Lord Miros and other animals

Annus morosus

2008-06-10T02:55:00.000-07:00

I am living in capricious times. Events this year have moved like quicksilver; it's funny how you can sit on your arse for so long expecting nothing much to happen, and then pretty much everything seems to happen at once. Whichever divine shit-stirrer is pulling my strings is certainly having some shits and giggles with me this year.

January was off to a fine start; Alice got the ball rolling early by hacking up in a Stars tournament for $10,000. Which was nice. Vague thoughts played in my head that maybe she should become a poker pro and I could follow my inevitable career in burger-flipping or telesales. Then came superbowl night, and I got one over on the jammy tart by winning the Sunday Warm-Up for $109,000. Which was nicer.

Just as it seemed life couldn't get much sweeter, a mere 4 days later Alice discovered she was pregnant and, despite my skepticism, she insisted that I was the father. This was especially impressive as we had only just started trying, yet somehow one of my booze-addled tadpoles had hit the bullseye at the first attempt. There then followed several days of me strutting around referring to myself as The Inseminator, along with offering to impregnate Alice's sister (for a small fee), and earnestly warning other females not to stray within 3 feet of me, lest I inadvertently knock them up too. I'm sure Alice and pretty much everyone else soon tired of my incessant lewdness, but the important thing is that I never did.

Anyway, the next few weeks were all very exciting. There were blood tests, visits to the midwife, peculiar e-mails from websites telling us that the baby was now the size of an olive / grape / avocado or basically any other bite-sized fruit or veg you can think of. I predicted a girl; a name was decided. We discussed designs for the nursery. After a while I told most of my friends, who seemed surprisingly pleased for me. I felt like a big man.

Well, then of course it happened; the world caved in around us. We were delighted to get to the 12-week stage as after that there is very little chance of miscarriage, so we thought the hard bit was out of the way. We were wrong. Alice had been skittish leading up to the 12-week scan, but I wrote it off as hormonal and told her not to worry. As it turned out, maybe her body was trying to tell her something. The 12-week scan revealed what the doctor described as 'major problems'. I won't bore you with the details. What's worse, even though we were in tears and essentially given no hope, the doctor wanted to wait another 2 weeks, just to make sure. That wasn't much fun. The next fortnight was the most agonising of our lives, especially as we knew that there wasn't really any light at the end of the tunnel. It was especially horrifying for Alice, which was in turn especially upsetting for me, knowing that I was powerless to help. I didn't play much poker in that time; probably for the best. My supernova status on Stars can go fuck itself.

When the fortnight finally passed, we were told what we expected; the poor little mite had zero chance of survival. Further horror awaited, as we then had to spend an entire day in hospital with Alice undergoing a very traumatising procedure, and me missing a great deal of the snooker. Eventually, just before madness set in, we were home. It felt like a much emptier place.

That was in April; time has passed, and we are recovering. Our friends found out in dribs and drabs, and have been wonderful. We inadvertently staggered telling them, which happily meant a near-constant supply of flowers arriving at the door. Frustratingly we were told we may have to wait up to 3 months to find out the results of the blood tests and post-mortem to determine whether it was a genetic problem or a developmental one-off. Just a few days ago the initial results came back, and we were informed that it was, in all likelihood, a one-off. There is a renewed sense of hope creeping back in to our lives.

In fact, June seems to be progressing on a nice upward curve all-round. I fluked my way to winning a step 6 for my seat in Vegas, and on Saturday Alice followed up in a $650 satellite. For the first time we will both be playing the World Series Main Event. I don't fancy my chances in a last-longer. Now all I need is for us both to make the final, and that when we return in November Alice is once again heavy with child, preferably mine. Is that too much to ask?

I think I'd better start going to church.

Cometh the hour, cometh the man

2007-05-21T01:51:00.000-07:00

Ok, so admittedly it's been a while. I'm sure you've all missed me. While I'd love to say that I've been travelling the world, or climbing mountains, or even, most laughably, working really hard, I'm sure most of you would clock this as the outrageous lie that it is. Then again I also haven't been in a coma, or prison, or some sort of drug-induced stupor for the last 13 months. Let's just say I've been busy and leave it at that.

One exciting bit of news is that for some reason the psychos who run my local boozer have made me captain of the Aunt Sally team. Mentalist! Clearly they didn't realise that no bugger in history has ever been reckless enough to burden me with any meaningful responsibility, but to be fair I'm coping extremely well. Admittedly my suggestion of no sex or alcohol in the 24 hours before a game was not well met, but other than that I've discovered the whole captaincy experience to be quite a thrill. The only low ebb so far was when 4 mysterious lads signed up for an away match at the Jolly Farmer, assured me half an hour before the match that they would be there, and promptly failed to show, leaving us with half a team. Perhaps the fact that they were regulars at the Jolly Farmer should have aroused my suspicions of a stitch-up. Ah well, you live and learn.

Obviously the high point involved a large measure of personal glory for yours truly. In last week's match at the Elephant & Castle most of the team put up a dismal performance, the first seven of us scoring a miserly 6 from 42 sticks. This left The Great Man needing to score an unlikely 3 from 6 sticks to win the leg. I nailed it in five, to the delight of shrewd in-running punters, followed by my trademark 'fuck you' dance in the faces of the opposition. We lost 2-1.

Still, it feels good to be in charge of something. I've never been captain of anything in my life. At school I had the dubious honour of being the only boy in my house not to be made a prefect (possibly owing to a small getting-drunk-and-smashing-up-my-study incident). If only they could see me now!

Anyway, bugger off now, I can't doss about on here all day. Some of us have teamsheets to write.

Horny, sad beauty (or Another busy day)

2006-04-13T04:08:00.000-07:00

Some amusing anagrams for other people's blogs:

Internet Poker Pro - Porker or penitent
Milkybarkid's Poker Blog - Book perky, grim, bad skill
Negative Capability - Pitiably ace vintage
Sleepless in Fulham - Is lameness helpful?
Get it quietly - Quit, leg it yet

All of which seemed to have some sort of ring of truth, until I came to Lord Miros and other animals, which turns into Horrid, moralless damnation. That can't be right.

Gold Cup memories

2006-03-27T02:21:00.000-08:00

Well, it's a week of celebration in the Mirosian household (not that we need much of an excuse). Last Sunday's 9th in the $200 comp on Stars was a boner in many ways but I couldn't avoid the hand I busted out on (QQ v KK) and at least 9th was $4500 better than 10th. Now if only I could forget that it was also $156000 worse than 1st. Bugger. I keep trying to tell myself 'what difference', but that doesn't really help as actually there's a rather considerable difference. Did I already say bugger?

Quite apart from that, this week is also a celebration due to the much-needed return of the flat season. This jumping lark is for the birds. It's bad enough watching the Inadequate Irishmen and their Cloven-hoofed friends simply running, let alone falling, unseating, refusing and even taking the wrong course, which these clowns seem to manage with frightening regularity. Nuts to it all. The only reason I ever go to Cheltenham is for the Guinness. Seemingly the only reason I ever bet on the Gold Cup is because I hate money. Obviously this year I laid that unproven, overhyped Irish dodgepot War of Attrition, and it pissed up. Same old, same old.

Back in the early days of my career in idleness, my father took me to Cheltenham for Gold Cup day, along with a posse of fellow lawyerly types, who were all merrily lagering themselves up in their hospitality tent and throwing money at me to take to the bookies. As you can imagine, very little of this wedge actually made it within ten paces of a bookie's satchel. By the time the Gold Cup came around I had trousered myself a nice little roll and had, so far, yet to suffer a reverse. Easy game!

Now, that year I had a strong fancy for an unproven, overhyped Irish dodgepot called Florida Pearl, and so much of my new-found wealth did find a home with the layers, along with any other bets that the lawyers had given me for the same horse. One of my dad's friends, who clearly knew considerably less about the Sport of Kings than he did about corporate tax havens, had entrusted me with a few quid on a couple of no-hopers, See More Business and Go Ballistic, both each-way. Obviously it went straight in the back pocket and I thought no more about it, instead readying myself to cheer home Florida Pearl and idly wondering what I should press it up on in the Foxhunter's.

Well, you know what's coming next. Jumping the last it was down to a two-horse race between Go Ballistic and See More Business. I prayed to the gods to bring them both down (Florida was 17 lengths adrift in 3rd), but the gods are tossers and ignored me, as ever. Now I didn't even know which one to funk for. See More was the shorter odds (16-1) but was the bigger bet, while Go Ballistic was a chunky 66-1 shot. See More struggled up the hill in front, which was at least the right result for me. Unfortunately it was a moot point, as I was skint.

My dad's friend was very excited. He kept asking me how much he'd won. For a moment I considered saying "ooh, at least 25 quid" and hoping he would fall for it, but it was a desperate hope. I just had to keep schtum and find some money from somewhere. Happily my father, once he'd stopped laughing, proved amenable to a gentle nipping. I hope he never told the other fella the truth, but I'll take 5-1 on that he did.

As a postscript, the horse that I'd fingered for my Foxhunter's press-up pissed up, and I didn't have a red cent on it. Oh happy day.

Next time I think I'll stay in the Guinness tent and pretend I'm at a conference for recidivist alcoholics. At least it'll be cheaper.

Don't bother thinking about any of the following stuff... (Part 1)

2006-02-08T18:51:00.000-08:00

1. Death. Seriously, just ignore it, it's not that fun. If you pretend it isn't there then it might just go away. Apparently there's overwhelming evidence to suggest that it will inevitably happen to pretty much all of us (except vampires, and Duncan MacLeod, and possibly that Jesus fella). Frankly, I'm cynical, but since I can't figure out where else my grandparents and Buddy Holly and a few other lads went I admit there could be some truth in it. I must also admit I'm really struggling to accept the terrifying concept of my own non-existence, or Alice's for that matter. Nuts to that. I haven't spent several hard years mastering the place markets in sprint handicaps just to have it all disappear into pointless oblivion. So as I say, don't think about it, you'll only get in a gloom about how we're all screwed, or at best drawing pretty fucking slim.

Still, I'm an optimist. Perhaps if I think about this niggly death thing long enough, I can engineer some sort of alternative. Ok, granted, it's a tall order perhaps, but I'm fucked if I'm going to let myself just wink out of existence without some sort of fight. I guess at the moment I'm banking on medical science to get a shimmy on and discover a cure for just about everything, and pretty damn sharpish, because right now there ain't many buyers of the Lord Miros life expectancy spread. So far it's not looking hopeful. Still, as a rule I never stand up from the table while I still have an out, and with any luck the course of my life has only just made it to the flop, so perhaps I'll pick up some hope on the turn. If I'm really lucky the button in my personal game of life has jokingly plumped for seven-card stud, though knowing my luck he's had a sudden whimsy for Irish, in which case I'm truly fucked. Doubtless I'll have blundered away my chance of eternal bliss by discarding that useless-looking God fella, which is ironic as my personal idea of damnation actually involves me playing a neverending game of Irish, in which I obviously never win a pot. But enough of this analogy now, my psychiatrist told me never to mention 'the 3-card game', I can feel the voices coming back and they're saying bad things.

Incidentally, if any of you lot come up with any bright ideas about this whole mortality dilemma, feel free to share. Any handy and not too laborious death-avoidance solutions would be gratefully received.

In other news, I've been to several different countries in my global quest to ingloriously bust nowhere near the money in a succession of meaningless and rather boring poker tournaments. While in many ways disheartened - not to mention completely knackered - this unhappy adventure has only cemented my ambition to actually win one of these sodding crapshoots, primarily so I can then say fuck you to the world and give up poker for life. And if I have any left at the end of it all I can always go for that whole cryogenics spiel, and trust it's all not just an elaborate wind-up. Although I don't really fancy the prospect of my last earthly thoughts being: "I bet these fuckers never bother to thaw me out. Marvellous."

Back to the blog, I suppose

2005-12-07T12:17:00.003-08:00

Well, what a couple of weeks it's been. I've learnt a lot of important lessons in the last fortnight or so:

1. Although a bottle of Harvey's Bristol Cream may only be £5.50 in my local liquor store, that in itself is inadequate justification for downing the lot and playing 10-20 pot limit omaha with my entire Pokerstars bankroll.

2. Dedication is what you need. After struggling for weeks and weeks to cadge myself a free holiday in the Bahamas, I then manage to win Lady M her very own invite at practically the first time of asking. Lucky slut...

3. The NFL is very very easy, and everyone else is very very stupid, and if only the sodding Packers had scraped their way another 10 yards to the endzone in the dying seconds I would've been another monkey richer. It's not fair that I should be poorer even though I was so damn right.

4. We've got our blender working, and it's fucking marvellous. Now all I need is some really mental stuff to blend up. I suggested the guinea pigs but for some reason Alice is against the idea. Food is boring because then you're meant to eat it, and frankly I don't want to, I just want to blend stuff. In my darker moments I toy with the idea of putting my foot in there, just to see if I can, and what will happen, and whether it would really hurt as much as I think it would. Fortunately I know from previous experience that if I dare myself to do something, then I can damn well do it, so the foot is safe for now, at least. But just so you know, I COULD put my foot in a blender, if I really had to. It's only a foot, after all. I've got a spare one, and to be honest I don't find much use for that. Anyway, I digress...

I know these lessons themselves probably aren't a sound grounding for a stable and mature human being, but I'm definitely getting a sense of progress. I get the feeling there are a lot more lessons to be learnt, although whether I want to learn them is debatable and whether I will succeed in learning them is improbable. I think I'm getting somewhere anyway, at least for now.

If anyone can think of any interesting lessons they've learned recently, feel free to join the debate. Bear in mind that if I don't like what you say I will almost certainly delete your comment and tell everyone I know that you're an almighty cunt. *

*Which, let's face it, you probably are.

Back to the island

2005-11-23T04:44:00.000-08:00

Finally, after oh sooooo much trying, the Great Man has fluked his way into the WPT event in the Bahamas again. It may have cost me a lot of time, a lot of effort and ultimately rather an embarrassing amount of money, but the $1million 1st prize should make up for that to some extent. And at least if I get knocked out early again I can go and watch some public executions.

A funny thing happened on the way to the forum...

2005-11-02T12:35:00.000-08:00

I detest forums. I have nothing but contempt for them. Not surprisingly the vast majority of my friends are of exactly the same opinion. Forums do nothing other than demonstrate the astonishing stupidity / pomposity / general cuntishness of everyone pathetic enough to post on them. Every time I post something myself (out of boredom, inevitably), I suddenly feel very dirty. I feel like I've just been raped.

Unless of course I manage to wind up the collection of pricks who inhabit the Gutshot Forum, a source of constant amusement to me. All I have to do is say something even vaguely controversial and they start squealing like stuck pigs. If only I actually cared about any of it I could spend all day annoying them, and calling them cunts, and having my posts deleted. There'd be some satisfaction in that. As it is I mostly leave them to demonstrate their own twattishness themselves. They're doing a pretty good job of it.

Best Mate's demise at Exeter yesterday led to a ridiculous outpouring of hysterical grief across the Betfair Forum. It's easy to forget how daft people are, especially when it comes to animals. He was only a horse, for God's sake! A small part of me grieves for him, but no more for him than for any other unfortunate nag that spills its guts on the racecourse. We're all going to die you know!

One irate viewer even rang up AttheRaces yesterday, consumed with rage over the fact that they - shock horror - were STILL going to show the rest of the afternoon's action despite the appalling tragedy in the previous race. I nearly shat myself when I heard that one. Does someone seriously think the world should stop just because some poxy racehorse had a heart attack? Is he off his nut? Bloody selfish of him to even suggest it. Some of us still had to get out of it.

A friend of mine had a good wheeze on the BF forum this morning. Finding himself at a loose end due to Betfair crashing for a while earlier on, he composed a great post, which he duly put up as soon as Betfair was fixed:

Title: Feeling absolutely empty and sad this morning

Just felt like there was very little point to today's racing. Just hard to get motivated at all.

Luckily the site is back up now.

Bokked

2005-11-01T15:05:00.000-08:00

How fitting that today's Racing Post front page was a terrifying close-up of Henrietta Knight looking like the Angel of Death, with the headline: "Even Henrietta won't want to miss this one." Well, I bet she wishes she had, as old Best Mate keeled over and died right in the middle of his glorious comeback. What a romantic sport!

Still, his death was not entirely in vain. At least Lord Miros got a few quid laying him in the place market. Dying was a bit extreme mind you, but it works for me. I'll take it any way I can get it.

So here's to you Best Mate me old salt. You couldn't have chosen a better time to shuffle off your mortal coil. Now off to the glue factory with you.

The Great Man and Mrs Great Man

2005-11-01T03:56:00.000-08:00

We came, we saw... we went to the pub and had daiquiris

2005-10-16T14:50:00.000-07:00

Now that Lady Miros and I are well and truly spliced, to have and to hold and all that jazz, we've both been tossing ideas around as to what sort of general everyday things we'd like to do better from this point forward. Alice, being a bit sick, declared with great confidence that Alice Purle was going to be ten times the poker player that Alice Vinnicombe used to be, a fair boast indeed considering Ms. Vinnicombe's undoubted talent and fine record in a wide variety of comps. AP seemed insistent though (born optimist), so it was off north to the bog-end that is Luton on Friday night, for Mr and Mrs Purle's prestigious debut as a married couple. I was displeased to note a conspicuous lack of bunting and congratulatory banners adorning the buildings, nearly-buildings and once-buildings in and around the Black Hole of Bedfordshire. Perhaps somebody told them the wrong day.

Anywho, despite the disappointment of there being no paparazzi, no journos, no fans, no stalkers, in fact pretty much nobody whatsoever, we dusted down our egos and endeavoured to get heads-up together in the goddamn tournament. This plan didn't last long, about 4 hands in fact, as Alice bounced out of the event in a rather funny and unusual way which she would not appreciate me repeating. Not quite the debut Mrs Purle had anticipated. Anyway, having earned a timeform squiggle next to her name, she at least redeemed herself by brutalising a few grown men in the cash game, while I eventually failed to outdraw A3 with AJ, so at least the good lady emerged the big winner on the evening. Funny old game.

Keen to transfer her cash form to tournaments, we then schlepped across to London on Thursday, where we hooked up with Oakley and Ellis for what was supposed to be a £100 freezeout in a dubious Mayfair establishment called The Games Room. It was only after we had drawn for seats that we realised what a farce this tournament was going to be. Instead of a 100 freezeout it was a bizarre rebuy tournament - 150 the opening sit-down, with an hour for £20 rebuys. What in the name of fuckweasels is that all about? As if this wasn't enough to sow the seeds of doubt, the manager of this spieler then - with no small measure of pride - announced that from the original 150, a whole 50 POUNDs (!!) was contributed to the prize pool!! An eerie silence descended, broken only by the sound of our collective jaws dropping. Needless to say we were out the door quicker than you could say 'pull the other one, it's got bells on'. So much for that idea.

The really amazing thing is that we were the only ones to leave. Apparently the other 20 chumps found a 66% rake entirely acceptable. This was probably something to do with the fact that they were having 2 grand last-longers with each other. What a country.

In the end this turn of events was a real boon. We retired as a group to the nearest bar, imbibed a few very pleasant cocktails, and I honoured tradition by wanking away some loose change to Mr. Ellis playing Liar's Poker. Inevitably we also found our way to Clerkenwell Road, where karma rewarded me with an incredible rush of cards, and I made an absolute mint in the cash game. I really should go out more often.

I don't know what the moral of the story is, but just remember this: if you ever get word of some dodgy game in Mayfair, in The Games Room in Chesterfield Street, don't even entertain the notion of turning up. Unless you're just going to laugh at them, and maybe start a fight, which would be much more fun. Let me know if that's the plan, I might just come myself.

Lazy days

2005-10-13T16:00:00.000-07:00

JETS YTD: what difference

Yesterday was a real low point in terms of personal laziness. I was actually quite impressed with myself. I just felt dog tired all day, and if Lord Miros feels tired, you can guaranteee Lord Miros ain't gonna do shit all day long. And so it proved.

Actually, that's not strictly true. Halfway through the afternoon I did feel a slight pang of guilt about lying on the sofa all day eating Coco Pops. Well, alright, it wasn't strictly guilt. It was boredom. I had five minutes to kill before Tour of Duty and there's only so many times you can abuse yourself in one afternoon. Carried along on this brief energetic crest, I struggled off the sofa, staggered 3 feet to the computer, and had a bet on a horse (Moktabes), which duly trotted up. That was the beginning and the end of my working day. Impressively I then managed to regain the sofa without need of an oxygen mask or adrenaline shot. The life of me.

It's not my fault. I can't help it. There's just so much great stuff on TV I can't really find a reason to do much else.

Anyway, gotta go. Hornets From Hell is just about to start on the Discovery Channel. You see, at least I'm learning something.

I love my wife

2005-10-11T23:16:00.000-07:00

JETS YTD: +£45,513 (although it might as well be a million, their top two QBs are fucked for the season, marv)

Warning: readers of a nauseous or bitter disposition should not read the following entry. Go and have some nice biscuits instead.

Well, it's been a long while since my last real blog entry. My most humble apologies. As you can imagine, I've had rather a lot on my plate, although that's not really a viable excuse. The truth is I'm just damn lazy and, as I said elsewhere, the blog started to seem too much like a job. If I'm not enjoying something, I won't do it. Still, I'm back now and, hopefully, ready to roll and update regularly. I make no promises though.

Loads of mad shit has happened in the past few weeks, with mercifully little of it being poker or gambling related. Obviously the most significant event was the long-awaited marriage to my beloved soulmate. I may recount an anecdote or two about the wedding another time, but not today. Today I dedicate my thoughts to my stunning and beautiful new wife, Alice Mary Louise Purle.

It's honestly quite overwhelming to think that I now have a wife. I don't feel like an adult, so how can I have a wife? I don't feel grown up at all. I've never felt grown up. I don't even have a job, how can I be allowed to marry? What an amazing and baffling feeling this marriage lark is.

Anyway, the fact remains that I really am married, both legally and before the eyes of God, (even though he's just a pathetic human construct, but we won't discuss that now). And even though I jested in my speech that everyone would be invited to my next wedding, I'm afraid it's never going to happen. This is the one and only time Lord Miros will ever be married, that I can guarantee. Alice and I were made to last.

I feel I owe a lot to Alice. She's responsible for me becoming the more mature, well-rounded and sociable person I am today. When I first met her, (at university), it has to be said that I was a bit of a prick. Predictably, I was initially only interested in her because I wanted to get my nuts in; I wasn't even considering the possibility of anything long-term. And when it came to stringing girls along, I was an old hand. All my previous dalliances had simply seemed like amusing experiments. I enjoyed the charming, the seduction, the chase, the flirting, but it was never sincere. Never once. It was just a means to an end. I told them what they wanted to hear, but in reality I couldn't have cared less about them. You could say I was a bounder. I'd say I was a cunt.

I broke it off with girls at the drop of a hat, as soon as another one hoved into view. I'm ashamed to say I never stopped to consider the emotional impact it was having on them. Paradoxically, I also became dangerously obsessed with girls whenever they rejected me, which was quite often. I guess I was just a huge mass of insecurity. Alice was a different matter.

I remember in the early days, Alice and I were bounding along the high street in Exeter, and from nowhere she suddenly exclaimed: "look at the lampposts! I LOVE lampposts!" After I stopped laughing, I realised she had a point. I love lampposts too. Lampposts are the dogs bollocks. I'd just never stopped to consider it before. In fact I love lots of ridiculous crap which before now I'd looked upon with a very ambivalent eye. That's how my darling wife has influenced me. She has infectious enthusiasm for practically everything, and I love it. It reminds me how great everything is. Above and beyond that, she has a lust for life. That's what she gave me. That's why I owe her.

At first I thought Alice was just naive. I cynically believed that time and experience would dissolve her carefree nature. I'm glad to say I was wrong. In the seven years I've known her, she hasn't changed a bit. Touch wood, she never will. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Without Alice, I don't know where I'd be now. It's impossible to imagine I could have met anyone else as wonderful. I'd probably be well on the way to alcoholism, or a life of crime, or heroin addiction. Alice gives me a purpose to keep myself in line. She is my reason to live. I said in my speech that she is the only person I would give my life for, and I meant it without hesitation. If I had to die for her, I would. Her life is worth a dozen of mine.

So there you have it. That's my wife. She's also my best friend, my confidant, my therapist, and my rock. So any girls who are reading this, wet with desire just from reading my words, I've got bad news for you - Lord Miros is off the market. For good. You'll have to make do with one of the 3 billion other lads. I know, I know, please don't cry. Time is a great healer; you'll get over it one fine day.

I know this has all been sickeningly trite, but it had to be said. I want everyone to know how much I love my wife. If there's anything to be learned from this, it's that you should all go out there and find your very own soulmate. They're bound to be lurking around somewhere. Trust me, it's fucking marvellous.

Oh, and don't fuck with her at the poker table. She may be a sweet little kitten, but you'll also have me to answer to, and I'm a murderous bastard. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Room for a little one?

2005-10-06T02:56:00.000-07:00

Ah, there's nothing like a freeroll. I'm surely the favourite for this thing. After all, bloggers only blog because they can't play for shit. Hey, hang on...

I have registered to play in the
Online Poker Blogger Championship!

This event is powered by PokerStars.

Registration code: 6849946

How much is an inch?

2005-09-09T14:24:00.000-07:00

J-E-T-S YTD: +£31015.16

There are a lot of pubs in Wokingham. Predictably this also means there's an awful lot of pub quizzes, and most people in Wokingham are quite stupid so these really should be easy pickings. Apparently not.

Lady Miros and I did manage a bronze medal the other day, but 3rd out of 3 isn't that special, especially considering it was a quiz which paid prizes to the first 2 teams. Bubbled again. On tilt I then spent a fortune on the raffle - which had 3 different draws - and didn't win a groat there either. It's a stitch-up.

Still, if ever the gambling goes tits-up, I've formulated a plan to earn an easy alternative wage. All Alice and I have to do is travel round the local quiz circuit, sitting quietly in a corner, texting any unanswered questions to our third man, who with the aid of google will swiftly enlighten us. I'm amazed that no-one else is already trying it. Some of the jackpots in these quizzes are huge rollovers, so we could really live high on the hog for a good few weeks, or at least until we get rumbled by every pub in Berkshire, which would take some time. And it would make me feel quite clever.

My ignorance is a source of constant irritation. Evidently my 20-odd years of expensive education were all for naught, as I now know basically fuck all about anything, except horses and sports and poker, which are overwhelmingly trivial. I hated school and couldn't wait to leave, but know that there's no pressure on me I actually want to learn stuff, and know things, and not be such an ignorant arse the whole time. But then again I'm lazy, and I don't really NEED to know anything, so why should I bother?

I went to the hairdresser's recently for a pre-wedding trim, and she suggested cutting off an inch. I had to ask her how much an inch is. All I can remember is that those long rulers at school were 12 inches, which isn't much of a reference point. She could have suggested removing a hectare and I'd probably have agreed.

Meanwhile the JETS YTD continues its inexorable climb, slowed only by the fact that I've pretty much murdered the market on Betfair. As I write this there's 14 quid available at 23-1. Marvellous. Where have all the sickos gone? Come on boys, throw me a bone. Some of us are trying to get out of it.

Also it's the stag night tomorrow, which I'm vaguely dreading. Happily I've been promised there'll be no strippers or nasty surprises, but when I look at the rogue's gallery of sickos that are coming I can't help feeling that something unpleasant is going to happen to me. I warn you now, you horrible little fuckers, you'd better not try anything funny. It's more than your life is worth.

Back to form

2005-09-04T11:19:00.000-07:00

J-E-T-S YTD: +£14512.83

Just a quick update to reassure myself I'm not dead. Life seems much less gloomy now, what with seeing plenty of friends recently and generally venturing out into that stuff called sunshine. Mad, must try it more often. The wedding looms and Lady Miros is crapping herself (in a very ladylike manner, of course), meanwhile I've done practically zilch to prepare for it. Should be a breeze anyway. What's the worst that could happen?

After much shilly-shallying, every single one of my invited friends has decided to turn up. Bunch of liggers. Once the Camel sussed out the prospect of free food, his reply was in the post quicker than you could say pork scratchings. And this despite the fact he lives in Darlington, and the more-prescient fact that the Camelette is on the verge of dispensing the long-awaited Humpling. I expect he won't come. Don't worry Keith, I'll send you a doggy-bag.

And a quick message to those who thought they might be invited, but aren't... well, soz. That's about all I can say really. I obviously don't like you that much.

Thank fuck it's the NFL

2005-09-01T02:25:00.000-07:00

J-E-T-S YTD: +£7138.28

If there's one thing certain to raise my spirits, other than getting my rocks off or eating a nice beetroot sandwich, it's a big fat fuckoff dose of American sports. And I don't mean just baseball. In fact I don't mean baseball at all. Recently I've come to the conclusion that glorified rounders is not my weapon of choice when it comes to paying the mortgage.

Fortunately the weekend after next is the start of the real sport - N Fucking L. Yes, it's that glorious time of year again. Not so good for poor Lady Miros perhaps, who is facing the prospect of 21 consecutive Sundays (honeymoon excepted) of me spouting ignorant nonsense about strong safeties and defensive pass interference and interceptions and sacks and fumbles and other mad stuff that she neither knows nor cares about. But she'll live with it, because she loves me.

This year, as it was last year, the object of my affection is the offensively-challenged New York Jets. Last year I decided, for no apparent reason, to bet on the Jets EVERY DAY both pre-season and during the season, eventually mounting up a potential payout of £27,000 if the Jets had done the business. And fuck me, they weren't far away. If they hadn't scuffed not one but TWO game-winning field goals in Pittsburgh, they would've been in the conference playoff, and I could have at least hedged a bit off. Poxy kickers are always the death of me.

That said, they did get lucky in the previous playoff game. I was in the Bahamas at the time, lounging in the sportsbook in Atlantis, when the Jets-Chargers game was sent into a nail-biting sudden-death overtime. By this stage I was struggling to breathe, having endured the Jets' ignominious failure to wrap up the game earlier, and was gloomily drowning my sorrows in a bucket of white russian. Once overtime got underway, I resorted to pacing the length of the sportsbook, muttering angrily to myself and pondering which of the many Chargers fans I was going to kick in the nuts (before running away). Great fun! This is what all sports should be like. It has to mean something.

A guy I know called Todd (Greg Raymer's brother-in-law, a sort of travelling professional funker) turned up to lend his superior funking talent. I was bouncing off the walls by this stage, as the advantage in the game swung wildly back and forth. He seemed highly amused, although he clearly thought I was a few sandwiches short of a picnic, which was fair enough. I'm also not sure the increasing swarms of Jets fans could understand why they had a lone wild-eyed Brit standing amongst them, noisily chanting J-E-T-S JETS JETS JETS!!! "Hey buddy, you got a bet on this game?" one savvy yank inquired, to which my honest answer was of course "not on this game, no", which served only to confuse them even further. Nevertheless my kalua-fuelled enthusiasm stirred up quite a cheering section of East Coast faithful, and for several minutes I found myself so busy learning ditties from the rather limited J-E-T-S repertoire that I completely lost track of what was happening in the game.

As it happens this was probably for the best, as it was all one-way traffic. In the interim those annoying but tenacious San Diegans had crawled, inched and staggered their way towards Jets' territory. A fresh first down resulted in much wailing and gnashing of teeth from my new-found chums (well, swearing and swilling of beer more accurately, but you get my drift). The Bolts were now within field-goal range, and with one more first-down were odds-on for a TD (apologies to non-afficionados, but I have little sympathy). Basically, if they scored any points, the game was over. Marv.

Fortunately the Chargers made little attempt to get any closer, putting their faith in Nate Kaeding to convert a 40-yard field goal to win it. At this point, they were massive odds-on. Presumably the casino staff were busily readying fresh craps tables to accommodate the influx of steaming New Yorkers. But then Kaeding choked and the kick sailed wide, leading to bedlam in the sportsbook as me and a hundred Jets fans raised the roof. Now, I've been to some manic goalfest FA Cup finals in my youth, but this topped the lot. Collective euphoria is better than sex.

The Bolts didn't get another chance. The Jets booted a field goal with 5 seconds of overtime left to seal it, and I think I declared my undying love for Todd, although he didn't seem willing to reciprocate. All in all, the greatest NFL experience of my life.

This year I've decided not to give up on the Jets, which is why I'll now be keeping you abreast with the J-E-T-S YTD. Every time I cobble together a few quid on Betfair, I'm going to lump some of it on the Jets (currently 23-1 on Betfair), until ultimately I've backed them to win a new house, or at least a small timeshare somewhere in the Balkans. The figure therefore represents my potential payout when those much-underrated fellows cop in February. And they will, be sure of that. After all, I was sure they were going to win last year, and they didn't, which must mean they're CERTAIN to win this year. I was just way ahead of my time!

Get on now. Rob someone if you have to. It's practically free money.

Long dark teatime of the soul

2005-08-25T00:31:00.000-07:00

It's been raining solidly all day. Normally I love the rain but today I took no joy in it; my only thought was how to avoid getting wet while dipping out for my regular bursts of nicotine. Very unlike me.

I think my mind is playing tricks on me. In so many ways, I've never been happier, and never had reason to be happier. In one month I'll be marrying my soulmate, who I love completely. My house is in the process of being repainted, and refurnished, and general revamped into a glorious technicolor pleasure palace with every mod con my heart could ever desire. Meanwhile my finances continue in the ascendancy, despite my Luton incompetence (25% of Action Dave got me out of it, nice one son). All is rosy in the garden of Miros.

So why do I wake up every now and then, and feel a sudden and inexplicable sense of gloom? Why do I sit in these poxy plo games on Stars, and feel nothing but ambivalence about whether I win or lose? I can't even find the motivation to negotiate the 5-minute walk to get the Racing Post. The other day I slept for seventeen hours straight. Seventeen!!! What the hell's wrong with me?

I blame it all on Luton. Going to that dreadful hellhole four times in one week was more than I could bear. It was ok most of the time, when playing or eating the buffet or grabbing a swift g+t, but then there were things which reminded me just why I hate people, and why I sometimes hate poker, and why I really hate Luton. Luton was a timely reminder of just what FUCKING ARSEHOLES people can be. I heard some guy slow-rolled someone for 8 MINUTES with quads. That's just not right. Lucky for him I wasn't at the table myself, I think I'd have belted him one on general principle. In another incident, I knocked some little twerp out of the omaha with a perfectly reasonable move, where I was basically 45/55 and sucked out on his top set. He went berserk. What right does he have to stand there criticising my play, calling me a wanker, right to my fucking face? What is WRONG with these cunts? Get some perspective!

Well, bollocks to it all. I'm sick of having to be in the same room as these people, I'm sick of pointless 'when to pass aces' debates on forums, I'm sick of this game and the selfish know-it-alls who dare to even share my oxygen. I'm going to find something useful to do with my spare time that might actually seem productive or helpful and not just a waste of time and effort like most of this futile nonsense.

Ok, that's enough. I can see the nurse coming and she doesn't look pleased. I'd better pretend to be having a fit.

Genocidal tendencies

2005-08-08T15:47:00.000-07:00

Apologies for not updating for a while. It's been a very busy time at Miros Manor, what with subscribing to NASN, and the advent of exchange poker on Betfair, not to mention all these crazy festivals which are nearly attracting my attention. I did well to dodge the Vic this week (they have a dice table), but for some reason I can't resist the lure of Bedfordshire's Finest, so a week of long drives up the M1 and frenzied tournament spunking awaits.

About a week ago, I had a big shot at the 190k prize in the 500 on Stars, only to suffer a heart-wrenching beat which sent me spinning out in 25th. The howl of despair emanating from Banbury Close shook birds from their perch as far away as Amersham, and apparently caused two German Shepherds to eviscerate their innocently sleeping owner. Somewhat predictably, I woke up the next day in a foul and murderous mood. Fortunately I wasn't quite psychotic enough to spit-roast my two darling guinea pigs (Devon and Derek), but it was damn close. Their time will come.

Before long I spied a suitable vehicle on which to take out my frustrations - an ant's nest, or rather two separate nests, which had suddenly sprung up overnight on my newly-acquired lawn. The cheek of the bastards. I found it curious to note that one was a nest of black ants, while the other, not 18 inches away, was colonised by their rather more vicious red cousins. I whiled away a few happy minutes prodding the two camps towards each other, hoping for some running battles, but ants aren't very obliging at the best of times and I soon grew bored of their antics (no pun intended). It was time for some serious ethnic cleansing.

After kicking the mounds about a bit, which really pissed them off, I gave them a good long squirt with the hose, just for fun. They weren't impressed, but they also weren't dead. Hardy little buggers. Not to worry, the kettle only takes a minute to boil. Three sorties later, the grass was well and truly steaming, and the ants were well and truly fucked. They won't be doing that again in a hurry.

Well, just goes to show how little I know. Within one day the durable blighters were back, rebuilding their mound, replanting their larvae, and generally making a nuisance of themselves all over again. Oh, and the grass had died. Apparently it doesn't like boiling water as much as ants do. Bah.

Anyway, I decided to leave them to it. I'm not a heartless man deep down, and they'd come through a helluva lot, only to pick themselves back up again and get on with it. If only people were like that, the world would be a better place. But that's enough two-bit philosophy for one day.

Oh, and of course I wasn't feeling quite so bloodthirsty any more, having won another $10 comp on Stars, for $6300. I guess karma isn't that fussed about ants.

Snowball effect

2005-07-20T03:37:00.000-07:00

Right now I'm enjoying the pleasant sensation of a man who's just faced the long drop, only to have the rope snap on the way down (and whose executioners just shrug their shoulders and say "ah fuck it, let's let him go"). I played some seriously dodgy omaha this evening, but thankfully the poker gods decided merely to spank me lightly, before giving me a lollipop and telling me I'm a good boy really. They're such teasers.

Fresh from some minor satellite success, I decided to leap into a comfortable-looking 1/2 plo game for some post-tournament relaxation. Of course, best-laid plans and all that, and within 30 seconds I'm slinging $200 in with top 2 against top set, goodnight Vienna.

Not one to let such things irritate me (ha ha), I sink into 3 other 1/2 games, and do my money in all of them. No, MURDER my money in all of them. In cold blood. I felt like some sort of benevolent and rather insane monarch, spraying money around to all my loyal subjects. It was just embarrassing.

One rush of blood later, I'm playing short-handed 5-10. The last refuge of the desperate man (or Matt the Jug, where the hell is he when you need him anyway?). After 1 hand I'm down a monkey. Marv! Things can't get much worse. Oh, tell a lie, Alan Betson wipes out the recipient of my money in a $5000 pot, so now we're heads-up. Thanks but no thanks. Let's not and say we did.

Only one thing for it then. Ahoy, the verdant pastures of the 10-20, for once mercifully devoid of the Jones/Ashby element. One last roll of the dice for Lord Miros. What's the worst that could happen?

Luckily I don't even like Dr.Pepper, otherwise I'd probably be writing this from the deck of the slow boat to China. There was one point where I was faced with a pre-flop re-reraise of $1200, holding a very sexy QQT7 (single-suited). I love crap like that! Clutching my head in my hands, I knew this was the defining moment. If I slung it all in with this absolute piece of dogshit, I knew I might as well give up and turn my computer off for good. But I really, REALLY wanted to. And it would get me right out of it!

Needless to say, I passed, and I would've won. But I think that pot finally made me knuckle down and get on with it. From there on in, I never lost another pot. The old Miros magic started to flow again. My dodgy 10-high flushes held up against trips; my speculative bets with two pair and the blockers found callers, but then the miracle pair-up arrived. And of course I cold-called a raise and a reraise with the classic 3789, et voila, the old 993 floperoo. Ah, just like the good old days!

So I struggled my way out of it, accepting a small loss as a very reasonable price to pay. I'm not a greedy man, you see. The poker gods don't like greed. And it doesn't pay to stir them up.

Thanks for the ride, boys. Most of all, thanks for getting me out of it. I promise I won't do it again.

Return of the king

2005-07-14T14:29:00.000-07:00

Well, it's over. I was only in Vegas a week but it felt like an eternity. I don't think I've ever had so many highs and lows in such a short space of time. Mainly lows, it must be said. I don't want to talk about the main event too much as there isn't much to be said. In short, I played like a god on day one, took a vicious beat, and wanked my chips away on day two in 20 minutes flat. That's about it.

Even though Vegas was generally depressing, I did achieve what I set out to do. I survived day one, albeit in vain, and I knocked someone out. In fact I knocked three people out. Eerily reminscent of my rabbit-shooting post.

I won't tell you about it now, because I suspect nobody cares, which is fair enough. Anyway, my Vegas experience this year didn't really revolve around the WSOP. Most of the depression that I felt had nothing to do with how badly I played on day two, and more to do with how soulless the series felt, and how much I was missing Alice, and my own loneliness in general. I noticed this year just how dependent I've become on other people's company, and while I think this is probably a good thing (as it stops me being such a cunt), it's definitely not a good thing in the Rio where you can't find a friendly face when you need one. I went the whole trip without seeing either Neil Channing or Richard Gryko, two of my closest friends, and frankly it pissed me off. Hopefully Caesar's Palace next year will prove a more sociable atmosphere.

Incidentally, there's a particularly unflattering picture of me at http://www.pokerstarsblog.com/2005/07/your-reputation-precedes-you-miros.html , and a rather better one at http://acehighwins.blogspot.com/2005/07/jos-ones-to-watch-in-wsop.html

I think I need to lose at least two chins by the wedding. Or at least try to look rather less smug (it comes naturally). I wouldn't blame Alice for calling the whole thing off on the back of that.

And on the third day he spunked again...

2005-07-03T13:58:00.000-07:00

After some rather tiresome e-mail shenanigans, a very nice man from the Rio finally told me what day I start on in the WSOP. Joyfully, it's the third (Saturday). This is utterly wonderful news. Last year I had to start on the first day and I absolutely hated it, especially when I played like an eejit and made a deserved early exit. The next day was probably one of the most miserable of my life, as I had to mooch around absorbed in my own self-pity / self-loathing, watching 1200 excited faces just starting their own poker adventure. Wankers.

The Bahamas was even worse. Alice and I got royally screwed by some inept fool at Heathrow who had cocked up our connecting flight (we realised, all too late, that when we landed at Miami our connection had already left). Considering that we were both due to start on day one, at 12 the next day, this was an ill omen, especially when a rather unconcerned airline employee told us: "looks like that was the last flight of the day". Marv. Eventually we squeezed onto a dangerous-looking twin-prop operated by Bald Eagle, or something like that, and arrived in Nassau at 3 a.m. only to discover, of course, that our luggage would not be joining us. We both busted in time for supper on day one.

But now the shoe is on the other foot. This year I'll have the luxury of kicking around in bars and bowling alleys for two days, listening to Nick Persaud's 5-3 suited "bad beats" and inwardly gloating over the fact that thousands of tosspots are out, while I haven't even fired a chip in anger. Also, if by some extraordinary bad luck I bust out early, I'll only have to endure a few more days of dice and despair before going home.

I know a lot of people think it's a disadvantage not to get a rest day, but I really couldn't disagree more. Sure, Dan Harrington was the only day one player to make the final last year, but I think that was a fluke. This year I'm betting there'll be an even spread on the final (including my good self, bien sur). I hardly ever find poker exhausting - perhaps that means I'm not concentrating hard enough? Obviously I'm not in a position to comment, having never made it beyond day two, so maybe I'm wrong. Hopefully this year I'll find out.

Decide and rule

2005-06-30T14:02:00.000-07:00

Yes, I'm back. The Dordogne was fun and eventful and I did vomit once from eating too much foie gras, but there's really no place like home. Sadly I'm only back for a week or so as I'm off to Vegas on Wednesday to wank away my chips to some lucky sap in that World Series thing.

I've been thinking a lot recently about why I love poker so much, other than that I'm sick. The conclusion I've come to is that I'm actually not sick at all. Some of you may beg to differ, but it's true I tells ya. Sure, I hear the call of the bones, but that's a different matter. At the poker table I'm not there to gamble, I'm there to make decisions. It's all about problem-solving. That's what I really love about the game. Make the right decisions most of the time, and ultimately you'll be alright. Make the right ones all the time, and often you're damn near unbeatable.

I keep thinking that one day soon I'll have some really tough decisions to make. I hope not, 'cos I'm out of practice. I don't mean trivial poker decisions, but real decisions, life-changing stuff. Like finding out your unborn child has a debilitating illness and whether or not you should abort. I keep having this horrible daydream that a loved one will die just as I'm jetting off to Vegas. Would I still play the Main Event? I think we all know the answer to that. Someday soon I'll have to make one of these horrible decisions, because life's just been too damn easy so far. It can't carry on like this forever, can it? Can I get through it all avoiding the nasty unpleasantness that happens to other people? If I was a betting man, I'd say no. Fortunately I'm a mug, so perhaps I'm wrong.

I can't even remember the last time I had a tough decision to make. Probably in the Old Bailey, and that was 10 years ago. Not guilty m'lud, YBA! These days my toughest decisions revolve around whether to have a flutter or a splodge, or whether to have Weetabix or a can of Guinness, or whether my ideal role model is Humbert Humbert or Clare Quilty. That's as tough as it gets. Long may it continue.

I hope I make the right decisions in Vegas. I find it much harder when people are actually there looking at me. My brain convinces me that I'm a fraud, that I'll never get away with it. The other people don't beat me; I beat myself. I hope I can find a solution for it this year.

I think I probably need to drink more.

Pastures new

2005-06-14T16:25:00.000-07:00

I'm nearly in heaven. I'm not there yet, but it's damn close. On Friday Lady Miros and I left the bog end of nowhere for good, in exchange for a variable mortgage and a terraced starter home in the Elysian fields of Wokingham. Wokingham is one funky place. Anywhere with a sprint handicap named after it is my kind of town.

The real joy of Wokingham is that I can now get broadband, Sky, delivery pizza and Racing Post, plus there are at least 10 very reasonable pubs within walking distance. A long summer of horseracing, baseball and inebriation await. Hopefully the blog may even be updated more often as well. Then again, perhaps not. I am, after all, phenomenally lazy. Perhaps you people should find something more productive to be getting on with. Do none of you fuckers ever work?

Next week I'm off to the Dordogne to gorge myself on foie gras and vino. The life of me. I think I deserve a holiday, it's been a tough few weeks for me. I even had to get up at 9.30 the other day to accommodate the Sky Guy. If I have to do that again I may well have an aneurism.

Incidentally, if anyone can think of any interesting options for my stag do, let me know. The problem with having no mates is that I had to choose as my best man the only sicko in the world even lazier than me. As such, he's struggling to come up with something fun which will also entertain a disparate bad of gamblers, university friends (mostly homosexual) and general drifters. Ideally, there should be very little gambling involved. Or homosexuality, for that matter. Any suggestions would be gratefully received.

No dice

2005-06-06T12:25:00.000-07:00

Well, it looks like I am going to Vegas this year after all. I'd been pretty apathetic about it for the past few weeks, but I've won my seat now so that's that. Let's hope it's third time lucky.

Frankly, the prospect of cramming into the Rio surrounded by 6600 hometown heroes still fills me with dread. It was never like this in the good old days (i.e. 2003). Back then you felt you'd really done something to get to the WSOP. Now every lowlife from Porvoo to Pasadena has finegled their way in. They'll be very alright.

Still, these boys Victor Chandler really know their onions. Check out www.victorchandler.com/coupon_outright.jsp?&eid=59058100&eid=&ot=100 . I'm a very reasonable 125/1 to make the final, a shorter price than 6 former world champions, and one Neil Channing. Can't argue with that.

For those of my chums also going to Vegas, I can't wait to see you out there. We''ll knock back some White Russians, go bowling in the Orleans, and generally just kick back and glory in the heady social funfest that is the WSOP. I've always hated it for the poker, but loved it for the company. But please, let's not play any dice. I can't take the pain any more. Last year I was struggling in the WSOP so I spent the ENTIRE dinner break not eating dinner, not hanging around taking solace from my cronies, but playing dice ON MY OWN in the Horseshoe. Solitary dice is the choice of the true sicko. Obviously the inevitable happened, as I spent the first hour doing my nuts and then, just as the event restarted, I got on a roll. I now had a choice to make between getting my money back on the bones or defending my blinds in that silly tournament thing. Bit of a no-brainer. Twenty minutes later I finally struggled back to my seat feeling the relief of a man spared by the dice gods. Within another twenty I was out.

Not this time. Not this year, goddammit. This year the lure of the hardways and the high horn won't distract me from the task in hand. This year I'll just ignore the boys when they suggest a jolly old dicecapade. Perhaps I'll take some Sartre or Proust and examine the philosophical implications of the come bet whilst they donate to the construction of more Nevadan funhouses. Or maybe I'll just go swimming or sightseeing or take in a show. Or maybe I'll just stand and watch, taking in the ambience without the need for financial risk.

Or maybe I'll cut off my own testicles with a rusty scythe. The likelihood is about the same.

One for sorrow

2005-06-03T11:57:00.000-07:00

For a moment this morning I thought it was snowing. Unusual perhaps for early June, but as I was busy checking the baseball scores I thought nothing of it. The Yankees lost their 5th straight game, which is nothing short of orgasmic.

As it turns out it wasn't snowing; it was a flurry of dandelion spores from the surrounding fields. I stood outside and became quite upset at the thought that most would land on fallow ground. Silly I know. I mean, it's not as if I burst into tears every time I spray my own seed on the carpet / curtains / grass or wherever. And if every dandelion spore produced another dandelion, the world would literally be overwhelmed with dandelions, which would be mad. Still, that's nature for you.

Speaking of which, Alice and I were confronted with nature at its most bloodthirsty yesterday evening. Driving through Binfield (en route, incidentally, to a poker game at Reading's Madjeski Stadium with the likes of Darryl Wong and Tony Chapman - marv), I suddenly had to swerve as a bird landed flapping and helpless on the road in front of me. At Lady Miros' insistence, we then of course had to turn back to check on its wellbeing (I'd missed, more by luck than judgement). The scene that we came across was really quite disturbing.

The bird in question was lying on the pavement, dazed and confused and hardly moving. For the sake of ornithological accuracy, I think it was some sort of jay. The reason for its distress was the presence of four large, totally psychotic magpies, who were in the process of pecking it to death. Bizarrely the first thought that came into my head was that he was some sort of paedophile bird being lynched by a gang of avian chavs. It's quite sad that modern culture has invaded my thought processes so irredemably.

Anywho, naturally I screeched to a halt and the saintly Lady Miros galloped to the rescue. Our feeble brown chum was seemingly in a bad way. With the magpies still cackling in the background, we decided the best course of action was to offload the fella on someone who might actually give a shit. This was particularly lucky as we were just down the road from Michelle, an animal nut who looks after our guinea pigs when we're away.

On arrival at Michelle's various things happened in a matter of seconds. Firstly, our ungrateful captive started screaming, loudly and repeatedly. Then, in a wild panic, he dug his talons into Alice's fingers with all his might, and started to tear. Then Alice started screaming. Whilst I bravely attempted to extricate him from her grasp, he swivelled his head and bit me, drawing blood. Bastard! It was at this point that Michelle answered the door, to a scene of carnage, with a look of something approaching terror.

The upshot of it all is that we eventually managed to deposit the vicious little sod in a cage, where he showed every sign of being none the worse for his ordeal. Alice was rushed off to have her hands washed, and demonstrated a Messiah-like ability to heal, as she emerged without a scratch on any of her delicate little pinkies. Meanwhile, I stood there quietly bleeding, wondering how long it would take for bird flu to strike me down.

Now being in a rush, we hotfooted it to Reading, leaving a rather stunned Michelle to deal with the bird. I hope she eats it.

Class is permanent

2005-05-25T12:15:00.000-07:00

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

2005-05-15T14:04:00.000-07:00

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

2005-05-03T13:22:00.000-07:00

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.

Ei ei

2005-04-29T05:26:00.000-07:00

The snooker World Championships have been occupying my attentions all week, not from a betting perspective but as a form of mindless relaxation. There's something strangely hypnotic about watching two grown men poke balls around with sticks. Especially with a Guinness or three on hand, marvellous.

Yesterday I posted the latest addition to my inglorious tipping career, under the title 'Free Money', telling you all to back Shaun Murphy on both the outright and handicap markets against perpetual snail Peter Ebdon. You can imagine what happened next. Peter Ebdon started playing the snooker of his life, and I felt like a cunt. So I deleted it.

Happily, yer man Murphy has won today's morning session 7-1, which puts him firmly in the driver's seat. Thank fuck for that.

Meanwhile, Ian McCulloch is busy putting Matthew Stevens to bed in the other semi-final. I'm doing some serious funking here as I've had all of £18 on McCulloch at 50-1. This game's too easy!

On another topic, I hope some of my loyal readers - Andy Ward, Camel, etc. - are going to get stuck in to this evening's 250 at Luton. I hate having to buy my own drinks. I've probably played some of the worst hold'em of my life recently so I may even not win it. However, I am bringing Lady Miros, so you'll still have to settle for second. Soz.

Youthful fantasies

2005-04-19T23:33:00.000-07:00

The bullshit that people come out with at the poker table never ceases to amuse me. Once, in a completely silent cash game on Stars, one of the combatants suddenly came out with the immortal line: "yeah, she had HUUUGE breasts, and she loved me sucking them." This was swiftly followed by: "oops sorry, wrong table."

Ever the cynic, I took it upon myself to investigate, and discovered through the technological wizardry of the Search feature that our friend was, of course, nowhere else to be seen. Which made him appear really rather sad. Upon confronting him with this irrefutable evidence, I was met with stony silence. Quelle surprise.

Further hilarity ensued just this evening, when I witnessed the following exchange in a $10 rebuy comp:

NoLimitProPP: Man, I love these tournaments. So much value.
idareyouAA: I hear you dude
NoLimitProPP: I've won this tournament like, 5 times this year
idareyouAA: Wow, 5k for 1st, pretty cool
NoLimitProPP: Yeah, this site rocks, so many bad players
idareyouAA: You ever won TLB?
NoLimitProPP: Nah, I play too much on Paradise, I like bigger comps on here tho
idareyouAA: You ever won the 100k on Sunday?
NoLimitProPP: 4th my best, not too shabby
idareyouAA: Cool.

After some rather dubious play from our masterful hero, he manages to spunk his large stack in one hand with Ace-high (to yours truly). The break begins straight away and his bum chum reminds him to take the add-on.

NoLimitProPP: Hey man, can you meet me on table Bollockov?
idareyouAA: Sure, why?
NoLimitProPP: I need you to dump $2 to me. I've only got $8.95 in my account.

Priceless!

Twenty questions

2005-04-14T11:00:00.000-07:00

Here's a fun quiz which everyone can try:

1. Did you ever lose time from work or school due to gambling? A couple of lectures when Newton Abbot was on, does that count?

2. Has gambling ever made your home life unhappy? Only when Lady Miros is doing her cobblers on Betfair.

3. Did gambling affect your reputation? What reputation????

4. Have you ever felt remorse after gambling? Almost every time.

5. Did you ever gamble to get money with which to pay debts or otherwise solve financial difficulties? Once or twice.

6. Did gambling cause a decrease in your ambition or efficiency? I never had any in the first place.

7. After losing did you feel you must return as soon as possible and win back your losses? Sometimes.

8. After a win did you have a strong urge to return and win more? Who wouldn't?

9. Did you often gamble until your last dollar was gone? So you've seen me in the Nugget then.

10. Did you ever borrow to finance your gambling? Well, Pedro was practically throwing it at me...

11. Have you ever sold anything to finance gambling? Only my dignity.

12. Were you reluctant to use "gambling money" for normal expenditures? No.

13. Did gambling make you careless of the welfare of yourself or your family? No.

14. Did you ever gamble longer than you had planned? Obviously.

15. Have you ever gambled to escape worry or trouble? I never have any worries, so no.

16. Have you ever committed, or considered committing, an illegal act to finance gambling? No.

17. Did gambling cause you to have difficulty in sleeping? You must be joking.

18. Do arguments, disappointments or frustrations create within you an urge to gamble? The urge is always there, so no.

19. Did you ever have an urge to celebrate any good fortune by a few hours of gambling? See 18.

20. Have you ever considered self destruction or suicide as a result of your gambling? No.

9 out of 20 for me, pretty good I think you'll agree. But apparently 7 or more makes you a compulsive gambler. Marv.

I can't help thinking they could have saved me a lot of time and effort by narrowing it down to one question:

1. Are you a sicko? Yes.

Suicide is feckless

2005-04-05T05:42:00.000-07:00

While watching the hours dribble away in between some cynical hit-and-runs on Stars and my daily doses of Grand Theft Auto, I've been busily re-reading various reports and threads on the suicide of Andy Glazer. It never ceases to amaze me that people can commit such a selfish and pointless act just because they're depressed. For fuck's sake, GET OVER YOURSELVES. Have a nice cup of tea and a wank, life really isn't that bad. I know, depression is not just about being unhappy, it's a medical condition, blah blah blah. When I left university I suffered depression for a few weeks for no apparent reason, and yes, it wasn't nice, but at least I was still alive. Why the hell would anyone want to eradicate themselves from existence? Bollocks to that.

I mean, there's so much more you can do with yourself. If you've given up on life, at least try to have some fun before you die. Go and do all the mad stuff you've wondered about but never been able to do because of moral or legal constrictions. Rob a bank. Take some heroin. Beat the shit out of someone you really hate. Fuck it, why not? If it's a choice between that or death, I know which road I'd travel. And if you've got any religious qualms, then a) you shouldn't be thinking about suicide anyway, and b) you're a twat.

But hey, this is one of the problems with being a so-called higher form of life - everyone thinks they're so goddamn special. All people can do is think about their problems and their desires and their successes. Do animals ever get depressed? Perhaps, but they sure as hell don't kill themselves, because it's unnatural. No, not even lemmings - the lemming mass-suicide myth was started by the Disney movie Wild Wilderness in 1958. But people are wankers, and people who kill themselves really must be the most unpleasant, lazy, self-absorbed, worthless form of wanker. So at least they deserve it.

Brighton Rock

2005-03-23T00:32:00.000-08:00

I knew religion had its uses. It being some sort of Jesus festival this week, Lady Miros gets a 5-day weekend. This fits in rather nicely with my perpetual 7-day weekend, so to celebrate Our Saviour popping his clogs we're off to Brighton to... er... play poker. Hopefully I'll redeem myself from the last time I was there, when I played like a drunken schmuck.

I did have rather a good beat at one point though. During the 100 rebuy NLHE, I found myself in the BB facing a raise and a reraise. The reraise was from one Piers Whyman, against whom the Gent and I harbour some ingrained resentment. Staring down at a rather pretty-looking pair of tens, I came over the top all-in. Surprise surprise, they both called! AK v AA (Piers) v TT. Marv.

As I was in ridiculously good form, I somehow conjured up a diamond flush to scoop the lot. Uncharacteristically, I gave it a mighty 'ei ei!!' at the riverly diamond, while Piers sat brooding, nursing the handful of chips from the side pot. I'm not usually one for obnoxious rubdowns, but as I say I was drunk (and it was Piers). Two hands later Piers found himself all-in, and of course some eejit, hoping justice would prevail, piped up: "good luck Piers!" "Fuck Piers", I thought to myself, and then realised with no small sense of shame that I'd said it out loud. I got some strange looks after that one, especially as Piers doubled up.

Feeling a little contrite, and sitting with a veritable mountain of chips in front of me, I suggested to Piers that he and I swap 5%. I know poker is a mercenary game and gamblers are inevitably all bastards, but it seemed like a sportsmanlike thing to do. Piers of course snapped it up, in fact he was thanking me profusely. Perhaps he didn't hear me saying "fuck Piers". Anyway, I felt much better with myself after that.

A while later, I found myself check-raising the 2nd chip leader on a board of 6889 with 74. He called and flipped over 89. Doh. I mucked and told everyone I had 57 (nearly true). Before I could catch my breath I busted out with KQ v 99, and that was that. Lady Miros and I sloped off to watch Meet the Fockers (crap).

Obviously when I came in the next day, Piers came up to me with a big dopey grin, and thrust 200 quid in my face. Turns out he'd somehow parlayed his way to a chop - nice one Piers! I can't really remember why I disliked Piers in the first place (he's nearly as smug as Gryko, perhaps that explains it), but anyway, all is forgiven now.

I never knew being nice to people could be so rewarding. Spiritually, which is great, as well as financially, which is better. I really must try it more often.

Sicko

2005-03-17T02:22:00.000-08:00

With impeccable timing, karma has reared up and tugged on my scrotum once again. As you all know, it's Cheltenham week; the biggest and best racing festival of the year, with literally dozens of mouthwatering ultra-competitive races for me to smash into. So on Monday I wake up in a cold sweat and find I can hardly move. Really. I spent less than one hour out of bed on Monday, either shivering uncontrollably or sweating buckets. On Tuesday I developed the most unpleasant, lung-busting cough I've ever had, and on Wednesday this developed into a more niggly, tickly perma-cough, with added sore throat. Sleep has been virtually impossible.

Joyfully, I'm over it. Today I woke up after 9 blissful hours of kip feeling reborn. I'm such a pussy; I really can't cope with being ill. My mind starts to occupy itself with the most horrific thoughts - torture, death, visions of hell, all sorts of nastiness. I can't control it. It probably didn't help that I was reading Brighton Rock at the time; that is one nasty book. If only I'd known, I'd have carried on with my other book - The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. That's much nicer. Except for that little prick Edmund, what a git he is.

So anyway, life now has a new glow about it. I've been feeling so sorry for myself the past few days I convinced myself I was never going to get better. Now I feel ready to conquer the world! Or at least the place market in the Jewson Novices Handicap Chase. Which I suppose is a start.

Viennese whirl (part 2)

2005-03-10T06:25:00.000-08:00

It's fair to say I played badly in Vienna. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I made some good moves and some good decisions, but it wasn't enough. I still cocked it up.

I'm not one for trip reports, but I'll give it my best shot. I was amused to see that the Concord now has a policy of offering players either smoking or non-smoking tables. Simon Hennessy's theory is that all the sick gamblers are likely to be smokers, so that's where you should go; he clearly wasn't the only one with this idea. On my table I counted just 3 of us who were actually smokers. I found it quite satisfying to know that I was being victimised because of my addiction. Unfortunately I proved them all right.

I got off to a sticky start. With tiny blinds and a conspicuous absence of lunatics, we struggled to get a pot going early. I decided to take advantage of this by raising someone on a board of 9956 with KJ. He looked ill for a while and then called. Marvellous. The river was a 6 and he led out. Inwardly fuming, I gave it a full Hollywood dwell-up before mucking.

Ok, so I had 4200 left from my 5000 starting stack; no worries. I yawned my way through the next hour or so. Finally I picked up a hand - JdJc in the small blind. The cut-off seat made a standard raise. He was a young narcissistic twat with wraparound shades (Gryko mould); last time he raised he'd got himself in a mess with T3 suited, and sucked out. I know a lot of people hate JJ, but I'm completely the opposite - I love it. I find decisions very easy with JJ. In this situation the blinds were too small to merit a reraise, so I flat-called, and we saw a flop.

Inevitably, I now got myself in a spot of bother. The flop of K75 (2 diamonds) was not exactly the answer to my prayers. I could have led out here, but I bottled it. Wunderkind bet 250, an extremely gay bet (about 2/5 of the pot). Being a filthy non-believer, I called. The turn was the troublesome 3 of diamonds.

After checking again, yer man now bet 550. Usually once called on the flop he had tended to switch off, so now I figured he had a piece of it. However, it seemed likely he had little more than a king, probably with a not-so-wonderful kicker. I moved all-in for another 3000.

He certainly gave me a good sweat-up, so eventually I had to resort to sitting back in my chair swigging my gin and tonic, generally making it look as if I couldn't give a tinker's what he did. Finally he passed. Marv. Somehow I had clambered my way back up to 5000.

It didn't last long. Two hands later I was dealt QQ. As ever, there was a flurry of limpers for 50 in front of me. In true David Young style, I decided not to do what any sane person would do (raise), and instead went for the canny round-the-back limp. Now it was on the BB, and I was readying myself to not look too smug when the inevitable Q27 flop arrived. But no, wait... the BB has raised 300!

One by one the limpers dropped out, and it was round to me. Hmm... what to do? Ok, time to let the cat out of the bag and put it among the pigeons and then swing it around a bit... or whatever. Time to raise. Fearlessly I made it 1300. Take that, you wienerschnitzel-munching surrender monkey! Predictably it took yer man all of about 0.13 picoseconds to go all-in. Oh, goody. I mucked my hand face-up and he reciprocated by showing me KK. Very nice hand sir, very well played.

It baffles me how poorly people play KK sometimes. Going all-in is not the only option you fucking losers! If he had any nous he would have looked miserable for a while and just called. He could have split me open on a rag flop. But ohhhhh no, his feeble little brain replies, 'MUST GET ALL-IN BEFORE FLOP IN CASE ACE COMES'. Your loss, moron.

I won a few insignificant pots over the next few minutes. At one point I had consecutive hands where I was dealt exactly the same cards (QJ clubs), called exactly the same raise from the same player, and won it on the flop by betting my gutshot straight draw both times. Just call me Johnny Chan.

Obviously after the break I pissed my chips away in about 90 seconds. In the first hand, I somehow decided to call an under-the-gun raise with 97 of hearts. The SB also called, and we inspected a flop of Q84. Both the blind and the raiser checked to me. Normally I would simply take a stab at it right away, but I was feeling particularly tricky, so I decided to dwell for a while before checking.

The turn was an offsuit 5. Gutshot fun for me. Now the SB decided to take off, betting 800 into the 1400 pot. Obviously the raiser passed like a shot. Now my instincts were telling me that the geezer was weak, probably betting an 8 or worse. Like a bullet I raised him, 1800 more.

Following the table tradition, he gave me a right old sweat-up. As soon as he started looking at his cards and fiddling with them, I knew he was passing; at one point I even thought he had passed. Without a care in the world, I crunched on some ice from my umpteenth gin and tonic. Then he announced all-in. Triffic.

Ho-hum, give it the standard dwell-up (surely no-one was falling for this shit by now?), muck with a sigh, go back to nursing my decimated stack. Next hand could be fun though, it's my old chum AK. Ok, if I raise it up here everyone will think I'm steaming and maybe they'll play back at me. Woohoo, sure enough someone reraised! YBA sir, don't you know I've got a monster down here? I proudly table my AK, and he flips over AA. Arrivederci Lord Miros, come back soon.

I went to the bar and proceeded to drink myself into oblivion. Alice followed shortly thereafter, having run KQ into AA on a K-high flop. As it was my birthday, I managed to cadge at least a dozen free drinks off various barflies. I can't recall much of what happened after that.

Roll on Las Vegas.

Viennese whirl (part 1)

2005-03-08T00:50:00.000-08:00

There are definitely too many people in the world. Living in the middle of nowhere I sometimes forget this, but travelling outside the confines of sunny Binfield always acts as a stark reminder. And most of them are cunts.

At Heathrow on Friday afternoon I was confronted by inexplicable swarms of people. Does nobody work anymore for fuck's sake?? Too many people with too much time and too much money. Tossers. So after checking in, Lady Miros and I were faced with a half-mile queue through security to the departure lounge. Roll on Terminal 5.

Fortunately, Alice is even more impatient than me, and she was having none of it. Spying a gap in the rails near the front of the queue, we slipped in and squeezed ourselves in between punters, idly trying to look as if we'd been there all along. Predictably our ruse provoked outrage. Most vociferous in their ire was an ageing, pompous pair of twats who took it upon themselves to act as queue police. "Get to the back of the queue!" cried the husband, his face a contortion of thunderstruck rage. I was so taken aback by his look of apoplexy that I abandoned my apologetic instinct and told him to "make me". This failed to meet his approval.

Over the course of the next few minutes, yer man ordered us to the back of the queue at least 17 times, his face reddening progressively every time I ignored him. He seemed particularly appalled at my assertion that queue-jumping was not against the law, and that there was, in fact, nothing he could do about it. Clearly he wasn't accustomed to a position of such powerlessness. At one point he said menacingly: "Come on, get to the back... or do you want me to call someone?" I really had to bite my tongue to avoid some sort of Ghostbusters quip. Eventually he did accost a passing official, and explained in full detail the extent of our crimes. She gave him a withering look, and walked away. After that he gave up.

Later I explained to Alice that we had undoubtedly earned some really bad karma. What goes around comes around; that's a pretty solid rule. Of course, she poo-pooed me, which is fair enough. Anyway, bad karma or not, I would still do it again. It gave me a fantastic buzz.

And, of course, it merely proved my earlier assertion. Most people are just cunts.

Result... honestly

2005-03-03T09:15:00.000-08:00

Well, the result's in and it was a good one.

1st Lawaaheb 5/1 j2f
2nd Star Welcome 20/1
3rd Sneem's Rock 16/1

Total skinner, ei ei! Super Dominion was probably a length away from fucking it all up but them's the breaks. I'm a bit confused though, 'cos I deliberately published my previous post 2 minutes BEFORE the off so any shrewdies reading this wouldn't think I was just making this shit up. For some reason though it claims I published my post at 8.46 a.m.! YBA. Anyone who knows me at all well would make it about 33-1 that I would be awake at 8.46 a.m. , unless I'd done my nuts the night before and was smashing my way out of it. There's generally only one place you'll find me at that time of day, and that's rotting in bed in a grisly mix of sweat / semen. But then you probably didn't need to know that.

What difference. £280 in the back pocket, that's all I care about. Time to get completely wasted and do it all back on Stars.

Runner runner

2005-03-03T08:46:00.000-08:00

Today I actually found myself running into the house. It's not exactly a marathon - from the car to the front door is all of about 20 yards - but the fact that I was unconsciously sprinting says good things about the state of my mental health. I only run when I'm really on top of the world.

For the last hour or so I've been in a state of near-euphoria. It's a combination of factors - the 1st Guinness of the day is always a catalyst, plus a helping of soluble Anadin Extra. If there's one thing I can't live without, it's paracetamol. Even the thought of my liver slowly dissolving isn't enough to bring me down.

Anyway, onwards and upwards. Today's wage-earner may or may not be the 5.10 at Lingfield - a 13-runner 10f handicap. YUM YUM. What's more, 12 of the 13 actually have realistic place prospects; it doesn't get any better than that.

The only problem with being on such an up is that I start to take too many chances. I've actually laid 3 horses in the win and place markets today - Super Dominion, Raheel and State of Balance - almost unthinkable for me. If they come in 1-2-3 I don't think I'll feel quite so good about myself. Wish me luck...

Another day, another $10 re-buy comp

2005-02-28T22:02:00.000-08:00

I hope you're not reading this. You clearly are, don't try to pretend otherwise. Frankly, that upsets me.

I don't really want to write a blog, and I certainly don't want people to read it. I guess it's just a form of therapy. I used to write things a few years back and I even completed an entire novel - albeit not a very good one. It was rejected by one publisher and I gave up trying. After that I started gambling. I haven't written another word since.

Of course, therapy is a perfectly natural thing. 8 or 9 years ago I visited my therapist every week, largely because my family thought I needed it. I wasn't really in a position to argue, considering my recent history, but that's another story. Mostly we filled the hour-long slot with irrelevant chit-chat and minor griping, but every now and then she would touch a nerve and it became a rather less pleasant experience. It was difficult for me, because there were things I didn't want to talk about, and unfortunately these were the things that she did want to talk about. That, after all, was her job. She only seemed to be really happy when she'd made me cry. I just wanted to tell her what I'd had for lunch.

Still, that's all ancient history now. A more pressing concern is what will unfold in the Class F Apprentice Handicap at Southwell. Folkestone and Wetherby are abandoned - marvellous - so somehow I need to scrape together a few bob on the all-weather. Jeffrey Bernard used to organise cat-racing between his friends when the racing was off; sadly I don't have any cats, or indeed friends, within a 30-mile radius. So Southwell it is.

7 minutes to go till the break in the $10 re-buy NLHE. My entire life seems to be spent watching clocks tick. In a way I'm glad the NFL season is over, that's the worst for clock-watching, especially when I'm on the under. I don't think I've won a single pot in this tournament yet. 27 minutes till the off at Southwell, I need to get cracking.

Dammit, this handicap is tough. A couple of the outsiders look to have a squeak which is making my life difficult. Usually I like to hoover up a few quid by laying a couple of also-rans in the place market if I think they're too short. Not today. Then again, the front 2 in the market (Fraternity and Shifty) look convincing too. Fuck it. I've laid a 13/2 shot called Tommytyler - a few placed efforts in maidens looks sub-par for this race - in the win and place markets, and a random outsider, Rocky Reppin. I'm not very happy with these bets.

KK held up against AQ. 162 punters left.

They're off at Southwell. No satellite or cable here in the back o' beyond so I'm reliant on the ultra-dodgy Racing Post text commentary service. The words 'Tommytyler prominent' seem to appear rather too often for my liking. No worries though, one of my squeaky outsiders comes from nowhere to win it. "Shaped as though drop back to 1m will suit", according to Spotlight. Seems all too obvious now.

Full Result: 1st Augustine 20-1
2nd Fraternity 11/4 f
3rd Shifty 3/1

Got a few quid. If I could have a couple of hundred more races like that I'd be out of it.

Getting it right is definitely the best therapy.