Ten pounds of my money, at 6-4, said that Andy Murray would beat Rafael Nadal in the Wimbledon semi-final.

You see, when you’ve got a gift, as I believe I have, you just know things. There’s no point in trying to analyse it.

So sure was I that this would not be money wasted that I also asked my not particularly friendly high street bookie if I could also put a tenner on Tomas Berdych to beat Murray in the final - but was told, with just a hint of pity, that such a bet was not possible as Berdych was still involved in his match with Djokovic.

I knew that. Did he think I didn’t know that? Surely that should have made the bet more audacious, less certain, and a bookie such as his good self should have been even more eager to take my money in the circumstances? Well…no.

As I write, a broadcast sigh from the other room, mingled with some real, first-hand sounds of human pain and frustration, tell me that our British winner has been revealed once again as a Scottish loser. And that the crumpled ten pound note I handed over earlier today will not be coming back to me with reinforcements. Bye bye Murray, try try again…

But the way I look at it is this. At least I didn’t put a tenner on Berdych beating Murray. So in a way, it’s honours even. I’ve lost nothing.

Apart from ten pounds, that is.

It’s gone the way of the fiver I had on England to beat Germany 1-0 and the fiver I had on the two sides being level after 90 minutes.

Although the way I look at it is that if the referee and his benighted linesman hadn’t found themselves calamitously unable to make the screamingly obvious judgement that Frank Lampard’s shot had bounced a yard over the line after hitting the crossbar, I may well have had my money.  2-2 at full-time. Then England going on to win 1-0. OK. Half my money.

It’s gone the way of the tenner I had on England to beat Slovenia 2-0. I was absolutely sure England would beat Slovenia 2-0. I could picture the scoreline: England 2, Slovenia 0. And England did indeed win. But they neglected to score the required second goal, even though they went close about four or five or six times…

Still. The way I look at it is this. It was a good bet. It had legs. It walked the walk, and it talked the talk, and respect was due to me for knowing the game, and reading it right.

But not right enough to save my money.

They say that money is the root of all evil. I don’t know about that. But I do believe that, when it comes to betting, success is the root of all failure.

My first ever proper bet, on a whim, formulated as I crossed the threshold of the bookies, was for Wimbledon (upwardly mobile Crazy Gang) to beat Liverpool (serial European champions) 1-0 in the 1988 FA Cup final, with Lawrie Sanchez (typically unlikely scoring hero in the manner of Sunderland’s Ian Porterfield, Ipswich’s fainting Roger Osbourne or Southampton’s Bobby Stokes) to score the only goal.



In the end, I had to settle for Wimbledon 1, Liverpool 0 with Sanchez scoring the first goal. Which was what happened. So - a lucrative punt.

And therein lay the stingalingaling. When I next had The Vibe, the unbeateable, unerring Vibe, it was for West Ham to beat Norwich in the League Cup semi-final. All the runes pointed towards another coup. West Ham lost by three goals, and it was not just their League Cup aspirations that were destroyed.

Fast forward to 2010. Oh my God, the years, the years. Anyway. 2010. England’s first World Cup group game. Only the United States. But group game, so historical precedent. England 0, Uruguay 0, 1966. Early joy unlikely.

Ten pounds on a 1-1 draw at 6-1. A sweetener to counterbalance poor Robert Green’s sickener.

Success. And the promise of more to come.

Fatal.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a betting man. In betting terms, I smoke Freeman’s. So I won’t be putting my house on anything or anybody.

But ten pounds might, just might, sneak themselves onto Berdych, just in case he turns into the new Federer.

And the Vibe is telling me something else. It’s telling me to put ten pounds on a Scotsman to win the 2012 Olympic tennis title.

As John Lydon once sang: "I could be wrong. I could be right…"

Mike Rowbottom, one of Britain's most talented sportswriters, has covered the last five Summer and four Winter Olympics for The Independent. Previously he has worked for the Daily Mail, The Times, The Observer, the Sunday Correspondent and The Guardian. He is now chief feature writer for insidethegames