I thought I was just an average Perth punter. Then I saw my addiction for what it was

Like millions of Aussies who enjoy the odd punt on sporting games, I convinced myself it was nothing more than an innocent flutter because I wasn’t hocking my gold fillings to gamble.

It wasn’t until I tried to quit I realised I’d been unwilling to acknowledge my betting had all the hallmarks of an addiction.

Given the AFL schedule, betting took me mentally away from my family over entire weekends. Credit: Getty / Supplied (composite)

I crudely justified the $40-$50 I spent wagering on AFL games because I neatly fitted into that category of the around 40 per cent of Australians who gamble at least once a week.

The problem is that a third of those have moderate to severe gambling issues. But I never saw myself as one of those inherently vulnerable people, because I was just a part-time punter.

I mean, two-up is in our DNA so it’s no wonder Australians splash out more than $11 billion a year on online gambling. But I bet you didn’t know Australians are the biggest gambling losers on the planet.

The normalisation of gambling is so entrenched it is almost beyond criticism.

Everyone has a formula. Everyone has a theory. Almost everyone is wrong.

My drug of choice was the multi. More specifically a three-way bet that involved the most possessions, most goals and a margin of 1-39. But there are hundreds of betting options on every game, including how many times West Coast’s bumble-prone forward Jack Darling will fall over. Not really, but you get the point.

I would spend an unhealthy amount of time on the bus or at home poring over stats like Nobel Laureate in Economics John Nash, trying to find some hidden pattern.

Mostly it didn’t work. But punters only chat about their wins.

The dopamine-fueled giddy high that transforms you, quickly dismantled by the next loss.

Anti-gambling campaigner Reverend Tim Costello has called on the AFL to protect players from the vile messages directed at them when punters’ bets fail.

I wasn’t overly fond of how coarse I became when I lost. The mood swings would make a meth fiend want to dump his glass barbecue in the bin and seek help.

Every loss created these irritating, microscopic ruptures throughout the day, like being continually pinched by former Collingwood enforcer Craig Kelly.

Whatever regret I felt after losing, however, was mild compared to the harsh, graceless behaviour of some gamblers who have sent death threats to AFL players for ruining their multi after limping off injured or underperforming.

Anti-gambling campaigners Reverend Tim Costello and former Bulldogs premiership player Easton Wood have called on the AFL to protect players from the vile messages directed at them when punters’ bets fail.

The worst part for me is you’re never present. When games were on, I would become momentarily encased in a hermetic cocoon. Given a large chunk of football games start on a Thursday night and finish late on Sunday, that’s more than half of the week trying to convince family and friends you’re not a troglodyte.

My wife could’ve accidentally lopped off a few fingers in a blender and there is a good chance my reply to her agonising wailing would have been ‘just give me a second, I’ve got to check the score’.

I tried stopping but predatorial online betting sites seduce you back in with offers of bonus bets and promotional offers. Some customer service person with a double degree in marketing and sports psychology rings you up like a former flame hoping for one last booty call.

You get off the blower with no recollection of the conversation but have mysteriously placed five live bets and bought a yearly subscription to Sports Psychology Today.

Then the cycle of post-gambling remorse, wayward longing and self-loathing would envelop me once again.

Online bookmakers also use aggressive and manipulative marketing strategies that tap into our carefree larrikin spirit to lure people to betting.

More than a million gambling ads aired on Australian TV and radio in the last year, with close to $240 million splashed on advertising campaigns, according to the Australian Communications and Media Authority.

Their biggest target audience? Young men aged 18-25.

Watching a horde of hyped-up teenagers whooping and hollering on the train on the way to a West Coast game recently after a leg of their multi came in was unnerving.

A report by the Australian Institute of Family Studies found more than 70 per cent of male punters in that age bracket are at risk of harm. It’s cigarette advertising all over again.

Past federal governments have been slow out of the blocks to clamp down on ads because revenue from all gambling pours around $5.8 billion into the coffers each year.

A parliamentary inquiry into online gambling last year outlined 31 recommendations including a gradual ban of ads by 2026. A year later, the Albanese government has yet to roll the dice on any of the reforms.

Last month, the Guardian reported Rev Costello – the chief advocate for the Alliance for Gambling Reform – wrote to communications minister Michelle Rowland urging the government to giddy up and take some action.

What is more frightening is how much sports betting has pervaded into our everyday language. It has become an established social norm.

It’s been more than six months since I had a bet. The withdrawal was not too dissimilar to Ewan McGregor’s character Mark Renton in Trainspotting, minus the cold cans of soups and Valium.

The itch is still there, but I don’t miss my muscles tensing into a state of anxious expectation every time I laid down a bet.

I read and write more and most importantly I’m more present with my family.

Odds are, I will have a wager at some point. If I do relapse, hopefully, it’s just an office sweepstakes on the Melbourne Cup.

After all, it would be un-Australian not to bet on the Cup.

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