In the middle of a squalid news story there is sometimes a sliver of genuine cheer and hope for humanity. If that is not available, the next best thing is a spark of levity. When genuine uplift is unlikely, then the spirit of mischief can take you a long way back to equanimity.

The XL collapse is a case in point: nobody is actually dead, but the tale risks being uniformly depressing. A downmarket holiday company has let down hundreds of thousands of people who trusted it with their year's savings, their sparse free time and their dreams. The stranded ones abroad had at least enjoyed the dream, though many now face a racking financial worry; 200,000 more, however, have lost their holiday entirely and many will never see the money back.

OK, it is just a luxury forgone; but only a stony heart and dead imagination could fail to pity the bleak faces in airport lounges, the low-paid careful savers and bewildered, disappointed children. On top of that, 1,700 staff have lost their jobs. And if you want a soupçon of rage to add to the pity, observe that the company was still taking bookings - and extra payments for meals - hours before it folded. And that “industry insiders” claim they had been sounding alarm bells for weeks, after Barclays tightened the screws and the chief executive, Peter Owen, left for “personal reasons” in June (it is now reported that he was declared bankrupt on May 28 because of his debt to another collapsed company, Silverjet).

Such things are not conclusive, of course; but a good many people (not the poor deceived saps at the airports, of course) nursed powerful premonitions. This is not hindsight. The Irish bookmaker known as Paddy Power gave a magnificently chirpy interview on Saturday's Today programme. This, mysteriously, has been omitted from the BBC listen-again facility, perhaps out of some weird corporate pudeur; but it was a treat. The bouncy sportsman confirmed that, after his company opened a book on which airline would next go bust, a punter requested that they add XL to the list. It swiftly became favourite. Indeed, they took so many large bets on XL's imminent collapse that they had to close the book on Thursday afternoon, although jets were still taking off and passengers queueing hopefully at airports. Enough people out there knew enough to shorten the odds.

In the light of this, my lips tighten at the tearful appearance of the chief executive, Phil Wyatt, blaming nameless people “making hay” with oil prices and confusingly announcing “this is the repercussions of that hay”. I know that businesses have to feign confidence, but there surely must come a point when humane responsibility should make you slow your web sales a bit. Or at least, in the aftermath, announce that all senior executive bonuses for the past dodgy year will go towards alleviating customers' losses.

But, as I said, it pays to turn to the levity and mischief on the edges of this tale. So as a betting innocent , I was grateful to the exuberant Paddy Power for alerting me to his trade's broad reach. I knew that there are people - all right, mainly men - who will bet on two flies crawling up a windowpane, and that the internet has made it easier. I even vaguely remembered the story told of an unnamed Welshman who in 2000 allegedly got a payout of £194,400 on an accumulator made years before. In 1989 he bet that by the millennium Cliff Richard would be knighted, U2 still together, and EastEnders and Neighbours still on the BBC. The odds were 6,479-1, he put £30 on, and everyone but him forgot about it.

I had not, however, paid attention to the Paddy Power website. I will now, though. Over the weekend everyone suddenly noticed that it now predicts that the next airline collapse will be Alitalia or Air Berlin. Exploring further, I find that the “novelty bets” section could be every bit as useful - or indeed useless - as any respected media pundit. The Irish bookie, free from the slightly puritanical mien of his British counterparts, winkingly invites cheeky bets on every reasonably tasteful issue from the Turner Prize to the next Archbishop of Westminster. On this latter, someone has taken the trouble to bet on Bono at 500-1. In the papal stakes, another bright spark leapfrogs the College of Cardinals list to put money on Father Dougal of Craggy Island at 1,000-1. I cannot justify why this raises my spirits, but it does.

As of yesterday you could find that the punters reckon Ireland will pull out of the euro by the end of next year, 3-1, although Italy is slightly ahead; that they offer 11-8 that Gordon Brown will step down this year (5-4 on him lasting beyond 2010). Things in Paddy Power world seem pretty level between McCain and Obama, with Paris Hilton's chances of the presidency trailing at 1,000-1. As to “Who will murder Liam on Coronation Street?” the obvious killer is leading the field, but there are still people prepared to take a 250-1 flutter on the aged and pious Emily Bishop wielding the cudgel, and a startling 6-1 constituency feel that poor Liam's wife will do the deed.

On a more serious note, given the way that Power abruptly closed the book on XL when it shot ahead in the disaster-probability stakes, the financial community may like to know that, whereas last week you could still place a bet on which bank's chief executive would be next for the axe, that book had mysteriously closed by the time I woke up yesterday morning. Someone out there in a smart suit has clearly become a dead cert, too much so for Paddy Power to take the risk. By the time you read this we might know who.

You see what I mean? From gloomy contemplation of the way that corporate greed, recklessness and circumstance conspire against the innocent, this contemplation of punters' hunches can provide a free and entertaining version of fashionable polling, “crowdsourcing” and focus-grouping. I may now consult it weekly (I just checked up on the next Met Commissioner. Hmm, some surprises there). And yes, I know that gambling ruins lives, and no, I never bet myself. Too mean and timid. But watching those who do is strangely informative. Especially when a book closes suddenly.

The Prime Minister might take comfort this morning from the fact that for him, as I write, it hasn't happened yet.

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