The Punt.

Today is the Grand National back home. A race where 40 horses take a pelt at a difficult steeplechase, hopefully not too many get injured or killed,  as we all yell and crumple up our betting slips as we realize the reason the horse we bet on was at 40-1 was at best hopeful.
One year a bet I made on such a horse came in. Red Marauder. It was the wettest, most dangerous race I'd seen. Carnage everywhere, only 4 horses finished. Out of the apocalypse came this horse that had little chance in a straight race, surviving the falls and danger around him, surging forth to claim immortality, in my house anyway. I remember yelling him in, shouting and whooping.It was great.
I thought briefly that I was a betting genius and went to the betting shop to claim my winnings. I then started looking around for something else to bet on. I saw a room full of the dissolute hardcore track betters, now onto greyhound racing, holding their betting slips like the holy grail. I overheard an older whiskey faced punter murmur,"This one's for the mortgage", as the greyhounds pelted after the robot bunny. His wasn't the only sadly hopeful face in the room. I put my winnings in my pocket and left. I still like a bet, I'm just not betting the mortgage on it. I like whisky too, but not at the cost of a normal face.