Fortune Cookie #1

Hello again.

So I fancied a Chinese takeaway last night as we've not had one in ages (not that I have to justify it to you, Mr Policeman). I found the menu (after digging through about 16 Pizza Hut menus - BOY do those guys know how to waste trees!) and worked out what we were after. Then... DISASTER! They (Hong Kong, Hornchurch High Street - name and shame) are shut on a Tuesdays! What to do, what to do...

And so it was that I headed boldly into the night clutching only a £20. We, ladies and gentlemen, were through the looking glass - off to try a never-tried-before takeaway.

Frankly, I've already forgotten the name of the place I ended up in, but that's not important right now. The fact they also do Thai, Malaysian, Cantonese, and another one I've also forgotten IS important as I'll probably go back there and try them all (in my next life when I plan to have loads of disposable income to spend on takeaway food).

Anyway, the point is that this new takeaway didn't give you free prawn crackers with every order over £10, oh no, you got a fortune cookie . How cool is that! (please don't text in, it's just for fun).

Anyway, I had my food (plain chow mien, lemon chicken, hot 'n' sour soup and mini veg pancakes in case you were wondering) and then couldn't wait to find out what my fortune held.

FORTUNE COOKIE #1

"Your biggest virtue is your modesty"

Yes. I think it is. When you are as excellent as me, you have to be modest with it or people think you're a wanker. What an apt fortune (although it's not really a 'fortune', more a spot appraisal with very little in the way of a sample - the cookie had only known me 20 minutes, and for most of that I'd be throwing noodles up my nose).

I told the wife: My virtue is my modesty. Love.

"Really?" she replied, "So why do you walk around with your cock out and your balls balancing on the top of your trousers so much then?" she quizzed. Bless her.

She clearly doesn't understand how modesty works.

Lucky Boy

So I know the last post was a bit doom and gloom, but things are on the up! I appear to slowly be transforming into a session musician while remaining closely connected to the poker world without having to rely on it entirely. Which is nice.

This week sees the recording of the final week of the radio show I've been doing with Jesse May for over a year now - thepokershowlive.com. It's incredible to think we've done 32 weeks of this! We started out producing three three-hour live shows a week for twelve week runs. We did this for the first two seasons (seems like even we English now prefer the term 'seasons' to 'series' - how very '24') but the third season has seen us shift to three podcasts a week, no more than 70 minutes in length. It's proved much easier both practically and from a content control point of view. I won't lie to you; with nine hours a week to generate we often had dullards on the phone that I STILL let talk for 30 minutes just to eat up the shows (shame on me). With these more compact shows we've not had to fill in such a way, while proper planning has allowed us to keep the quality high.

I'm not sure if the show will get picked up for a second year right now, but it would seem a shame to have built up a good name for ourselves to not continue. I'm also worried that if we don't have a radio show I'll never get invited to any PR jollies again. Which brings me to... BRIGHTON!

Yes, thanks to my affiliation with The Poker Show and also the ON THE RAIL podcast, I was fortunate enough to be invited down to Brighton for the relaunch of the seafront G Casino. I introduced myself to the group via a slight faux pas, involving a rather attractive PR lady who brought out the never-useful 'alpha male' in me. I attempted to take over the manly duty of instructing the taxi driver, and promptly sent him down towards to the wrong casino some 15 minutes away (doubly embarrassing considering the G Casino turned out to be literally one minute from our hotel). Still, everyone agreed it was nice to see a bit more of Brighton (ahem).

Inside the G you can see where Vegas has really set the trend for UK casinos. I remember my first experiences in London casinos, where nursing-home carpets and silence were the order of the day. The G Casino has smart decor (is it too metrosexual to REALLY like chocolate and orange as a colour scheme?) a lively sexy atmosphere, with music and chatter providing a much more welcoming background noise than the snorting and gambling of old. Another interesting introduction to the G Casino is... SPACE! Yes, rather than dedicate every square inch to gaming machines, there's lots of room to simply 'be' without having to constantly face flashing slots or avoid eye-contact with a blackjack dealer.

I've always envied how relaxed casinos are in the states, where the majority of visitors are there to party, meet friends, have a drink, grab some food, and MAYBE gamble. In the UK it's always felt like you have to walk in, check your coat, shuffle to a table, must immediately gamble, and then quickly leave to make way for more 'winners'. I'm glad to say the G seemed to be full of young people (well, young at heart anyway) mostly more interested in the bar, restaurant and Four Tops tribute singers (of which I counted only three - a small technical error I'm sure).

Poker-wise there's a 10-table room, boasting games such as a mid-week £15 freeze out (which I think is the perfect kind of level to encourage people to play that might not normally). In my journalistic guise I sampled the beer, lemonade (which seemed fine but NOT as tasty as beer) and also attacked a few plates from the bar menu. The PR team even pitched in with the eating and drinking to make sure I had a good time. God they work hard.

I know this has ended up like a bit of an advert, but I'm keen to impress upon you that casinos are becoming nice places to be - regardless of whether you consider yourself a gambler or not. Rank now have about a dozen of these revamped G Casinos in the UK, and if the Brighton one isn't near enough for you, I suggest you find one that is and make an evening of it. You never know, you might even win something (or at least meet a pretty PR lady dragging hungry journalists around).

Happy hunting.

Serious Poker

It’s been a very strange 2010 so far. Sadly I’ve had one close family member death, one VERY close family member near-death/hospitalisation/drama, and a continuing lack of anything much to do. I bet that REALLY makes you wanna read on eh! Do I know how to capture an audience or WHAT!

The funny thing is I thought I’d accounted for the way in which a freelancer’s life tends to come and go with various bits of work. In case the TV stuff ended I had my writing; in case the writing ended I had the radio; in case the radio stuff ended I had my voice-over work… and so on. Sadly I failed to implement an “in case it all ends at exactly the same time” plan, which is kind of where I find myself.

Sure the radio show (www.thepokershowlive.com) is still going very strong but it’s changed shape this series. Rather than three three-hour live shows a week, it’s now three pre-record 70 minute shows that we nail in one LONG day. Also – and I’ll just be straight with you on this – I’ve already been paid for the work so it kinda feels like I’m ‘doing it for nothing’. I know that’s twisted logic, but there you go.

The funny thing is, with all my work suddenly dormant I find myself in a position that I’d previously dreamt of, namely with no reason not to take my poker more seriously. I don’t really do New Year’s resolutions, but I have regularly (for about the last six years) promised myself that I would DEFINITELY go out and play more live poker. I have another recurring self-lie that says I should take my poker more seriously, perhaps dedicating two or three days a week to playing online as if it were a job. In the past this hasn’t happened because other guaranteed paying work options have popped up to block it, but now I have no good reason. The interesting thing is… I find I don’t want to do this.

But why? Isn’t this every poker enthusiast’s dream? Well yes, but also… no. If you’re commuting every damn day to work a 9-to-5 (and just for the record I did this from the age of 17 to about 33, so I do know) then this must seem like a dream. However, playing a game for love is different to playing a game for need… and next time I’ll explain further.

I know: just like a proper blog isn’t it! ^__^

Be seeing you…

The Post Office

F**king Freedom Passes!

Now that might not mean a lot to you if you don't often visit the Post Office, but as I am currently enjoying the life of a 'home trader' (i.e. I'm so skint I am having to sell most of my personal belongings to pay the mortgage) I spend a lot of time in the Post Office waiting to weigh and flog my old games, books, guitars, clothes, pride, etc.

Pretty much every day since the new year has been shite thanks to the oldies renewing their Freedom Passes (Just WALK or STAY INDOORS love!) but today was particularly crap for some reason, and I had a book AND an Evel Kneivel toy to sell (I shit you not).

Matt walks into the Post Office. It is VERY busy. After a 10 minute wait...

OLD INDIAN TELLER IN WINDOW 6: Anyone NOT renewing their Freedom Pass?
MATT: YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!

Matt approaches the counter and plops a heavy book on the scales.

MATT: I want to send this in the UK. Just the cheapest method please.
TELLER: It will be £4.41 or £4.45
MATT: What's the difference?
TELLER: 4p
MATT: No, I meant the difference in the services?
TELLER: One is standard post, one is Parcel Force
MATT: Umm... Just which ever is the cheapest one then please
TELLER: Well I'm just worried that that might take a long time
MATT: Well that's why I asked what the difference was
TELLER: It's 4p
MATT: No, I understand the monatery difference, I meant the difference in the service - i.e. if one was faster than the other...
TELLER: Well if you want a faster service...
MATT: NO! The speed isn't important to me, I'm just trying to explain why I asked!

Matt is clearly becoming somewhat flaberghasted and appears to be getting 'slightly' louder. A nearby teller has twigged...

WINDOW #5 TELLER: Is there a problem?
MATT (through gritted teeth): NO! Just a misunderstanding. It's fine now.

Matt's teller passes him a postage sticker for the book. Matt now produces a HUGE box and places it on the scales.

MATT: Same again please.

The teller looks at Matt and opens his mouth to ask what service he wants. However, before he can say a word...

MATT (loudly): JUST THE SAME AS THE LAST ONE PLEASE!

Matt manages to pull a smile out of the bag so the authorities aren't called for. The elderly teller passes another sticker to Matt. Matt applies the label, pays the man, thanks the man, walks to his car, turns the radio on VERY loud and BLOWS HIS BRAINS OUT WITH A SAWN-OFF SHOTGUN.

The last bit didn't happen, but you can understand why people just turn up in Post Offices with guns sometimes.

I'm not saying I'd do it... but I understand.

That's all.

Bruce Lee and the round table

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

It's a kind of tragic

“I should warn you,” said the woman taking her place in seat seven, “I’m a bit psychic”.

I looked at Nick who did that thing you do with mates where you roll your eyes at each other without actually moving your eyes just in case the subject of your rollage catches you (she was a big girl, and neither of us were brave enough to risk being seen disputing her magical powers – you know, just in case she put a voodoo hex on us or something).

“Oh. Really?” Nick ventured, “What star sign am I?”

Kim (for t’was her name) stared at Nick for several seconds (no doubt tuning into his aura, or some other bollocks) and then announced: “Cancer”

“Nope” Nick replied (probably as relieved as I was that she’d got it wrong) at which point Kim span round to me (almost catching me rolling my eyes – phew!) and asked, “Are you… a Gemini?” I stared at her blankly, accidentally encouraging another attempt: “Libra?”

“Sadly neither,” I told her, “But do keep trying. I’m sure you’ll get there eventually.”

Luckily Kim didn’t have time to magically guess her way around the rest of the zodiac as we were dealt the first hand of the charity tournament we were at The Empire to play. I was chuffed to see QQ but was in reasonably early position so made it 225 from the 25/50 blinds. I know it kinda gives away that I like my hand but not enough to go nine-ways to the flop, but considering I was sitting with a psychic and three people asking if a flush was better than a yahtzee I thought I’d give it a whirl.

Kim called, and then Nick went all-in. Now Nick is a far superior poker player to me, but even I knew immediately it was AA or KK. With a tear in my eye I released my queens back into the sea, but Kim (and let’s not forget she has ‘The Gift’) called, turning over that power-house of all-in calling hands: A-10o.

Nick looked absolutely chuffed to bits when the ace arrived on the board, and even happier when she pumped her fat little fist into his personal space with a massive “YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!”

Now I know that it’s EXACTLY this sort of over-celebration that gives Nick a warm feeling deep inside, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so happy to give all his chips to a mental woman after only one hand. Nick gave me a look similar in many ways to the rolling-your-eyes-without-rolling-your-eyes one, only this one said, ‘you get the spades, I’ll kill her’.

Nick immediately went for a re-buy (he is so generous when it comes to kids’ charities!) while Kim assured us all that she “knew” the A-10o would win. I wouldn’t say that Nick was steaming, but some local gypsies did hang their carpets over him to give them a good clean.

Pay-back was clearly quite high on Nick’s agenda (just under drinking the open bar dry and consuming his body weight in free deserts) and sure enough he somehow managed to side-step the mystical powers of Kim and get her to double him up with AJ against his AK. Even in defeat Kim couldn’t help herself. “I knew he had me beat”. Suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuure.

Strangely Kim didn’t manage to utilise her awesome powers to make a comeback, and shortly thereafter shuffled off no doubt to see if her ‘Gift’ stretched to guessing what numbers the roulette table would deliver. I managed to maintain the habit of a lifetime and bust out of the tourney with 88 like the clown I am, while Nick eventually fell foul to a bloke who constantly asked what the blinds were, how many chips did everyone have left, and “what is it to me?” Believe it or not, he was the gimp who won the bloody thing. God I hate poker.

Anyway, the evening got MUCH better for us as we headed off to a local ‘club’… but it’s not that kind of blog, so you’ll have to imagine the rest (and don’t forget to imagine LOTS of glitter and some really good high-heeled shoes while you’re at it).

Happy hunting

I URGE you...

Ok - not much of a blog post I know, but I URGE you (see, the title was pretty acurate eh!) to watch High Stakes Poker Season 5 if you haven't alredy done so. I downloaded it from Mininova (which MAY be illigal - not sure) but i'm sure there is a legit way to find it. Watching Durrrr is a pleasure, and THE best answer to any player who ever types "card dead" into the chat box.

Anyway, a real blog entry VERY soon. Honest.

On the air

It’s the 30th of September 2008 and Jesse May – the voice of poker – has just asked me a question. It takes my brain about 20 seconds longer than normal to formulate an answer, but then again we are 22 hours into a marathon 36 hour commentary stint. I only entered the fray at about hour eight, but Jesse has been here from minute one of hour one, and will still be belting it out when we wrap things up in the 59th minute of hour 35.
‘The Kids’ might think Red Bull is the only way to go, but Jesse reminds me why coffee remains the number one stimulant in the world as he asks/shouts his question at me with trademark enthusiasm: “Matt, what’s Feldman’s thinking!? Is it a complete steal or does he think he’s ahead!?”
I haven’t got the heart to tell Jesse I have absolutely no idea. The last time the camera was on Andrew Feldman was about ten minutes ago and the poor kid was face-down unconscious in a pile of chips with drool hanging out the side of his mouth. For all I know Andrew might think he’s at home asleep and is just dreaming about re-raising Juha Hellpi with 10-6 offsuit. I offer up a mostly-useless “Who knows Jesse, who knows…” and reach for another handful of Beechams capsules. Thanks to an untimely bout of man-flu I’m struggling to stay focused, and have to admit I’ve exceeded the recommended dose. What am I doing here…

It’s the 1st of October 2008 and Jesse May – the voice of poker – has just asked me a question. We’re on a short break while some fresh players buy-in and some knackered players cash out. Outside the door I can hear Roland De Wolfe snoring, and can honestly say I’ve never been so jealous of a man lying on a concrete floor outside a toilet. “Matt,” Jesse asks, “what do you think to an old-school, American sports-style poker call-in Radio show?” I stare at him blankly while my brain attempts to have an opinion about anything. Jesse takes this as a sign of encouragement. “You know; talk to the biggest names in the world, take a bunch of calls from players grinding it out online, chew over the latest news, gossip, tourney results… it’d be amazing don’t ya think!?” Actually, it does sound pretty good...

It’s the 14th April 2009 and Jesse May – the voice of poker – has just asked me a question. “Do you think the mics are plugged in properly?” Yes Jesse, I think the mics are plugged in properly. Sadly, the mics are the least of my worries. I’m slightly more concerned that I somehow seem to have become the ‘Exec Producer’ of “The Poker Show with Jesse May”, have a room full of Matchroom and Boyle Poker management staring at me expecting a fully-functioning radio station, and I have absolutely no idea why none of it’s working. “Maybe the mics aren’t plugged in properly?” suggest Jesse. Again. What am I doing here…

It’s the 5th of May 2009 and Jesse May – the voice of poker – has just asked me a question. “Matt, I think this is gonna work out pretty great. What d’ya say?” We’ve just completed our second week of broadcast; have had Phil Hellmuth, Tom ‘Durrrr’ Dwan, Mike Sexton, Luke ‘FullFlush’ Schwartz, Phil Laak, John Duthie, Barney Boatman, Roland De Wolfe, Vicky Coren and master of the bedtime story, Mad Marty Wilson on the show - to name but a few. Jesse is beaming at me as we prepare to turn the studio lights out for another week. I give him a big smile in return. “I think you might be right Jesse.”

See you next Sunday…

“NEWS”: An angry Jennifer Tilly has trouble storming out of a rotating restaurant

Unabomber girlfriend, Jennifer Tilly, underestimated the difficulty and frustration involved in her attempt to storm out of a rotating restaurant last night. Tilly says she was disorientated by both the ever-moving restaurant and the blinding rage she felt towards boyfriend, Phil Laak, who had once again brought up the matter of that YouTube clip with the full house.

Jennifer said: “I was storming out for what felt like forever, and then before I knew it I was standing in front of our table… again.”

Fellow poker player Liz Lieu successfully stormed out of the same rotating restaurant last March and offered: “Knowing what I know now, I would suggest finding someone who works at the restaurant to help you find the exit.”



Author's note: JUST in case it wasn't obvious, this is a work of fiction. D'uh!

Poker isn’t just for Christmas…

As we blast ever-deeper into 2009, I realsed that no one bothered to ask me for a review of 2008 (which is a shame as I’m sure it would have been hilarious). I hope, however, that we’re not so far into 2009 that I can’t still talk about one of my favourite poker moments of 2008. I’m referring to the car-crash that was the ‘celebrity’ heat of the Party Poker Women’s World Open; featuring easily one of the best acts of poker numptitude since Jennifer Tilly checked her full house to Patrik Antonius ‘just in case he had quads’ (the twatt).

My initial concern was that only one of the ‘celebrities’ was arguably an actual celebrity (and even that was just Cheryl Baker; ever-humoured on English telly because she took her skirt off in 1981 and her thighs won a trophy). Not to worry (thought I - ever the optomist) maybe these well-known unknowns can play poker. And then the first hand arrived...

Three female ‘celebrities’ (who neither I nor the dog had ever heard of) folded their cards. The button (some ‘celebrity’) called, the small blind (some ‘celebrity’) called, and the big blind (Cheryl Baker who, disappointingly, had trousers on and not a scrap of Velcro in sight) took a deep breath and said “stick”. No... seriously: “stick”. Press record lads; I think we might have a poker genius in our midst.

The dealer dealt the flop (which no doubt confused the life out of at least half the women at the table) and the first player announced “check”. The second player now took a moment to consider her options. What to do... what to do? Perhaps check and go for a free card… Maybe take a stab at winning the pot with a well-sized bet, or perhaps… “fold”. What? Say again love... That’s right, you heard - “fold”. Oh, brilliant. No one saw that one coming (I swear the dealer nearly slapped herself on the forehead in response). Meanwhile Cheryl – clearly delighted that someone had accidentally reminded her what the correct term for ‘do nothing’ was – also announced “check”.

With the turn dealt the first player dug deep and placed some chips onto the table. Cheryl sat back, looked at the dealer and – rather than embarrass herself by saying ‘bust’ or ‘Jenga’ or something similarly stupid – said simply: “er… I want to say whatever you say when you don’t want to go on any more.” (What; like ‘please kill me’?)

“Fold?” ventured the dealer tentatively. “Yes!” exclaimed Cheryl, “that’s the one.” And thus it was that the first hand somehow came to a conclusion without anyone knocking themselves out of the tournament or bursting into flames. My god, this was going to be one hell of a game.

Or at least it would have been had not the missus – who endures more crap TV poker than any reasonable person should have to – chosen this moment to reach out and silently remove the Sky remote from my hand. Pressing ‘backup’ she exited the show, returning to the Sky Plus menu as I looked on quizzically. She then deftly hit the ‘delete’ button, saying “it’s probably for the best”. Now I remember why I married her. Smart girl.

NO ESCAPE
Apart from watching televised poker approximately 365 days of the year (rough estimate. Source: Mrs Waster) then I’m generally playing poker or thinking about it. If I’m not writing about it, then I’m probably on telly blabbing about it; and if I’m not doing any of those things, well… let’s just say there better be a bloody good reason (i.e. family death, birth, marriage, or all three simultaneously). Don’t laugh – you don’t know my family.

Even the water closet – the last sanctuary of modern man – no longer offers safe haven thanks to a magazine rack chock full of poker magazines, a pile of thicker-than-brick poker books on the end of the bath, and a word search book by the sink (don’t’ worry; the latter belongs to the missus – the dirty bitch.)

I decided that for the good of those unlucky enough to be around me on a regular basis I should perhaps take a break from poker as we entered the Xmas season (i.e. December, not back in late-September when Sainsburys put the tinsel out). Though the idea of not being in some super-loose Badugi game by 10:30am each morning was slightly freaking me out I decided to just try to let poker waft from my mind for a bit. I even went as far as agreeing to visit various naff pre-Xmas bazaars and gift fairs in local halls.

And it was there, dear friends, that I discovered that there is no escaping poker. Next post I’ll explain how I turned three innocent Xmas activities into poker games. (Remind me again Cheryl: what do you say when you don’t want to go on any more?)

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.