Last updated 11:21, Tuesday, 28 October 2008

THERE are two reasons I don’t gamble. One is I’ve always been afraid I might like it – which would be dangerous. The other is that if I didn’t have bad luck, I’d have none at all. Coupled with reason number one, that would be doubly dangerous.

So, when on Thursday of last week a friend sent a text from Carlisle races offering a spooky omen of dead cert, I broke the pledge.

“There’s a horse called Oh Pickles in race three,” she said.

Well, it would have been churlish not to: “Nooo...? Put me a fiver on to win please.”

Even as a non-gambler, or perhaps specifically so, I suddenly understood the gambler’s rush of excited anticipation of a windfall. Easy money, happy days, celebration time and lots of love – everyone loves a winner.

Reality didn’t even cut in when a colleague drew a somewhat cruel comparison with my own persona, deliberately to rain on my parade.

“Your horse won’t run,” he muttered, a little harshly I thought. “It’ll stand outside the racecourse, smoking, eating a pie and smelling of Chanel.”

Undaunted, I passed on his pessimism to my texter, reckoning to shame him later with my good fortune. A half hour on she reported back: “Your horse ate too many pies.”

Story of my life. But to look on the brighter side, I bet it smelled gorgeous as it fell under the weight of steak and kidney.

Lesson for life? Gambling’s a mug’s game and a fiver is much better spent on a fag and a pie.