|A Little Less Conversation - Betting Tips for All the Family|
Written by SE1blue on Wednesday, 24th Oct 2012 08:43
For every bad moment in life, you can usually find a really good thing that more than adequately compensates for the tough time you’re having.
For example, every single mistake allows a lesson to be learned. Every illness comes with a day off work. Every hangover gets served a tasty fry-up. Every break-up introduces you to a new flexible pole dancer called Destiny, Fantasy or Brenda (depending on your budget).
However, following Ipswich Town this season has found me searching for positives. The results I’ve witnessed this season haven’t so much left me wondering if the glass is half full or half empty, but whether I should just drink straight from the bottle.
On the whole, I consider myself a happy-go-lucky, optimistic kind of guy. I’d like to think that this is all down to my creative, spontaneous personality but I can’t deny the benefits I’ve experienced from mixing Heineken with my medication. But this latest run of bad form from Town has left me with a really bad case of the blues.
When I’m feeling depressed I like to spend a lot of my time trying to analyse what’s making me so sad. I’ve found the Internet particularly helpful in this area and I’d like to take this opportunity to thank Brandon Scott Gorrell for his 10 Foods For Depressed People which I’ve clicked in many an hour of melancholy. If only I could now find 10 Foods For Obese People.
It was during an afternoon of self-diagnosis last week that I struck on the idea of going back to my childhood and considering how I coped with defeat at an early age. I grew up in the Bobby Robson era when Ipswich defeats were as regular as lottery winnings, so when they came, it was like an unexpected punch in the face.
As I stared out of a rain-streaked window at work last Friday, I could clearly picture my dad driving us from Sudbury to Portman Road. My father was employed as a schoolteacher and he worked long hours. He was a tall man (he still is), with big fuzzy hair, Buddy Holly glasses and an amazing array of brown corduroy trousers. There was no losing my dad on the terraces. If I had gone to the toilet at half-time I would walk back into Churchmans and just aim for the man that looked like an oak tree in spectacles.
My dad doesn’t like football. It’s a true story that he sold ice creams during the 1966 World Cup final at Wembley because he was the only bloke in the country who didn’t care that he had his back to the game.
Despite my incessant badgering he would only take me to Portman Road twice a season; once at Christmas, once for my birthday. On neither of these visits could he ever leave the teacher at home and I would spend the ninety minutes dying of embarrassment as he would tick people off for swearing and frown at others who weren’t singing loudly enough. Oh those were the days all right.
On the way to the match I would be just as excited about spending time with my Dad as seeing the likes of Mariner, Muhren and Gates. His ridiculously long hours at work meant that any time I spent with him was going to be (in my head) the best time ever.
Sadly, his unwanted estrangement from his kids, coupled with my penchant for asking 'unnatural' questions about puberty ensured that the only people speaking in the car were The Archers.
If I so much as looked as though I was going to ask a question about why my nipples had gone hard or what was a suitable age to shave my scrotum, an Extra Strong Mint was thrust in my direction. I think my father has erased most of these memories but my fillings and dental records are testament of my thirst for knowledge.
On December 29th 1984 the awkward silence was finally broken. Everton had beaten Town 2-0 and I was unable to cope with witnessing my first Ipswich defeat. As we drove carefully back along the icy road to Sudbury, I tried to cry quietly, but my father heard my sobs and saw my little tears splash down onto the football programme resting in my lap.
That’s a lie.
I think I wailed something like “WHY DID THEY LOSE?” and a snot bubble inflated from my left nostril, before my Dad fixed me with one of his best teacher stares and said.
“The nipples reduce their size to retain heat. There is never a right time to shave your testicles and whatever a woman promises she’ll do to you once you’ve done it, she won’t, even if you marry her. Trust me! Oh and Ipswich lost because Everton were the better team.”
Then he leaned over and pushed an Extra Strong Mint into my open mouth.
Here are some betting tips for this coming weekend.
Yankee of draws on
Reading v Fulham
Middlesbrough v Bolton
Everton v Liverpool
Chelsea v Man Utd
Home win treble
Correct Score Prediction
Ipswich 4 Sheffield Wednesday 1
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Blogs by SE1blue
Blogs 270 bloggers
Season's Beatings by Moggasknockdown
It is a bitterly disheartening experience supporting Ipswich. At every sliding doors moment in our recent history we have taken the wrong path, at every opportunity for schadenfreude an ex-player will decisively score, or create or generally remind us all that they are happier now, away from the depressing, soul-destroying experience that was their Ipswich career.
Cycle of Hurt by Steve_M
It's hard not to see a club that has got nearly every big decision wrong and come out on the wrong side of almost every promotion or relegation fight over 19 years as being in anything other than terminal decline. The very obvious exception to that pattern of failure was the appointment of Mick McCarthy and his first few years here.
Climbing Up the Walls by Mullet
The world has undoubtedly changed and with it, until some indeterminate point, football has done too. Not only have we seen another club disappear as the fans of Macclesfield joined those of Bury in being locked out of the game, we might count ourselves lucky to only be locked out of Portman Road for our own good.
A Head in the Right Place by NormEmerges
A nice victory against Wigan, well played the Town, and you achieved it without what many consider our best player. For the second match in a row, Flynn Downes was left out because “his head wasn’t in the right place”.
Pyramid Strong by Mullet
On Friday the members of League One voted by majority to instigate a salary cap. In doing so they not only limit everybody in the division to spending £2.5m per season, but they limit themselves in making the transition to established second tier side or beyond.