Football Food For Thought / Perfect Punter / 28 October 2009 /

A keen football betting fan, The Perfect Punter tells us about two cracking bets involving Liverpool that got away and why journeyman midfielder Brian Howard shouldn't expect any Christmas cards from in the foreseeable future.

I was brought up as a Catholic (no laughing at the back) and my faith has had an unexpected influence on my gambling career. When a horse gets nutted on the line, or Antonio Di Natale hits the post in the last minute of a Serie A game (a weekly occurrence, it seems), my religious education means that I tend to shout "shitting hell" or "get the rail Catlin you prick", rather than take the Lord's name in vain. Another thing that a Catholic upbringing means is that you're taught not to believe in fate.

I remember using the f word once in the company of a very Christian girlfriend of mind (I was a teenager, I had braces and acne, I couldn't be choosy OK?) and she gently corrected me and said: "there's no such thing as fate, it's providence." As well as being impressed that she could say something so considered while I was trying to eat one of her breasts through a lambswool sweater, I also thought that she was right.

If you believe in God, then the idea of being provided for is far easier to stomach than the concept of randomness that the whole fate thing encapsulates. Do we really have no control? Is there really no one driving the bus? Because if that's true, then ANYTHING could bloody happen.

If you're a punter then you're also an instant fatalist. Because occasionally something happens that just defies anything that is worldly. You feel like you've been a click of the finger, a flutter of a butterfly's wing away from glory and financial security, and then fate, a Nikolai Valuev sized fate, punches you in the face. And to stretch the analogy, you're not David Haye, but you're Ronnie Corbett, you're Zola Budd, you're a munchkin, and you're completely floored.

So here's what happened to me last Wednesday. Lyon played Liverpool, and before the game I said to a friend that I didn't only think that Lyon would win, but I thought that they might go behind and then come back to win.

I went on to say that the game had the same feel as one of my greatest missed opportunities, the day that Liverpool lost to Barnsley in the FA Cup. On that fateful (oh yes, fateful) Saturday, I watched Barnsley fall a goal behind and yet Liverpool were so bad that I thought the Yorkshiremen could still win. I watched the Betfair market and saw Barnsley drift to [170.0] and my finger hovered over the "back" button. And while I dithered, Barnsley equalised. And the moment had gone, and, having been happy that, with seconds to go, the game was clearly going to end 1-1, I had to watch Brian Howard score a last minute winner that would have grabbed me a huge profit. "Oh well", I said through churning teeth, "there's a lesson learned, next time I'll have the courage of my convictions." And I agonised about the road not taken for weeks, months, whole relationships. And developed a hatred for Brian Howard.

So fast forward to last Wednesday and the game unfolds before my eyes just as I'd predicted. Liverpool are terrible, but then they score, and Lyon's price starts to soar. Not to [170.0], but generous double figures. I thought back to the Howard incident and told myself to grow some balls and have a bet. And my internet connection failed. I clicked icons, hit my computer, tried an old laptop, couldn't find my mobile phone and was in the process of reconnecting when Lyon equalised.

Not wanting to jump on a train which had already left the station, I left the game alone and, once again, was relieved when they went into injury time and the game was clearly going to finish 1-1. You probably know what happened next and you're probably thinking that all of this is a description of bad luck, not of fate.

Well, here's the rub. I'm a Reading fan and subscribe to the text update service which tells me when a goal has gone in. I knew that we were 4-0 down to QPR and so had almost forgotten about the game when I heard a beeping noise in my flat which told me that there'd been a goal at Loftus Road, moments after the final whistle had gone at Anfield. I found the phone under a table, clicked on the message, and it read: QPR 4 READING 1 (Brian Howard). Fate had done it again, and once again had used the conduit of this journeyman midfielder, this largely unfulfilled talent, to tell me that I was a loser. A big, stupid Catholic loser with bells on.

The point of all of this is that, no matter how hard we all work at this punting lark, we're never going to beat fate. We have to include that in the mix, and occasionally take that large right hand on the chin. Another hurdle to leap, another river to cross. It's enough to make you a believer.

You can follow the Perfect Punter on twitter, no matter how depressed he's feeling. Just go to www.twitter.com/perfectpunter and sign up. There's quite a community of deluded, ever hopeful punters building up, and we'd love you to join us

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