My Friend William Hill

The Scottish, it seems, like a flutter and unbeknown to me it may be the result of my association with Scottish lads whilst studying at Edinburgh University that has left me incapable of seeing a weekend of football go by without paying a visit to our pal William Hill. But can you blame me? The whole weekend comes alive! One knows that putting a bet on 15 games that could turn 1 pound into 1000 is less than likely to yield anything; but the sheer excitement and boisterous aura that fills a room of lads watching football at a weekend, constantly pulling out paper coupons, shouting to each other across the room to check the scores in any which way, phone or laptop, is infectious. How do you find the results of the Uruguayan second division anyway? Who cares, it’s the fun rather than the end result that is what draws me to it. And contrary to my mum’s belief it is not an illness and loan sharks are not currently hunting me down; if I can budget 4 quid for a ten pack of fags each week, I can manage a couple of quid for accumulators each weekend.

The thing is, however, that winning does happen. Last march 14 boys and I went to Dublin for St Paddys Day and it was an experience to say the least, an experience one my good friends Gogs would have missed had it not been for our good friend William Hill. A couple of weeks before we left, skint and tired of hearing us plan our Guinness based antics, Gogs turned 5 quid into 1800. That was Dublin taken care of – with a couple of bottles of champagne to boot. Aside from that another friend of mine saw a goal in the 94^th minute turn his solitary pound coin into 1000. Can you imagine the feeling? My biggest win is turning 5 into 180 and my closest call saw Inter Milan lose to Udinese at home and consequently be the 1 game out of 18 to thwart my attempts to magic 1600 pounds from just 1.  (The image below should act as proof enough!) But there we go, that’s how the game works, it was that one pound that went into the bookies pocket. It was also that one pound, having brought me so close, that has seen me lose a little heavier than usual over recent times as my new found confidence proved to be misplaced. That, at the end of the day, is why bookies drive fast cars and smoke cigars.

I like to think I have a grand plan, keep these little bets going until I finally win that one jack pot, that one big one and then cut and run, never to return. That’s the plan anyway – it remains to be seen. Could I really watch a weekend’s football with nothing riding on it again? I’ve got to stop losing first, and then we’ll see.