The Times Magazine 23four separately. When I staggered home an
hour later, I had won about £58,000 across my
19 different online accounts. That was getting
on for double my annual salary. I spent the
evening with my girlfriend, Charlotte, who
had been hard at work all day. I pretended
nothing had happened. Despite my enormous
win, I was still in deep trouble. The festival
had just one day left and I was still a long way
from where I wanted to be. I needed to clear
all my debts, not just the most pressing ones.
I woke up on Friday morning hungover,
and my stomach ulcer – for which I was taking
daily medication – was painful. My paranoia
and anxiety surged. Friday at Cheltenham is
Gold Cup Day, the biggest event of the festival.
More than £600 million is spent on betting at
the four-day event. I’d known for some time
who I was backing in the biggest race: Might
Bite. I was so certain that I’d already placed
some early bets when the £10,000 loan had
come in at the start of the week.
I was down about £18,000 by the time
I glumly entered the classroom for a lesson
at 3pm – the graveyard shift. In a desperate
move, just before the kids came into the room,
I bet everything I had in my 19 accounts on
Might Bite. I’d also popped into two bookies
that afternoon in a free period. In total, I’d
put almost £50,000 on this horse to win at
odds of 7-2 and 10-3. Having felt sick for days,
everything suddenly seemed quite simple. If
Might Bite and jockey Nico de Boinville won,
I would win just over £200,000, meaning
I could pay off the £152,000 that I owed to
those connected to the school, which would
at least stop me going to jail.
The boys filed into the classroom and I set
them a mock examination. The kids, aged 12
and 13, sat in silence. I sat at my desk and, on
the computer in front of me, I watched the
most important three miles and two and a half
furlongs of my life. Other horses fell, and this
quickly became a two-horse race, a battle
between my horse, Might Bite, and Native
River. I was just about sentient enough to
appreciate that this was a classic battle
between two great horses, lengths in front of
the rest. Native River led for much of the race,
but as they crossed the final fences, Might Bite
stayed as close as can be. It was brilliant sport.
As Native River pulled away in the final
stages to win by four and a half lengths, and
the jockey Richard Johnson raised his whip in
celebration, I calmly clicked the little red cross
in the corner of my screen to exit the browser.
Jumping the last fence, it had looked for all
the world like Might Bite would outlast his
rival. It wasn’t to be. The silence in the
classroom was eerie.
The game was up. I walked to the back of
the classroom and stared out of the window
for the final 20 minutes of the lesson. The
boys left the classroom and I packed my
things away, considering the simplest way
to do a very difficult thing: kill myself.Later in the week a colleague told me I was
being summoned for a meeting with the Head.
My world was coming crashing down. I was
informed that the school had received
complaints from the parent body regarding
money – borrowing from parents of kids
I taught, and failing to repay them.
At this stage, they didn’t tell me what the
outcome would be if they found me guilty- although I knew full well that what I’d done
meant that it was just a matter of time before
they did so. My job was surely gone, with
it went my accommodation and it seemed
certain to me that there would be legal and
perhaps criminal proceedings too, with the
Teaching Regulation Authority to be involved.
I would end up in prison.
I still had £100 and a few coins remaining
in my wallet. I got some food with the coins,
then went to Coral in anticipation of placing
my last ever bet. I stuck all £100 on a horse
called King Crimson, ridden by one of my
favourite jockeys, Adam Kirby, in the 2.10 at
Wolverhampton. I watched it come fourth –
having led most of the way – with the betting
slip already crumpled in my hand. What now?
I went home and smashed the piggy bank
that Charlotte, rather than me, had put
change in for us to save. I furiously picked
up the £18.10, disappointed there was so
little there. On Friday morning, I woke late,
colossally hungover and completely dazed. I
walked into the bathroom and collected every
single pill I could find. There was a mix of
antidepressants, sleeping pills and treatment
for my stomach ulcer – 97 in total. I took a
load, then manically googled what would
happen if I took the lot. When I couldn’t find
a clear answer, I kicked over the table they sat
on and stormed out of the house.
I drove for hours, finally pulling up at
Slough station and walking solemnly to the
end of platform 5. I had six minutes to wait.
I fired off two WhatsApp messages. The
first was to Charlotte. I simply wrote: “I do
not want to be here anymore. I’m sorry. X.”
The other was to my brother. I didn’t tell
him exactly where I was, but told him what I
was thinking about doing. I said my situation
was dire, and asked him to say goodbye to
everyone and tell them that I loved them. As
I predicted he would, my brother read the
message almost immediately, whereas Charlotte- busy in her work as a teacher – didn’t. I saw
the two blue ticks next to the WhatsApp
message but he didn’t reply and, in my
scrambled mind, thought that he must have
agreed with what I’d typed. I thought he
wanted me to jump in front of the train. In
fact, he’d just read the hardest few words he
had – and hopefully will – ever read in his life.
Three minutes passed, and an
announcement went out informing people
on the platform to stand back because the
oncoming train wouldn’t be stopping. I was
bracing myself to jump when my phone
started to go mad in my pocket. My brother
was trying to call me, but my mind was made
up: I wasn’t going to answer.
Still holding my phone, a reply to my
WhatsApp popped up. He said that he had
no idea what was going on, but whatever I’d
done, this was not the solution. He said that if
I went ahead, he and the rest of my family
wouldn’t be able to cope. He said that I could
talk to him about anything.
I truly believe his words were the only
things I could have read that stopped me in
my tracks the way they did. His message gave
me perspective, and reminded me that this
wasn’t all about me. Until now, I hadn’t
considered the devastation I would leave
behind. I’d just thought everything would
be simpler without me. n
That £100 on King Crimson in the 2.10 at
Wolverhampton on Thursday, March 22, 2018,
remains Patrick Foster’s last bet. Following
rehab, he has a new career – educating young
people about the perils of gambling.Might Bite: The Secret Life of a Gambling
Addict by Patrick Foster is published on
February 3 (Bloomsbury Sport, £14.99)IN DESPERATION I BET EVERYTHING I HAD IN 19 ACCOUNTS ON ONE HORSE
Patrick Foster will discuss his gambling
addiction and recovery with Matt Dickinson,
chief sports writer for The Times, on March 17.
To register visit mytimesplus.co.uk/events