Italian Football / Perfect Punter / 04 November 2009 / Leave a comment

This week globetrotter Dave Farrar breaks the golden rule of TV commentary, drinks iced coffee in Genoa and dreams a rather strange dream.

"So, fate, I give up. I’ll keep on betting, and hope that you’re done with me, and try and be as good as I can, and know that you exist and that you’re in control."

I should never have taken fate on. I know that now, but I think that I'm in too deep. After last week's column, it wasn't Brian Howard who came calling, nor was it Johann Hari, Rod Liddle, or any of the other idiots that I've criticised on Twitter this week. And it wasn't even a pensioner who does Pilates, but fate itself. I don't now how else to explain the betting purgatory that I went through on Sunday, the feeling that muscles were being unequivocally flexed, and that any bet that I place is doomed to failure from now until Judgement Day.

And it all started so well. I sat in the Marassi in Genoa, waiting to commentate on one of my heroes, Antonio Cassano, but secretly hoping that Bari could pull off a shock. You see, I'd broken one of the golden rules of football commentary, which is that you should never have a bet. It affects you too much. I once sat through a 4-4 draw in which I'd sold goals, and every supposedly uplifting moment was like a hammer blow, and sincerity was absent from anything that I said. "Oh, they've scored again - brilliant", delivered in the style of Tony Hancock. But on Sunday I couldn't resist Bari. They're excellent away from home, they defend impressively, and Samp had just been ripped apart by Juventus. So I was on Bari, and Bari to win 1-0, and was enjoying a press box where they serve iced coffee and where every journalist wears a Sampdoria top and a faintly psychotic smile.

At half time it was 0-0, Bari were on top, and I was so confident that I told the Twitter community that Bari had to be backed to win 1-0. The memory of Brian Howard was drifting away, and, even though Bari missed a couple of chances, they still looked good. In fact, as the clock wound round to ninety minutes, I'd come to accept that this was one of those bets that was right but wrong. It proved that I was a good judge, but I hadn't got the break that I needed. I can cope with that, deluded though it may be, but could in no way handle what happened next. Because Bari won a penalty. And the Brazilian Paulo Barreto stepped up. And I got excited. And he sent the keeper the wrong way. And he missed by two yards. From where I was sitting it looked as if he'd scored, but the net didn't bulge, my commentary was delivered in a primeval wail, and the bet was gone. Except it wasn't. Because in the 94th minute, Bari won a free kick. And it was flicked on, and they scored. And their brilliant travelling fans and this less than brilliant commentator screamed and danced for joy, spilling iced coffee all over the extra from Deliverance who was sitting in front of me. And then I saw a flag. And a replay. And the goal had been disallowed. Wrongly. And the final whistle went and I could barely raise a breath to give out the score. Fate had outdone itself this time, Brian Howard was but a distant memory.

As I tried to find my hotel via Genoa's arcane bus system, I could barely speak. I'd had a pop at fate, and this was my reward. I half expected the bus to deliver me to the gates of hell, gates manned by Hari and Liddle, but I eventually found the seafront crackhouse in which I'd been billeted, and slept. And dreamed the strangest dream.

I was on a journey with Richard Hammond and Cilla Black, I've no idea from where to where, but Cilla got off, and myself and the Hamster overheard her talking to a friend: "I don't like that long 'aired lad, but that Dave is lovely". Fate hadn't dealt me a dream in which I met Cilla Black, appeared on stage with Cilla Black, killed Cilla Black or even kissed Cilla Black. But simply one in which Cilla Black paid me a short compliment. It was the most banal dream ever, and one from which you wake up lethargic, bored, and a little bit depressed. Not only had fate cost me the bet, but he'd messed with my mood as well. Knock a man down, and keep kicking him.

So, fate, I give up. I'll keep on betting, and hope that you're done with me, and try and be as good as I can, and know that you exist and that you're in control. But I'll hope that one morning next week you wake up from a dream in which Paulo Barreto is standing on top of the crossbar at the Marassi, bollock naked and singing his heart out in Portuguese: "Surpresa, Surpresa, as batidas inesperadas voce entre os olhos." And then I'll be happy, and then it'll be quits. And we can both get on with our lives.

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Tags: football odds, football tips. Antonio Cassano, Perfect Punter, Sampdoria bets