In my inimitably childish ‘payday millionaire’ weekend I was recovering from a night of making expensively bad life decisions by watching the FA Cup on a bed that, frankly, could probably do with a Hoover.
One of your adverts popped on offering a free £25 bet for opening an account. Why the Dickens not, the twat in my mind figured. With Chelsea and Stoke nearing a start I clumsily thumbed my way through the understandably interminable registration process. I popped a tenner in my account to put that, and the free £25 you kindly offered, on Chelsea striker Samuel Eto’o to bag the first goal.
Arguably not the complete striker of old, Eto’o’s hattrick the week before prompted me to figure it was worth a flutter for a possible return of £151.67.
Now, don’t let my use of complicated betting spiel like ‘return’ and ‘flutter’ deceive you. I understand as much about betting as the average stray dog hastily shaken awake in a piss drenched doorway.
That makes me your prime target market. An impulse-driven ABC1 dickwit with an approach to money that would make that patronising Money Saving Expert fella develop a worry hernia in his mind. If I won, I’m exactly the sort of guy who might think immediately that I’m some sort of footballing sooth sayer and plunder my future hateful children’s inheritance on risky accumulators in the Serbian Women’s 2nd Division while supposedly defecating at work.
Then I was notified that, despite taking my deposit, my account was blocked for a random security check. I was told it wasn’t an issue, I just merely have to provide you with photocopies of all of my major identification and financial documentation. That’s my Eto’o bet up the swanny isn’t it? I open betting accounts impulsively on Sunday afternoons, does that make me sound like I know where my passport is? Or that I have convenient access to a scanning printer?
I understand that post 9/11, everyone needs to be a little more diligent, but we needn’t be dicks about it. This felt like you were some sort of square-jawed American Immigrations officer screaming irrational demands for information based on the fact that I ‘looked a bit muslish’.
But who am I to question your process? So please find enclosed all requested documents, along with a scan of my face, a chest hair for DNA verification, a dot of my blood, and a schematic drawing of my body with all identifiable scars, blemishes, freckles and monstrous penises highlighted. I trust this wins your approval.
Please can you return the chest hair after the test, I’m making a scarf for a girl I look at on the tram.
P.s. I’ve just remembered, it wasn’t Eto’o, it was Oscar. He’s just scored. You owe me £151.67