Correction, I'm a terrible loser.
Which means when I do have a gamble, and lose, I can be a little melodramatic.
Okay, a lot.
As well as hating to lose, it kills me to part from my hard-earnt money when I get nothing in return.
Because of this, I rarely punt.
Apart from maybe put a couple of dollars on the pokies once or twice a year (and even then, I only play the one cent machines), the only day I really gamble is on Melbourne Cup Day.
That’s when I bring out the big guns – the Big Pineapple – the ‘fitty'.
I put a bet on a horse to win, another for a place and a couple for my daughters.
And there’s $50 gone.
It hurts, but I figure it’s only once a year, so really, I’m only losing $1 a week over 12 months.
However, losing it all in one go, like I did last week, for the seventh consecutive year, was tough to swallow.
Because I was due for a win on the Cup this year.
I have a strategy that works every six to seven years.
On Melbourne Cup Eve, I try to picture which horse’s name would make the cleverest headline on the front page of the Melbourne newspapers the following day.
Then, I cut up the names of the horses from the sweep and place them under my pillow, hoping the winner will somehow infiltrate my dreams.
If that doesn’t work, I reach under my pillow and the first name I choose is my second choice.
When it comes to watching the race, I feel like I’m competing myself.
In the lead up, the nerves start to kick in, my heart starts to race, and I can’t stop fidgeting. It’s a distraction technique.
The nausea begins when the horses are placed in their barrier.
Beads of sweat pop up on my forehead and I become breathless. I feel like I’m about to run the race of my life.
The barriers open and they’re off, and I let out an automatic squeal of relief.
The final stretch is the most important, and unable to contain my excitement any longer, it spills over into a cacophony of screaming and bottom slapping (sometimes not my own).
Whoever is within a 1m distance falls victim to my uncouth display.
Thanks to social distancing this year, no-one succumbed to my strange superstition.
If I win, I look like someone who has just taken out the entire prize pool on The Price is Right.
But if I lose?
All I can say is you may want to flee from the wrath to come.
And lots of questioning.
So next year when I ask people for their tips, and they reply ‘Yeah, don’t bet’, maybe I should take their advice?
But I probably won’t.
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