I somehow, SOMEHOW managed to fall into a cinema in some kind of trance the other night to go and see The Devil Wears Prada with my girlfriend and one of her lady friends and NOT in any way go and see The Departed. I should warn you not to see TDWP even if enticed into the cinema by a fully-nude Rachel Weisz covered in chocolate with a £100 note waved in front of your face saying 'please come in and watch this piece of shit, come in, follow me, follow.....' Even my semi-wanks over Anne Hathaway (who was still reassuringly annoying all the way through) and Emily Blunt (you knew she was English cos they made her say 'I have to go to the loo' in it).

However, I WOULD like to see Scorsese's follow-up:
http://gorillamask.net/sesamestreets.shtml

Catching up....

Stone Cold Nuts – A Day at the World Strip Poker Championships

A friend phoned me two days after the PaddyPower World Strip Poker Championship in shock. She’d opened her morning paper on the train, saw a topless picture of me and promptly spat coffee all over her fellow passengers. I’ve had that feeling all month (the total shock bit, not the spitting coffee). I’m still not quite sure what to make of it all. My arm is red raw from all the people I got to pinch me to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. World Strip Poker Champion. Yeah I read that right. £10,000 cash. Yep. Seat in the Irish Poker Open. OK. Guinness Book of Records. Got it…….WHAT ???!!!

I’d ventured down to the inaugural event thinking it would make a great article. Go down, interview the organisers and a couple of players, perhaps even take part. OK I was always going to take part but the plan was to write about it. So sure enough some 8 hours after it all kicked off I’m jumping around with my crown jewels out in front of what feels like half the world’s media. My carefully-worked plans to get knocked out in time to make my monthly game down the local Irish pub were in tatters.

And the article? There’s still a blank page in my notebook headed ‘Interview with Strip Poker Champ’. I may frame it for posterity. So how did it all go so right? First off I’ve played in big poker tournaments before but I’ve never experienced an atmosphere as electric and as downright FUN as this. Round One to me – it’s exactly how I like playing. I have no time for amateur poker tournaments with the atmosphere of a morgue on half-price day. Everyone seemed to be in the spirit of things. The dealers were smiling, everyone was chatting, the mix of seasoned players and rank first-timers seamless.

Like some sort of mass Cult wedding, everyone began the tournament decked out in the standard issue uniform supplied by PaddyPower: caps, wristbands, t-shirts, shorts and suspiciously see-through tops for the girls. Players were given 1000 in chips to start with. If you ran out, you bought more chips in exchange for an item of clothing. Run out of clothes and you were gone!

As the media hoards engulfed the first guy to be knocked out (by me I think, sorry again mate!) it dawned on me what an event this was. As the day went on and the stakes increased, so did the media intensity. The chance of a guy or girl baring all caused whole swathes of players to put their cards down and get on their chairs as a herd of photographers scenting blood raced over to capture the glory. Excellent !









Some hours later and we get into the business end. The photographers stop taking an interest in all-ins as players start dropping like flies. Down to the last two tables I’m hanging on by my fingernails with a dwindling stack and a dwindling wardrobe. Then suddenly I hit an astonishing run of cards. Rockets twice in the space of 5 hands, followed by a beautiful open-ended straight and flush draw which rivers. Each time I double up sending another disgruntled player to the changing room. I cast an eye over the other table and figure I’m chip leader. What’s going on here then?! Something which has only really dawned on me in the last few weeks or so is why I was so full of confidence at this time. I’m pretty sure it was the fact that I was sitting in just my very brief briefs (kindly supplied by the organisers). So often have I played in cardrooms or stuffy pubs and sat…and sweated….and sweated some more….and got hot and bothered….and, er, lost. Relaxed, comfortable, semi-nude, perhaps that’s the key!!

With sadly the last girl knocked out on the bubble, I headed to the final table of 9 men as comfortable chip leader. However with the blinds at eye-watering levels, I wasn’t counting anything vaguely chicken-related until they’d hatched, left home, put a deposit down on a flat and settled down for eggs of their own. And I duly, in the space of about three hands, managed to kindly donate half my stack to the other players. Damn, was the pressure getting to me? The lights, the fully audible commentators describing every showdown, the scrum of photographers and spectators huddled round. NOW I’m serious. Forget my usual tight play, time to gamble. I started to hurl big bluffs around the table like a petulant child. If I was called my cards seemed to hold up. Nothing was going wrong.

The next thing I remember is there being just the three of us. I’m sure there was an X-Files style loss of time somewhere. I must check the video evidence later. The pressure gets to the slick Italian in the slick shades and we’re heads-up. It’s coin-toss territory. I call an all-in from my opponent and my (on the surface at least) pitiful hand manages to pair up and I leap out of my chair, victorious. The full frontal strip was borne of a mind not in any kind of close vicinity to the building. But hey, it was for charity. I head into the night, a World Champion, glad that I dumped one set of Irishmen for another. I’m sure they’ll understand. Fair balls to ya guys and girls. Fair balls.

Exclusive !! New article, coming soonish to a website near you :

The People Game

If ever John Verhaus’ maxim[*] that “poker is not a card game played with people but a people game played with cards” rang true, it was on Saturday as the great and good of South London poker met up in, er, West London for the monthly shindig that is The Beer Hand Open.

Located in an unfashionable arm of the galaxy otherwise known as Park Royal, the Western Avenue seems a perfect place for a card club. It’s just like the Vegas Strip. Seemingly endless roads, fast food restaurants, giant warehouses, multi-screen cinemas. Yep, exactly the same. Apart from the fact the A40 approach is a seething shithole of grime and despair. Oh no that is the same isn’t it? Anyway, having managed to duck out of pretty much all the previous BHOs for a bewildering array of pitiful excuses I mustered the energy to come down and really focus on giving it a decent shot. After all, I’ve got the big one, The Big One, coming next Easter when I venture across the Irish Sea to valiantly go out 456th in the Irish Open. I need the practice. So heading down to the relatively new Western Club I felt good. A deep stack, 5000 chips, a not too daunting buy-in of £30; a nice Saturday afternoon. A good opportunity to play conservatively or bet a little more often with no danger of getting blinded out. THAT WAS THE FUCKING PLAN ANYWAY.

I draw for a seat and sit down to discover I’m at the same table as Dave Potts (who I haven’t played poker with since my first ever live game), Jim Lynott (fearsome organiser of the Clapham game), a guy who I recognise from my last tourney whose moodiness I allowed to get to me and a young slip of a thing whose face I can’t place but I’m sure has won something big at the Gutshot recently. An assortment of Western regulars make up the numbers. So to sum up: 2 good players who I’ve played with recently, 1 player who I KNOW is shit-hot and another who saw me last when I went all-in with 8-2 just because they were suited and I thought that made it “a good hand”.

Over on another table is my mate Chris, an old schoolfriend from my early days of drunken dealer’s choice (and who I always seemed to come unstuck against). And almost prophetically as we get going I do come unstuck. In fact I manage to play, in poker terminology, “like a complete cunt”. I make every rookie mistake in the book (the books in question being Harrington on Being a Twat vol.2, and The Boys’ Bumper Book of Stupid Poker Moves). I call with anything vaguely resembling a picture. I’m spunking away chips faster than you can say “Debbie Does Dallas”. “So what happened to playing tight? Just the premium hands?” says the little angel on my right shoulder as the demon on my left swiftly twats it one round the head. “Nah don’t listen to him” he says wiping the blood off his hands, “you go ahead and raise out of position with 6-7. THEY’RE CONNECTED!”

I glance at the clock, glance down at my stack and realise I’ve lost over half my stack in 45 minutes. Time to get my shit together. After my opponent checks all the way to the river with what I suspect is medium pair I try and scare him off with my King High by putting in a paltry bet of 4x the BB. Naturally he calls. “Value call” ahems Dave under his breath. And when I get anything half-decent I stick in a sizable raise only to be re-raised by the anonymous local next to me and I’m forced off. He hits KK once and finally as I get some sort of result on the flop (hitting top pair with 10s holding A-10h in the hand) he puts me all-in. Risking a time call I look at Dave again, shake my head and knowing full well he’s hit his Kings again I lay down. Jesus I’ve got to get out of here. Jesus answers my prayers a couple of hands later as my latest raise to be re-raised by Mr. Local puts me all-in. Just for good measure he has QQ this time (well it’s the only hand he hasn’t been given yet) and my KQh fails to flush or do anything remotely helpful and I’m out in 57th (out of 60 – if I’d played a little shitter I could have gone out first and won
the crate of beer. I can’t even do that right). The only smidgen of relief comes in the form of Jim leaving the table at the same time when his Big Slick also fails to beat those Ladies. “Maybe you should play with your clothes off” quips the next player to take my vacant seat. I roll my eyes in recognition, grab my coat and head to the door. “You’re not out!” says Chris incredulously as I walk past. I can barely bring myself to offer an explanation.

So thoroughly disgusted with myself, I search for answers. Briefly and unreasonably I blame Chris. He’s a jinx. Every time he’s even in close proximity to the room I fuck up. Which is true. But not fair. Then there’s Dave Potts. Perhaps in the back of my mind there was some desire to show him that after 2 years I’m not that clueless chump who graced his table the last time we met. And that kid from the Gutshot. Shit, you got to me. I’m assured later that he’s easy to force off pots if you have the patience and confidence. Cheers for the advice. From now on, new strategy. Sit down. DO NOTHING. Just sit, watch, wait. Take mental notes. KK? Bin ‘em. I’m watching the players. AA? Get out. I’m busy. Until the next blind level. Then I’m coming for ya...possibly.
[*] or whoever’s claiming it at time of publication.

If I'm working at home I like nothing better of an afternoon (other than the obvious internet-related fumblings) than to play the 6pm $1000 freeroll on Bet365. Usually you can just saunter in to the foyer at about 5:45 and register, but recently I've been shut out even at 5:30. I made sure I got in at 5pm on the dot today just as registration opened. In about 10 minutes we were at capacity. What's going on ? Surely the Yanks arent so desperate for some internet action they're comin' over here taking our freerolls ? gits...