Smug mode

Feeling incredibly smug this morning. New house, a bed, keys, all that. And other things, nice things which I'll let run through my head a few times today.

Of course there's work to do. This is the cutting edge, blah blah. So yes, even as I was lifting boxes yesterday my phone was ringing with things to be done. Excuses to be made. Accounts and interviews to finish. The Foxwoods and even some of the recent Monte Carlo trips have to be, err, 'accounted'? And I have bits that will apparently help. But my tendency is to stuff receipts into a big bag and hope the expenses angels will sort them for me before I start to worry. The little bastards haven't shown up yet. And I can see the bag.

Nightingale Farm is still for sale apparently. If you're not listening to the Archers then bare with me. And Ruth and whatshisname, her husband, Tom? Larry? Whatever, seem to have a sheep living with them. All this confuses the rock 'n roll types at pre-noon times. I'd like to be a rock 'n roll type but who am I kidding? I have my moments, but I'm an Archers type. Maybe I need to change that?

So yes, smug and busy. Chipper. You can tell that because I'm blogging not working. Crap...

Throw the rest away

I'm in. Only I have too much stuff. I also have a Bryan Adams CD. Where the hell did that come from? It's cramped, with boxes and bags all over the place. Tonight I intend to sleep 'astronaut style', propped up against the wall. But it's good. I've always liked good things.

I finally managed to unpack the bag I've been carrying around non-stop for the last 16 days. In it was a pile of crap, most of it beyond me. A book, two magazines, four note pads, a diary, my chequebook, drivers license, passport, an eggcup, half a dozen used tube tickets, an empty tube of toothpaste, a jumper, Andy Bloch's business card, a Gutshot poker chip worth 25p, my dictaphone, some aspirin, two pens, half a pack of tissues, my A-Z with no cover and Cricklewood missing, and a pack of pro plus - which I wish I knew I'd had yesterday. It's always the last place you look.

I could have dumped everything but the jumper and the eggcup.

So I have keys now, and trees outside my window, and an address, which will please the Student loans Company no end. No food of course, just an air tight coffee container with nothing in and a few cups I brought with me. Everything else I left behind.

But things start here, and it was sunny today.

Short Cowboys

If blogging is one thing it's a sign that you don't want to do proper work.

On the cards is one of those jobs that will take ages and will only be finished after a monotonous trudge through 40 minutes of notes on my dictaphone. If I was paid more than poverty pay I'd hire someone to do transcribing for me. But I am paid poverty pay, so it's my fingers that will do the work. Maybe I should have a sandwich first?

Poverty pay. Yes. Actually, it's not that bad. Anywhere but London and I'd be handsomely paid. But in London it means no house, no car, no pension. Just prospects I'm told. But I can't spend those. I don't even want a car.

A big thing that's been going on for 18 months came to an end a couple of weeks ago. I was told I should buy something to mark the occasion. Something poignant and expensive. I can do poignant, but the expensive thing has me sweating. And isn't £150 too much for a pair of cowboy boots?

Cowboy boots. Yes. They're cheaper than a motorbike, and you can find them on The Kings Road. They're not really Cowboy boots, just boots really. No spurs. So was I going to pay £150 just to put 'cowboy' at the front? That thought will stick. And who wants to look like a cowboy anyway? Twisted mind.

But they'd be poignant alright. And they'd add an inch to my 5 foot 6 inch frame so my girlfriend could wear heels.

Have you ever been experienced?

It's the last night of the Homeless Experience, sponsored by the good people at Cafe Creme cigars and brought to you by the Lewisham and Lambeth Mental Health Services. The end is in sight. No plans for a series 2.

So I'm moving tomorrow to Streatham, using a French car to move out of the flat I used to share with an ex. Sad I suppose, but for the best, and the last piece of getting a new life underway.

But enough of that, it's a school day. Put thoughts of your first day off in weeks out of your mind. I'm not sure I even want a day off. I'll be bored, I know it. Maybe I'll buy the paper? But I won't read it. Maybe I'll start writing a book? I can make myself sick with coffee I suppose, but I'll end up playing poker in Gutshot. This I know. A place where everybody knows your name, or the staff at least, and where I can do my bollox and feel like a King.

I did have a night off last night. Did you know you can see everything in the British Museum in a little over 15 minutes? It's true. You just don't read any of the signs and move fast. And get someone else to carry your bag.

Not awake yet. Must concentrate. Inhale the coffee. Clear your mind. Blast 200cc's of loud music through your head and face the emails one at a time with the harshness that editors are supposed to carry like a dagger.

No news from yesterday's court case yet. I'm pretty sure Derek isn't in prison. Surely he would have used his one phonecall to get in touch?

Big Days

It's a big day for the company I work for. Gutshot gets shitloads of criticism, some of it justified, some of it not. But I love the place, and they pay me to do a job I wanted since I was 13. Not a lot - money not love, but I don't care. I took a paycut to work here and I've never regretted it. Except when a cheque once bounced. But the Inland Revenue are used to that kind of thing.

So yes, big day. Two things, but the main one is the court case. Gutshot are being taken to court for operating an illegal poker room. There's a big grey area here because technically no license exists for a poker room, only for casinos, and as we don't have roulette or blackjack, and no license for those anyway, so people say we're in trouble. Fair enough.

But today we find out if our case will go to the Crown Court, pretty much our only hope. But it's a good hope. The crisis scenario is if they decide a magistrate could deal with it. A magistrate will deal strictly with the law and shut us down. It's Crown Court or bust, where we can persuade and be nice to a jury.

The other thing that's happening is a big hole being knocked in the wall. We're extending into a big space next door which will double the space for poker tables. To hell with the court case, let's think big.

But it's the chief of this place who faces prison if everything turns weird. Derek Kelly. I like Derek. When I joined Gutshot it was based on the speech he gave me in Dublin that counted as my interview. He made me feel like I was going to write for Rolling Stone. That's the goal. I remember I did well in a no-limit game that night too. So yes, if he goes to prison I will visit him and bring a saw in a cake. No doubt about that.

Pissing People Off

I'm not a nasty person. But I've always had a nack at pissing people off. By accident. I'm not rude either, but I tend to make people think that sometimes. It's the gift nobody wants. Like a cartoon tie at Christmas.

I like to swear a lot and pretend to be a bastard. I say 'bastard' a lot. And when I write to my Buddhist friend living in Mexico I often call him 'motherfucker'. In a nice way of course. He gets this. It's a way of counter balancing my natural charm and good nature. Let the fuckers think that. No bastard will get an easy read on me.

Anyway, certain people piss me off. Bastards. I talked about one of them tonight which prompted some unplanned 'motherfuckers' and other bad words, and thoughts of running at them with a chair. I don't like being angry as this used to mean internalising vitriol and venom with ugly results. These days I find it best to let it out.

I think that's why I wrote the note about bad service here. A childish urge to make the world right when everything you see seems broken. Fuck them. Things should be better. I'll keep writing notes.

I went through a phase of writing letters to people and organisations that pissed me off. Random letters, no pattern, to people like London Buses and the local MP, all the way to the commissioner of Major League Baseball (reply received, stunning stationery). I've calmed down since then, but I still have the letters.

So yes, I piss people off and get myself in trouble. I still remember 13 baseball players from Essex demanding the correct spelling of my name (which I gave them, on a piece of paper actually), for an official complaint they wanted to make against me. No need for good trainers when burley blokes, who haven't eaten all afternoon, are heading your way.

I'll try to calm down. No. I am calm. But there are a lot of shit heads out there. The wankers need to be stopped.

View from the fifth floor

Ooooh. The Generator. We're back. I feel like an imposter. I'm acting confident in front of people here tonight to distract any attention from the likely accusations that I soiled the comments box. Gradual panic in the veins. Get to the room. Lock the door. You've paid. Don't worry. You can get out of here in seven and a half hours.

In the meantime it's time for reflection. Perhaps I was a bit harsh on this place. They allow smoking and it's open 24 hours a day. Not a blink when I checked in at 1am. Then to the bar, for £1 diet coke and that cigarette smell fug that makes the air smell like the inside of a vacuum cleaner. Sit queitly. Don't draw attention to yourself. Ignore the Mediterranean looking man throwing up in the toilets. Ignore too the spanish youths playing Cannaster over there. Eyes open. Must keep alert.

I got here late after missing the last tube from Tooting Bec by 2 minutes. I got the night bus to Elephant and Castle instead and stood waiting for the another heading north. It soon dawned, fuck that, it was taxi time.

It is possible to get lucky with London taxi's. A nice driver who knows where he's going. A quick biography of where you live and work and you're there. Over tip and check in.

No sign of the original check in guy. This is good. Talk has turned to marrywanna in the bar. Sensitive listening devices, installed with the money rich westerners send along with their travelling daughters and sons, will quickly pick up on this, and the security people in the blue jumpers will be on site quicker than Camden skunk pushers.

But yes, the big decision is whether or not to fill in a real comments slip on the way out. Actually the guilt has gone now. It passes, I find. And seeing as though this is the last night I'll stay here I'm freerolling when it comes to pissing people off.

Seven hours. Then back to the real world of work. The homelessness tour is coming to an end. I should really have tried the park bench to complete the circle. Or at least asked people for money on the tube. But I think i'm going to make it to the weekend before vagrancy shows it's face. I'm lucky. Some aren't.

Room 538 tonight. Fifth floor. I'm counting on a view.

Corporate Night

Corporate night at Gutshot. Joy. Normally this means the club is closed and civilians are asked to leave. Forced. This applies to me too, but tonight I'm going along for the ride, the get the "corporate feel" to the place in order to write nice words. The kind that come off your keyboard like butter.

That's all gibberish of course. I intend to keep out of the way, make a sneak attack on the buffet and pretend to look busy. I'm not even half way through today's pile of work, and I feel like playing online. Jobs are lost that way.

But it keeps me away from The Generator (shudder), and kids high on e-numbers, so there's a silver lining.

Code Red

This could be a Code Red day. First I got to work this morning and realised I had no plans for where to stay tonight. Then, big news for the company I work for means the recently cancelled corporate writing stuff is back on. Not only that but I have several big pieces of work to do today as well. Lastly, but more importantly, is a paranoia thing I want to help with. And from my desk I feel pretty powerless.

The accommodation is sorted at least. I'm back in "The Generator" tonight, a place which is starting to sound like the showpiece of the World Wrestling Federation's Year - a roomy building where the winner is the last one to escape alive. I'm thinking of keeping a low profile at check in. I'll try and get hold of a cap and sunglasses before tonight. But if the same bloke is working the front desk I may confess everything. 'It was me who wrote the comments mate... I'll sleep on the street.'

When work is busy it tends to be good. But there are articles, press releases and corporate documents to write today, in addition to all the other stuff. But you have to be in the right frame of mind to face this kind of stuff. I'm struggling with that today.

I think cigarettes would be a good move. I'm smoking more cigars than I can count and when I tried a cigarette a few days ago it had half the effect the cigars have. That's bad. Smoking is bad.

Back to work...

The Hostel Experience

Seeing as though this is an unofficial tour of the places to stay in London when you're homeless, it seemed only right that I tried a hostel for a night.

A poker friend suggested the place in Russell Square as a place to "sleep, that's all". It's called the Generator, which should give you an idea of how low the average age of the guests is. The official word would be "Youth Hostel", and it had a colour scheme to go with that. When I made it to my room it was like being in the prison cell of some neglected artist. A bed and a chrome sink. And a coat hook. And a window.

So yeah, a young offenders institute came to mind. So did my age. Is it wrong to think orange walls are a little too much? Maybe not. The other guests seemed to like it and they expressed this by running up and down the corridors yelling. Although the bar was open late and Matron must have had the night off.

I do feel a bit bad though. It took 15 minutes to check in when I arrived and I put this down to the reception guy flirting with two girls in line ahead of me. I was tired and still had work to do so I scribbled a note for the 'suggestion box' whilst I waited, saying the check-in system was rubbish. Hmm. Then I felt guilty, which normally happens when I do this kind of thing, so decided I would fill in an "official" comments form and add a note saying "ignore the random scrap of paper - I was just being a bastard." Forgot.

The tricky bit is that I might have to stay there again this week. There was a padlock on the suggestions box so maybe I'll be okay. It was rusty too. But I know they know it was me. They're on to me.

But it was better than nothing. The move has been put back to Saturday now, not Friday, so the "all-nighter" option is back on the table. Not great for heavy lifting and driving on Saturday but I'll be using a French left-hand-drive car, and erratic driving in one of those is to be expected.

Till then...

Four minutes

I'm four minutes away from the next smoke I'm allowing myself today. This is getting rediculous. The stress of trying to quit has nearly doubled the amount I smoke. Perhaps if I decided not to quit I'd be over it by the end of the day? Who knows?

Three minutes...

Seriously though my health is important. Is life really a coin flip between living life to the full and leaving a good looking corpse? I'm undecided, but if I'm honest I recently started using hand cream. Good God.

Two minutes...

But the weather was cold and my skin on my hands was dry and cracked. I need my hands, for all sorts, so I took action.

One minute...

I think the problem may be my current work environment. An environment where smoking is actively encouraged. You'd expect nothing more form a poker club though and it's important to make the regular smokers feel welcome and at ease.

But when I get my stuff moved into a house where smoking is verboten then I'm pretty sure my attitude will change. No more hanging out the window. No more standing outside in the freezing cold. I'm drawing a line in the ash.

Dammit, i've lost my lighter...

So yes, there we go. I'll save a fortune too. Must think like that. That will help.

Still on tour

Here we are again in Stoke Newington. I complain about slumming it on people’s sofas, but every place I’ve stayed in this last week has been pretty good. On arrival here I get a drink with ice, free reign with the TV and the couple of hundred DVDs, and I can eat whatever is in the fridge. Throw in a child and this is normally called baby sitting.

Actually this is good training. When my friend kate gives birth in six weeks I expect to be shortlisted. The deal is that I baby sit, whilst Mark, her husband does my taxes next year. On the surface it seems fair. But I know nothing about babies, and Mark hasn’t seen my piles of receipts. One of us could crack...

But anyway, sit back. Relax. Enjoy that feeling of having worked hard all day and finished what you set out to do. Smugness. It'll do for now.

There was only really one blip in the day. When I moved too fast getting up from the table I was working at tonight, I pulled out my headphones as I started to dash to take a call. Somehow I managed to drop the ear piece into a drink. Pretty much soaking it. Now I'm worried that If I put the thing in my ear again and turn on something loud my head might explode. So for the time being I'm sticking to humming.

Blogging Bored

Smoking, TV and manly chat about carburettors and the fashion channel. This will do for a while, but I'm not 28 anymore. I'm tired. I need sleep.

Sit tight, you can outlast the attack of tiredness better than anyone. You survived Lord of the Rings, this should be a breeze.

Of course, but I have to be out of here in 7 hours for more corporate words and 500 more for an article on Monday. Writing to deadlines normally helps. But these days I could do with leisurely inactivity and the time to think up new words.

Blogging when you're bored and tired is not best.

Sofas

Bethnal Green tonight. The sofa is a good one, and the flat calm. This will do as we tick off another night of homlessness in the smoke. I've been dishing out more money that usual to homeless people this last week. Not much, but I feel like I need the good will.

It's tricky getting around London when you pick the last tube from Tooting Bec as the one to make a run for.

Tubes were a mess today. For a start there were no south bound northern line trains at the time I needed them. This is normally okay. When you're going to work for example. But when you've only a few hours free you're left with the London taxi corp. So I got in line at London Bridge, made a quick call ahead, before I realised the queue for cabs has formed around me and I was at the back. Talked my way back to the front and shared the fare with a guy heading to Clapham. It was a good plan B.

Which is probably why I only managed the last tube back to London. Never like leaving.

I made it to Moorgate and came out to spend 15 minutes working out which way was north. But with the right cunning and quick talking you can persuade any taxi driver to take you anywhere. So we're in Bethnal Green, even though the bastard charged me extra for stopping at a 24 hour garage.

So I have a new home at the end of the week, and so does my girlfriend next month, in a place where she wanted, with the right kind of magic and tattiness. And depending on how athletic I feel I can walk there in 20 minutes without my work bag. About an hour and a half with it. Need to start packing light.

Send Help

I'd like to say the corporate writing is going well. But the fact I'm writing this instead should give some clue as to how this nightmare is taking shape.

Yesterday I spent the afternoon typing as many different variations of "Corporate Writing - How to" into Google. Today the plan has changed slightly, and I'm Google searching "Corporate Writing - Support Groups". I'm in trouble. Things could turn very bad.

I blame my boss. He was far too confident when he announced in a meeting "Stephen will do all the writing." Or was it me? With my stock answer, "no problem".

So I looked up some long words that I don't understand and am trying to use at least two in each sentence. Maybe I should confess...

Smoking Update: I'll quit tomorrow.

Writing Long and Short

I'm going to the Tate tonight. Crap, do I need to book? I'm not even sure what's on but my money is on something strange that a man like me will never fully understand. So I won't try. I'll keep my opinions to myself and try to pass as someone who can appreciate this kind of place. It's a good place.

So that leaves another day at "work" to get through., sat in the bar at Gutshot trying to look occupied when the boss walks in. I am occupied, but it's one of those jobs where you quickly sense that you're really using skills you don't have. And skills you don't have are called weaknesses.

Corporate writing. Where the hell to start? I'm dumping adjectives and verbs when I can and keeping it short. Long words are in there, naturally. That should be enough. Get it done and don't look back. No, that doesn't work. I tried that last time. Must focus. Stay calm.

Then two articles to rattle off without feeling like a hack. But where else would you want to be than at the coal face working in the dark?

At Last The Day Is Came

That's a line from Casablanca by the way...

Well, I have somewhere to live now, the search is over, so thank fuck for that. I can't move until next Friday but knowing when the life of a sofa bum will come to an end is good enough. To Streatham, where you can buy pink cake at 11.05pm.

I stayed with a friend from work last night who is looking to rent out his flat. Terrible timing. It's a great place, cheap and big, and has enough of a 'garrett look' to make me feel bohemian - that's important. Just not cheap enough when you take into account London bills and poverty pay.

So now just three nights to find somewhere to sleep. But I'm getting the hang of it now and I have options. All-nighters, hotels and the doomsday plan - parents. You spend 18 years trying to get out. There's never been a rush to go back.

Hotels and Mules

Mother of Balls! (Not my expression).

One thing the Travelodge people can't do is ensure you don't feel like you're heading towards the bottom in the misery barrel. Making do with small cartons of milk and the rattling of trains every seven minutes only reinforces the condition, technically known as 'pissed off', in the original Latin. At the moment I feel worse than bottom of the barrel. Actually I feel like the barrel was built on top of me.

The hotel itself isn't bad. It's just what it isn't that's the depressing part. But there's no time for misery so the deflector shield is on. It will keep the demons away for the most part. I can keep my shit together that long at least.

But the sooner the house share is sorted the better. A trip to meet potential housemates tomorrow with charm on full blast will hopefully do the trick, and a moving date sorted would help. Until then, work. Work. Bury yourself in work.

Talking of work, I have an interview to do later with Tony Holden, author of Big Deal and general nice bloke. Chat, booze, diet coke, food and smoking. Some would say the very meaning of living life as a man.

So yeah. Hmm. The bright side is i'm seeing the only person who cheers me up tonight. The tricky bit will not be letting on about all the grief. She'll want to know and want to make me feel better but I don't want to be anything but chipper around her. Chipper. Good word.

Well there will always be days like these. My article was up today, a review of the World Poker Tour season four. I don't like the article so forget about finding the link here. I suppose I've been distracted recently but this one was tricky, and I never felt like I had it by the balls. Instead, it's average. I hate average. The one thing you can't afford to be in this business is average, yet here I am, riding averageness like a mule.

Rose Tinted Night Buses

I was on a night bus a few nights ago, heading north from Tooting to Elephant and Castle. To anyone not familiar with London, night buses are just that, buses that run all night. Traditionally they are filled with drunks, some asleep in their seat, some asleep on the floor. One will invariably be a loud mouth keen to suck you in to whatever nightmarish world he's hours from waking up in. The buses are also driven by the lunatic element of the Transport Industry's driver pool. These people break for no one. But judging by some of their clientele this is just good reasoning.

But this one was different. Buses heading north tend to be, as the revellers tend to head south. I was sat warming up looking out the window when I realised London is a pretty great place to be. Even in the dodgy bits, the 'Red Zones' that when driven through actually nullify your car insurance. After all, it's all London. And I like this place. Crap bits too.

I can't remember where I was going with this. But I was walking through London at 6.30am today thinking the same thing. Central London, walking along the Strand and then into Covent Garden, is London at it's best. Particularly when there are no people about. If only you could get a cup of coffee to go with it. I lowered my standards enough to go to Starbucks (that's another post), but even with two minutes to opening time they wouldn't let me in. No leniency. Nothing. It was too cold to hang around, even for two minutes, so I headed to the next one. But the further I went the later the opening times became. Too Kafka for first thing in the morning.

I did start this post with a point, but hell I can't remember it now. Anyway, Code Green today. All fine.

Whitstable

I know, just what the hell is Whitstable? Well it's a place, a sea side town with beach huts and pebbles on the north shore of Kent. I had no idea where it was three days ago, but I just got back from a one night trip there. Didn't see much of the town, or the pebbles, or the beach huts now I think of it, but I love the place. But you always do when you steal 22 hours away anywhere with someone you can't stand to be away from.

But anyway, enough of that. I'll keep the rest of it in my head. But now I'm back in London plotting the next few days of accomodation, fighting off the demons which keep asking, "where are you going to sleep tonight shorty?"

I figure one solution is the train. I always fall asleep on trains, even with a good night's sleep. It must be the rocking motion. Anyway, the Circle Line would be good, because it just keeps going round and round. And everyone sleeps there so the guards don't get suspicious. It only runs till 12.30am though. Then I'd have to think about something else. And I suppose I might get dizzy.

That's not really an option, things aren't that bad. So I'm pulling an all nighter tonight, work, then poker, all liberally laced with as much caffeine as I can get my hands on, and with an Editorial expense account here in my name I can get hold of quite a lot. Coke, coffee and the king of keeper-uppers, Red Bull.

I once told a poker player the virtues of Red Bull when he was playing the final table of a major European event, and was feeling tired. "I'm so tired I don't care if I go out of this thing now. Then I could sleep." Sensing the lunacy in his voice, I told a friend of his to send Red Bull to the table at ten minute intervals. He did, his friend won the whole thing, picking up somewhere around €500,000. He still thanks me.

Yes, those who can't do teach, those who can't teach peddle high sugar energy drinks... which are illegal in Denmark by the way.

Where was I? Ah yes, so an all-nighter tonight followed by the early check-in to a near-by hotel. for 'day-sleep'. So far that's the plan. Poker money wise I'm up to two nights, with a little extra for the laundry service. No room service as of yet.

But I had a great Whitstable adventure, so right now I can do without sleep for a while.

Where am I?

I'm in Chelmsford, Essex. Stage one of being homeless has begun. I'm in the spare room of my best school friend and her husband. As far as makeshift accomodation goes I could do a lot worse. A hell of a lot worse actually. It's not everywhere you find someone cooking stuff and bringing it to you unprompted within ten miuntes of you showing up.

But staying with friends is a bit dicey. First, you have to brush up on the social skills you sold for a bummed cigarette several years ago. Then, you have to find the optimum amount of time you can stay without over-staying. Once that's done you have to take into consideration extra things like, well, your host being seven months pregnant. Add all this together, rattle the numbers a bit, and I'm out of here tomorrow.

So where to this week? Well, in a stupid short-sighted way, I don't care where I end up next week. At the moment anyhow. Because tomorrow I'm staying in Whitstable, a small Oyster town on Kent's northern coast. It could be Deptford, I wouldn't care, because I'm going with my girlfriend. So that's sunday night taken care of. I'll worry about the week when I get back.

Monday, on the other hand, is where the problems start again. There are three options. 1.) Stay up all night, play poker, and carry on as normal. 2.) stay on the sofa of a colleague. Or 3.) get a hotel.

I think there may be a plan 'C' though. It goes something like - stay up all night, get a hotel the next day and then sleep. Think that's what I'll do.

The hotel plan has a further complication. Poker money will have to pay for it. I can cover the cost but when the time comes to move I anticipate the sweeping tide of poverty to knock me off my feet for a while. And it's better to be braced. So poker money it is, and i'm up to about a room and a half now. Two and a half if I skip room service...

In the meatime staying here is pretty good. There's even a nice dog. I'm not normally good with dogs but the Lhasa Apsos here, Alfie, is currently keeping my feet warm. Like all good dogs he understands by instinct that this is a surefire way to secure friendship between man and beast. He even follows me out for a smoke now and then, although he's having trouble lighting up. So another night here isn't so bad.

Talking of smoking I'm giving up tomorrow.

Last Train

The last train south is always a fun trip. A mental journey away from the heart of where the action is. Like boxers on the shaky, unguaranteed journey back to their corners. Crammed into too few carriages on a train they can only hope is going where the digital board said. It brings together all walks of London life. Business men, students, housewives, shop workers, creatives and the dull. All of them pissed drunk.

That's why there is a last train, so the London authorities can deal with the piss heads one by one in the burbs rather than as one uncontrollable mass in the middle of The Strand. If you can get on it there's a 15 minute trip, standing through muggy piss mist and alcohol fug before the fresher air of wherever it is you live.

Meanwhile, some fall asleep and are never seen of again, until they show up in Gillingham, where they babble nonsense to people in high streets about how the hell a friend could let them sleep past their stop. Others, the sober perhaps, sit with a briefcase on their lap, eyes wide, ever cautious of the drunk who likes to chat. You can see behind their eyes the voice in their head telling them they'll never work late again. They want off. A stop early if they sense trouble.

Then there's me, with a tendency to day dream. Last night I sat staring front, watching out of the window as people got off and made their way through a door way onto the street, a street which looked incredibly familiar. Then the train pulled away, me still sat there, as I'd watched my stop come and go. Strange moment, like watching yourself on the operating table.

But nevermind. Don't be too harsh on yourself. Get off at the next stop - the place that even the police don't patrol - and hop in a taxi back. The driver won't ask questions, he just wants your cash. There are no questions on the last train home, they'll take anybody. That's the beauty of it. Another leveler.

I hated it last night though. You need a mental run-up to get on the thing and get off at the other end still holding the rags of your good mood. Get on in a bad state and you're giving up part of your soul. I'll learn next time. Or the time after that.

Homeless

There's nothing like a deadline to get your mind into peak gear. I'm not talking writing deadlines here, I'm talking "have to be out of the house" deadlines, which now see me technically homeless inside of 24 hours.

It doesn't help being out of the country for much of the time you would spend hunting down a new place, but it sure does sharpen the edges of life. Boy this is fun. Just which friend shall I impose myself on tomorrow?

Thing is, even though it's taking ages, it's important to get out of here for all sorts of reasons. It's like the future starts tomorrow and it's dark where I am now. I want to go where the sun shines dammit. I don't care where I have to put my stuff whilst I do, I just want to enjoy things again.

Foxwoods Poker Classic

It's easy to lose the momentum on these things after being away for a few days. So, I'm seizing the moment, sat in JFK Airport in New York, on the floor to be precise, two feet away from one of the only power outlets within a secure ten mile radius. It's a nice day. I can see through light smog for miles. But the main thing is I'm going home.

This has been the first trip I haven't been keen on going on. Every step of the one-day long journey to New England was a step away from where I wanted to be, and the person I wanted to be with. But I did it anyway. A seven hour London to New York flight on Wednesday, followed by an hour taxi to Penn Station, an hour wait for a train and internet, the latter never coming, and a three hour journey through the wilderness, to the wilderness, that is Foxwoods Resort Casino.

It's horrible.

It's an ugly building and an ugly colour. Like a large shopping centre built in a rush sometime around 1985, with no proper shops, too many food outlets and only covering the "Chicken", "Chili" and "Ribs" American food groups. The average age of the punter is about 65. The average age of each employee is about 75.

On saturday night, after play finished early, I got sick after eating a plain turkey sandwich and spent the night hurling at the toilet. I did manage to play though, doing okay, in the shiny new WPT Poker Room at Foxwoods. Essentially this is the original poker room that was already there, only now they have the WPT logo stamped on each table.

Four days later we had a winner in Victor Ramdin, the only known player at the final table and good enough for us. Jason Kirk from Bluff magazine reminded me of the great saying, also known as the Poker Media Battle Cry: "Let the chip leader win". I like that, because after three and a half days you just want the thing over with, with no attachment to any player. I believe if my mother was playing, and was the short-stack heads-up against Phil Hellmuth, I would want The Brat to win.

So now I'm back at the airport waiting for the red-eye, where you fly into the future a bit and land at the too bright time of 7am. That's when the real journey begins, when carefully considered American Metropolitan transport makes way for patch-it-together, god-help-us-all British transport, where genuinely anything can happen.

It'll be good to be back.

Cold Cures

I'm prepared to try anything today. I have to get rid of this cold. So any kind of mythical cure, mixed in with conventional chemical cures are welcome. If it has ever shown a shade of success I want to know about it.

I'm drinking orange juice, eating vitamin C tablets like fruit pastiles and intend to nip to the shop any second to buy those weapons grade capsules than can either wipe out a village or suck any moisture out of your head in less than an hour. The kind of tablets where the chemist uncomfortably checks over both shoulders before he hands them over. Dammit, they know there's a cure! Give the people the drugs! I don't care if it leaves my sinuses carpeted at the end of the day. I have to be healthy.

I also hear Brandy is good in these circumstances...

Shoe-Ins and New Certainties

Those bastards.

Well, maybe that's a little harsh on the guys who had to do the rowing, but still. I was promised. It hurts.

Still, my tipster has bigger worries than me tracking down his address. Namely my colleague, who believing the hype a little more than I did and emptied a less than lean betting account on the future lawyers of Cambridge. And of course there's the tipster himself, who had hundreds running on the same boatload of wet losers. So dropping a fiver doesn't feel as bad as it did when Cambridge blew it before they reached the first bridge. But I did want both teams to sink as they reached the last bend.

I had another tip tonight though. Stick to betting on West Ham. Quite right. It comes with a 100% record. Iron clad. I've learned my lesson.

The Good Life

I've developed a habit of coming home at 1 o'clock in the morning when it's cold and I don't have enough clothes on. This, along with not eating well, sleeping odd hours, smoking too much and worrying too much has brought on a cold.

On top of that the flat moving situation has moved, well, nowhere in the last couple of days. I saw a place in Wimbledon last night, nice enough, but I got the sense that there would be daily cleanliness inspections at least twice a day and I'm not the military type. I see another one tonight, slightly over my budget, but at this point I'm prepared to pay for luxury. Which is exactly what I would be getting if I lived anywhere else than London.

But fuck that, I'm in a good mood. And with that comes a loose wallet. And if Oxford win the boatrace today maybe I can cover the distance.

Or was it Cambridge? Dammit, which one was I supposed to back?

The Boat Race

It's the boat race tomorrow, a pretty pointless main feature of the BBC sporting calendar. Two teams of people I have a grudge against rowing like bastards along the Thames. I skip it normally but I got a tip yesterday that the Cambridge team are a Shoe-in. I like this kind of bet, because I have someone to blame if it goes wrong.

So, on goes a chunk of the £16.41 I have left in my William Hill account. It's a miserable penny-pinching amount, but it was down to £4.66 not so long ago. I put it all on West Ham in the Cup in a moment of Karmic importance. The Hammers came through.

Not much of an account - not much of a gambler. There's supposed to be a certain level of research in betting, studying the things that give you an edge, that kind of thing. But i've always found this to ruin the impulse decisions that makes gambling fun. That sixth sense that finds you a way to lose your money quicker. This could be an important lesson.