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Life's a Flop...
Reboot.
But this one is hopefully less like when Spider-Man became Amazing in 2012, and more like when Hawaii Five O dropped the incongruous letter at the end and became, well, Hawaii Five 0 in 2010 (it's a great show - I recommend it to everyone).
I started a diary in January with the best of intentions. I gave myself a challenge, a bankroll, set aside the required time to give it a shot… and then Life (capital L) kicked me in the crotch, waved a finger at me, and generally advised that wasn’t how this was going to go down at all. I have barely even done much writing this year, and that hurts more than anything because words have been a part of my life (lower case this time) since I was single digits, so it's fair to say that things have definitely been a little off balance in Slippy's world in 2015.
As a result, I have played very little online poker this year. I think I have played four Main Events in 2015 - all in January - and that is hardly the dedicated assault on the virtual felt that I had both anticipated and desired.
C'est la vie, right?
Right.
But it ain't good enough, and it stops now.
So this revision is still going to be a poker diary (of sorts), but I'm going to go with the less-is-more maxim, with poker as a supplement to a more social and conversational approach - a bit like the acerbic delivery of a Jac35, but with a lot less chat about silly sports like golf and football, and fewer cigarette breaks too.
I'll get around to playing online more in the coming weeks and months, but while I build up a little steam, most of my current poker play is live. It is just as likely these write-ups will be about Liza, the cute blue-haired Eastern European girl; or Kirsty, the sweet Glaswegian brunette with the dragon tattoo teasing her left ankle - both of whom keep my caffeine levels up in the casino in the wee small weekend hours - as they will be about actual hands and how they played out.
And although I’m not overly interested in reliving bad beat stories, if I have pocket 9s, raise pre, get one caller, see a flop of 9QQ, think (obviously) that I'm good, bet, am called, see a low turn card, bet again, am raised, shove, and am instantly called, only to be shown pocket queens, and lose a £300 pot to a 74 year old woman who doesn't know she really should be three-betting queens pre-flop...
...well, I may just feel the need to mention it here in passing.
Comments
It was my birthday yesterday, and my fantastic work colleagues decided we should go out for a tapas/liquid lunch today at 2pm. I was suitably impressed that they had decided to do this for me - it was a tear in the eye moment - until I realised it actually wasn't. It was for the company director who is going to be fifty in eight days time!
So today, I'll be out for him, drowning my birthday blues with a glass of Rioja and a plate of paella. It may get messy, and as I am generally averse to playing live poker while intoxicated... tonight may get expensive.
I guess I could just not play poker tonight, but that's far too sensible an option.
I wish I could say I had gone round the corner and spent it in the strip club, which would have been exponentially more entertaining than missing every flop, getting it in bad and coming out worse, and not even having Liza to stare at in my inebriation because she had taken the night off... but alas, that was not the case.
Saturday night usually brings in the (invariably, drunk) local poker talent, and this weekend was no different. Some of them don't actually know how to play and have to be reminded of the rules and the etiquette at every opportunity, and some of them are just plain bad poker players.
One guy took exception to the fact that my conversation was fairly limited, and decided to give me the hilariously ironic nickname of 'Chatterbox' at every opportunity. Now, I've been called a lot of names in my time - and worn a lot of them proudly - but to paint me as quiet and retiring is certainly one of the worst reads I've been exposed to in a long time.
Fair enough, he isn't a regular at the casino, so I guess he doesn't know that on most occasions I'm the loudest person at the table (at most tables, as it happens). Last night I was tired, the action was fairly slow, and I didn't feel like gifting my conversation to the rest of them, so I held my tongue and just tried to make it through the night with a profit. His constant jibes about my lack of interaction were obviously intended to tilt me, but they just ended up making me laugh because he was so wide of the mark.
I walked away with about £160 - certainly not the greatest night I've had at the casino, but I'll chalk it in the win column.
As mentioned in my opening post, I have not done much writing this year, which is a completely alien reality for me, so it feels almost like a kick in the pants that I have had two short story acceptances in the last month – Jigsaw and With Her Dying Breath.
Someone up there is reminding me that I should be putting pen to paper (or finger to keyboard)… and spending less time writing on poker forums
I received this email a couple of weeks ago:
My name is Peter O'Brien from Dublin, Ireland. Based on good recommendation that you are a straight forward fellow and reliable to do business with in areas of investment and financial partnering, I am writing to acquaint you of a transaction and monetary transfer of US$45 Million.
I don't know anyone by that name, and have very few dealings with anyone in Ireland, but I was curious as to who had informed him of my reliability in this field, so I replied:
Hi Peter. Thank you for getting in touch. I hope you are well. I am extremely grateful for your kind offer, but can I ask who pointed you in my direction?
I had decided not to ask him why he was offering me 45 million dollars, primarily because it seemed a little unappreciative of me. He was right, of course, I am a straightforward fellow who is reliable to do business with, so perhaps I did deserve such mysterious funding. An hour later I got this:
Hello again. Unfortunately I am not in a position to give out personal details, but rest assured that I trust you!
The exclamation mark did it for me. I love misplaced enthusiasm, especially when it comes with the promise of money. He seemed genuinely excited by the prospect of giving me 45 million dollars for no reason whatsoever. But as difficult as it was for me to refuse such wild generosity, I did have one question...
Are you able to tell me if this is 45 million dollars gross, or will I be taxed on it once it has reached my bank account? Also, would it be possible to convert it into Sterling first, as I am no good with those kind of calculations?
I was pleasantly surprised when he responded that this is indeed the amount I am going to receive, and that Peter is going to do all the necessary tax costings prior to it reaching me. He also assured me it will arrive in familiar currency, so it appears everything is looking good for the inevitable transfer.
Would it be possible to have this money sent to me in monthly installments as I am concerned that my bank will be suspicious of a deposit of such magnitude.
Apparently that is not possible. Peter replied and told me the 45 million dollars had to be given to me all at once. I guess there is some legal reason for that, which I am not qualified to understand.
I appreciate your questions and I am glad you are a cautious consumer. If you forward me your bank details I will arrange for this to happen shortly.
He seems like a genuine guy, so I sent along my bank details.
Oddly, I haven't heard back from him in about ten days now.
:P
What are you playing? ... I'll jump in and knock you.
I was at a wedding on the weekend. It was the first one I had been to since I came out the other side of my own marriage, and I guess they can be pretty brutal places to be, surrounded by all that love and promise… when all you really want to do is run up to the pair of them, grab them by the shoulders, and tell them to run away screaming in opposite directions, before it descends into this – from the greatest rom-com ever made, When Harry Met Sally:
Right now everything is great, everyone is happy, everyone is in love and that is wonderful! But you gotta know that sooner or later you’re gonna be screaming at each other about who’s gonna get this dish. This eight dollar dish will cost you a thousand dollars in phone calls to the legal firm of That’s Mine, This Is Yours…
…Do me a favour, for your own good, put your name in your books right now before they get mixed up and you won’t know whose is whose. ‘Cause someday, believe it or not, you’ll go 15 rounds over who’s gonna get this coffee table.
And – regional language aside – that’s, unfortunately, a fairly accurate depiction of how these things sometimes end up. But you set all that bitterness and sorrow aside for a few hours – well, you try to – and you eat your chicken and dance to Stealers Wheel… again.
I wrote in the wedding card:
The average length of marriages in the UK is 11.3 years. Mine didn’t last that long. Good luck with yours. Lots of love, Brian.
It masqueraded as tongue in cheek, but I’m not even sure the smiley face at the end of the sentence helped me dig my way out of that one. I know them both so hopefully they saw and appreciated the black humour.
I looked around the room and wondered how many were in the same boat – oh, great, more wedding games…
Sigh.
Too soon?
''Samantha, do you take Slimewater to be your lawful wedded husband?''
''Noooooooooooooorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr''