Hatred

I hate everything right now. 

I hate myself.

I hate Golf.

I hate Golfists.

I hate that we as a country voted to leave the EU.

I hate the reductionist arguments filling my Social Media pages from the angry latte liberals calling the champagne righties racists or old or both.

I really hate golf though.

The US Open was relatively fruitful for me. I laid out £100 and had £270 back from my main lump on Brandon Grace at 50/1. 6 places was necessary as he bogied the last to drop in to a tie for 5^th with one other. I could have written more about this, but I watched it before playing a 54 hole charity event, and then I went on holiday and had better things to do. 

Like sleep.

Congratulations to Dustin Johnson though. Three or four more majors he will win now. He and his brother and caddy Austin deserved the win. I wonder where they keep the other brothers, Bustin and Custin whilst the two of them make money to support the plethora of alphabetically named brothers they obviously have.

This week is a wholly different matter though. A pair of nothingy tournaments with zero to be excited about. No bets before the week began. Then some small bets on Sergio and Rickie and Ernie and Oleson (double) and Lorenzo-Vera and Rickie.

None of this was going particularly well so I decided to have a taste of the action properly. Rahm was looking on the cusp of imperious and after some vacillation on the idea of whether or not I would actually get back in to the lump to slump game, I lost 4 points on price so lumped as quickly as I could. £50 wend its way on to the new pro and US Open low amateur before you could say “the rain in Spain”. It then all went awfully. Aside from an extremely brief resurgence there was nothing to enjoy. £50 is not a hugely significant lump, and 9/4 is not a price to get excited about, but I was almost immediately angry.

Rahm started playing poorly-ish and Hurley, the super duper American ex-Navy hero all round good guy carried on being my worst enemy. The guy is 37 and has 101 Tour appearances without a win, has a good game and is incredibly hard to hate. But I managed to hate him. Oh, how I managed to hate him. Horrible thoughts sprang forth from my mind as did videos that I sent to people to make them laugh at my misery.

Rahm had me looking up what time Wickes was open to early on. I wondered if an Uber would be able to fit enough lumber and rope for me to be able to build a gallows and hang myself before realising that it was 10PM on a Sunday which means that nothing would be open. As a modern man I rarely shave due to severe laziness, and therefore don’t really have any actual razors which means that the old warm bath and a cold blade proposition was out.

When I placed the bet I was excited. My heart immediately went from its probably too high resting rate to higher than the highest rate ever recorded. My education isn’t good enough to know what that might be, and my late night googling skills aren’t sufficient enough for me to find out what the most beats per minute ever is. So let’s just say that my heart was beating one thousand times per second. It was beating so loudly as to cause a severe noise disturbance.

The police were alerted and quickly arrived at my house, on the belief that several chinooks had landed in the garden, which was the only rational explanation for the noise. The fire brigade, army, SAS MI5, MI6 and all of the other secret organisations arrived and pointed large and scary guns at me. This was my opportunity. I have heard of suicide by police. All I have to do is point my gun at the rozzers and they’ll be forced to open fire upon my stress racked body and I would be relieved of all my pains. I pointed my gun at them and they opened fire.

I felt the lead rip through my head and I was dead.

Then I opened my eyes. Even though I was being rocked about by my beating heart I could see enough to know that there was no one else there. I retreated to the safety of my hood. By which I mean the attachment of clothing, I am not attempting to use colloquialism to ingratiate myself to a different audience.

It all just went rather badly.

Just like the referendum. I’m not talking about it though.

Maybe just for a bit. I had one good bet this week. The Triple Threat. UK to vote to leave the EU. 11/4. Winner. Boris to be the next Tory leader. 9/4. Now Evens. And Trump to win the Presidential election, 9/4. Now 2/1. Better prices were available, but only the old reliable StanJo (StanJames) were up to the task of accepting a treble, so I snapped it up. £20 at 36/1 (ish).

When I placed it, I had never wanted a bet to lose more. I don’t see any of these things as being good, but I hope to profit in the case of misery. I am perhaps a war-profiteer. I understand the mentality. Since the vote came in, (bloody old and racist people ruining things), my life is all about the bet. I am on Team Boris, and Team Trump. Team Brump. Or Trumpson. Or whatever, they even kind of look the same.

It’s time to start betting against whatever I want and profit from my own misery. Dive head first in to the misery and hope it turns in to a pile of cash. Then make flags of it all and live on an old oil rig or something. Perhaps I could win enough money to run for PM. Bring out the best premo-policies wait until I’m 1/100 and then lay the heck out of myself. Then I’ll go on to national television and announce that I would be banning reality TV shows (or perhaps I could announce a common sense policy and count on 51.9% of the population thinking it "scare-mongering" NOT TALKING ABOUT IT), scuppering my vote and netting many billions of pounds, and buying my own island. Obviously I would need to do this on a reality TV show as no one seems to watch anything else now. I believe Phil Mickelson recently got caught doing something like this and he’s always smiling so I’ll be fine. (Sorry Phil, I know this isn’t quite true, love ya Pal). Anyway, when I announce my own island an independent state with incredibly lenient tax sheltering laws, I’m sure all charges will be dropped. When you’re rich, it must be so easy to get even richerer.

I can build a big golf course on my island and make Butch Harman and all of his sons come and teach me golfery and shoot anyone who beats me at golfing. I’ll have a formula one race there and all of the drivers will have to get insanely drunk with me before race day and the race will be dubbed Hungover in Hannover. FYI the island will not be called Hannover.

I realise that you are all incredibly endeared to me and my lifestyle so do this for me. Become American and vote for Trump. Or be American and vote for Trump. Or make sure that Bozza becomes the next Tory party leader. I won’t give you anything, but I will thank you. Not personally. And not even in a large public announcement. You will have no proof that I thanked you, but you will know that I said that I would thank you, and if that is not enough for you, then you are un-American or un-Conservative-y or whatever.