I think we have established beyond
any doubt that I am not someone to whom you would naturally turn for gambling
advice.
These columns, as I
frequently point out, are for amusement only (reader's voice - 'we'll be the
judge of that').
It was a little disconcerting therefore
to be put on the spot before a live audience on Saturday morning and asked for
guidance on the afternoon's investments.
I was on stage in a panel discussion at the London
Sportswriters' Festival - I may have mentioned I have a book out, Sit Down and
Cheer, currently holding down the big 11,521 spot in the Amazon chart, not that
I'm compulsively checking or anything - when co-panellist Miles Jupp, author of
a very funny cricket book, Fibber In The Heat, asked me, "Do you know
anything about gambling?"
"Well, I sort of know how it
works," was the shy confession from a man with six online betting accounts.
"Ah, well," said Miles in his
charmingly insouciant way, "I've had this one thousand pound free betting
voucher for some time, and I was, er, kind of wondering what you do with
it."
(Miles is the Bertie
Wooster of comedy, but with an edge.
If you have never seen his stand-up or his appearances on various TV
panel shows you are missing a treat)
I assume he came by the voucher as an
award for his fine book - which incidentally languishes at 15,367 in the Amazon
chart, not that etc. etc. - from a leading High Street bookmaker, whom I won't
name in deference to my other five accounts, but who sponsor the William Hill
Sports Book of the Year.
My book was also entered into the
contest as it happens without even making the long list, to the chagrin of my
agent, although I did warn him.
I told
him I never win awards, as I learnt over four or five years when the then
sports editor of The Guardian kept entering me for sports journalism awards, to
no visible effect.
I mean, when one entrant has
written a series of meticulously researched articles uncovering a drugs scandal
in sport, and another a powerfully argued think-piece about the future of
English football, you are hardly going to give the prize to the guy who's
written 900 words about Des Lynam's trousers.
Maybe this year, though, I can
sneak into some Best Tipster award, because - and a small but enthusiastic
audience will back me on this - without a moment's equivocation I urged Miles
to slap his voucher on the nose of Olympic Glory in the Queen Elizabeth at
Ascot.
I, not being the holder of
such a voucher for reasons already discussed, contented myself with a tenner,
placed before leaving my home in the North for London.
On what, you may be wondering, was
my uncharacteristic confidence based?
Well, the previous night I had been watching a bizarre programme called
Get In on the At The Races channel co-presented by ex-jockey Jason Weaver and pundit
Luke Harvey where, in between a lot of cackling and reading out of staggeringly
unfunny tweets, Jason said that if there were some give in the ground at Ascot
it would favour Olympic Glory.
Now, one of the few pieces of
valuable wisdom my father passed on to me before he died, along with 'never eat
at a restaurant called Mama's,' was 'never trust tips from a jockey.'
However, regular readers - if such
creatures exist - will know I have not been well of late, and among the
medications I am taking is Warfarin, chiefly known as a rat poison - I am also
taking some slug pellets just to be sure - but which also acts as a blood
thinning agent.
It means that
should I fall over and bleed it could get messy, so I was paying particular
attention to the going as I stepped out for the station in the morning.
The moistness in the air and the
slippiness underfoot told me two things; to be stepping carefully, and that an
ex-jockey's advice could come in handy on this occasion, and so it transpired.
In the interest of balance, and to
avoid any other William Hill prizewinners approaching me, I ought to stress
that my big race record is not unblemished.
In the Cesarawitch for example a couple of weeks ago, I had
the unique experience of my horse not only being unplaced, but unmentioned.
I had backed Recession Proof, whose
progress as it turned out was not dissimilar to mine in journalism awards.
I gather it spent most of the race
somewhere near the rear, but I would have welcomed a "given a
reminder," a "trying to make progress," or even an "under
pressure" just to reassure me that the animal was actually an active
participant.
Not once, though -
and I watched it back just to be sure - did the name of my horse pass Simon
Holt's lips.
That's never happened
to me before, as the old saying goes.
Maybe I should stick to something I
know about.
So, prizewinners, my
advice is to bang your voucher on Tamera Foster to win ITV's Saturday night karaoke
contest, X-Factor.
She's a hot
favourite, 7-4 at time of writing, but seems way better than the others in that
she can actually hold a tune - if that counts for anything, which may be the
fatal flaw in my carefully considered advice.