My story
Two seasons in the old Fourth Division. Thirty years scouting grounds you'd need a map to find.
I was a centre-half. Not a good one, but a big one. Two seasons in the old Fourth Division, a lot of muddy Tuesday nights in towns that don't have a railway station any more, and then my knee went in a tackle I still say was a foul.
After that I scouted. Thirty years of it, for clubs you've heard of and clubs you haven't — stood on terraces in the rain with a pencil behind my ear, watching a left-back nobody else was watching. You learn things doing that. Which grounds away sides hate. Which manager has lost the dressing room three weeks before his chairman notices. Which club is quietly saving its best eleven for the cup.
The bookmakers put whole rooms of people on the big games. Down in League Two, the National League and the Scottish Championship, the prices get far less attention — and they miss things a man with thirty years of phone numbers doesn't.
What I won't do: I won't give you a bet to fill an email. I won't tip a match because it's on the telly. I won't dress up a hunch as a certainty. If there's nothing worth having, I'll say so, and you can watch the match with your money still in your pocket.