thouse.


It is said the only difference between a good day and a bad day is your attitude. That’s b*llocks of course, as Tuesday proved.

I was in a bit of a mood after incurring further losses on Berdych when a mate of mine rang me and started raving about a new internet “tipping sensation”. I was obviously intrigued and asked him to tell me more, yet when I heard the mush’s name was Shaka (full title -Shaka the Bookie Smacker) I advised my mate to stop calling me through the day when clearly high on glue.

Turns out this geezer is the real deal though and his nap for the day was Pinkie Brown, a 7/4 shot going in the 13.10 at Wetherby that afternoon. The horse p*ssed it, but after investing £80 on said nap, I then I got all excited and start thinking I was Jimmy the Greek, backing horses and dogs impulsively (as well as some very iffy European women’s basketball) to end up a few centuries in the hole by tea-time.

I tried to get out of said hold with a big lump on Liverpool to beat Stoke at 4/5 in the Capital One Cup, and had another whisper about a greyhound “banker” in the 8.18 at Towcester that I spuffed a further 80 sovs on. The dog in question finished dead last, and Liverpool failed to do the business in 90 minutes, a result that left me crying like a Russian gymnast.

Cheeky’s Punt of the Week: Manchester United to beat Derby at evens (Paddy Power)


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