Everything on Merlene

James

It could have been any other morning. She'd got up and left for work without me even noticing - except it wasn't. From the second I opened my eyes I had that battle inside between excitement and dread. Recently it had all been dread if anything but mostly I had been void of any feelings.

With no job to speak of, just the odd homer, very little money for anything and a wedding day approaching quicker than the speed of light. But that morning there seemed to be light at the end of this darkness. I'd a job to start come Monday, less than a week away.

At first I thought I would have needed to have turned it down. It was in Stirling and how the hell was I going to travel to Stirling every day? Then Auld Paul offered me £800, the exact money Young Paul wanted for his Orion. Her family were all bankers but even so this was a win-win situation.

It seemed simple: get a car, get a job, get money, get married then get on with life. Easy! Problem was in every easy plan there is one common denominator that mucks it all up - Me.

Now what was wrong with the Auld Yin handing over the cash to his son, her uncle, and me being handed the keys to the clapped out, over priced vehicle to happiness. No, I'd to meet the git at the Clydesdale Bank at 11am and he'd give me the money. I'd then hold on to it until 5pm and go round to Cousin Paul's when he comes home from work and give him it. Now there's a huge flaw in this plan - me with £800 up the toon and six hours to kill.

Anyone else would see the importance of not mucking this one up, too much at stake. That was the dread. The excitement was almost the same. Six hours with 800 quid and the bookies would be open. I could double or treble this with smart betting, give back the original £800, go to Ian Skelly's and buy a half decent car.

I didn't even wash. Out of bed, into yesterday's, or were they the day before's clothes and out of the house before 9am.

I loitered outside the bank for well over two hours (no hurry, eh Paul) watching motors stop at the lights, thinking, "Aye, a wee Golf", "No, a wee Metro." It passed the time but it seemed to have stood still waiting and waiting.

Then he appears, all small talk and smiles. I squeezed a half smile but that was all he was getting. He had me over a barrel and was doing me no favours, lending me the cash to buy his son's squib and into the bargain I hated him, his son and any other human being with the same DNA flowing through them. I love her a hundred and ten percent but her family - vultures.

Her mother was the worst. An auld cow fae the schemes that had now met some half decent guy with a bit of pay and suddenly she had developed morals, you know, like an ex-smoker - "That's a disgusting habit." She was now all "You wouldn't catch me drinking in the afternoon." And "We've booked in for a fortnight in Butlin's." She was so full of it she couldn't hear the whole scheme laughing.

Anyway. A quick lie, "I need to pop down and see my dad." And I was off.

Gone were any self deluding thoughts that I wasn't going to the bookie's. The only question was what one. Not my regular. No doubt she'd be in looking for me during her lunch break and the last thing I want to do is let her down. I want to surprise her with my winnings! Positive mental attitude. I heard that Linford Christie say it on an advert and now it was my own personal mantra.

So here I am, 2.3Opm, and already 5 x £20 bets down. Time to step up to £50s. First one kicks clear inside the final furlong. Home and hosed. This is going to be cool. 4.45, last race and I'm £400 down as the donkey I'd picked crashes through the first fence and decides to saunter roon. I'm screaming at the screen in the hope the jockey'lI hear me and decide "I'll get going and win this for the wee man." Hey hope springs eternal whatever the f*** that means.

So it's off to the boozer. If I'm p***** then I won't feel such a "huge disappointment" whilst I'm being told I am.

8.15, leaving the boozer and I clock the bookies is still open. No night races. Why? So I venture over and they are covering the World Championship athletics. Hey, they bet on anything.

So I get the slip wrote out count my cash and put £378 on Merlene Otty to win the 200m sprint. She'd lost the 100m, or so I was told by the resident pundit/jakey and hello a photo finish with FloJo.

"She was in a photo for the 100m and Flo-Jo won." Say the auld joke-ball. Not really what I was wanting to hear. Then the result comes through - first Merlene Otty of Jamaica. Yee haa. £1134. The exact money paid out on my last ever bet. Got the car, got the job, got cash, got married....

. . .got caught with her pal, got divorced but hey you can't win them all.