Class is permanent

Ok, I can't contain myself any more. I've been trying to hold it in but it's eating me up inside. I think once I've got it out of my system I'll feel much better.

The theme of the following entry can perhaps best be summed up in one sentence: I am absolutely different gravy.

Yes, it's time for a right old gloat-up.

Now, don't get me wrong. When it comes to baseball betting, I'm a complete joke. I think I've lost 7 consecutive baseball bets. According to William Foote, "even a bad handicapper should win 45% of his bets". Frankly I'm struggling to win 1%. It's that bad.

Also, I can't win a groat in cash games this month. No-one will throw me a bone. Even Richard Oakley beat me in a plo8 heads-up match. With this sort of form I should be having a really shit month.

However... (yes, you knew that was coming - apologies in advance for such noxious self-glorying) ... when it comes to $10 rebuy tournaments, I AM THE LORD OF ALL CREATION. Seriously, there's no stopping me. I just feel totally indestructible when I'm playing one. And if there's one absolute truism in poker, it's that confidence breeds success.

May 11th 1st / 613 +$6700
May 19th 1st / 448 +$4500
May 20th 5th / 207 +$450
May 24th 1st / 501 +$5400

I know, it can't continue. My form is just sickening to behold. In the 200NL the other day I got it all-in preflop for a 60,000 chip pot with AKo v AA v KK. Marv! Needless to say I made a flush. That sort of thing takes real class.

Sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I could win a tournament without having to get obscenely lucky at some point. But I'll take it.

Beer money

Southampton are going down. There's no doubt about it. It's been a long time coming but finally this execrable team has got its comeuppance. Put a tenner on it and then you can have a pint courtesy of Harry Redknapp.

Meanwhile, I'm downing a very pleasant White Russian after polishing off some very agreeable white wine. I'm not sure I could live without alcohol - does that make me an alcoholic? Somehow I don't think so. A few jars helps to calm the nerves after losing a $500 pot to a 1-outer (happened just 10 minutes ago). And I honestly think I play better poker after getting a few in me.

That said, I am concerned. My doctor tells me I'm drinking too much. But I never actually get smashed, I just drink moderate amounts throughout the day. I haven't been smashed since Coyote Ugly, and that was clearly the Camel's fault. I mean, we keep buying him Tequila Slammers, and then he keeps saying he doesn't like them! What a fucking P-U-S-S-Y. Well, I'm not going to just leave it sitting there on the bar, am I?

Anyway, as Spillano said to me the other day, it's a good job Keith didn't drink them. We'd have needed a helicopter to deliver him back to his room in one piece.

I pride myself on being a relatively hard drinker, and able to look after my companions when they're too far gone. Spillano and I got fucked at Sandown a couple of years back, and he was in no fit state to get himself anywhere other than a police station. Just remember Spillano, it cost me 50 quid to get us a cab back to Battersea. We'll call it a score draw.

Still, I don't see that there's a lot wrong with a few sherbets, as long as I never become an unpleasant drunk. When I get fucked I just want to throw myself around a dance floor and tell everyone how much I love them. Some people are just cunts though. Fortunately the only two drunks I know are Spillano and Lawrence, and they're fine when drunk. All Spillano does is spend Channing's money and ingratiate himself with ladies of the night. All Lawrence does is... well, drink more. My father was a big drinker for probably 30 years and I don't think I ever saw him totally smashed. All I remember is one night when we were on holiday, taking a barge down the Thames. My father and his friend Ian went out on the lash one night whilst Ian's son and I stayed on the boat playing Connect 4. We didn't have a clue where they'd gone. Eventually they staggered back to us in high spirits, although they seemed strangely disinterested in the fact that I was the new Connect 4 champion. I've always resented that.

If I ever become an unpleasant drunk, just tell me. I won't take it badly. It's better than being a cunt when sober (Paul Alterman springs to mind). As Winston Churchill said... ah, forget it.

Drive-by

Yesterday I murdered a living creature. In fact I killed three. At least.

Whilst visiting my future in-laws, Alice's brother and I discovered a marvellous form of entertainment known as a 'drive-by'. I knew all those solid hours of Grand Theft Auto would come in handy one day. Simply substitute rabbits for people, et voila, a whole day's worth of fun for the price of a few pellets.

There is justification for it. Lady Miros and I are, as you may know, tying the knot in September. The reception is to be held in a marquee, in a field, just by the in-laws' house. Unfortunately said field is literally crawling with rabbits. Or at least some of them were crawling once we'd winged them.

Now, rabbits may be stupid, but they're not blind. For some reason walking straight up to them with a shotgun doesn't seem to bear much fruit. Although Tom was berating me for not having a 'man-gun', I had quiet confidence in the cold efficiency of the air rifle. How right I was!

Tom and I took it in turns for the 'drive-by' - one at the wheel, one with the rifle. Easing our way up the road which runs directly next to the field, we were presented with a goldmine of legitimate targets. Tom, despite apparently 'not liking killing', is a cold-blooded maniac. I of course have no aversion to killing, especially when you can bag 'em all up and flog 'em to the local butcher. And so an evening of maiming and terror befell the West Sussex Rabbit Collective.

I don't feel bad about it. I like Watership Down, but it's all bollocks really. Rabbits don't even seem to like each other. Whilst en route to the field at one point, two young males came bounding out of the hedge, completely oblivious to the car, seemingly in the process of tearing each other's eyes out. Vicious bastards. Needless to say, we saved them the effort.

It's nice to satisfy my bloodlust after years of inactivity. Oh, and Shaun Murphy won the snooker, which was also grand. Life is just great.

And cheap, if you're a bunny.