Can't help feeling blue but summer is nearly with us; Seven days in the life of the Sports Betting Writer of the Year.

Byline: STEVE PALMER

Saturday, May 9 I would dearly love to be able to report joyous tidings of a dramatic turnaround in my fortunes and a resurrection of my hopes and dreams, but my fortunes have done less turning than Rik Waller on a sunlounger, I'm as hopeless as a deaf man playing Name That Tune and I haven't had a positive dream since providing Maria Sharapova with multiple orgasms at the end of March.

With very little money to punt with, and feeling seriously under the weather after a lock-in until 3am in the local, I was struggling for optimism as I made my way to work.

Going an entire Saturday without a wager was a distinct possibility, such was my disinterest in productively employing any of the breath Jesu was supplying for my body.

But the more I gazed at the Premier League fixture list, the more convinced I became that this would be one of the most boring afternoons in English top-flight football history, with the games at Ewood Park, the Reebok and the KC Stadium destined to be absolute stinkers.

So I had a pounds 100 under-2.5 goals treble with Skybet on Blackburn v Portsmouth at 4-5, Bolton v Sunderland at 8-13 and Hull v Stoke at 8-11, looking for a pounds 500 return which would at least put me within a mile or so of the entrance to the tunnel that has some light at the end of it.

After half-an-hour, all the games were goalless, and I even had the temerity to start bemoaning the fact I hadn't put at least pounds 5 of my stake on a no goalscorer treble. What a tosspot.

Maybe that was the moment when Jesu decided to punish me further because Morten Gamst Pedersen soon opened the scoring in Blackburn and my bet started to unravel.

As full-time approached, though, I was in a winning position. Blackburn were 2-0 up and Pompey had just missed a penalty, it was still goalless in Bolton, and Stoke were 2-0 to the good at the KC and comfortably repelling anything Hull threw at them.

It was very nearly 5pm and less-damaged souls than myself may have afforded themselves a smile of contentment that they were almost certainly about to turn pounds 100 into pounds 500.

But I sat at my desk sporting a grimace (standard facialwear these days), fully aware that you don't count any chickens until you've got a fat lady bellowing in your ear, or something.

And right on cue entered Farmer Dawson, trampling all over my eggs and rifling several bullets through the blubber of the fat lady's cheeks with a 95th-minute consolation in Hull.

I suppose you think your free kick was very clever, do you Andrew? Well, I don't. I think it was a goal which amounted to nothing but sending me deeper into abject poverty. I hope you're pleased with yourself, Andrew. I really do.

Sunday, May 10 I awoke to find Francesco Molinari had charged up the Italian Open leaderboard into second place and for a minute I thought my pounds 200 at 16-1 wager might suddenly get my life right back on track.

But like a lap-dancer slowly easing out of her thong, Francesco was playing the role of teaser, and actually had no intention of finishing the job off.

As Daniel Vanscik kicked clear in Italy, I went down the cafe for a full English breakfast, and ended up sitting near an old lady who was gently rocking in the corner with an empty tea cup on the table in front of her.

'That'll be me in a few years," I mumbled to myself.

"So rocked by the evils of the world that I literally rock back and forth 24 hours a day." I quickly devoured my gutbuster, got blanked by the waitress as I offered a cheery "thanks then" on departure, and then popped next door to play with peanuts on the dogs (I don't mean I went to a pet shop to have a game of peanut wars while sitting astride a couple of labradors - I went to the bookies to bet with small stakes on the greyhound racing).

I'm not a regular in this Brighton branch of Coral but it always seems like a welcoming place. I think that may be because blue has always been my favourite colour. It's a soothing colour, isn't it? It reminds me of the sea, the sky, dolphins, violets, raspberry slush puppies, and lots of other nice things.

I think if I ever become boss of Ladbrokes, the first thing I will do is alter their redness.

Red is the colour of danger. It's a nasty colour. Bulls attack anything red because they dislike the colour so much. I don't suppose Ladbrokes are trying to attract bulls to their shops but I'm sure a few humans are put off by the redness, too.

Anyway, Coral was doing a roaring trade. The lovely Caroline, who had got me involved in a FOBT competition the last time I was in, was taking the bets, so I decided to extend what was going to be a 15-minute visit to well over an hour.

Trap five in the 2.52 at Oxford is now my favourite dog. After a few losers, he came to my rescue with a barnstorming performance. He trapped out with great alacrity, galloped like a, urm, fast horse, and never allowed any of his rivals to get even a sniff of his dirty behind.

Aside from a few seconds being mesmerised by trap five's pace, I couldn't take my eyes off Caroline, who has one of those cute little faces you could eat your dinner off.

When she emerged from behind the counter to tidy the shop, revealing black high heels and a wiggle that Marilyn Monroe would have been proud of, I was struggling to contain myself, so I tried to up the banter ante next time I placed a bet.

"Nice and sunny outside, eh? What are we doing in here?" was my lame attempt to enhance the conversation from what had been no more than a game of thanks tennis up to that point.

"I've got no choice," she replied.

"Neither have I," I retorted as I was handed back my slip.

"I'm addicted!" I had to sit down to come to terms with my pitiful attempt at flirting. That really was world-class, Steve. That's how to impress a girl - they all love addicted gamblers. You see it all the time in those classified dating ads - looking for a tall, dark 30-something with GSOH who is addicted to betting on Bags races with a 130 percent overround.

It was time to give up on any potential romance and I went off to watch Chelsea crush Arsenal, a match which left me cursing the day I took up betting.

I strongly fancied the Blues to take out their Champions League frustrations on Arsenal but I could not afford to play at the prices so left the game alone. I also toyed with the idea of having a few quid on Chelsea to win 4-0 (125-1 stand-out with Boylesports in the paper, 100-1 generally) and 4-1 (not even listed), but thought my heart may be ruling my head so didn't bother.

Knowledge of punting then, essentially ruined the match for me. Instead of revelling in Chelsea's dominance, like every other Blues fan, I was fretting about missed betting opportunities, and Florent Malouda's goal gave me absolutely no pleasure whatsoever. In fact, I was charging around my lounge like a bull in a Ladbrokes shop.

Later on, Jim Furyk (pounds 65 at 48) played the lap-dancer role in the Players Championship before finishing fifth, concluding another deeply unsatisfactory weekend.

Monday, May 11 With still four days to go until payday, I had the remainder of my cash on the week's golf (Irish Open: pounds 100 on Ross Fisher at 33-1 with Skybet, pounds 60 each-way on Raphael Jacquelin at 50-1 with Totesport, pounds 50 each-way on Paul McGinley at 66-1 with Ladbrokes and pounds 40 each-way on Richard Sterne at 66-1 with Totesport; Texas Open: pounds 200 on Justin Leonard at 15.5 on Betfair).

The well had run dry but after the failure to back Chelsea the previous day, I couldn't pass up a similar opportunity on Newcastle to beat Middlesbrough, so I asked a mate to put pounds 90 on for me at 11-10 on their Boylesports account.

Whoopeedoo! I won 99 pounds. Can I have a flake with that? Tuesday, May 12 I had a hunger for chip butties having watched The Secret Millionaire the previous night, on which the secret millionaire was eating one.

I ordered four at the chippy on the way home from work, believing they were quite small things, but the character serving them had other ideas and presented me with enough potato to feed an Ethiopian village for a month.

Once he had made the first one, I realised my blunder and told him I would only need two (one would have been more than enough but I didn't want to annoy him), but he said I had to have all four because he had cooked the chips to order (he clearly had no worries about annoying me).

At pounds 2 apiece, it was another savage blow to my finances.

Wednesday, May 13 I had to ignore the Man United game. They were obviously going to beat Wigan and a rich man could have had three million pounds on at 1-3 to win a million pounds.

I'm not a rich man.

Thursday, May 14 Tried to be cheerful. At least summer is almost here, eh? Summer levels the playing field somewhat. All you need in the summer is a bench or a beach and access to some drinking water.

You don't really need any money.

And, of course, you always have the option of killing yourself. Death pays all debts.

Friday, May 15 It's payday! Here I come. I am a monster. I'm like a monster in a Ladbrokes shop. I'm gonna break your china. I'm gonna break your hearts. Grrrrr (and other monster sounds)..

CAPTION(S):

Hull's Andy Dawson is sent flying against Stoke but had the last laugh to scupper Steve 'Would you like me to lap-dance for you?'