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Synchronicity, that's a word I've heard a lot these last few days, which is synchronicity in itself isn't it? I think. Awesome. Anyway..this weekends various synchronicities were a collection of prophetic nauseous misery for me.

I had carefully constructed a strategy that would allow me to win enough money to buy a sammich in Zimbabwe, it was a skeleton of choices about which the flesh and blood of hard currency would thrive.

Unfortunately this skeleton became just a series of bones of contention, each one snapping in turn like twigs on a fire place, leaving me broken and almost broke with just enough cash in my pocket to buy a sammich in my local Spar shop, which is where my journey begins.

With a tank of ridiculously expensive petrol paid for along with a bag of opiate gummy bears and a lottery ticket, I was off to Nottingham. The same place where the cricket commentary crackling through my car radio was coming from.

"He's hit a six, it's a disaster....." I was driving under a bridge before I could hear who hit that six and who it was a disaster for, it's usually a good thing isn't it? Hitting sixes in Nottingham, I would find out later, is rarely a good thing.


Generally for the classics I just follow the selections of Nick Mordin. You could go broke pretty quickly following his advice on a weekly basis, but for the classics, his strike rate his awesome.

I took a new approach for the Derby though. Synchronicity, irony, uuurgh, I'm coming over all queasy as I type. I'm not shoowa who Nick tipped up for the Derby, but I bet it was New Approach. My idea for this race was to wank on the Racing Post and see which horse was blobbed on the most.

It wasn't really, but I may have well have chosen this method. Anyways, I settled for Tartan Bearer and it came second. Dark clouds of foreboding began gathering over my head at this point. I was in my hotel room by now, in my pants having just had a snooze. There's a storm coming I said to myself.

The clouds lifted momentarily when the Czech Republic eeked past Switzerland, one part of a double landed. Unfortunately I needed Portugal to draw with the Turks; they looked confident, but ultimately eastern promise was all just lies. LIES!!!


A few minutes after Portugal scored their first goal, with the tournament underway - sat in seat 3 of table 34 - under the gun, and lamenting my losing football wager, my cards were zipped into my hands by Joey the dealer and I stared down at a total fucking nightmare.

Limping in with my pair of sixes, 'Pittsburgh' in middle position called, folded round to the big-blind who checks his option and we see a flop of 10c-8h-4s. Big-Blind checks, I check, Pittsburgh bet's 200 - I'm calling him Pittsburgh cause of his Steelers hat, I wasn't there long enough to get fully acquainted.

Big-blind folds, I call. With 750 in the pot, the turn card was the six of hearts. As the card turned over, in my mind I was once again approaching that bridge with the cricket commentary playing somewhere in the background.

"He's hit a six, it's a disaster...." I was assuming it would be a disaster for Pittsburgh. I check, Pittsburgh bets 450. I raise to 1,100. Pittsburgh re-raises to 3,500 and my blood turned to ice. I knew you see, I knew he'd hit a straight.

It's an easy fold really. I only had about 1,400 invested. It's the second level, it's a two day event, I've got over 9,000 left. The blinds are only 50/100. Just fold. Fold. Fold like a gay sailor. Fold like an origami enthusiast sponsored by Red-Bull. OK, I'll fold. Fuck it I'll fold.

"ALL-IN" What?? That's not folding!!

"Oh, you shoving bastard," says Pittsburgh. "We've got the same hand haven't we?" he asks. If I had any doubt as to whether I was winning or not, which I didn't, that question confirmed it for me.

Pittsburgh turns over the 7-8 of hearts. Dear Lord, a straight and a straight flush draw to boot. The river did not pair the board and with about twenty minutes still to go in only the second level I was down to just over 2,000 chips. Bugger.

Soon after my two pairs lost to a measly quad nines and I was out...but in truth - just like the time I thought I was showing a girl from Boston the time of her life, but had mistook our duvet for her fleshy pink sex - I was never actually in it.

As it turned out this was a common theme that ran through the remainder of my sporting wagers this weekend, like a brutal case of diarrhea, I shat money. Valentino Rossi, Poland, Essendon all finished a distant second.

Fran Lebowitz once said, "I've done the calculations and your chances of winning the lottery are identical whether you play or not." This was a demoralising weekend, compounded by the fact that had I just invested the money I've wagered this weekend on about 500 lottery tickets instead of one and stayed in bed, I'd probably have the same return, but feel all the more refreshed.

I feel empty inside now. There's a void within me that cannot be filled with sandwiches or gummy bears. Just a few weeks ago I was hot, hot people! All too soon though my reverses have killed my spirit, I'm lost now, I'm dead inside, just a mindless essence, wafting about like a fart around the sweet smelling remnants of my previous successes, waiting to exist again.