WHEN I walked into the office this morning, a member of staff’s first words to me were: “You’re wrong.”
I knew exactly what he meant. “I hope so,” I replied. “But I don’t think so.”
He was talking about the US elections, of course, and my prediction that McCain will win. It’s a bit like the 1990 World Cup, when I bet a fiver on Brazil beating Scotland 1-0 in the finals. And before any slavering cybernats start castigating me for being unpatriotic, it wasn’t like that; I had also put a fiver on Scotland to win 1-0, but even though I knew as much about football then as I do now, I knew enough to know that a Brazil win was more likely. All I wanted to do was provide for a modest consolation in the event of Scotland getting gubbed. And so it transpired.
I walked into the bookies in Paisley the next day to collect my winnings, to be met with howls of good-humoured derision by the women behind the counter, one of whom cried: “Oh, here comes Judas to collect his thirty pieces of silver!” (I had placed a fiver bet at odds of 6/1, earning a payout of £30.)
Any road oop, in the same way, I hope that the small amount of bitter satisfaction at having been right will serve as a modicum of consolation after Obama concedes on November 5.