Dave wondered how he got into this position. This morning he was an unhappy-go-lucky busker with a hot racing tip.

Four hours later and the scruffily dressed Canadian was propped up against a metal bridge, the bucket of cement slowly hardening over his scuffed shoes.

The canal looked as welcoming as it always did. A supermarket trolley lay half-submerged and the ubiquitous plastic bags sat on the still water.

“At least I had a good life,” he thought. And then, before the ether had a chance to accept, he corrected himself.

“Who am I kidding? I’ve had a fucking awful life,” he shouted. To no-one in particular.

Fat Steve (who was thinner than Dave’s bank balance) glanced over and decided his crossword was more important than the man he was about to extinguish.

Ironic gangsters weren’t exactly what the Canuck had in mind when he put his last $10 on the 50-1 shot.

The name of the horse escaped him for a second. Just when he hoped he would never remember, it came to him : Lucky Bugger.

Fucking irony.