Making moves

Last post I was harping on about a new-found interest in properly analysing key hands – something I’d not previously been too bothered about. However, after enjoying Gus Hansen’s book ‘Every Hand Revealed’ I decided to start going back through the notes I’d taken on tournament hands and putting them under the microscope.

Boyle Poker had been kind enough to invite me over to Dublin for the IPO and I jumped at the chance to play in a juicy deep-structure tourney (10k starting stack, 40 min levels).

There were a number of interesting incidents to report on, including the most lacklustre blogger I’ve ever seen, who handed a piece of paper and a pen to the player on my left and asked him to write down his name along with a rough chip count… while the player was actually in a hand!

However, the specific hand I wanted to run through the analyse-o-tron occurred about six hours into the tourney with the blinds sitting at 400/800. I’d been moved to a new table with about five minutes to go before we moved up to 500/1k. I had 14k to play with, so though nowhere near dire straights (even with the imminent level jump) I was still looking forward to unravelling my new table-mates and hopefully finding a few opportunities to get ahead of the average count before the dinner break.

Whenever I get to a new table (where I know nothing about my new opponents) I tend to assume the players involved play much the way I do until they prove me wrong. As I gather more information I can then start narrowing down their hand ranges and the moves they are likely to make in any given situation. I also start giving them rude names to help later identify them in my notes and to amuse my (childish) self. On this particular occasion I was (according to my notes) joined at the table by the likes of ‘Chunky’, ‘Hat’, ‘Beardy’ and ‘Smell’, to name but a few.

With the aforementioned 400/800 blinds, the UTG player folded and a well-stacked ‘SlimBeard’ (see how I cleverly combined body type and facial hair into one easy-to-remember name) raised to 2,000 from early position. 2k seemed a pretty standard raise, but assuming he plays much as I would (because I have to start somewhere in my profiling) I’m going to say he won’t be raising with seven players behind him with any pair less than J-J (maybe 10-10?) I’m also going to say he is unlikely to be playing any connected cards less than KQ, AK or AQ (I doubt KJ or AJ would be in the early-position raising range of a player who has as many chips as he does six hours in!) Remembering that I actually know NOTHING about this player; he could also be a nut job who raises with any old cack (playing 78o ‘creatively’ for instance), but right now I’ll treat him like a poker player…

There is then an all-in raise to 4k from the short-stacked ‘Beardy’ two to my right that I have to say I’m not too worried about. I get the feeling he’d made the decision to shove regardless, and could be on a small pair, but more likely a random ace or king. Obviously he might have found aces, but with only 4k I’m not too concerned.

I am, however, faced with a decision when I look down to find AcJc on the button. With only the SB and BB standing between me and the original early position raiser I focus my attention on him rather than being too worried about the blinds. If either of them has got something big enough to fancy getting involved in all this action (which I imagine would have to be KK or AA) then good luck to them.

I then make a move which I’d like to explain (you know what’s coming don’t you!) yes, I moved all-in. Why? Well it’s not because I love Ace-Jack certainly, it’s because… well, in light of a raise from an early position player, followed by an all-in, just what kind of a hand MUST I have to warrant such a move?

Imagine you’d raised from early position, seen a player move all-in, and then seen another 14k pushed all-in behind that! My hope here is that the move looks so damn strong that the original raiser can throw away anything from speculative randoms right up to premium pairs and AK . This would leave me heads-up over a 11.2k pot containing 3.2k dead money. I then enter the 500/1k level with a 21,200 stack. Lovely!

The blinds do indeed fold and I am delighted to see that SlimBeard doesn’t insta-call me, but neither does he quickly fold. He DID have a big hand (oops!) but the play has done the job of looking so strong that he is now writhing about on his chair as if his arse is on fire. I’m now sure it’s not KQ, AQ or AK, and have for some reason convinced myself he has QQ.

He now disappears up himself for about four minutes, during which time I try to throw out as many false tells as possible - looking to all intents and purposes like a man with two aces in the hole, another in his back pocket, and one up his arse for good luck.

Finally (rather disappointingly) SlimBeard groans: “I call.” followed by “Aces?” and turns over pocket kings. While delighted that my play nearly got him to fold cowboys, I turn over my AcJc (the short stack showed KJo) and though it’s by no means over for me, a flop, turn and river later nothing’s changed and I shuffle away from the table with nowt but a potential column entry to my name.

I shake SlimBeard’s hand who tells me he was VERY close to dumping his kings, but it’s small consolation. However, the experience is (I think, anyway) a great advert for an interesting move that so nearly worked.

Maybe next time eh?

Analyse this...

In all the time I’ve been playing poker seriously (well, as ‘serious’ as I ever get about anything anyway) I’ve never really been much into deep analysis of past hands. Certainly I’ve pondered briefly after a big hand to considered ways I might have made more money, and have often reflected on key tourney exit hands to see if I could have avoided some self-inflicted donkey death, but that’s about it. Similarly, I’ve never really been tempted to post hands on forums and get into the tedious process of having twenty know-it-alls tell you what you should have done with your life (if I wanted some 2p/4p wannabe pro to run my hand through an odds calculator and bark numbers at me I’d ask for it specifically).

I appreciate this rambling might seem particularly hypocritical considering one of my main jobs is standing on telly picking other people’s hands apart, but ultimately that’s what I’m being paid to do, so I have a good excuse. Also, these shows offer more of a skim-the-surface observation than a cut-you-open-and-remove-your-spleen examination so I don’t think it counts as serious analysis anyway.

And why am I telling you all this? Well because I’ve had a change of heart after reading Gus Hansen’s book, ‘Every Hand Revealed’. I was surprised by just how much I enjoyed this book, and I think it’s mostly down to the fact that Hansen is not only accurate enough to let you see how he plays (with the facts and details of the hands) but also articulate enough to help you understand how he thinks (via his hand analysis and reasoning laid before you in black and white).

Though I’ve always been a player who takes notes at the table (and endured much ridicule as I produce my ‘little gay book’) these notes have primarily been to assist my writing. Pouring back through my notes there are clearly far more entries the likes of: “fat bloke to my left has a head like a parsnip and a tattoo on his arm that appears to say the word ‘COCK’ in gothic text” rather than any mention of pre-flop raising, betting tendencies or hand ranges.

Hansen’s book has, however, spurred me on to take more time dissecting my notes after games to be sure that I’ve made the most of each hand delivered to my grubby paws. It’s turning out to be a process that’s well worth doing - either validating the decisions I’ve made, or uncovering some ‘iffy’ moves made in the heat of the moment - and I’d seriously advise you consider having a go. Perhaps even start a blog that no one will ever read; picking your own plays apart to see if they buckle under interrogation. Remember, it’s easy to kid other people regarding your poker prowess - because you can always find a way to make your play sound more legit than it really was - but you can’t fool yourself.

It’s the same deal regarding keeping accurate records of your results. You can chose to record the wins but ‘kinda forget’ the odd loss because ‘it was only a muck-about game’ but ultimately you MUST acknowledge the truth if you want to move forward with your game. It’s also worth remembering that a quick tickle of pokershark or some such site will soon reveal the truth anyway, so you may as well come clean. There’s nothing I like more than to copy and paste my chum’s results to them on a fortnightly basis to stop them lying to me about how well they’re doing. Needless to say I never let them know my own user name (I’m not stupid you know).

And for my last wild tangent: I once had an email from a viewer of the now-defunct Poker Night Live show who said he had taken to delivering live commentary over his own online play as he found it helped crystallise his understanding of the situation. For him, calling out the action a la: “seat two limps, seat three folds, the rock in seat four raises double the blind (as he did with kings earlier in the game), seat five folds, etc…” kept him focused on the game and less likely to drift off and miss key nuggets of information.

I guess what I am saying is, be prepared to take an interest in your games rather than just your results. Next time round I’m considering sharing some hands with you that I’ve begun analysing under the new regime. To ensure you don’t lose interest I’ll also be attacking some of the more ‘hilarious’ players that have made their way into my little gay book. My hope is that it will 1) help you understand the process of analysis, 2) make me feel better about some of the moves I’ve made, 3) make us all chuckle as I attack men with heads like parsnips.

Oh, and I promise an absolute minimum of bad beats. No, really...

De Wolfe: Wasted literary genius? Discuss...

This is a strange entry, but I was recently handed a piece of paper that I didn’t know what to do with, so thought this was the best place to dump its contents.

To set the scene: I went to the Maidstone studios for a stint of commentary with Jessie May, and had two heats of the 888.com Open to work on. The morning heat was full of the usual Matchroom players: Marc Goodwin, Rolan De Wolfe, Dixie Dean, etc. and the second one was interesting in that it had Eddie Hearn himself playing in the tourney.

Now if you’ve never seen Eddie and Roland teasing each other, you’ve never seen man-boys recreating the playgournd while in their ‘mid-thirties’.

Eddie basically ribs Roland about being a ‘failed gambler who forever needs bailing out’ while Roland likes to suggest that Eddie ‘would be nothing if his rich daddy hadn’t given him a job’. Sometimes this row can go on for hours at a time. I once left a dispute, did commentary on a four-hour game, and came back to find it still going on. (I sh*t you not). Oh, they also spend a lot of time calling each other ‘fat’.

So this one particular day Roland was particularly unhappy to not be asked to do the commentary as he was relishing the thought of being able to attack Eddie constantly while Eddie was helpless to do anything about it. Needless to say Eddie asked me to work the heat rather than Roland which left him gutted. However, Roland didn’t waste the opportunity; scurrying away with paper and pen, and later presenting me with his ‘helpful notes’. He was keen that I try to use as many of them as possible during the broadcast. Needless to say, I didn’t.

Ladies and gentleman, may I present to you (word for word I hasten to add) the brain spillage of Mr Roland De Wolfe:

1. Eddie is nicknamed Darren after Darren Furguson, because he got his chance because of his dad but he’s nowhere as good.
2. Barry wanted Eddie to take over his whole business affairs, but rather like Fredo he is the useless limp son, so he gave him the poker department.
3. Eddie dated Jodie Marsh at the posh private school they went to.
4. Eddie was put on the board of Leyton Orient by his father. He has overseen a slump from top to bottom of the league and an Orient fans spokesman said "It’s like being lumbered with Barry Evans from Eastenders"
5. Also, Eddie is terrible at poker. Lost to Barry in 888 heads-up. Also, he is fat and orange like Tangoman.

So, hopefully you can see what I’m talking about here; some genuinely useful notes. Not.
Oh, and Ian Frazer didn’t get away scott free either. We continue…

1. TV specialist Frazer tried to move in on level 3 at the WSOP main event coz he thought that’s what you were meant to do.
2. Ian was asking for Marty Wilson to make a ruling at the Vic believeing he was the TD.
3. Frazer’s the richest man in Europe, owns half of Kent, and has four Ferraries.
4. Grabs people’s bollocks when drunk.
5. Relegated from Premier League for ‘abysmal performance’.
6. Couldn’t beat a £5 NL cash game or a £100 tournament that was open to all-comers.
7. Actually paid £50k to Matchroom to get in Premier League.
8. Old and washed up.

Now it’s important for me to make it clear I neither put these forward as serious opinions from Roland, nor do I agree with many (sorry - I meant ANY) of them.

Roland is a wasted writer in my opinion. His most recent Facebook status said: Roland is in Poland. It’s freezing and it appears to be 1992 here.
Genius? Discuss.

Tools at the Table

Though I like to almost entirely ignore poker in my writing (perhaps just including the word “poker” itself as a token gesture in the first paragraph) I thought I’d break the mould and respond to a question I faced recently about an apparently massive over-bet I made that came back to bite me in the arse.

The hand in question occurred during the Virgin Poker Festival at the Loose Cannon (doing a dazzling impression of a sauna thanks to a ‘heating malfunction’). Initially I was put on the dullest of tables; stuck out the back, dripping sweat onto my cards and enjoying the exploits of a player to my left who simply couldn’t grasp the fact that saying “raise 300” when there was already 150 on the table didn’t just double the bet to A TOTAL OF 300, but added 300, creating a 450 pot. Add to this constant over-building of the pot the fact that he was a serial calling station and, well… you can imagine the ‘fun’ we were all having with him. I pride myself on being polite and non-abusive at the table, but on a board of AQ994 I bluffed out a pot-sized post-river bet with air and got called because he had a ‘4’ in his hand, I couldn’t resist asking “is there anything you WON’T call with?” as the collective table slapped their foreheads for the nth time. Anyway, enough whinging…

I held my own through the first few levels; mostly just playing ABC poker against ABC opposition (and may I just remind you that if you ever find yourself up again a more ‘enthusiast’ than ‘professional’ field, continuation bets are the absolute bread and butter of building your stack). Finally our table was broken down and I was moved to a new spot in the centre of the room. I was immediately more comfortable as this was a chattier table, featuring some juicy stacks and a few ‘characters’ (i.e. plonkers).

The first thing I like to do when I arrive at a new table is spend a few minutes making entirely unfair, unfounded and - frankly - cruel assumptions about my opponents. Anyone who asks “how much is it?” every round or waits five minutes before looking at their cards when it’s their turn to act (and a further five minutes before folding so as not to give away any ‘tells’) is immediately labelled ‘numptie’. The numptometer also swings to “11” if I see anyone carefully laying out their chips a foot from the rail in neat, sequential piles; never mixing colours or amounts in case the universe implodes. I also like to imagine that anyone fat is also stupid. Don’t hate me; it’s just the way I am.

I had a cracking time at the new table; starting with decent hands, connecting with flops, and then continuation betting or re-raising to victory without having to show any cards. To the untrained eye I appeared to be the ‘table captain’ they’d all read about somewhere in a magazine. Actually I was just a lucky fish being hit round the head by the deck (don’t tell anyone – tee hee!)

I’d grown my stack to a comfortable 11k with the blinds still at only 200/400 when ‘The Hand’ happened. One of the numpties previously designated ‘Neat Stacks’ made an early min-raise to 800. Now we all know this is meant to indicate one of two things; either a monster hand or a tricky hand that players feel they should raise with but deep down don’t really fancy (i.e. pocket tens in early position). A hairy player two to my right called, and I looked down at KK. I had a think (which we’ll come back to later) and then pushed all-in. That’s right – 11,000 into about 2,000. Bonkers eh?

‘Neat stacks’ called for his 5,000 and I knew he had aces. Bollocks. The fun wasn’t over yet however, as ‘Hairy’ had a real quick think and then also called for his total 7,000. Now the question I imagine is running through your heads is ‘just what can hairy have other than aces that warrants a call here?’ Well I can tell you that ‘Hairy’ had AK. Yes – all his chips with nothing more than ace-high and only 800 previously invested. And THAT, my friends, is why I pushed with KK in the first place. Consider this: if ‘Hairy’ is happy calling all his chips off against TWO opponents all-in with AK, imagine how wide his calling range is if I hadn’t run into aces!

If I’d chosen to re-raise pre-flop from 800 to 2,400 I think my opponents are bad enough to still just call with lesser ‘premium’ hands, and then I run the risk of being outdrawn and losing a big chunk of chips finding out if I’m still ahead with KK post-flop. By making the massive over-bet I either take down 2,000 (which is fine by me thank you) or I force a numptie to make a massive pre-flop mistake with the likes of JJ, QQ, AK and possibly even AQ if they are particularly bad. On rare occasions I have run into another KK making this move, but generally speaking there is only one of the 1,326 distinct starting hands you don’t want to run into, and that is aces (I guess I just got lucky this time!)

No one improved on the board, so I gave 5k to ‘Neat stacks’ but took 2k off ‘Hairy’ in a side pot and was more than fine with 8k considering the blinds. The push might seem like a mental play, but it’s one of those situations where – if you don’t respect the abilities of your opponents much – you can find yourself 4-1 favourite against the likes of QQ and JJ, or 70% favourite against players who simply over-value AK.

Give it a go some time. Just don’t blame me if you run into aces (it does happen occasionally). Happy hunting!

“NEWS:” E-Dog swaggers proudly around the house after killing an intruder

Ever since poker pro Erik Lindgren beat a burglar to death with a five iron in his house last month he won’t stop parading from room to room like some vigilante king. Lindgren’s wife, Jean, is grateful that her husband protected the family, but his constant bragging is beginning to wear thin: “He acts like nobody’s ever killed an intruder before.”
For his part, E-Dog says simply: “I AM A HERO.”
Lindgren has now requested that the police give him the burglar’s ears so he can string them into a necklace.

The best / worst seats in the house

Having recently been out to Las Vegas for the WSOP I was looking forward to heading back there with absolutely no work commitments to get in the way of actually sitting down and playing some poker. A decade ago, taking a 'poker holiday' in Vegas required some serious planning. You needed to know exactly when the few decent poker rooms in town were running their juicy games, and be prepared to leapfrog from one tournament to the next to minimise dead time and maximise value. Sitting at the table was as much about finding out the good 'tourney routes' from other players as it was about taking their chips.

These days the poker comes to you. Even the smallest casinos have a poker room, even if that 'room' is nothing more than a couple of tables with a rope around them. My basic plan for the trip was to enjoy the Vegas sun (what with the British 'Summer' being the usual mixture of snow, wind, piss and general misery), hit a few shows, drink a few cocktails, and make some strategic decisions about where to play my poker.

We are forever harping on about profitability in poker being about game selection... When it comes to making money in Las Vegas the game selection goes as far as deciding which casinos to sit down in.

Consider this: Big Dave fancies himself as a bit of a poker player (having 'totally pwned' a £5 sit 'n' go on Betfair... twice!) Where would you expect him to go to play poker? O'Sheas? Casino Royale? That shitty little casino made of wood that I can't even remember the name of that nearly got blown up because everyone forgot it was hidden behind Stardust? No; of course not. Minutes after his fat head bobbles into McCarren's arrivals lounge, Big Dave will be swaggering into The Bellagio's sweet-smelling poker room looking like something out of Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. The locals will take one look at him and - quick as a flash - metaphorically have his pants down, his Pringle jumper up over his head, and be sending him tarred and feathered back out into the blistering sun, scratching his fat bonce and wondering where all his beer money went.

Which is exactly why you WON'T find me down The Bellagio, The Wynn, The Mandalay Bay, or any other casino that might be considered 'nice'. Why? Well let me ask you another question: where do you think the meek, timid, new-to-the-game, first-live-experience enthusiasts are going to go to pop their poker cherries? How about all the sh*t-holes that are entirely unlikely to have any 'proper' poker players sitting there!

And that, my wily friends, is exactly why you'll find me trying to peel my shoes off the sticky carpets at Bill's Gamblin' Hall & Saloon, sucking down warm beers at the soon-to-be-demolished Imperial Palace, and generally rubbing shoulders with the voucher-obsessed tramps who frequent the - shall we say - less salubrious casinos Las Vegas has to offer.

While my more image-conscious friends are trying to make a name for themselves in the beautiful surroundings of the Caesar's Palace poker room (with its fancy perfumed air-conditioning and yet-to-be-pensioned waitresses) I'm sat at the Flamingo's entirely adequate poker room between a rock and a hard place (i.e. two fat blokes) enjoying the juiciest cash table I've ever witnessed.

On a future occasion I shall share some specifics regarding the games I encountered during this latest trip, but suffice to say that upon my return my MSN 'tag' screamed "A VEGAS WINNER!" at my friends for a full week. Truly, it was the best of times (the results), it was the worst of times (the surroundings).

It's a hard job, but someone's got to do it...

Leaving Las Luton

There’s something magical about returning from a poker game late/early enough that the sun rises as you drive home. Sharing the near-empty dawn roads with delinquent foxes kicking over dustbins and smoking cigarettes (I think I saw one lighting up) the trip back from Luton takes the time my Tom Tom optimistically said it would take to get me there originally. I knew better than to trust the lying bastard on the way up simply because my Tom Tom lives in a glorious world where feckless morons don’t crash into each other ever five minutes, and the never-ending road works on the M1 are a thing of fiction. I’ve got used to adding 30 minutes onto everything it says. It’s a bit like having a wife who says she‘ll be ready by 7pm but never is. The bitch.

Anyone who's followed my blog for a while might remember I used it this time last year to whine and moan about missing a couple of last season’s Luton GUKPT events by mere minutes thanks to crap traffic, a GPS system that looked at every potential journey through rose-tinted specs, and an antiquated casino law that meant to not be in the building at the start of the game was to miss the entire thing. This year I took no risks; arriving for event #1 with hours to spare, and immediately buying-in to every game that tickled my fancy.
There was one particular game that caught my eye, and though only a tiddler compared to the main event, it occurred on the 8th of the 8th, starting at 8pm. Now I’m not a superstitious man, but to miss a game so steeped in lucky 8s would be folly. And thus it was I headed to Luton for the “8.8.8”…

Now some people like to meditate before a big game, some like to pump themselves up listening to Metallica or System of Down. I chose - and please don’t ask me why - to drive up to Luton listening to Level 42. I can’t pretend this got my heart racing, but I did manage to annoy the fuck out of myself and those around me by thumbing bass lines on the poker table for the following nine hours.

Into the card room and luck makes its first appearance, landing me in seat nine, table 15 - right next to the free hot drinks machine. Bingo! Hand #1 convinced me further that my investment was a wise one, as a limped Ks7s hit an A-K-7 flop and continued with a turned 7 to clinch the deal. Game on!

Some hours later I begged with luck for the first time. Holding 77 against a 7c-6h-9c flop, a student-type pushed in on me with what turned out to be the nut flush draw. He missed. More tea Mr Luck?

I’m later moved to a new table (still within reach of the drinks machine, lucky me!) and spend the next 20 minutes trying to work out if it’s the dealer or the player in seat nine who stinks. For the record, it was seat nine (who could have done with a hair wash too). With this important business out of the way I can once again focus fully on the game.
Down to the last three tables, and fearsome blinds and antes coupled with plenty of short-stacks keep luck very busy indeed. I suck-out in a KT vs. AJ confrontation, only to lose a TT vs. Q7 fight moments later. It looks like karma’s joined the fray. The git.

I then participate in one of the strangest hands I’ve ever played... At 400/800 +50, seat five makes it 1,500 to go and I call, but for some reason he thinks I’ve folded and turns over the ace of spades. The dealer now tells the embarrassed-looking player that only I can now instigate any action; effectively giving me the option to check it all the way down if I chose to do so. And then the flop arrives: 8s-9s-10s. I’ve now flopped the nut straight but he either already has the nut flush (if his second card is a spade) or at least has the draw. What to do? Check it down and give him two free cards to hit his flush, or hope his second card isn’t already a spade and put him to the test. My brain farts out loud: “All-in” much to the amazement of the table, spectators (and, to a degree, me) and I watch my hands push 11,000 out across the felt. Thankfully there’s no insta-call so I know I’m not already ruined, but he does eventually call for his last 9,000 and I make luck aware that it has a lot of work to do. The turn is red, as is the river. Yehaw!

The next milestone is the money bubble, followed by the final table. I bad-beat out of the game (Ad4d out-flopped by the chip-leader’s QsTc). I shake hands, exit the game, pull a funny face at luck, and collect my winnings.

Oh, and for the record, I came 8th on the 8th of the 8th '08. Funny old world isn’t it.

“NEWS”: Greenstein’s brain sacrifices survival instinct to make room for advertising jingle

Doctors are saying that poker professional Barry Greenstein’s brain subconsciously made room for a catchy TV jingle by deleting valuable space required for his survival instinct. Now severely injured, Greenstein only became aware of the change later, having accidentally walked through a dark alley filled with knife-wielding yobs. He told us: “I knew I should have been running in the other direction, but all I could think was: ‘I feel like chicken tonight; like chicken tonight’.
Greenstein’s uncle died under similar circumstances when his brain traded the part that controls breathing for enough room to accompany the Bird’s-eye Potato Waffles song.

Viva Las Vision

I have a tendency to make my life more complicated than it needs to be. Having finally committed to heading out for the WSOP despite a distinct lack of work to justify the time and expense, I then went about making things as difficult as possible.

First up I invited a friend along - which in itself wasn’t a massive problem - but I then also decided to up the ante somewhat by organising to have eye laser surgery during the trip. That’s right; voluntarily paying American doctors to slice open my eyes, fire lasers into them, and then send me off half-blind into Sin City to play tour guide. Sounds like a shit comedy screenplay doesn’t it.

Things started about as crap as you could imagine, with a mere seven separate incidents on the M25 to Gatwick. Let’s think about that… SEVEN sets of dickheads who have somehow mastered the art of changing radio stations, adjusting their seats, and applying lipstick on the move, but can’t seem to stop smashing into the back of other people’s cars. Now I’ve never managed to be so fucking stupid that I can’t stop my car before it enters the same physical space as another car so I don’t entirely understand this problem. I have taken, however, to dealing with this constant frustration by winding down my window as I pass by the relevant drivers and shouting “COCKS!” at them as they sit scratching their fat, empty bonces on the central reservation while a grown-up from the RAC collects up bits of Mondeo.

The various delays also mean that the nice man who was waiting to meet and greet my car at the terminal has now buggered off for a brew so I have to call him back out again. Meanwhile, a uniformed job’s-worth traffic drone is insisting that I can’t wait at the terminal, so I pretend to have a ‘leg problem’ and shuffle back and forth with single items of baggage, killing time until the chauffeur turns up. Halfway through an award-winning performance (think Lieutenant Dan in Forest Gump) the driver finally turns up. I grab my bags, shout “It’s a miracle!” and sprint up the ramp to the check-in.

The pain continues as we discover that we can’t sit together. What was to be an incredible plane-based poker and beer festival now looks more like eleven hours watching The Royal Family and episodes of The Simpsons from back before Homer got his own voice right. FFS.

And then… as I plod through the gate… just as eleven hours of misery stretches out before me… I hear “come back, sir”. Oh great. What now? Has my friend hilariously stashed 20 kilos of cocaine in my backpack ‘for a laugh’ and I’m about to meet a hulking customs official called Bubba who likes to make finger puppets out of sphincters?

But no – instead the lovely gate lady utters those beautiful words that all travellers dream of: “You’ve been upgraded” BINGO! And then I catch my friend’s face. Oops…

Sadly it was only me that got upgraded and my friend still had to face eleven hours stuck between a man with no love of deodorant and a women more interested in piercing every square inch on her face than brushing her teeth.

I patted him on the back, commenting: “Good job we weren’t sitting together or that would have been a real tough decision for me”. Needless to say, BOLLOCKS would it have been tough! I would have been off up those stairs before you could cough the words ‘complimentary pretzels’ into a free glass of champagne.

I try to play down the generous leg room and free fruit as I visit the hobos down in economy a few hours later (I think my friend was pleased to see the banana I brought him, but perhaps asking him to “dance for it like a monkey” was a step too far.)

Before my Vegas trip I’d bought a new toy: a small video recorder no bigger than a mobile phone that grabs an hour of high-quality footage. I used this now to play my chum footage I’d taken ‘upstairs’, pointing out the spacious aisles, the orgy of free booze sitting about the place, and the entirely more attractive class of traveller that made up the higher echelons I liked to frequent.

At this point the slob next to my friend farted freely into the very air that he’d be sucking back down his fat gullet in a recycled fashion for the next eight hours, so I excused myself and headed back upstairs where I believed a small group of more fragrant passengers were putting on some impromptu Shakespeare. My friend waved goodbye with a clenched fist. And some spitting.

Settled back into the comfort of my small couch, I opted to watch I am Legend. If you’ve not seen it, he dies in the end. There: that’s two hours of your life I’ve just saved you. I also watched National Treasure 2 with Nicholas Cage. I don’t mean I watched it with him, just that he was in the film. He didn’t die (in case you were wondering) but that bald bloke out of The Abyss did. Again, I’d give it a miss if I were you.

Anyway, with a couple of hours eaten up by shit films, I put on some protective foot wear and venture back to the post-apocalyptic wastelands of economy to check that no feral dogs have eaten my friend yet. I ask what he ate for dinner. “Some chicken shit” is his reply and I decide it’s best not to mention the banquette my stunning hostess presented me with earlier (although I can’t resist showing him a video I took of my gorgeous metal cutlery). He tries to hide his plastic spork under a napkin but it’s too late, I’ve already seen it. The poor bastard.

It’s a tearful goodbye as I disembark, and though I’d like to think that the fact I was upgraded on the way out could mean I’ll get upgraded again on the way back, I think both the stewardess and I know that our time together is over. She doesn’t look quite as gutted about this fact as I am, but I’m pretty sure she’s just putting on a brave face. If only I could see under all that make-up I’d know for sure…

Once on the ground and back in the land of unexceptional average people, I slip back into the moribund disguise of my hollow life with ease. To look at me you wouldn’t know I travel as a sophisticate, but I don’t mind. I like to spend time with ‘the normals’ as I think it builds character.

With a tight schedule and plenty to do, it’s almost immediately off to the eye clinic for me, as I have a batch of tests to sort before my scheduled operation the next morning. Everything’s going well, right until they bring me a wad of disclaimers to sign.

Now I’d never sign up for a treatment involving burning light being fired into my brain on a whim, so prior to the procedure I’d talked to various people who’d been through the surgery themselves, read up on supportive statistics and grilled the hell out of my own surgeon on email for months. Nothing, however, could prepare me for the list I was presented with now. The likes of: “I understand that I might end up blind” was top of the sheet, followed by such gems as: “I understand that I could spend the rest of my life trying to tell the difference between men and women using only the power of smell”.

My nurse was a classic Las Vegas woman in her 50s, with way too much make-up and a sun-baked face that wouldn’t look out of place at the World of Leather on the A13. “Elenor” I asked, “Is this form designed to make me shit myself?” She smiled back. “I wouldn’t worry about it honey,” she reassured me. “I had my eyes done a while back and it was fine.” With that she handed me a pen, gestured for me to sign away all responsibility, and left the room. It was only once she’d gone I realised she’d been wearing glasses. Oh fuck.

It was, however, too late - my mind was made up. The next day I went back, had a man cut off the tops of my eyes, fire lasers into them and then put the tops of my eyes back on. ‘Weird’ doesn’t quite cover the sensation, but then again nor does ‘fucking awful’. It was like being abducted by aliens, only aliens with an eye fetish rather than a propensity to stick things up your arse while mutilating cattle (which on reflection is probably a good thing).

Later that day I stood at the top of the Rio’s VooDoo lounge looking in wonder and awe as the Las Vegan sun went down over the mountains and the lights came on along The Strip. I’d like to pretend my tears were tears of joy brought on by seeing properly with my own eyes for the first time, but actually it’s just that they really fucking hurt. It would be wrong of me not to thank Ladbrokes for inviting me to that particular party as it was a hell of a way to test out my new peepers. The invite did come at a cost though, as I had to bear witness to a bunch of teenage cheerleaders attempting to get us all to chant “We love Ladbrokes” (pronounced Lad-Brokes rather than Lad-Brooks). It was like being at a Nazi rally (I imagine). Needless to say the predominantly British crowd stood with their arms folded and their lips clamped shut. It was painful, but not as painful as my sodding eyes so I just shut them and waited for the cheerleaders to go away (not a sentence I ever thought I’d find myself saying, I can tell you).

I made good use of my new bionic eyes during the next few days, watching some amazing poker, bumping (quite literally) into some of the best players on the planet (inlcuding - might I add - one Kara Scott!) and discovering the delights of beer pong (more on that another time perhaps). However, I’m probably due for more eye drops sometime soon so i’d best go give them a rest.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, I didn’t get upgraded on the way back, but I did steal a spork and looked through their underwear with my magic eyes, so effectively I had the last laugh. The tight bastards.

PokerStars guarantee a 2008 World Series of Poker Champion by sponsoring every poker player on Earth

Pokerstars today secured its chances of owning the next World Series of Poker Champion by signing up every poker player on the planet to Team Pokerstars. The company’s CEO made the announcement in a morning press conference at the Rio Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas, Nevada: “With these acquisitions we’re in a position to finally nab that elusive 5th WSOP Champion”. The PPA approved the signing, noting that there was no reason why other companies couldn’t remain competitive just because they lack players.

Hallelujah! Praise be Rule 36

Apart from the obvious general excitement of the tournament, something I’m very much looking forward during the 2008 WSOP is the introduction of Rule 36. In case you’re not familiar with this new section within Hurrah’s terms and penalties, it’s basically designed to do something I’ve always wanted to do: namely punch Hevad Khan squarely in the mouth as hard as I can.

If you’ve not witnessed this poker penis in full flight at the table, might I suggest that you very quickly run a youtube search for “Hevad Khan Montage” or just dump this url into your browser: http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=kh49fHFMUTg

Watched it? Good. Have you EVER seen anyone so desperate for a camera crew to come round and take their picture? (And did your arse not heal over with embarrassment as the ENTIRE audience dismissed Khan like a retarded child as he attempted to get them to play along with him?) Seriously, I don’t think he could have been any more off the mark had he invited them all to finger paint in human faeces with him.

I can’t help it – I just HATE this sort of behaviour at the table. I mean the guy is an adult! He MUST have played poker before. He MUST have been called with the best hand before. He MUST have won a pot a few times. The guy is meant to be a ‘professional’ poker player. Just how excited can you get every time something goes right?
Though I don’t often play in the sort of games that are likely to throw Hevad and I together on the same table (I don’t think he is a big fan of the £100 freezeout down the Loose Cannon), if it ever does happen I fear for my future. If he pulls any of that “BULLDOZER!” malarkey near me I am likely to lose it and go about seeing how many $500 chips I can fit into his eye sockets. Similarly, if he starts dancing with any chairs while in a pot with me I WILL burn him repeatedly with a car cigarette lighter. That’s just the way I roll…
Thankfully I need not fear any ‘hilarious antics’ from such idiots this year because Rule 36 is here. Thanks to this little beauty, Hurrahs will be stepping in to penalise players who display: “excessive celebration through extended theatrics, inappropriate behaviour, or physical actions, gestures of conduct.”

Personally I can’t wait to see Khan win a meager $T250 pot in the first level and then receive a 10 minute penalty for getting his arse out and pooing on the table in celebration. Maybe it won’t happen, but I’ll be keeping a very close eye on YouTube for the next six weeks I can tell you!

Devilfish pronounced ‘Dead on the Inside’

Emergency medical technicians admitted today that they were two years too late to resuscitate David ‘Devilfish’ Ulliott, who had apparently succumbed to a long battle with crippling disappointment.

After unsuccessful attempts to revive Ulliott’s soul with the promise of half an hour in the back of a limo with Shannon Elizabeth and Vanessa Rousso, Devilfish’s was pronounced dead on the inside at the scene.

Paramedic, Kevin Baxter said: “If we could have got to him before the Premier League began we might have had a chance. No one can withstand that kind of emotional trauma.”

Ulliott’s soul is survived by his own hollow shell, which is expected to sleepwalk through a meaningless existence for the next thirty years.

Toys Toys Toys

In the process of researching for the various articles I write, I get to play with all manner of poker-related toys, many of which - needless to say - are aimed at online players. Not least of these virtual gadgets are the various applications that plug into your online game and promise to make you a Hold ‘em god by working out everything for you; often going as far as telling you exactly what to do down to the last FOLD, CALL and CHECK. How exactly you’re meant to have fun watching one piece of software tell you which button to press on another piece of software is beyond me, but some people swear by these glorified calculators. If that gets you going, why not pay to watch one robot to toss another robot off. Just a thought…

These bits of software are clever to be sure; calculating things like pots odds, remaining outs in the deck, the time in Berlin, personal horoscopes, etc. but they also remove the need to think - much in the same way the invention of toasters removed man’s essential need to create fire.

Though these applications position themselves as great tools for beginners, I couldn’t disagree more. If you don’t learn to play poker by fruitlessly chasing wild hands with unfavourable odds, how will you learn not to? If you don’t make up the small blind with 8-3 only to have the BB push all-in and make you dump the junk you should have folded in the first place, how will your game ever develop naturally? It’s like telling kids not to touch the iron. It’s not that children don’t believe you; it’s just that it becomes MUCH clearer why you shouldn’t touch an iron once you’ve actually touched an iron. You can’t be afraid to get your fingers burnt in the name of education.

Obviously please do feel free to fire up one of these little toys because it’s interesting to see the logic that drives what (hopefully) has become your poker instinct. Just don’t just do what it says without thinking or the next thing you know the dishwasher will be telling you to make it dinner… and you’ll do it.

Some of my specific issues with these helpful applications include:
1) They just aren’t always right (anyone who has been told to fold K8s in an un-raised pot by Sky Poker’s ‘Hot-O-Meter’ will fully appreciate what I mean by this).
2) There’s no room for your own style to shine through (I personally love to raise with 7-5o in the cut-off with three limpers before me)
3) If you learn how to play poker with all these computerised crutches, how the hell will you cope when you have to play without your suite of Batcave enhancements?

Someone once said, “No pain, no gain” and they weren’t just referring to those gym-frequenting men who look like sausages, shout “Who’s your daddy!” a lot, and are a little too fond of mirrors. You can certainly be told how to play poker, but that doesn’t mean you’ll instantly understand how to play poker. Comprende? It’s not just the destination my friends, it’s the journey.

So learn as millions before you have. Lose a ton of games and win a few. Run your KK run into AA twenty times on the trot. Basically enjoy the process of building up your own feel for positive and negative situations.

In a world where too many folk learn poker online and then fall apart in live games (when expected to know what’s in the pot without it being conveniently displayed in Arial font on the table somewhere) I personally can’t think of a worse way to learn poker than these HAL wannabies (“I’m sorry Dave, you can check. Are you sure you want to fold? Mary had a little lamb…”)

So, young padawan, be like Luke Skywalker when he turns of his targeting computer (and scares the absolute shit out of the people likely to be blown up if he plops his bomb down the wrong hole) and turn off all the HUD displays currently fighting for space on your screen. Turn your back on the quick and easy path and go ‘poker commando’. Oh, and may the force be with you.

SHAZAM!

If there’s one reason to get up early in Vegas (and let’s be honest, early morning aren’t exactly what Vegas is about) it’s to beat the morning tournament registration queues that have become a regular occurrence since everyone else became interested in poker. The sods.

One particular morning I even went down to the MGM poker room in my pajamas and complimentary dressing gown as a dirty protest against not being able to register remotely. The fact that no one raised an eyebrow or mentioned my choice of dress just confirmed that I was indeed in Vegas.

On the morning of this particular tale I was fortunate enough to bump into a rarity at the poker tables: a genuine psychic. No, really… Having organised my registration (and then danced gaily along the massive queue, waving my slip like a Willy Wonka golden ticket) I headed off for some hang-over breakfast action.

Returning 35 minutes later from a ludicrously large egg-based breakfast at the New York New York, my guts were fit to burst and gurgling like a dishwasher as an epic battle took place between three embittered factions: Sunny-Side-Ups, Scrambled, and Over-Easy. Happy in my egg-bound way (no toilet break would be required for at least 16 hours) I sat down at a limit cash game to kill some time before the tourney started.

For an impromptu time-filling game I did pretty well; with a couple of players on my table being kind enough to keep pumping their chips into losing pots like hemorrhaging Hungry Hippos. The rest of the cash session was actually reasonably dull until the poker room manager started calling for the tournament to begin and I played one last hand in a "getting-up-ready-to-leave" fashion.

78 offsuit would be my last hand of the game, kindly transforming into two pair on the flop. Now I've not mentioned any of my table chums yet, but hats off to the Vietnamese guy to my left who had attained the ranking of shit-faced before the clock even struck eleven. He was also ‘gifted’ with mystic psychic powers; magically able to tell you exactly what cards you had… (once you'd shown them to him, obviously).

It was pretty hard to take him seriously and also a tad tedious to be sat next to him. However, as his mind-bending powers hadn’t prevented him from financing my own personal rampage I’d been more than happy to let him dazzle himself with Derren Brown flights of fancy while I siphoned off his beer money.

Anyway, back to the 78 hand, which had developed into a surprisingly large affair thanks to my psychic chum and a solid player opposite raising and re-raising everything I threw at them. The board had become, frankly, fucking scary; with both flush and straight possibilities that had started to make my two pairs look somewhat wobbly… but I stuck with it, praying in turn to each of the many poker gods I worship (well, you have to hedge your bets) for a little act of kindness. Miracle of miracles, the river sent another 7 my way for a full house, and I knew for a fact that Mystic Mong hadn’t vaguely got a read on me despite his apparent Jedi mind-powers. Anyway, I went for maximum pay-off, pushing as much in front of me as the limit allowed. The smart guy opposite finally got out of the way allowing me and Brainiac to get on with it; handbags practically on the table at this point.

Now clearly I’m a particularly petty, self-centered man, so I couldn’t help but smile my absolute arse off when he flipped over his nothing of a hand and I dropped the bomb, only to hear him issue forth: "I knew you had the straight".

"Look again Mesmo!" I spat, finally reaching the point of no return, “I’ve got the house!”

"Yes,” he said, “I knew you had that".

“So why did you say you knew I had a straight just three seconds ago, you muppet?”

As I heard myself, I realised I was doing little for the game or people’s opinions of how Brits behave at the poker table. So I took a deep breath and gathered up my chips - spending an ENORMOUS amount of time lovingly arranging them into a rack while my ‘friend’ watched - before heading off to the tournament.

Behind me all I could hear was some mumbling and yet another bottle of Corona being ordered - no doubt to be opened using only the power of his awesome mind. Shazam.

We are the champions

Picture the scene: Tiger Woods has won yet another golf tournament. He’s been followed round the entire course by cheering fans and well-wishers for the entire time. His opponents have played valiantly - nay brilliantly - and given him a real run for his money, but ultimately he has triumphed.

He steps up to receive his trophy in front of the assembled press, turns to the cameras and says: “You are nothing to me. You are all losers and turds. I am the best in the world, and if it wasn’t for the fact that I get bored playing on my own I wouldn’t even acknowledge you exist.” He then throws his clubs to the ground and strops off muttering to himself about how totally rubbish everyone is apart from him.

Then we turn over to BBC2 and find six-time snooker World Champion, Steve Davis, watching his opponent pot the final black against him in a frame. He turns to the camera and mouths the word “CUNT” before spitting at the lens; his fat lugie slowly sliding down millions of screens nationwide…

Now let me make it perfectly clear that neither of these events actually took place – nor do I imagine they ever would – and that’s the point about REAL champions. They aren’t just champions in their chosen discipline; they are champions in life. It’s easy for us to see this because of how they behave outside their arenas; i.e. how they respect their contemporaries and how they carry themselves day to day.

Oh, and then there is Phil Hellmuth. Yes, Phil ‘Poker Brat’ Hellmuth. A man who appears to derive no joy from the millions of dollars he’s made both on and off the table. A man who is never content enough to simply sit and ‘be’. A man who has to berate and insult ordinary decent folk during a GAME OF CARDS to feel like a real man.

I recently watched a WSOP show in disbelief as Hellmuth proceeded to blast anyone who appeared to be able to even vaguely play back at him; spitting insults, criticising every move, and referring to anyone with less than 11 bracelets as mere “internet players”. After being patronised twenty times (and being continually called “kid” by Hellmuth) one player on the table - Ben Fineman - ventured, “Phil, we’ve been playing each other for days now. Do you even know my name?”

Every time Hellmuth was all-in (or up against an all-in) he would parade for the cameras; showboating and negotiating insurance with a spectating Phil Ivey, regardless of the poor schmuck sitting waiting for the circus to end so that he could find out if he was still in the tournament or not. Imagine what Phil would do if you made him wait five minutes while you dicked about before the flop was dealt? He’d explode!

At one point Ben Fineman called an all-in with A-K against Dustin Holmes’ K-10 only to watch as Dustin rivered trip tens. If that had been Hellmuth just imagine how much of the level would have been wasted while he blarted curses into the sky like some angry poker trumpet. All Ben did was turn to a sheepish-looking Dustin and say “Don’t sweat it buddie”, before sitting down and carrying on with the game. Amazing composure - truly.

And then there’s Phil’s exit hand. He raises with Ac-10c and Beth Shak calls with Kh-Qh. The flop comes 10-Q-x and Beth shoves all-in. Phil calls and when he sees that he has the worst hand, does he acknowledge that he has made a mistake? Oh no – it’s HER fault!! “I can’t believe she called!” he bleats. “How can she call!?” Well Phil, maybe it’s the fact that she was in the big blind, was getting 2.5-1 on her money, and then flopped top pair! And the thing is, we KNOW that Hellmuth knows this, so his wining is even more pitiful to behold.

I’d love to think that it’s all just for the cameras, but it clearly isn’t – he really is that much of a moron! Hellmuth is the kind of person that I pray no one watches on TV and wants to be like.

Do I want his success? Of course. Do I want his personality? Christ no. Personally, I want to be like Ben Fineman, who proved to me that just because you have to sit next to a total imbecile like Hellmuth doesn’t mean you have to act like him.

I go back to my very first thoughts in this entry. Go on: chose any sport and think of a champion from that sport. Now try to imagine them behaving the way Hellmuth does.

Roger Federer smashing some kid in the face with his racket? Alex Furguson calling Wenger an 'utter wanker' live on Match of the Day? Johny Wilkinson drop-kicking a toddler into touch if he loses? It’s just not going to happen is it…

So why, then, is Phil Hellmuth allowed to act in such a rude, insulting, pathetic way without penalty? Burn him - I say - and burn his face first (metaphorically-speaking of course - I have to add for legal reasons). Anyway, thanks for listening. I feel much better now.

Don't stand still

About three years ago the most common question I got asked as a TV pundit was ‘what starting hands should I play with?’ We, the presenters, just looked at each other, sighed, and replied ‘pocket pairs from 9-9 upwards and A-K’ (while probably mumbling something sarcastic under our breath incorporating the words “Christ” and “Muppet”). It was – suffice to say - an unsophisticated answer for an unsophisticated question.

Jump forward in time to present day and I’m now more likely to be asked (by a beginner I hasten to add) how to trap a tight-aggressive early-positioned opponent in light of a raise and a re-raise while holding the nut straight with a second-nut flush draw. There’s a very good chance that this query will be accompanied by a full hand history and Poker Tracker data. Times – my friends - they are a’ changing.

The interesting thing for me is identifying those people within the world of poker who move with the times and those that sit, quiet and smug - entirely self-assured that they are the real-deal - while the rest of the world accelerates off into the distance waving ‘ta-ta’ back over their shoulders.

Curiously, the development of industries is not a subject new to me. A large part of my training to be a marketeer (don’t worry – this was during my old life!) was looking at case studies for various companies in various markets. If there’s one thing that holds true across all of them, it’s that change is inevitable, and if you chose to stand still you must be prepared to watch your competitors sprinting past you for the finish line, no matter how far ahead you were when last you checked your rear-view mirror, so to speak.

This entire train of thought/rambling/BS (feel free to delete as you find applicable) was kicked off by two strategy pieces sitting back-to-back in Poker Player Magazine.

The first piece was from online marvel Brian ‘sbrugby’ Townsend. It contained the kind of deep, analytical thinking that has become synonymous with today’s online professional. For example: “…unless my opponent has a pocket pair larger than Jacks, a bigger flush draw or a set, I am at worst even-money from this point forward. If he has A-9 without the flush draw I’m still a 52% favourite. He could be holding Jacks or better, but it’s unlikely as I viewed the player as loose and one who’s willing to gamble with marginal hands.” Wow – is this guy’s opponent screwed or what!

Then we turn the page and bump into the familiar grinning mug of Phil Hellmuth. Ah Phil… bless him: the only man on Earth who can tell you story where he gets the crap kicked out of him but he still emerges (somehow) victorious. It’s like Alan Partridge ending every painful anecdote with, “Needless to say, I had the last laugh.”

So, on the back of Brian Townsend’s thoughtful insight, what kind of tactical analysis can we expect from ever-humble Hellmuth? Well, Phil kicks off with: “Imagine this: I’m playing poorly in the $5,000 No-Limit Short-Handed event at the WSOP.” What!? You’re playing poorly? How am I meant to imagine that, Phil! I mean, I like to think I have a pretty vivid imagination, but that’s simply too much to ask of me!

Anyway, in a beautiful Hellmuth-shaped turnaround (totally unexpected, obviously *ahem*) Phil suddenly turns on the heat and becomes brilliant again. Phew - thank god for that!

He talks us through one hand, ending with: “I love the fact that I stayed so aggressive in this hand.” Do you Phil? Do you really love it? Do you love it so much that you went home and pleasured yourself? I do hope so…

Other classic story-ending statements of self-congratulations include: “Player A folds and I feel like a superhero”, “Wow, what a beautiful three hands!” and my personal favourite: “One theme common to all of the above hands is this: I was either reading my opponents well or throwing them off the scent by giving out false tells”. Remember kids: Phil Hellmuth is remarkable. Just ask him. Or his mum.

I guess my point (that’s right folks, I have a point!) is that Phil is old school and starting to sound like a poker-parody joke. Indeed, as ludicrous as it may seem this early in their careers, to a degree even the likes of Esfandiari, Laak and Hanson are ‘old school’. Today’s poker players are younger, fitter, healthier, and less worried about TV time and selling DVDs than they are about playing good poker. They’re hungry poker machines that want to eat chips and poo pound coins (or wads of dollar bills depending upon relative nationality, aspirations and anus size).

Right now the spotlight still moves to highlight the dancing clowns first, but more and more it seems the majority of the audience are turning to watch the clever young jugglers over in the corner. So, you just have to ask yourself; do you want to be entertained or educated? Well, whichever you chose, please enjoy the circus.

Don't feed the animals

I’ve probably said this so many times over the last two years that it’s becoming more farcical with each utterance, but I REALLY want to play more live poker.
I recently picked up a sponsorship deal that evaporated almost before it had begun, when the company decided to almost instantly fuck off out of the industry (I’m only 90% sure that their departure wasn’t my fault).

Anyway, before the wheelbarrow of cash trundled off into the distance I managed to be late for two of the staked tournaments (days before the law changed to allow late appearances!) made the final table bubble in another comp, and – as I write – am days away from playing in the last of my sponsored games. I’m so glad I have a garage filled with branded T-shirts.

The key point here thought is not about the sponsorship (I just needed to get it off my chest) but about the joys of playing in live games.

Yes, it helps develop your game; yes, it helps you develop your reading skills; yes, it’s a more social ways to approach the game. Yes, yes, yes…

However, what I’d like to concern myself with today is the fact that playing live poker allows you to meet the freaks. Smelly, stupid, egotistical, bullying, know-nothing morons who play a £10 sit and go like it’s the WSOP and are more than happy to pretend they’re Tony G when it comes to slagging you off for calling their minimum raise with 8-8, hitting trips and cracking their pocket aces.

I recently found myself in a £20 afternoon freeze-out at the Gutshot as part of a media event. Things were improved by the fact that a fellow journalist and keen poker player was sat to my right, so I could at least enjoy his company (as well as re-raise him for chuckles every time he tried to enter the pot.)

We sat examining our table chums… and BOY had we struck gold! I kid you not, it was like the poker zoo was in town and all the animals had stopped at our table to graze.

Exhibit A: The Donkey.
He handled his chips like they were oversized carrots and, when he accidentally made an under-bet, was told by a friendly player ‘it needs to be at least double the previous bet’. The donkey looked insulted. “Yes,” he honked, “I DO know how to bet”. He then proceeded to prove otherwise by calling a raise and a re-raise for all his chips with that monster of hands A-Q off-suit (I, incidentally, folded before him with AhQh, so his chances were ‘slim’ at best). As he trotted off sans chips I wondered if he even knew how to spell ‘Bet’ let alone how to do it.

Exhibit B: The Ape
This physically large specimen was all over the table like a hairy rash. Lining up flops, tidying chips, sorting out side-pots that didn’t involve him… he didn’t care what it was; if it was happening on the table he was in charge of it. At one point I needed a wee and was worried he’d come down with me to ensure all was ship-shape in the trouser department.

He’d routinely pretend to be Thomas Kremser, spouting rules based loosely on the actual rules, but displaying none of the authority, poise, or actual knowledge required to take over a table in such a way. He was also the master of calling your hand, and even after 10 or so miserable failures, was still more than happy to announce “Jacks” with all the certainty of a man telling you how many feet he had regardless of the 7-8 in your hand. When he was finally out of the game, he was able to tell us all in great detail exactly why it was his fault for playing too well against such ill-equipped competition. Whatever. We didn’t care. We had all his hairy chips in our stacks.

Exhibit C: The Peacock
A magnificent puffed-up prancing cock with his glorious tail feathers on display for all to see. He was a hardcore poker pro who’d obviously been there, seen that, and had played poker for more years than you’ve had hot dinners (sonny). He even knew a chip trick. Yes, ‘a chip trick’. The only problem was that he had to bring his own ‘special’ chip (that his mum probably made for him) in order to do this trick, making it somehow less special, and also that much more sad. Oh, and he also had a lucky stone that protected his cards. Seriously, this boy was well kitted out for a £20 freeze-out. If he could have afforded to bring a masseuse to the room I’m pretty sure she would have been there; reluctantly squeezing his fat bonce while he played with his little pebble.

When my chum raised into his big blind, the peacock stared him down and spat: “the next time you raise my big blind I’m going all-in blind”. I don’t think our roaring, table-slapping, howling laughter and five minute piss-take was quite the result he’d hoped for, but it certainly made our day. He even stood up and put his jacket on every time he went all-in with the absolute nuts. Brilliant. Just brilliant.

Anyway, you get the idea. Don’t sit at home enjoying poker, get out and enjoy people. Some of them are quite decent folk, and some of them are fucking hilarious. Happy hunting.

It ain't easy

Probably the Holy Grail for most poker players is getting some kind of sponsorship deal. The thought of being able to play with the best poker players on the planet without having to personally stump up thousands in cash sounds like a dream come true. Oh, and the prize money is hardly a put-off either…
I recently had this dream realised, when a company called WINunited decided to make me a sponsored player – representing them in a bunch of UK tournaments.

Now I always thought the tough part of the tournament circuit was the long hours of focus required at the felt; the punishing ‘fold fold fold’ of card-dead levels; the grim buffets; having Tony G slag your mum off to your face while Devilfish tries to get off with your girlfriend, etc. However, I’ve recently found that the hardest part of the gig is actually getting to the bloody games in the first place!

With the GUKPT taking place in nearby Luton, it seemed the perfect opportunity to unwrap my freshly-branded shirt and get things going at the tables. Having had the funds transferred to my account, I logged into the official GUKPT site just to be sure I had the details right. There it was: Wednesday 8th August, £300 PL Omaha, 8pm. Superb. With Luton about an hour’s drive from my gaff I thought I’d set out at about 5:30pm, giving myself plenty of time to get familiar with the venue, have a natter with anyone I knew there, and just generally prepare myself for the event. If the traffic was bad, I’d still be there no later than 7pm (7:30pm if it was REALLY bad).

I found myself too distracted to work during the day so ended up killing time playing Mah Jong for money (I’ll tell you more about that another time) until about 5pm when I thought I’d start gathering up my bits and pieces and prepare for the zip up to Luton. As well as the iPod, I’d also remembered to power up my trusty Tom Tom so that it could take charge of dragging my lazy arse up to Luton without having to think. I often worry that I’ve become too reliant on the Tom Tom. If it ever breaks down I’ll have to make a life for myself wherever I am at the time – I’ll never find my way back home without it.

Anyway, I decided to do a quick internet search to get the venue’s postcode for the GPS, so Googled the casino rather than jump direct to the GUKPT site I’d mostly been referring to. Up popped the address, along with the tournament listings. But something was wrong... On this site it had the £300 PLO as a 6pm event. The fools! They’d only gone and put the wrong time on their own site! How laughable. I mean… unless the official GUKPT site had got it wrong.... Nah. That was a ludicrous idea. I mean, how likely was it that the official site would be so stupid as to get the time wrong for their own event? Gulp…

I decided to call the card room anyway, you know, ‘just to be sure’: “Hello there. You’ll probably think I’m being silly (chortled I, nervously) but I just wanted to check that the time of the £300 Omaha event hasn’t changed.” “No sir,” I was reassured, “it’s still at 6pm.” AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGG!

Sadly, no amount of Tom Tom-foolery or disregard for British speed limits could get me round the M25 and up the roadwork-laden M1 in anything less than an hour and a half, leaving me standing in the tournament room watching everyone play in MY tournament. I’ve never really understood the phrase crest-fallen, but my ‘crest’ was not only fallen, but dragging along the floor like a prolapsed anus.

All I could do was use the opportunity to register for the £1k Main Event in two days time, grab a free coffee, and shuffle back to my car and the pitiful stare of my GPS. “Take me home Tom Tom, take me home…”

Monte Carlo or Bust pt.3

Well I’ll give you this – you’ve got stamina! I mean the EPT Grand Final was only, what, seven months ago, and here I am still prattling on about it! Then again, short of coming down to my office and holding a gun to my head there’s not a lot do to stop me is there? Why not click the 'close' button now and save us all the bother?
No?
Ok – then let’s carry on…

As you’ll no doubt remember (possibly – I started this story a long while ago) the nice people from PokerStars’ PR agency very kindly flew me out to Monte Carlo to interview poker’s superstars and report on the EPT Grand Final. As is always the way on these trips, lots of ‘things’ happen to me along the way, all of which I’m more than happy to record on my ever-present digital recorder to later bore/entertain(?) you with. When I finished up last entry I had suggested that masseuses with large breasts were a great idea, and that Patrik Antonius had a head like a jacket potato. Really high-brow stuff then clearly. Let’s continue…

Having previously set up a nice little portable office outside my sliding balcony door, I wake up actually looking forward to getting outside and doing some work. Ordering the hotel’s signature ‘bloody expensive omelette’, I gather my bits together and head for the door. However, I’m stopped in my tracks, as there appears to be something outside my balcony trying to get in. I say ‘something’ rather than ‘someone’ because I can see a shape pounding against my door, but from only about two feet off the floor. Having gone to bed late and full of red wine - and therefore slightly fuzzy this morning - my barely adequate mental functions are unable to come up with any reasonable explanation for this, so I decide it’s probably best to just sit back down on the bed and wait for it to go away. Please.

After a minute or two the pounding stops and I decide to open the door. Peeking through a tiny slit as only really heroic men can… JESUS CHRIST! There is – no word of a lie – a seagull the size of a badger sitting on my balcony wall. In his beak – nay, his crushing jaws – he holds a large Coke cup that he has clearly been wielding as a battering ram. Whether he wants to come in, or simply wants me out, I couldn’t say, but I certainly didn’t want to take him on mano-e-gullo to find out. It wasn’t that I wanted to hand over my hotel keys to the vicious-looking bugger, but visions of headlines back in England to the tune of: “Pathetic Brit eaten alive by enormous seagull” certainly had me on the back foot.

As if to prove a point, the seagull/badger picks up the cup and starts bashing it up and down against the balcony. This clearly serves no other purpose than intimidation; showing me what he plans to do if he ever gets hold of my bonce. With this, I tip my hat in his general direction, and reverse back through the balcony door. In my mind I hear: “beep beep… this coward is reversing… beep beep”, but I don’t care. I want to get home with both eyes still in my head rather than being bashed up and down on a balcony wall until liquid gold (or whatever it is the gull thinks is stashed within my peepers) spills forth.

Rather than spending ten euros on a five minute cab ride, I can walk from my hotel to the tournament venue buy taking a not-unpleasant fifteen minute stroll down something called “The Champions’ Parade”. Though I personally struggle to think of anyone who came from Monte Carlo who might be considered a hero, I’m still rather surprised to find George Best’s hand and foot prints in the pavement. Now I’m not one to suggest they were struggling to find ‘champions’ from Monte Carlo and grasping at straws, but let’s just say I wouldn’t be too surprised to find Bob Marley or perhaps those two lesbos from Tatu wedged into the parade somewhere down the road.

I make it to the tournament (no sign of that seagull, you’ll be glad to hear) and go about the business of sweating a friend of mine (let’s call him ‘Arny’) who’s still in the main even. I’m particularly interested not note that three seats to Arny’s left is Mark Teltcher. Now I don’t like to bitch in these pages (*ahem*) but when I went to Google Mark’s surname to be sure I’d spelt it correctly, I was drawn towards the second result from the search engine. A link that led me to the blog of a popular young poker player, who let rip with: “I had the pleasure of playing Mark Teltcher, who won the London EPT last year. He was without doubt one of the biggest arseholes I've ever met.” So I guess you could say there’s no love lost there then.

I of course don’t want to get involved in this fight, but I will tell you that my friend Arny also happens to ‘dislike’ Mr Teltcher. In fact, Arny ‘dislikes’ him so much that when we were here for the EPT Grand Final last year Arny went up to Teltcher late one night in a bar and pretended to be a journalist who thought Mark was “The Future of Poker”, and asked if he might grab the golden one for an impromptu interview.

Mark – who I’m reliably informed has ‘a bit of an ego’ – obviously agreed to the interview, and for the next 15 minutes was quizzed by Arny who put on the plumiest Tim Nice-but-dim voice you’ve ever heard, and held up what was quite obviously a digital camera to Mark’s mouth as if it was a dictaphone. He also asked some of the most mock-sycophantic questions ever, including the likes of: “How can you be so bloody awesome at poker mate?” and “Do you think you were just born with this gift?” It wasn’t big or clever, but it was fucking funny.

Anyway, back in the tournament room a noise rings out that’s familiar to me but seems totally out of place and is therefore hard to fathom. This sound has clearly registered with a large number of other folk in the room, who are all now looking around like people in a lift who suspect someone might have farted.

I look up to the massive screens that show the tournament details, and realise why the noise was familiar - it’s an error alert that my laptop dishes out. The screens normally busy displaying all the information relevant to the tournament (players, blinds, time, etc) are now proudly announcing: “Low battery. You should change your battery or switch to oulet power immediately to keep from losing your work”. With that, pretty much every manager and dealer in the place bolts towards the same spot – presumably some nook with a magic laptop secretly running the whole European Poker Tour in Microsoft Excel. It’s like they pulled back the curtains and found that not only was the Wizard of Oz an old bloke in a dressing gown, but he was also on his hands and knees having a wank. Ah, the magic revealed…

With the laptop plugged in and normal service resumed, another emergeny occurs on table twenty three; this time a severe trouser malfunction. It appears some ‘youth’ - who clearly knows a lot more about poker than he does about wearing clothes properly – is suffering from an unusual condition that has lead to the waistband of his jeans falling level with the backs of his knees while his paisley knickers hang out for all to see. Regardless of just how bloody stupid this looks, I’m sure it’s very popular with the younger men. As a teen, I myself would often pull my socks up over my genitals and hang a Burton’s tie out of my arse. Fickle fasion eh?

Having seen quite enough for one day, I head back down the ‘Champion’s Parade’ keeping an eye out for the seagull. Luckily for me there’s no sign of the bugger, and I can only imagine he’s sitting on a hotel balcony somewhere, savagely tearing into some hapless Brit’s face.

Back at the hotel bar a group of us meet for a drink, but talk soon moves to thoughts of a quick game of poker. Though all present are keen on the game, we’re a mixed group, passing through all levels of ‘skill’. All the way from two hardcore Swedes who want to play for serious money, right through to a PR girl who thinks you need two decks of cards to play Hold’em. I can see we’re in for an ‘interesting game’, but comply none the less, trying to work out what we can use for chips.

Looking down at our table I notice a small box of matches in an ashtray… hmm.
Each box only holds twelve matches, but with a bit of thought – and LOTS more boxes – we might just make this work.

I explain my plan. We’ll break each match in two. The halves with the head are worth 100, the halves without, 25s, and the boxes are worth 500 each. Genius! Now we just need more matches. Leave this to me…

"Stealth". "Cunning". "Guile". Just some of the words that might be used to describe how I sauntered around the bar, ‘flying casual’ as it were, stealing boxes of matches en route. At one point I had about twenty five boxes in my trouser pockets. Had there been a fire, everyone could have gathered round and roasted marshmallows while I ‘genied’ like a roman candle.
At one point I catch the eye of the waitress whose job it is to ensure they tables all have clean ashtrays and matchboxes. She squints at me suspiciously; trying to work out why her job has suddenly become so much more demanding despite the fact that the bar is near empty. I chuckle to myself. The perfect crime!

I return triumphant to the table, but all eyes are over my shoulder. I turn around and find myself face-to-face with the waitress who is wearing the sort of face that practically spells out the phrase “you pathetic twat”. Without saying a word she drops 50 boxes of matches onto the table, spins around and stomps off. So much for the perfect crime... Anyway, who fancies a game of poker!

Monte Carlo or Bust pt.2

So… last time I attempted to entertain you with my take on the preliminary stages of the Monte Carlo EPT. The bad news? There’s more!

In the main tournament room, I’m scribbling away at my note book – making notes on interesting table draws – when Hendon Monbster, Barny Boatman walks in. I find myself hiding because I still owe him 50p (he lent me some change for a parking meeting outside the Ladbrokes casino a month or so back). It then dawns on me that, considering the company I’m in, hunting down a stray 50p is probably a long way down Barny’s debt collecting priorities right now.

An hour into the game and Hellmuth still hasn’t arrived. Famous for these late appearances, anyone with a spare seat at their table is literally playing every single pot in an attempt to get as many chips stashed away before The Brat arrives to rape them all. Metaphorically speaking, obviously.

A journo (who managed to trick the gullible PR team into buying him into the main event) waddles over: “I’ve got Chris Moneymaker on my table. I’m off for a shit.” Now whether these two statements are related or merely next to each other chronologically I couldn’t say. I personally love to play against such poker luminaries; but then again I had eggs for breakfast so am probably less likely to shit myself if a World Champion pushes all-in against me than most of these Red Bull-fuelled lads.

I bump into Katja Thater (magnificent at about 6ft 5” in heels incidentally). Out of 650 players, she somehow managed to defy the odds and draw the same table as her husband. One can only imaging the quality of pillow talk if one of the Thaters knocks the other out. I wonder just how long conjugal rights are suspended if you knock out your wife to the tune of €10,000?

I’m a big fan of Mr David Devilfish (as I like to call him) but he is gradually turning into that guy from The Fast Show (the one who’s your dad’s age, but is clinging onto his youth for dear life). Resplendent in leather biker jacket, ripped designer jeans, dark glasses… well, I never thought I’d say it, but I find myself wishing he’d go back to the old gangster suits. He does, however, make an amazing laydown on the river holding KK against a guy with AA who slow plays it to the river. Dave loses the hand but saves a considerable amount of chips. He turns round and shrugs at me. He’s seen this a million times…

AK is easily the most over-played hand I see all tournament. In one hand a guy with big slick can’t resist going all-in despite a board containing an ace (of course) a pair of threes and three hearts. Needless to say a slightly more cunning player has 7h8h and lets his AK-obsessed friend know how it feels to only have 1,000 in chips at only the 3rd level.

Almost as if the poker gods can’t help further punishing ‘AK boy’, he (now very short-stacked) pushes in with Q-8 on a queen-high board only to run into Q-K. He can only survive by hitting one of the three eights left in the deck, and on the river… he does. Those poker gods are sick bastards. What a silly silly game poker is. Never mind; I’m sure another AK will come along shortly so he can bust himself out the tourney once and for all.

I bump into The Fossilman, who loves to wear his WSOP bracelet while playing. On someone else it might seem a bit of a ‘bling’ show-off act, but on Raymer it doesn’t seem that way. You just get the feeling that he’s proud and happy to have it. God bless him – lovely chap.

It’s nice to be reminded that the subtle art of PR hasn’t died, as the Dusk Til Dawn contingent spills into the room. This basically involves lots of large-breasted ‘models’ in porno heels, hot pants, crop tops and too much make-up staggering around the room putting off any of the poker players who happen to be male and under 60 (i.e. 99% of them). Screw rakeback deals and deposit bonuses, THIS is how you capture your target audience.

I later bump into the DTD girls again who – having whipped up all the men into a state of total and useless arousal – are now relaxing by the pool. It’s a bikini-clad vision to be sure; right up until one of them opens her mouth and shouts, “Oi! Darlin!” in a voice not entirely unlike Grant Mitchell of Eastenders fame. It’s a jolt to the system, and I’m immediately transported from Monte Carlo to Romford Market, where I believe one can purchase ‘arf a pand a cherries’ for 50 pence. Delightful girl.

On the matter of attractiveness, I feel I’m capable of recognising a good-looking bloke when I see one, but with Patrik Antonius I just don’t get it. To me he looks like a well-groomed yet gaunt potato, but all the PR girls are gathered around him like snails in the rain licking the top of his head (metaphorically speaking). He even manages to get away with massive fashion faux pas such as flip flops with socks (generally a look monopolised by Greg Raymer and the over-60 crowd) and yet the girls STILL wilt as he enters the room. I REALLY hope this doesn’t become a trendy new look for poker players because, to be quite frank with you, I just haven’t got the socks for it. A few days later I bump into Patrik again, and can’t help but notice his spud-head appears to have been gradually cooking under the Monte Carlo sun. I don’t know whether to offer him some sunscreen or stick a fork in him to see if he’s done.

Back in the tournament room, a clearly silicon-enhanced masseur is touring the tables offering a damn good rub down to anyone with cash to spare. She’s bang-on attractive, and has become somewhat of a status symbol for the players. If you’ve got her boobs mashed against the back of your head, you’re clearly one hell of a player!

One particular chump has obviously been waiting hours for her to finally become free so that he can make his table-mates jealous, but doesn’t realise that he’s finally reeled her in only seconds before the dinner break starts. Just as he’s about to bask in the kudos (as her thumbs slip between five folds of fat where his shoulder blades used to be) everyone files out of the room to grab some chow and he’s left sitting there, missing his dinner, being given an over-priced backrub in an empty tournament room. Priceless.

At one point I snap a picture of the attractive masseur (just for research purposes, of course), and Gus Hanson spins around as the camera’s flash fires off; mildly disappointed that I wasn’t taking a picture of him. I’d personally have enough trouble playing against Hansen at the best of time, but how the fuck you concentrate with old ‘big tits’ rubbing away at your jowls I really don’t know.

Hellmuth is up to his usual tricks over on the far table. He spends five minutes thinking about folding pocket 2s against a board containing a ten, a Jack and an eight. When a player quiet asks if they should put the clock on him, he goes totally insane. Shouting the floor manager over Hellmuth demands a new dealer, insists he only took 80 seconds (which I can confirm is at least 450 second out) and even starts offering people to bet for money on exactly how long he took. It would be mildly amusing if it wasn’t for the fact that the level is ticking away while all this is going on, and most people came to play poker rather than watch The Brat Road Show.

Everything finally calms down on the Hellmuth table once no one cares any more, and I move over to a table featuring the key player who took all my chips from me out at the Ultimate Bet Aruba Classic. He seems pretty disappointed that I’m only reporting on and not playing in this game, but that’s probably just because it was all my poorly-played chips that helped him cash last time. I can only imagine that when he looks at me he sees a big bag of cash with $$$ on the side in much the same way a hungry cartoon Tom would see Jerry as a small roast chicken complete with trimmings.

And I am again, out of space. Who’d have thought I can say so much about so little. And even better, I think I might carry on next time. Bet you can’t wait…