Thank fuck it's the NFL

J-E-T-S YTD: +£7138.28

If there's one thing certain to raise my spirits, other than getting my rocks off or eating a nice beetroot sandwich, it's a big fat fuckoff dose of American sports. And I don't mean just baseball. In fact I don't mean baseball at all. Recently I've come to the conclusion that glorified rounders is not my weapon of choice when it comes to paying the mortgage.

Fortunately the weekend after next is the start of the real sport - N Fucking L. Yes, it's that glorious time of year again. Not so good for poor Lady Miros perhaps, who is facing the prospect of 21 consecutive Sundays (honeymoon excepted) of me spouting ignorant nonsense about strong safeties and defensive pass interference and interceptions and sacks and fumbles and other mad stuff that she neither knows nor cares about. But she'll live with it, because she loves me.

This year, as it was last year, the object of my affection is the offensively-challenged New York Jets. Last year I decided, for no apparent reason, to bet on the Jets EVERY DAY both pre-season and during the season, eventually mounting up a potential payout of £27,000 if the Jets had done the business. And fuck me, they weren't far away. If they hadn't scuffed not one but TWO game-winning field goals in Pittsburgh, they would've been in the conference playoff, and I could have at least hedged a bit off. Poxy kickers are always the death of me.

That said, they did get lucky in the previous playoff game. I was in the Bahamas at the time, lounging in the sportsbook in Atlantis, when the Jets-Chargers game was sent into a nail-biting sudden-death overtime. By this stage I was struggling to breathe, having endured the Jets' ignominious failure to wrap up the game earlier, and was gloomily drowning my sorrows in a bucket of white russian. Once overtime got underway, I resorted to pacing the length of the sportsbook, muttering angrily to myself and pondering which of the many Chargers fans I was going to kick in the nuts (before running away). Great fun! This is what all sports should be like. It has to mean something.

A guy I know called Todd (Greg Raymer's brother-in-law, a sort of travelling professional funker) turned up to lend his superior funking talent. I was bouncing off the walls by this stage, as the advantage in the game swung wildly back and forth. He seemed highly amused, although he clearly thought I was a few sandwiches short of a picnic, which was fair enough. I'm also not sure the increasing swarms of Jets fans could understand why they had a lone wild-eyed Brit standing amongst them, noisily chanting J-E-T-S JETS JETS JETS!!! "Hey buddy, you got a bet on this game?" one savvy yank inquired, to which my honest answer was of course "not on this game, no", which served only to confuse them even further. Nevertheless my kalua-fuelled enthusiasm stirred up quite a cheering section of East Coast faithful, and for several minutes I found myself so busy learning ditties from the rather limited J-E-T-S repertoire that I completely lost track of what was happening in the game.

As it happens this was probably for the best, as it was all one-way traffic. In the interim those annoying but tenacious San Diegans had crawled, inched and staggered their way towards Jets' territory. A fresh first down resulted in much wailing and gnashing of teeth from my new-found chums (well, swearing and swilling of beer more accurately, but you get my drift). The Bolts were now within field-goal range, and with one more first-down were odds-on for a TD (apologies to non-afficionados, but I have little sympathy). Basically, if they scored any points, the game was over. Marv.

Fortunately the Chargers made little attempt to get any closer, putting their faith in Nate Kaeding to convert a 40-yard field goal to win it. At this point, they were massive odds-on. Presumably the casino staff were busily readying fresh craps tables to accommodate the influx of steaming New Yorkers. But then Kaeding choked and the kick sailed wide, leading to bedlam in the sportsbook as me and a hundred Jets fans raised the roof. Now, I've been to some manic goalfest FA Cup finals in my youth, but this topped the lot. Collective euphoria is better than sex.

The Bolts didn't get another chance. The Jets booted a field goal with 5 seconds of overtime left to seal it, and I think I declared my undying love for Todd, although he didn't seem willing to reciprocate. All in all, the greatest NFL experience of my life.

This year I've decided not to give up on the Jets, which is why I'll now be keeping you abreast with the J-E-T-S YTD. Every time I cobble together a few quid on Betfair, I'm going to lump some of it on the Jets (currently 23-1 on Betfair), until ultimately I've backed them to win a new house, or at least a small timeshare somewhere in the Balkans. The figure therefore represents my potential payout when those much-underrated fellows cop in February. And they will, be sure of that. After all, I was sure they were going to win last year, and they didn't, which must mean they're CERTAIN to win this year. I was just way ahead of my time!

Get on now. Rob someone if you have to. It's practically free money.