Don't accept daft bets...
Just remembered a weird bet, actually. An 'I bet you...' sort of bet rather than an 'Alf Ramsey's Porn Dungeon each-way in the 3:30 at Sandown' sort of bet, but still...

I work in advertising. The nuts and bolts side rather than the 'Let's just have a Gorilla drumming' side. I plan campaigns, basically.

Now, a lot of people who work in Marketing are lovely, but like any job you do get your fair share of born arseholes who cover up their lack of knowledge and intelligence by being aggressive and overbearing, normally by belittling any point anyone else makes. The sort of people you normally see on the Apprentice, in fact.

One such was a South African Marketing Manager who was brought in one one of my clients a few years back. True to national stereotypes, he was loud, brash, snide, and aggressive (sorry to any Saffers reading, I know you're not all like that). Anyway, he hadn't been in the UK long, meaning he had very little idea of the UK media, but he nonetheless felt he knew enough to pull apart every recommendation we made and basically tell us what to do. This would have been fine if there was any logic to his criticisms, but it was simply that everything we did must be wrong, because he hadn't done it himself, therefore it was inferior. The situation could only be remedied by being a cock till he got what he wanted.

Now, it came to be that we were looking at appropriate TV programmes to sponsor for his brand. We'd go in and suggest programmes which we thought were a great fit with the audience (middle aged or retired women), supply videos and detailed justifications of why they were a good fit, and he'd slag them off.

Heartbeat? 'I want to sell to them - I can't do that if they're asleep'
Loose Women? 'I watched that the other day... what the fuck was that about?'
Countdown? 'Who enjoys that? People with Asperger's?'

Anyway, it so happens he has seen a programme he thinks is bang on.

'I was watching it the other day - 'Coast'. It's cosy, it's on at the right time, it's perfect....'
'Erm, admittedly it's a good fit but...'
'No buts, alright? Just let's get on it. We've wasted enough time'
'We can't do it'

He started to steam:

'Oh for fuck's sake, man.You mean YOU can't do it. If I can't get anywhere with you lot I'm going to have to find an agency I can work with. Or fuck that - you give me a contact and I'm going to call them myself and show you.'
'I am telling you now you cannot sponsor Coast'
'I bet you twenty quid I can at least have a fucking conversation about it , alright? everyone's in this business for the same reason. Money talks, right? I know that if you don't'
'OK, twenty quid'
'What's the contact'
'Just Google 'BBC Switchboard''
'You don't even have a fucking sales contact.'
'Afraid not'.

Apparently, he did call them as well. His successor, who was at this time his assistant, later described to me how he sat there turning increasingly crimson as the Licence Fee was patiently explained to him.

Did I get my twenty quid? Did I fuck. He claimed he had at least had a conversation about it. Cock...
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 7 May 2009, 14:29, 8 replies)

One armed bandit!
Back when I was 18 a mate and I went on a camping/cycling trip around the South West coast. Being 18 we essentially had no money so everything was on a shoe string.

Having booked onto a campsite in Illfracombe (North Devon) we decided to treat ourselves to a drink in the onsite pub. As you can imagine shoe string budget didn't equate to a fine family holiday park, more the kind of campsite that might have been popular 30 years ago and still has the same annual pilgrims who dare not try somewhere else for their holiday, next years one no doubt paid for before they leave this year.

I took the last £2 I had on me and bought a pint of cider (£1.95). I spied they had an old fashioned one armed bandit on the wall which ran on the old style 5p coins which were available from the bar, so I decided to fritter my last coin away on that.

In the coin went with the chink chink metal on metal sound those of us old enough will remember from reliable BT payphone engineering in the 1980's. I grasped the ball of the lever in my weary sweaty palm and gave it a tug. Having never been one of those kids who understood the concept of gambling and especially not fruit machines it can have only been in my best interest that there were no complex nudge buttons etc.

Chink! Cherry.
Chink! Cherry.
"ooh!" thought I as I desperately scanned the payout instructions to see if I might have won enough for some crisps. Meanwhile the third wheel spun and whirled for what seemed like an eternity.....
Chink! Cherry!
Alarms went off like I was breaking into the Queens bedroom and the machine began a metallic pumping farting noise as it began to spit coin after coin out into the small metal dish beneath it which quickly overflowed with Queen Liz branded shrapnel.

The bar fell silent and a dozen pair of eyes glared at the giggling idiot who was now standing in a puddle of silver coins on the sticky 70's patterned carpet.

I grabbed a couple of empty ashtrays and began gathering up what felt like the entire royal mints production run of 5p coins. If you've ever seen £10 in old 5p coins you can appreciate the mess I'd made but I was beaming from ear to ear.

I made my way to the bar and the barman, who for some reason pissed off at me, and began to count up the £10 in coins. After a bit of chitter chatter it turns out the pissed off middle aged lady at the bar has been on holiday there for 6 of her 7 nights and has for the last week been sat filling the machine with her drinking money each night like mentalist pops pills.

After about 5 minutes the barman has finished counting the coins, £10.05. He hands me 2 £5 notes and my original 5p coin.

"It's not done to leave the winning line" he scowls at me like I've broken some ultimate bar taboo of leaving a gambling machine displaying the fact that somebody actually won something.

Ok I think to myself, I've done ok here. £8 in my pocket and a pint in my tummy.

I saunter back to the machine, the weight the glares from disgruntled holidaymakers digging in my back like a polar bear on a German tourist.

I stick the lone 5p coin into the machine and pull the handle, turning immediately to walk back to my mate at the bar without having any interest in the result.

Chink!..... Chink!......Chink!

The only thing louder than the 2nd set of alarm bells and river of coins raining down onto the carpet behind me was the silence of stunned bar and the thump thump thump of the throbbing vein on the gambling grannie's temple as I scooped another 3 cherry jackpot. I thought she was gonna explode with rage or just die on the spot.

Needless to say I wasn't asked to clear the winning line again.
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Thu 7 May 2009, 14:26, Reply)

Pringle Bet
Yep, we've all done it. How many of the little blighters you can fit in your mouth and still be able to swallow.

I've managed 32, but it took me ages to get down my neck.
(a5972s, Thu 7 May 2009, 14:19, Reply)

800g loaf
Was really late coming to work one day, so hurridly grabbed an 800g loaf out of the freezer and pack of cheese out of the fridge with the intention of making a sandwich at lunch.

One of my mates spotted it and bet me a fiver that I couldn't eat the whole thing. I took one look at it and thought 'I can do that easy' and then proceeded to eat the whole bloody thing.

I didn't shit for 3 days nad I'm still waiting for that fiver!
(a5972s, Thu 7 May 2009, 14:16, 2 replies)

I've got a bit of a gambling problem
well, actually 'a problem' is slightly innacurate, as I seem to have the ability to make a profit from almost any machine I play.

So much so, that on a night out, if I'm down to my last tenner, and too laay to walk to the cashpoint, I'll drop the whole lot into a fruit machine, and walk off with at least £30 of beer tokens.

The most heroic story of gambling I've ever performed was the "£10 in, £125 out" manoeuvre I performed while smashed out of my tits in Wetherspoons. Trying to lug it to the bar to change up was somewhat awkward, but while waiting to be served, I stacked them up in fives, and made a giant smiley face with them
( lo, the Greebo Warrior - Est. 2002, Thu 7 May 2009, 14:11, 2 replies)

Starting off young
Not so long ago, I was walking across a field wherein there were some very young lambs - they can only have been a couple of days old. They were gambolling happily all over the place. Even at that age, they seemed quite proficient.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 7 May 2009, 14:08, 2 replies)

Not big, Not clever.
Grandad won a load of money in a poker game. Used the money to buy a hotel. Couldn't stop the gambling. Spunked the family jewels on one big hand and lost. Came home, locked himself in one of the hotel bedrooms and killed himself. My dad, aged 15 at the time had to kick the bedroom door down only to find the body of his dead father.

For some reason, I've never been that attracted to gambling.
( Linbox has a serious dunk habit, Thu 7 May 2009, 14:08, 4 replies)

Beating Ali Rezvan at Bomberman...
Back in the mid 1990's I bet my then flatmate, the above mentioned, £5 that I could beat him a straight 5-0 at Bomberman matches on the SNES. I beat him 4 times easily and in the last match make a stoopid mistake and get blown up.

"Double or Nothing?" Says he.

I accept the challenge, and pound him 5-0.

Never said it was funny or entertaining.
(mcnelson, Thu 7 May 2009, 13:43, Reply)

Honeymoon
Our honeymoon was to Las Vegas.

I blew all the money we had received for our wedding in the first week.

We had 1200 quid as gifts and in cards.

I did enjoy myself though :)
(Opanoid Look sweats dripping off them, Thu 7 May 2009, 13:35, Reply)

Tenner says you won't click this.

( Willwillwritehiswill An arse like a slapped face., Thu 7 May 2009, 13:33, 2 replies)

Fuck strip poker
Takes too long.

I play strip pontoon and fix the cards.
( MatJ LOOK, Thu 7 May 2009, 13:31, 2 replies)

Building
I'm running a pool at the moment based on my best friend and her husband's house. Our circle of fourteen friends (best friend and spouse included) have all offered the mighty sum of £1 each to the person who's picked the closest date to when their extension will be completed by (signed off, decorated but not furnished). Betting took place in September last year, and the last date picked is 31st December 2010.

Annoyingly enough, I'm not going to win the life-changing sum of thirteen Gor Blimey Pounds* as I picked 19th March, at which point they hadn't completed the roofing, dag nabbit. If you're really interested, there are now only five people left in the running.

*I'm *sure* that's what GBP stands for. Right?
(Sahara Desert http://www.twitter.com/thesaharadesert for swears, Thu 7 May 2009, 13:29, 2 replies)

VIDAL SASSOON (the bastard)
It was a genius plan. It was completely foolproof. If James Bond would’ve crashed in through the patio windows, guns blazing in an attempt to foil ‘the genius plan’, he would’ve stopped, shurgged his shoulders, and said:

“Fuck me, boys – that’s a fucking genius plan you’ve devised there.” And then he would’ve fucked off to shag Miss Moneypenny up the wrong un, or continued his clandestine and somewhat disturbing homoerotic adventures with Q’s saggy old gonads and wrinkly, naked-baby-hamster-resembling orgasm stick.

My best mate Greg and I were sixteen and horny as a pair of horny toads during mating season, sat on a big horny log examining the pullout centrefold pages of an importened continental x-rated copy of I’m Horny magazine. We were both at that annoying age where we were desperate, I mean FUCKING KILL YOUR OWN MOTHER DESPERATE, to discover what rubbing your cock on the insides of a female meat gofherhole was like. I think at one stage we’d even considered fucking Greg’s dog, Daisy – but that would’ve been too fucking weird. And anyway, Daisy was a big fucking dog, a rotweiller – she would probably have ripped our cocks off if we went near her with a hard on and a tub of swarfega.

We both had girlfriends – mine was called Amy, Greg’s was called Amy’s friend (fucked if I can remember her name; it was fucking years ago). They were typical teenage relationships – we’d take them to the cinema to watch Top Gun, we’d buy them some chips on the way home, and in return they allowed us a brief fumble on their budding mammeries through their jumpers. Everyone was happy. But Greg and I wanted, no, NEEDED to take it to the next stage. To put it bluntly – if we didn’t loose our virginity in the next few weeks we would die...

Plain and simple...

My parents had gone to a family do, dragging my sister with them - I had the house to myself. And that’s when the genius plan formulated in my mind; it was gonna be fucking GREAT!!! Greg fucked off to the local off licence to purchase the alcohol on account of him having whispy pubes growing out of his chin – it made him look at least fifty, we reckoned. He came back with ten cans of kestrel super strength and a hipflask bottle of maddog 20/20 (kiwi fruit flavor). That stuff was guarenteed to remove the knickers from a nun, apparently – so my cousin Gino said. And I really wouldn’t have put it past Gino to have fucked a nun.

I stayed at the house, preparing the love nest. I laid out the game and, when Greg returned weighed down with more booze than your average P&O ferry returning from Calais, we waited for our lovely ladyfriends to arrive. And they did – plastic bangles rattling, the finest Superdrug ownbrand lipstick money could buy, permed hair smelling like a fucking chemical refinery. And then we started drinking – put on some sexy music (Level 42, Running in the Family; I thought the incredible baseline would have an arousing effect on the girls clitoral area), and after a couple of cans I suggested:

“Shall we play now?” And the girls agreed. And then I added as innocently as possible with my quivery teenage voice: “Why don’t we make it a bit more interesting – why don’t we play for cloths.”

Amy and Amy’s mate looked at me like I was a great big fucking perv, which I suppose I was. But I pressd on:

“Boys against girls – if you win a round, Greg and I will take off an item of clothing.”
And then Greg chipped in: “And if Spanky and me win... well...”

Suprisingly, the girls agreed. ZOUNDS!!!

So we started playing – not cards. Neither Greg or I had a fucking clue about cards - except maybe for a quick game of snap, which, lets face it, would've made us look as hard as Julian Clary doing a bit of sewing. We started playing Trivial Pursuit.

The first question was: Do porcupines masturbate?

50 – 50 chance. Fuck! Oh, well. “Ermm, no???” I said, swigging back my super strength lager - it tasted like alcoholic marmite.

And then Greg and I had to take off our sweaters, apparently the dirty little feckers DO wank. Fuck!

The girls got an easy one. And so it continued. There was a flaw in our plan. Greg and I had failed to remember that we were absolutely, monumentally, incredibly fucking stupid. It took about ten minutes before we were in our pants – the girls, on the otherhand, were showing only a sexy flash of ankle, having only had to remove their socks.
The really fucking annoying thing was that neither of the girls seemed impressed or in the least bit sexed up looking at our scrawny teenage bodies. But God thank alcohol. Amy, who’d been knocking it back like Oliver Reed fifteen minutes before last orders, leaned forward and slurred: “How about a sudden death? If you answer the next question right, we’ll snog each other?” she said, giggling to her mate. “And if you get it wrong...”

“Okay!”

So, moments later, I had Greg’s tongue pokling round inside my gob like a slab of wet liver. It was not good. Not good at all. I hate to admit it, but I may have got a bit of a lazy lob on. The plan was going horribly wrong. I stopped snogging my best mate, drank half the bottle of maddog, belched romantically, and said: “What about this – if we get the next question right... we get to see you play with each other? And if we get it wrong-“ I could see Greg motioning to me to shut the fuck up. Well, I didn’t reallly fancy wanking Greg off, so I left it open. “Well, we’ll do anything, and I mean ANYTHING you tell us to do.”

Amy’s mate said, matter-of-factly: “OK. You’re on.”

And so, my hand trebling, I drew the next question card on the pile and passed it over to the girls. And, being a thick twat, asked for an entertainment question. And the girls laughed and read:

“Who was the offical hair consultant to the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics?”

OH... SHIT...

Obviously, we got it wrong, our gamble in the hope of a tad of girl-on-girl-hot-teen-sex-action had fallen flat on its arse. Now we had to face the consequences...

“Now you’ll do anything, won’t you,” said Amy.

We nodded, feeling fucking miserable. I had a very werid feeling I might have to suck Greg off. And I could tell by the look of abject horror on his face he was thinking the same about me.

“So,” said Amy’s mate. “You’ll do absolutely anything we want? You can’t back down? We can ask and you’ll just do it?” she was really enjoying this.

Greg and I nod. The girls confered with each other for a while. Then we did what they asked us to do. And soon afterwards the girls put on their socks and shoes and went home. We completely disregarded the fact they were in the top sets for every fucking subject at school, while Greg and I spent most of our time in school drawing willies in the excercise books.

“If my mum finds out about this, she’ll fucking kill me,” I said. Greg didn’t speak, just put his cloths back on glumly.

"That REALLY IS the last fucking time I kiss you, Spanky..."

I shrugged agreement.

And what did the girls ask us to do? What terrible pennance did we undertake for not knowing who the fuck Vidal Sassoon was, let alone that he did some poncy-arsed haircuts at the Olympics?

Well, Amy and Amy’s mate had no fucking interest in our puny little bodies. Or in seeing the two of us get it on in – what I’m sure would’ve been – an incredibly hot gay tryst. No.

Did they fuck.

Instead they went home happy as pigs in shit.

And later that evening, when my parents got back home and I’d received a level eight hiding on my ‘getting a good hiding from my old man scale’, I sneaked the phone into my bedroom and gave Greg a call:

“Mate – stay away from my place for a bit... I had to tell my dad you forced open the lock on his drinks cabinet and stole all his booze... Sorry...”

-Silence-

-Click- as the phoneline went dead.

Don’t gamble. Just don’t do it. Well, especially not when you could be outwitted by the sheer fucking intellectal prowess of the rotting corpse of a dead horse...
( SpankyHanky, Thu 7 May 2009, 13:27, 6 replies)

Wow first page
early this week
(Lukekull Fuck, Thu 7 May 2009, 13:25, Reply)

Well, I assume strip poker counts as betting...
I'm never played strip poker.
Only strip hungry hungry hippos.
(teebie jeebie, Thu 7 May 2009, 13:23, 1 reply)

Done the Twelve Steps…
... and I'm not ashamed to admit it.

Show me a fruit machine, and I'd be face-to-face with the thieving chunk of metal and plastic all day. Not so much a battle of wits. One of us was – at best – a half-wit. A broke half-wit, at that.

So: My worst ever bet

I was in my late teens, and went to Northern Ireland for a holiday, staying with my grandparents. I took myself into Bangor one afternoon, and with a pocketful of blunt, made straight for the amusement arcade to have a go on the fruit machines.

When I got there, I found that the local council had withdrawn the arcade's gaming licence. To get round this, they had fixed the machines so they wouldn't pay out, with big signs saying they were "For Amusement Only". That's right - you put your money in, and the only thing you could win was extra credit, which you then spent.

I must have got through at least half of my holiday spends, feeding in pound after pound, KNOWING that I was literally throwing my money at the leery camel-coated bastard who owned the place, who sat with an evil grin on his face in the change booth.

In my little gambling bubble, I glanced across at a middle-aged woman who was doing exactly the same thing. She had exactly the same look of grim despair on her face that I sported: "HELP!"

As her money ran out, she sagged like Ann Widdecombe's tits, said "Aye, there goes the rent" and left, presumably to jump into the harbour.

I left, minutes later, only to commit further crimes against my wallet: The purchase of Tenpole Tudor's current single "Wunderbar", which was, and still is, the second worst record I ever bought.

I bet you ANY MONEY that ... no, wait ...
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 7 May 2009, 13:21, 2 replies)

Minimum Bet
Mate of mine has worked in casinos for 20-odd years.

Back in the 80s, when the high rollers tended to be middle eastern rather than Russian, a punter who came in now and again and spent vast amounts at the table was having a bad run and needed to get more chips, so he sent one of his entourage off to cash a six-figure cheque (this guy's credit was definitely good at the casino in question).

While said cheque was being converted into chips, the punter found himself at the table with nothing to play with, but the itch to get something down on the next spin of the wheel was proving irresistible.

So, off comes the Patek Phillippe watch - probably at least ten grand's worth - and down it goes on the table.

My mate's reaction?

"Sorry sir, the minimum bet on this table is ten pounds".

The bloke went fucking ballistic.

"You insult me, you insult my credit, you insult my watch, you insult my country..." et cetera et cetera probably all the way through to "... and you insult my camel".

My mate got summoned to the boss's office where he had to absolutely grovel to the punter - who, naturally, is demanding that he be beheaded, or at least sacked - which seemed to placate the guy eventually.

Once he'd gone and the door had closed, the boss burst out laughing, saying it was one of the funniest things he'd ever heard in years of working in the casino business - but under NO circumstances was my mate to make an off-the-cuff joke like that to a punter ever again.

PS Same mate more recently got involved in another watch/casino episode - he took a bit of a busman's holiday to Las Vegas, was doing well on the tables, card games etc, which they were pretty cool with once they realised he was a fellow casino worker not a professional gambler - came back with a Cartier watch he'd bought with his winnings, with plenty spare cash left over.
(Capo, Thu 7 May 2009, 13:18, 1 reply)

Ohh
I had a 50p bet on a table tennis match with a mate of mine and after about 6 hours of amazing play by me i was up to £24,000. but i lost it all on a double or nothin bet which was a bit of a cunt.

i doubt he would have paid tho.
(NuffMuff fucks shrubbery, Thu 7 May 2009, 13:17, Reply)

My friend Joe once bet my siuster that I had a middle name
I don't have a middle name and since my sister has known me for a bit longer wouldn't you think she'd know?
( Crap Little Monkey Deathstar, so good they built it twice, Thu 7 May 2009, 13:17, 1 reply)

The stakes are vile...
Some of my friends who shared a house together as students were so poor that, having neither booze nor money, they used to play cards with chunks of budget cheese from the corner shop as the stakes.

The co-called Winner (or winners if they couldn't be arsed to finish) was left with up to a kilo in chunks of cheap, and now repeatedly manhandled cheddar, and was then required to eat the lot to 'confirm the win'.

Naturally, they all tried not to win if they started to do well. All except one lad who was so competitive he kept winning, despite vomiting the first time they played.

None of us sympathised, the daft bastard.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 7 May 2009, 13:17, 1 reply)

recently
while out on my dinner, in the rain, i saught refuge in a gaming machine establishment.
I exchanged a fiver for a few golden nuggets and surveyed the flickering machines all around me. I looked at one, video style machine with leprachauns and shit.

I moved on.

As i plunged my nuggets, to no avail, into some bastard machine, i glanced over my shoulder to see some little old woman winning in excess of £125 out of teh same machine i had eyeballed not 3 minutes before.

I turned on my heels into the rain and swore against ever going back.
(Cancer Joy was short lived, Thu 7 May 2009, 13:17, 1 reply)

hahaha
/racks brains.
Yeah I got one or two for this.

I'll drag them out later.
(Poppet some assembly required., Thu 7 May 2009, 13:10, Reply)

Bet you I'm first?
Damn
( Agnostic Antichrist Baltimora, Thu 7 May 2009, 13:09, Reply)

5th?
Or 6th maybe

I don't usually bet, but when I do I always go for the long odds and put on £5 or less, so my losses are never very big, but my winnings are pretty decent if I'm successful.

Last weekend I did an accumulator on the football, 6 teams (3 home and 3 away) to win, with a £3 stake and a possible return of £126.33

This was my first bet of this kind and as such I wasn't holding out much hope. But with all the matches coming up to full time, I had 5 teams winning and 1 losing. The tension was unbearable, and in the end I missed out, thanks to cunting Millwall!

However, as a Leeds fan it did mean that we leapfrogged them into 4th spot.

*relurks*
(porkinator is a Rock n Roll nerd!, Thu 7 May 2009, 13:08, 1 reply)

Bet I'm first
Shit. Lost again.
(Capo, Thu 7 May 2009, 13:08, Reply)

4TH
WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
( girlinthehole, Thu 7 May 2009, 13:08, Reply)

..
3rd


Well i gambled reading an extra post and missed out on first because of it.

fuckballs
(NuffMuff fucks shrubbery, Thu 7 May 2009, 13:07, Reply)

How I Met Monty
Stupid bets, you say? I've made a few of 'em. Most of these come about drunkenly between me and my friends, when my decision-making prowess (not great at the best of times) dwindles to Corbett-esque proportions.

The majority of these are normally settled through a text to our good friends at the Texperts, whose word is taken as gospel in drunken disputes, despite them having been subsequently proven wrong on numerous occasions.

The frequency of these bets has led to our group developing standard betting units; bets are not deemed valid unless they are for:

a) 80p (which must be referred to as "point eight of a sheet" for the bet to count);
b) A pie (filling and supplier decided at victor's discretion); or
c) £300

These units have been carefully developed over time, and no-one is really sure of the origins of most of them. The one time an exception was allowed was when I lost my skeleton in a bet regarding our local takeaway.

*makes mental note to update will accordingly*

Anywho, the story begins last summer in Dublin. When we're abroad we don't just like to do the usual sightseeing rubbish, we tend to try to immerse ourselves fully in the local culture. So, being Dublin, we'd decided to spend the entire weekend in the pub.
Usual apologies for casual racism

On the Saturday, we were working our way around the windy streets, before settling in a lovely little establishment called the Hairy Lemon (like my Grand National bets, I like to choose my pubs entirely based on how funny their name is). Imagine my delight to walk inside and find live coverage of a pre-season game of my footy team.

The conversation inevitably turned to football, and the upcoming season. Alcohol levels had reached the point where our confidence in our respective teams' chances for the forthcoming season had crossed from the realms of realism, sashayed obnoxiously through optimism, before settling into blind faith.

For those interested in football, I'm a Villa fan, whereas my friends support Bolton and Sunderland respectively - my blind faith was marginally saner.

Inevitably, drunken machismo took over, and the Boltonian (I shall call him Scott, for that is almost his name) and I were betting on whose team would finish higher in the forthcoming season. I was quite hungry by this point, and so started the betting reasonably, at a pie.

"Fook that, sunshine - it's three hundred or nowt".

With 8 pints of Dublin's finest inside me, and - albeit to a lesser extent - with logic on my side, I accepted.

Waking the next day to the realisation that the odds were stacked in my favour, I offered Scott the choice of either rescinding the bet, or lowering the stakes. However, his machismo hadn't left the same door by which his hangover entered, and he refused, letting me know I was "not getting away with it that easy, mate".

The season progressed, and my team built a comfortable lead, to the point where I stopped worrying about that bet, and started making other bets (all to be settled by the Texperts). I won't go into too much detail about those, but the findings can be summarised as:

- Oasis' The Masterplan does count as a studio album
- penguins grow to a maximum of 3 feet tall, NOT 6 feet (I lost that one); and
- a badger would win a fight with a dwarf, unless the dwarf had a weapon

We had always said that the football bet would be paid up in full when it became mathematically certain. Despite a prolonged attempt by my team to throw away the lead, this moment came when I was away from home on a business trip.

Obviously, I took the opportunity to ring home and celebrate graciously. I think I probably pushed it a bit far by demanding the money in crisp £5 notes - "it'll look like more that way". How wrong I was...

A week or so later, I get back from a (heavily delayed) flight at 7 in the morning, and walk into my room. Expecting nothing more than maybe some post and my beautiful, comfortable bed, I was instead greeted by...

A 6-foot penguin, literally pissing money on my floor.

*rubs eyes, squints a bit*

Actually, it was a 6-foot cardboard cutout of a penguin, pissing 1p coins onto my floor. As a way of gaining revenge for losing the bet, Scott had decided to pay me in 1p coins (30,000 of the fuckers), as "it'll look like more that way".

The 6-foot penguin (with penny-pissing genitalia attached) were simply an added extra "for the aesthetics".

A couple of weeks on, and there's still 30,000 1p coins sitting on my floor. I've counted £50 of them into bags, but I think it's going to take the best part of the summer to count them all.

The penguin - which has since been christened Monty - now stands in the corner of my room, as an eternal reminder that when gambling, even when you win, you sometimes lose.

That said, I reckon I've got a sound basis to argue my point on my earlier penguin bet. Now, what pie to choose...

PS If you look at the replies (and - more pertinently - if I can get it to work), you can meet Monty too...
( TheMagicDwarf is back like ballroom dancing, Thu 7 May 2009, 13:06, 11 replies)

First
Maybe.

EDIT to include story.

Many moons ago I used to go to visit my pre-wife on a Sunday evening. I would then get the bus home later. Boring eh? Not when you factor in Old Sam.

Every week he got on the same bus and would regale me with stories of his time in London (“The Smoke”) where he dealt with finances for some rather well known criminals, including the infamous Brothers Kray. I found this quite amusing and it did help pass an otherwise eventless journey. One week however he outdid himself. Over the years he had kept in touch with some of his croneys who were involved in “racing”. As a favour they had told him the names of 5 horses of which 4 would finish as the first 4 in The Derby (UK version). He told me to put a bet on perming any 4 from 5 as this was a fix and a sure thing. I did and it came to pass that his information was truly accurate.

The bet cost me £15.65 to put on (including tax). My return? £16.40. Take that bookies!
(porkylips looks better as the sun goes down., Thu 7 May 2009, 13:06, 1 reply)