I WAS asked recently whether I thought gambling in this country was reaching dangerous levels. I said we were developing a serious betting problem, and I reckoned it was 11/8 that it’s going to get worse before it gets better.

In truth, I’ve never seen gambling’s attraction. I took a punt on the Grand National for a few years before giving up when I failed to back Party Politics, which triumphed in 1992 the week before a General Election at a time when I was doing politics at A-Level.

I did back the 1988 winner, though – my dad put the bet on, before anybody starts – and invested my winnings in a cache of Panini football stickers which got me two Norman Whitesides, a spare Clive Allen and a foil depiction of the Scottish Cup.

My ambivalence to betting is not replicated across the Press newsroom. There are members of the Walmgate brigade for whom a daily trip to the bookies is, effectively, church. But at least they stick to the basic classics of gambling.

I’ve never known anybody here, or anybody at all, who’s placed one of the “novelty” – the kind word for “barmy” – wagers now so prevalent in the betting world.

A glance at the interweb reveals that you can bet on everything from the next country to have an earthquake to the way Julian Assange will leave the Ecuadorian embassy. My money’s on “with great reluctance” or “maybe when they send the SAS in”.

Similar story with one about when Prince Harry will get married. There doesn’t seem to be a category for “once Clarence House, whoever he is, has got hold of drugs which are so mind-bending that Harry has no idea what he’s signing up to”.

It has now got a bit out of hand, though. This week, you could sling a few quid on how many sips of water George Osborne would take during his Budget speech.

The Chancellor took just one, fleecing spread-betters – apparently; I’m not pretending I understand all this – and presumably giving more ammunition to those who claim he is doing little for the finances of working people. Maybe the water wasn’t from Fortnums.

Anyway, if novelty betting is here to stay, York may just have to get a piece of the action. Here’s a few things Paddy Power and his mates could look at:

• The next step to cutting York’s congestion. Mention “winning hearts and minds” a lot: Evens. Shut Ouse Bridge as well: 5/1. A monorail: 20/1. Seek funding to put cars on stilts: 33/1. A get-tough approach to car use involving archers on the Bar Walls: 60/1. You can get 500/1 on the Harry Gration International Airport being ready by 2040, as well.

• The number of minutes into a York City match it takes for somebody to shout “Come on, City, this is bloody garbage” even when the Mighty Reds are winning. Nigel Worthington’s unstoppables could beat Bayern Munich and some people would moan about it causing a fixture pile-up.

• The year when a great festive tradition returns to York. Nobody has poured washing powder into the Parliament Street fountain on New Year’s Eve for ages, as far as I know, so it’s surely worth some speculation. Nothing says New Year more than one of the city-centre’s features being turned into something resembling the Rolling Stones’ video for It’s Only Rock’n’Roll But I Like It.

• How many tourists will ask you for directions during one lunch break. For all its charms, York is not the biggest of places, but going by the confusion on many visitors’ faces, it’s like navigating the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. My favourite was when an American couple, or they could have been Canadian, I’m not sure, asked me where York Minster was. While standing on Duncombe Place. When I pointed out the big sandy-coloured thing with turrets and scaffolding, they replied: “Oh, we thought that was a cathedral”.

Maybe we could have our own adverts, like those ones with Ray Winstone’s dismembered head growling at the screen. Berwick Kaler could do it during the panto off-season.

Anyway, think it over; I’m off to sling a twenty-spot on which one of The Musketeers will be up for execution on Sunday night, as it seems to be one a week.