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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.