Re-writes and Corporate Flyers

The Corporate Flyer is back. I've been studying. It's a whole new art form. But I'm a Poker Doctor now, and with that comes blind confidence and fearless momentum. No task to big. No criticism too small.

The routine is almost back, with the big jobs settling into cruise whilst the rest of the work takes a front seat. There are still re-writes to do, and notes to add; to the PokerStars article and the Johnny Chan interview, but I've learned a lot this last week. I just wish I'd had more than four minutes with Johnny "Fucking" Chan.

I had lots of follow ups in mind and other questions which would have been a little more taxing. Instead, with limited time I just thought it best to get anything down and take it from there. No luck. Like a true sportswriter I got down what he wanted me to hear and nothing more. Failure. Crap. I don't care about his book. And his line of clothes must soon be destined to fold like a cheap pink animal skin suit.

We Lost a Lot of Good Words Today....

Johnny "Fucking" Chan the Master. The article went up today after an email asking for it late yesterday and some break-neck typing into the night. It's up. That much is right. But there are changes.

This is okay. I'm not married to every word. And we talked about it, as men do, and came to our own conclusions. Mine was that I was still happy with what I'd written and thought it was good. His was that he was the editor, what he says goes. Outranked.

But hell, it was only a paragraph or so, and a sentence in the first section. Actually it's good thinking that my version is better, that must be progress. Of course I can say that, because no one will ever see it.

But now we're onto the next. This is how I want it to go now and how it probably will. But maybe one day I'll learn how to finish them ahead of 2am.

Late in the Garret

I seem to cause a lot of things to go freaky. Ikea beds. Fish trips. Something in my aura. It must be. Like lunar power, things turn wrong every now and then. You can't pick it up at first. It feels like it's the part of your imagination you'd kept in the dark for years making a surprise appearance, making you feel unusual. Then, an hour or so later you realise that the ginger guy you spoke to earlier just fucked up your head. It's me. I'm sorry.

I don't know how I do it. I feel like Midas except that everything I touch turns to bad. And when you don't drink, and have only three cigars left in the box, it can be a hard thing to deal with in the cold light of night.

So I'm buckling down and fastening hatches in the garret here where I live. Things will look better tomorrow and perhaps one day I won't be so illusive about what it is I'm talking about on here. I'm told I need to be more honest in what I write. But at the moment I can only do honest about other people, not about my own life.

Hope it works out.

Bank Holiday Day One

Bank Holiday again. How many of these fuckers are there every year?

I used to know. When you have an office job Bank holidays are like rafts that you swim to, to escape rip tides. Then you let go and look for the next, hoping to leap frog to shore. Also known as a two week summer holiday.

These days though they're just an ordinary day, not least because I don't get the day off. I can't tell the difference between days anyway. Last Thursday it took me a good three minutes to work out which day it was when I woke up. Three minutes doesn't sound long, but that's 180 seconds of total confusion. Besides, I don't call it Thursday anymore - I call it day five.

But anyway, I'm taking a few hours off regardless. I'm going to the London Aquarium, the biggest collection of fish in London not battered and served with vinegar. It's exciting. It could get freaky as well, but that's okay. For as long as fish like to swim up and down again and again, nothing too bad can happen.

I've posted this quickly. All there is to do now is to wait for the boss to call with urgent work.
The phone is ringing...

Poker Quack

A feature may appear on a pretty well known poker website this week, written by me, and containing possibly the worst poker advice ever given.

It's not there yet. But it could be soon. An innocently posed question from a poker learner, who desperately needs help with a costly aspect of his game. Then follows sage wisdom, rosemary consideration and parsley pride in an answer which sets the record straight.

Both of which will be me of course. And the only advice I know to give is to move all-in if in any doubt. Even if you lose you can get out of the place and try playing golf instead.

So yes, what to do? Bluff. That's what. If anyone complains just shout louder than them. The appearance of confidence is much better than actually having any. And I'm full of appearance...

M Over High C in Tooting Bec

Didn't ever plan on writing about music on this blog. It's supposed to be part poker and part my demise. But what the hell, it's Saturday, I have a light day until this evening, and I'm in the mood.

I found one of those tracks on my iPod last night, one that's been there for ages. Then you hear it on the off chance and find yourself thinking 'Wow, this is a great song'.

So yes, Cinnamon Girl by Neil Young did it. I found it last night, walking home at 1.30am. And in the middle of Tooting Common that late at night nobody can hear you sing. The "woo" that he does as the guitar sequence kicks in at the end makes you feel like you're part of something incredible that only a few people know about.

Thought of other songs that make you feel that your life has changed direction. I remember hearing Shelter from the Storm by Bob Dylan and thinking I really needed to get out of a relationship that was going wrong. It's a straight forward enough song but I listened to it again and again wondering if lyrics like that would ever mean anything to me.

Then there's Serge Gainsbourg. Ahh, Serge. Initials BB, a song about Bridget Bardot, with a drum sequence all the way through which sounds all arms and legs but gets there anyway, like freefalling without a parachute, but landing on your feet.

Perhaps you only notice this when things feel good in your life? And then you assign more meaning to random things. Still have a few minor worries. A few things that might get big and some that might not. But I'm enjoying my afternoon off. I'm allowed to think whimsically.

The Article That Ate PokerStars

There goes the weekend...

I'm stuck in the muddy banks of an article that I just can't finish. The problem is that when it comes to writing these things I start in the middle and work my way out. I head off in one direction, go back to the middle and aim for the other shore. At the end of this process I have two dozen paragraphs, some of them good, but with nothing in common other than the same spelling mistakes.

So I'm working on this. Have to because I now have a triage system in place to deal with the articles I need to write. PokerStars is one, but Johnny Chan has been rushed in on a gurney and will need dealing with some time soon. A quick interview today means a long article tomorrow. Or the day after maybe. Either way Bank Holiday to me just means I can't pay any cheques in on Monday.

Then there are a couple of others in the pipeline. Somewhere in between all this I need to find some time off. I can feel a power surge coming on that could leave me frazzled and unapproachable for some time. This is good in some ways, because there are some people who I don't want to be approached by. But there are others too, who approach in nice ways, and that's more important.

But it's nothing a milky-way on the way home can't fix.

Are We Old?

My friend Kate is about 8.75 months pregnant. Pretty soon she'll either explode or be a mum, and I think she would be happy either way. It's a big thing - a Pennine bulge out front and a life changing moment. We're grown up. It's scary, in a driving fast kind of way.

Lots of new things in the last two or three months. One minute you're deaf to the world, next minute you're building beds for children and preparing to baby sit.

Then maybe she'll be able to go out again. She's the lifeblood of the meeting up scene, a natural organiser with an eye for trendy bars. I need that. I have other friends in London, but can't for the life of me remember where they live.

So sooner or later her blog will stop and she'll go to a bleached place where they'll tell her to breathe, push, stop breathing, and pull. 'Pull' being the last word any pending mother wants to here, when the staff sees something they don’t like, and think best that it turns back.

Johnny Chan Weekend

Well, that was easy. What was I worried about?

I owe Jen Leo more than the money we'll pay her for the article and the dinner we promised. She came through like only a warrior of the business could. Deadline set, deadline made, and in between we all got a little sleep. Plus, I live to fight another week. This is good.

But I don't want another week of checking behind sofas for loose interviews. Much better to have a back-log ready to use at a moment's notice. This is the new plan.

And there's a new poker celebrity coming to town, which is why my Saturday night has been commandeered to see Johnny Chan at the Western. Not to mention a press lunch tomorrow at the Sportsman. I have no idea how to get to these places, let alone get back, but it should be good for a cucumber sandwich or two without crusts. It will be a late finish, but that's the only way to get the job done apparently.

Stealing from the Best, or Whoever's Available

Three doobies of Fear, half a dozen lines of paranoia and a full injection of 'how do we get out of this?’ this morning. Sometimes only incredible luck will get you out of trouble. Other times trouble will find you whatever you have on you to fight it off. Today is one of those days. Lots to do. Absolutely no way of doing it.

Interviews. I like doing interviews. It's something to get better at and it's a useful skill. They're relatively straight forward. Switch on the Dictaphone, ask some questions, and let them roll for however long the momentum keeps them in the mood. Then, type it all out, craft an ingenious and teasing introduction and hand it in for every Tuesday.

I have nothing this week.

Frantic attempts to get in touch with Scott Fischman, Tiffany Williamson and Andy Bloch have brought zero good fortune. My contacts book is empty. Somewhere, Joe Hachem is laughing.

So I'm initiating 'Emergency Plan B', which in layman’s terms means a head in the sand gallop of emails to friends asking for help. Most of them haven't woken up yet. They'd better. I need to steal their work quick.

Damming up the Consciousness Streams

Over the hump and another hump emerges. This is what work feels like at the moment. Climbing a mountain, scaling one peak, only to realise it was merely a slight ridge and another cliff is stareing you in the face. But we have rope, and milky-ways and a night off. The cliff can wait.

But we push on as only people who may have something wrong in the head can. And my working situation is a little different today. Good instant coffee, none of that expensive Italian shit. A cat also, which just jumped off something high nearby, appearing on the desk like she'd just been teleported here with Kirk.

I'm also playing Omaha on a Play Money table on PokerStars, where the 5/10 blinds make seeing a flop cost roughly 4,000 by the time it gets round to you. But it's play money, and it's PokerStars, and there are 5 billion hand records coming up, and my girlfriend is the one keeping track of it all, and she doesn't like counting that high, so this is sympathy Omaha. Loyalty Omaha, call it what you will. I'm keeping any whinging bastards in line. But thank fuck it’s play money.

So the work carries on. At least for a couple of hours. Then I'll brave the cold and head East, to Streatham, passing by a shop for smokes and walking the long way around a house I have to avoid walking near, and to miss people who might see my bed-head hair, along the dirt path on Tooting Common, the old frontier track from Tooting's often forgoten wild-west era. If you kick your feet you can still make cloud of dust filth your shoes. Saturday has come. Rejoice.

Then, who knows? Live in a way only Saturday can encourage. Hmm. What the fuck does that mean? Not sure. It does mean writing. I have lots of that to do, but also, a return to fundamentals as far as this blog is concerned - the steering has drifted off onto the shoulder and the power has gone. Stream of conscience is crap. Rubbish. We can do better.

Then, maybe a dusk raid on Borders. The Oxford Street Branch of course, none of your Tottenham Court Road rubbish. Get focused. Approach with a more open mind and find a book, any book, but mainly one that will lift spirits after a tough week and big enough to prop the career up a little longer. There are new projects on the horizon. Sleep may soon be pencilled in if things go well. Have to be ready.

muhalo.

The TV Thing

You learn quickly that no amount of channel surfing will find you anything worth watching on television, and particularly at 10.30am. It's either hospitals, property or worse, the evil soul scraping bags of shit that pass themselves off as, well, what are they called? Normally a couple are brought on, looking slightly under the national average for decency, and begin to unravel the worlds ugliest story of betrayal. But by the looks of it these people don't know what betrayal really is. They just want to be on telly.

Then, a big shouldered barbarian girl is brought on from back stage to argue with a man who is either her father, her lover, or both. She sits on one side, he on the other. A safe distance. In between is a minimum wage security man with an earpiece. Presumably he’s there so the producer can prompt him to intervene at the right time, either to break them apart or force them together.

But I'm still watching, albeit with the sound down. For another man, with patterns etched into his skull, is about to be brought on. This could mean trouble. His name must be Goober as he appears to have been assembled using loose scraps of plastacine with flavour-sucked gobstopper-eyes.

Then, a group of people which doesn't even cause a blip on the evolution radar, tells another group of knuckle draggers they're not fit to be part of their family. Fair enough. And hell, at the very least this is real life. Real life at its darkest and best with the hairy bits and grazes exposed. It's not even the lowest form of entertainment. No, this is reserved for supermarket magazines which depict soap opera as real life. Full scale news features by journalists who I personally know spent loans and lost relationships putting themselves through university, writing columns on what a particularly character should do now after his girlfriend with the big tits (appearing this Christmas in Panto in Prestatyn) declared herself a lesbian. Weeping now seems so futile.

This is the new deal. Entertainment at base level. Tomorrow the new series of Big Brother starts, but hell, at least we can gamble on it. Apparently producers have placed 100 "Golden Tickets" into Kit Kats, one of which will entitle a member of the public, who probably just wanted something chocolaty, to enter the Big Brother Celebrity birthing cage. Interesting idea, it just means I can't have Kit Kats for the next month.

Until then...

The 'Ooooh' Mood

I've written too many blog posts lately that I wanted to start with the word "ooooh". The "ooooh" mood is still here. After 11 solid hours of looking at my computer screen I've sent an article to my boss. And now, bugger it, I'm waiting for the all clear.

It won't come of course. They'll be changes to be made, different angles to approach from. That's fine. As long as the first words out of my Editor's mouth aren't "Stephen, this is no good" then I'll be okay. If not, then I'm going to the off license.

... but then it comes. Not so much an 'all clear' as a 'nothing to clear'. No word, we've already moved on. That's how it works with my Editor. If something is acceptable then nothing is said. Only if it's bad will tempers flare.

So yes, we move on. Thank fuck for that.

Nipple Tweaking

Is my flatmate on to me? Does he know?

When I moved in I ’forgot’ to tell my two new flatmates that I smoked. No need, I thought. I'm quitting anyhow. Instead, the habit goes on. But my Australian housemate, Jason, asked me tonight about my cough... he knows.

I told him how I got the cough. Basically, 13 hours sleep in five days the week before last. I left out the heavy smoking part of the story. I felt he didn't need to know. But last night I crept downstairs at 2am, opened the patio door and stood out in the cold to have a smoke. I tried to open the door with zero noise but I know trained ears hear this sort of thing. Tonight when I gave him the cough story again I sensed he didn't believe me.

But anyway, now paranoia is ruining my smoking pleasure. This may be the best way to quit. I'm running out of excuses to go outside.

At the moment I'm swapping advice with a friend of mine who's 8 and a half months pregnant. I tell her things to help speed up the birthing thing (you'd be amazed how much I know about pineapples and fiddling with nipples), whilst she gives me tips like "as soon as you can afford it, find a place of your own". Good advice. To the point. It's a nice house here. It would be better though if my housemates didn't live here as well.

Dealing with The Fear

A feel good day, even with a few minor problems that no man would ever blog about. But needless to say all is chipper.

A big chunk of work is done. One of the now five, not four things I have to get done this week. So celebration would be nice. But instead a trip to Sainsbury's for a re-supply run. It's a good half an hour walk, and I have no idea which bus will bring me back. But I'm nothing if not an adventurer. So with the music to Indiana Jones in my brains I'll be on my way.

Then back for another 8 hour shift of supporting Our Man Ed in Vegas, the lone ranger out at the Mirage in the middle of the Nevada dessert, covering the World Poker Tour. Last night I packed in at 2.30am. Tonight I already feel it will be a breeze. Besides, there's bugger all on telly. Since I bought the damn thing there's been nothing on telly. Has there ever been?

And in between all this will be other work, articles and the secret dynamic jobs for the summer. I want to impress my boss this week after his knees were knocked from under him by a piece I wrote that was used last Saturday. It shocked me. I thought it was better than he thought, but I've had too much of The Fear to re-read it and see which one of us was right. The next will be better, the one after liquid gold.

To the cake isle...

Blog Support

Turns out tonight will be spent supporting our man in Vegas, Ed Sevillano, in covering the WPT Mirage event which started today. Only about another ten hours to go on day one.

I was trying to work out whether or not I'd actually like to be there, but these thoughts were quickly overcome by "when will I find time to eat" and "When can I go buy smokes?" Two good ones, you'll agree, but without definite answers. I'm new to this area. God knows which shops are still open.

But anyway, it seems to be going well, and you haven't lived until you've felt the thrill of sprinting around the dark streets of Streatham late at night, looking for a shop that's open, and sells Milky Bars.

Between Two Extremes

Poker on a Sunday afternoon. The £20 freezeout at Gutshot. I thought I'd win this one. Karma was tickling my ears telling me so. Turns out Karma was flicking my ears, and I didn't notice.

But that's the deal with karma, so best ignore it. I wasn't in the mood to play really but wanted to get out of the house. Should have gone to the pictures. And there's another one at 8pm tonight. Don't want to be here. Don't want to go home. 'Rhwng ddau begwn' the Welsh say.

But it's important to be chipper. Grin and bear the 'muppet-calling' stories that inevitably come and think ahead. Busy week. The aim is to keep work to within office hours. And with the right kind of diligence and hard work we professionals can sometimes pull this off. And it's fun work. I'm in with the best of it.

Just asked a guy here about his cowboy boots. Perhaps the magic is resurfacing? When you find magic it's pretty impossible to ignore it or keep it down and out of site. Grabbing it is the only way to deal with the stuff, and never let go. Kensington High Street has a place. So too Camden Market. Re-ignite the feel good afterburners. Home in. Don't lose sight of it.

Blogging and deleting

Oops.

Turns out coughing vodka binge man across the street isn't dead, but there's a chance he might soon be.

I was in the garden smoking shortly before midnight. Midnight is a good time to smoke, where man can look up into the sky and try to find something significant in a new day starting. I've never found anything but it hasn't stopped me looking.

Tonight though I found flashing lights, in the sky, on the wall, through the window. A sign? No, an ambulance. At first I thought it was the police again. On another recent smoking trip I saw policemen with dogs acting suspiciously.

But today, the same 'eugh' noise and a man being carted away. Serious. I felt bad staring from behind the curtain, but it was that or wait for the hammer blow to the door and the vice squad storming in. I'm still not sure about my housemates.

The real grief today was caused by West Ham United. It turns out that a study has shown that if you had bet £1 on West Ham to win each of their games this season - every game - you would have lost all of your money and someone would have come by to repossess your home. Once they'd taken out your TV and toaster, they'd come back and smack you in the face for every game West Ham had played.

But still, I've been betting on West Ham. £5 today to win the FA Cup. Fuckers let me down. I really needed them to win. Instead this year’s cup final will leave a scar, like a tattoo. It was like watching your fate being mapped out by people you've never met.

But enough of that. The highlights tonight are painful. I shouldn’t watch. It’s like a car crash or an ambulance flashing and parked outside of your house. Hope the poor bastard feels better tomorrow. Hope we all feel better tomorrow. We will I think.

Night time Emails

Fuck. Just when you think you've got a hold of the ball it turns out you were carrying a bag of crap. Two days spent on a 'never-going-to-be-great' article and it turns out it's not great. An email me from my Editor in the night telling me so. And to think I was feeling okay about this one.

Now it will go on like this. Whatever I send, good or bad, will have a limbo period, where I sit clicking refresh on my laptop waiting for the 'all clear' email. I need to sort this out. I thought things were getting better. Did I really take my eye off of things? Maybe I needed more time?

I need a place to work. Not too keen on my new house and I seriously need a desk to organise myself. If I work at the club, where I normally get a lot done, I'll smoke like a bastard and feel miserable soon enough. Maybe when the Editorial office is sorted in the new building? Right now this is important. I need to think of somewhere with no distractions.

Fuck, shit.

Streatham

Streatham. Home.

As it was my first day at home I figured a stroll would be good. Stretch the muscles in the head and the legs. Get out of the house for a while. Contemplate.

Streatham High Street is five minutes away. It seemed like a good enough place to go. It's a dull road. Lots of shops.

We have two Kentucky Fried Chicken outlets to start. Not sure why we need more than one but there's something they do to chicken in Kentucky that makes it popular in Streatham. I can’t trust my neighbours anymore.

I tried to settle in, to feel local. The police tried their best to stop a bus without getting in my way. A squad car in front of a double decker and two plain clothes guys, in t-shirts, caps and bullet proof vests, looking important in a car round the back. I saw a couple of guys with beards sat in the bus, but nothing else. Could be the bus was just late. But I'm not convinced the fuzz has a department to cover that.

Still, just when you thought you'd seen everything but the kitchen sink, the kitchen sink walks by, in a bag, on the back of a transient man heading north. He had his reasons I suppose. Among them perhas the need to feel clean. But by now I'd had enough. Head home. To your small patch of London that hasn't been altered by the heat and the reality bump. Except the guy across the road of course. Unseen, but heard, making a breed of "eurgh" noise on a staccato two second beat. Dry heaving the last flickers of a forgotten vodka binge I figured. He could be dead now.

But it's not always the daytime lunatics that leave an impression. One of those night time phantoms came my way, a red face middle aged man with a can of Stella. He approached tonight as I was coming home from a 'Hemmingway-esque' evening walk. Mentally I was ready to fire off a burst of swear words. "Fuckers" and "bastards" are like boxing gloves, and these people move fast to get these words in first. Instead, all he said was that around the next corner I should stop, look west, and watch the sun go down. He smiled, and as a drunk why shouldn't he, and I said thanks.

I did stop, and he was right, the sun looked red and great. I only saw the last of it, the sun's scalp. Time had moved slowly in my drunken friend's head and he'd forgotten that what he'd just seen would by now have gone.

But sometimes it's these unlikely passers-by who see what's really going on. Forget the police, the lunatics and people carrying kitchens on their back that make you feel strange. Ignore that and open your eyes once in a while. Nice is better than not nice.

Home Working

I'm supposed to work from home most of the week. It was a big part of the signing-up negotiations. I could work from home and save myself the train fare. It was good. I woke late. Recently though it's been the office everyday and home almost never. I've lived here for 13 days now and have hardly been in the place. So today is a deliberate day of working from home.

Not that I've done much. Couple of emails and three cups of coffee. I'm also in the garden making the most of the sunshine. This is starting to sound like a gay, carefree blog post. I'm not gay. But I am carefree. But should I be worried about the smell of gas coming from the patio?

Nevermind. It's a good day. And the article I started yesterday no longer seems headed for the hellish crapness it once was. Something about PokerStars. It's tricky because there are things I need to say, but also people reading it who I don't want to misinterpret what I write as criticism. Conrad Brunner for one. Actually only him. I have a lot of time for Conrad and I emailed him yesterday for information and said I'd say nice things about them, but how can I let my invitation error go unmentioned?

We'll see. And a job at PokerStars was never going to happen. They could never offer me what I have here. For sure now.

The Fuckwit Shift

It's been a day of motherfuckers.

The day off started well but then took a nosedive into the 'bastards, cunts and fuckwits' world - a place that now gurantees no mother of mine will ever get the link to this thing.

Today was boots day. A rocky night at the PokerStars thing yesterday meant today should be better. It started that way. A slow morning with the boots plan. They'd be paid for with solid gold poker money. The significance was big. Perhaps because I'd let it get like that. The men in the shop didn't see it this way.

The guy sized me up pretty quick. "Judging by those tatty converse boots I'd say you were a size eight." Spot on, he was obviously highly professional. I told him I wanted to spend £150 on ankle high boots. Brown. A zip. What did he have in mind?

He showed me one pair. Nice. I'd take them if they had the eight. 15 minutes later, another chap, we'll call him Knobend, told me there were none in my size. 'How about any of the others?' He pointed at the top shelf. I'm too short for that kind of browsing.

I'd heard the enthusiasm for sending customers on their way happy from this place was minimal. I'd expected a hard sell, a "we'll have them in stock soon", or "let me show you what else we have". But fuck all. £150 on the table and the service of an untipped French waiter. The magic had suddenly gone and I felt low. Best get out.

Figured I'd try for books and magazines. No luck in the first for the book. Or the second. The third shop was on fire and he brigade were rushing in. The fourth had shut down. Magazines? No. The two shops I know of that sell Rolling Stone had obviously cancelled their order. Bastards. The boot people had called ahead.

The worst thing is that after 38 hours of smoke free living I'm back on the fags. I felt terrible after the first, second, and third actually. The fourth brought on misty surrender. Tomorrow maybe.

I'm also working. It seemed like the safe option. But depsite all this I'm still chipper. Worried, but on the sunny side enough to keep the fear down to manageable. There are things to be happy about. Keep that in mind.

Work, Don't Work

This will be a test of many things. A full day off. Who'd have thought it? I'm planning things that will hopefully be fun. But I have other things on my mind. Spending shitloads of money is the only way I can think to keep the demons at the perimeter. Books, magazines and cowboy boots. Then, fuck it, I'm going to Gutshot to work.

One day I'll train the demons to work for me.

I have stuff to write today. But I can take it easy. No urgent deadlines, well not really, which means the words will come out dull on the page, but can be hammered and manipulated for some time before I press the "send" button.

But I want to be busy today. And does anyone need a poker table?

Well that's that. Poker tonight, with 'journo' friends and people I've never met before. That's at Gutshot. How convenient. Tony Holden just called to tell me he won a World Series seat at the event last night. I didn't hang around long enough to see him claim his prize and a useful chunk of text for his book. He needed to brag. I was happy to oblige. And 'B' comes quickly in the address book.

Day Off

A day off.

Actually, four hours. I slept for the rest. Then tonight it's pokerstars part two.

Last night went well. Gutshot was packed and the three champions did stirling work in getting with the spirit of things. Raymer moved all-in first hand with Tens. Lost, and was quickly re-instated.

Hachem, who waved 'hi' to me in the first tentative steps of reconciliation, held court for two hours answering any questions that came his way in the corner of the bar.

Moneymaker smoked his way to the final table of the makeshift £20 freezeout tournament, collecting a £5 bounty for knocking out Hachem, and sitting in the £25 Pony game next door all night.

That's as much official reporting as I'm prepared to do. The rest was a night of trying to keep awake. I spoke to Conrad from PokerStars for a while and then took as many pictures as I could be bothered to. Tonight I'll get to the heart of the deal and write a piece about it all.

By 2am I'd given up and ordered a taxi. Quick argument with the driver, hurried negotiations which came close to blows, and home by 2.30am.

Don't like this day off thing. Only a few hours today so that will be managable. But tomorrow... We'll see.

Orders from the top

Turns out, I may be forced to take time off this week. The chief called and ordered it. And I'm a loyal employee. It hadn't occurred to me before that I might not want to take a day off. But since he mentioned it I've been thinking he might be right.

I've worked solid for the last month or so. I've had time off but not really a whole day. The nature of the work means there's always something that needs doing. Standard hack work, technical things. But in between those you can relax. Not me. For some reason I headed to work. I had nothing better to do. Then, when I needed a night off to see my girlfriend, I'd be pissed if it wasn't possible.

In the delicate, shy, pre-relationship stage of knowing my girlfriend she asked me what I liked to do in my free time. For a start I was tongue tied anyway that night. But then I realised I couldn't think of anything. I used to write in my free time. Now that's my work time. The two have become one.

So maybe I'll take it easy tomorrow. And maybe wednesday. It's officially sanctioned. And I said I was a company man.

Benylin and coke... ice and lemon

The foot is down. 200 mph towards oblivion, pushing the body as far as you can towards breaking point. Olympic athletes? No. Press actually. Cough syrup, high caffeine beverages, sleep a long lost dream. We're here to watch World Champions play the laymen for £20 buy-ins and a chance to touch the hems of garments. Won't these fuckers hurry up?

But no. Stay calm. Tarnishing of this beautiful dream must soon begin, and the novelty will become something the ealy starters will regret tomorrow morning. There's still no bar license here. The critical mass of being on the piss or playing poker is fast approaching. And when you can't do both problems are never far enough away.

PokerStars Things

I think my policy on PokerStars is well known. I like them, and for more reasons than the one my boss announced across the bar here last night, that I was “loved up with one of their employees”. I like the company ethos though - they pay shitloads.

But anyway, I may hate them by the end of the week. Two PokerStars things in two days starting tonight with the three last World Champions (and I can link to these buggers) coming to play at Gutshot, and then an official media event tomorrow night in Picadilly. The idea is that here the ordinary player can sit down to play with them. So, there's a £20 freezeout arranged. Demand will be high. They'll be a lottery for seats.

So that's Chris Moneymaker, Greg Raymer and Joe Hachem on the way. I intend to sandbag a corner of the bar and stay there all night. I may need some kind of defence system, for I have to write something about the thing, and historically I've run into trouble with World Champions. Well, one of them.

I interviews Joe Hachem in Copenhagen in January. He seemed nice enough and the interview went well . Not sure he liked me talking about the Australian Inland Revenue but you have to be probing. I also interviewed Noah Boeken that week (record number of links here today). In it he said that in the poker world today, any number of internet qualifiers could win the World Series and do just as well as Joe Hachem. This, it seemed, pissed off Joe a little bit.

A few weeks later in Monte Carlo Joe asked me if I had a second. Naturally I told him I'd be a few minutes - I'm not giving ground to the World Champion - and took a moment to feel important before meeting him in the '€6 for a coke' bar.

That's when he went into World Champion mode and accused me of mis-quoting Noah in the interview with him. Marcel Luske was there too, keeping Dutch neutral of course, but injecting enough fear into the chat to put me on the defensive. He has a past. I don't. And I was thinking at this rate I wouldn't have a future either.

The ass-kicker of the whole thing is that I spent an hour defending Noah, saying he hadn't meant any disrespect and hadn't seemed to be attacking Hachem at all when I talked to him. Bugger this. They were attacking me, and I missed that. I'm still a little in awe of these people.

They asked me to re-check, I did, and Noah had said what he said. I wasn't going to change it. Marcel, still friendly, talked about how 'respect was important' in poker, that a central vein of the whole poker scene was respect between players. This of course is complete and utter shite. There's fuck-all respect in poker, particularly towards the press corp.

But it all seemed to sort itself out. And if pissing people off is worth doing it's worth doing right. Aim high.

So yes. There you go. They're coming tonight. Conrad Brunner, head of the PokerStars Marketeers will be here too. I like Conrad. But not Tamar. She grimaces.

Morning

Then something fucking great happens...

I've mentioned my boss before. Derek Kelly, one of my favourite people in the world. When he talks, most of the time I'm too much in awe of him to say anything. I sit thinking instead. I think like a bastard. I just wish I could say a few more words so when he tells me stuff he understands that I'm listening, soaking this stuff up. Not bullshitting.

I mentioned a few posts ago how I started at Gutshot after Derek gave me a life changing speech on the streets of Dublin outside the Merrion Casino. "The Rolling Stone" speech. Well, he managed to give me another tonight, just when I needed it. It was exactly what I wanted to hear, said in a kick your ass way. No bullshit, just the truth. He knew what I was thinking and told me it straight. And when you hear someone telling you to do what you've been wanting to do then all caution disappears. It's nearly 6am and I'm awake. No tiredness anymore. I want to stay up and write all day.

You have to find a voice, and I think I know what mine is, I've just been afraid to use it. I know what I want to write but I shy away from it and keep it distant. I don't want to be average - that thought has kept me awake for the last 17 years. And if this has to be hack work a lot of the time, then fuck it, it doesn't need to be mediocre.

So I started out tonight worrying about my stuff. Now I could easily burn the lot and get started on what I want to do next. It's not far off, just a few steps towards a risk than I've been afraid to go towards before. No more just getting it done. I'm going to hand carve the fuckers with my finger nails.

And failing miserably might not even be bad. But I'm not going to fail. I want to write on full speed now, no air bags. Rip out the breaks, use the seatbelt to tie my leg to the accelerator, and put my foot down.

It's daylight again. Going to get started.

Evening

My writing is complete crap these days. Like the health I mentioned. I'm up at 4am again, which gives some indication of my mental state, but I always found the trick was to type through the rough spots, carve out solid mud nonsense and polish it up afterwards. I'm a professional after all.

Professional what?

I'll come to that. Because right now there's a fuggy grey pessimistic area around my head, the latest remnants of sensation I'd lost since the heady alcohol days. Then, the right kind of loose change and the look of a man just out for friendly times could get you enough cheap cider to send you sky high with no worries in the world for the time it took the blackout to wear off.

But where was I? I'm not sure. Just have that feeling I should be writing something.

The Uncool

I need to start thinking about my health.

Before I’d had breakfast this morning I was already smoking. On the way to the train at 11.30am I was on my second smoke, second coffee and second diet coke. Today will include probably another dozen or so diet cokes which at least half a dozen coffees. At some point, I’ll feel righteous, or sick, and order tea. In between all this I’ll be heading for the gents at regular 15 minute breaks. By the end of the day I’ll feel sick, awake, and my mouth will taste like a Bengal sewer. This is the good life. We live for this.

I’m still thinking about yesterday and the final table. I said I set out not to make myself look like an idiot – that if I went out I would go out with the best of it. But really when you start out saying “I just don’t want to look stupid” you’re asking for trouble and lumping yourself in with the uncool. I am uncool, proudly so bubba, but that sometimes pisses me off sometimes.

I have a cool job. There can’t be more than half a dozen people in the UK paid to do what I do specifically. But then again there are even less people who know what I do specifically. I struggle myself. That nonsense aside the poker world runs on cool. And if you’re not part of that you’re on the outside looking in.

I can work like that. Only sometimes you need someone on the inside to open a window for you to get a peek and report back to the uncool crowd waiting outside in jumpers and cardigans. And I don’t have many links to the people inside.

But enough of that. Where was I? It’s the Showdown Poker Tour Main Event today. The first of its kind which may not even have players in it. But they’re setting up anyway and we’re here to tell the world that all is well. The appearance of calm.

Ace-Nine

Dammit. 5 hours sleep in two days means no blog posting recently. Too busy, which is no excuse in blog land, but it's all I have. And these psts are getting a little stale, aren't they? Poker torunaments go on all night and you work all day. You find a free hour at the 5am mark and make the most of it, so the blogging had to take the jump seat.

But anyway, part of the lack of sleep was good, although it's getting harder to convince my girlfriend I'm actually crap at poker. I made the final table of a £150 freezeout comp which meant I would actually have to perform to a certain standard. Everything was in place to make me look foolish.

But I have moves! Like Ace-Nine! Oops. But Ace-high is sometimes good, and these days for me it's a full scream battle charge into the unknown with whatever you can get your hands on. It normally ends in slaughter of course, but it's a far greater thing to try. Otherwise you just sit and watch the world go by with regrets. Regardless, I can't bring myself to talk about it. But I made a few quid and learned a lot, and pissed off my boss, and found that luck is on my side these days in a lot of ways.

More tournaments this weekend, going late into the morning. Yesterday I managed a night off by tactically going for drinks with my boss and Andy Black, lending Andy £400 and then saying I needed to go home "to sleep". Actually, this was true, but when I said that I didn't feel tired. It was still nice to go to bed when it was dark, and not bright sunshine outside with people on their way to work.

Now it's the quiet time before it all kicks off again. I was going to blog about being cool and not being cool. Maybe later. There has to be something more interesting to say...

European Series of Poker

That's the grand name for what's keeping me up nights at Gutshot. Really it's just some bigger than normal events at the club, but the CEO likes to give things the illusion of something more so we're European now. It's the Common Market at its bejesus best.

So it's tournament report time. I was expected to cover the tournament till it finished and then write about it, finishing at about 4am. Now I'm told it's a two day event, so an early, pre-dawn finish, before getting back here tomorrow afternoon.

A few recognisable players are here. David Pomroy, Neil Channing, Nick Persaud. Even Roland De Wolfe, who finished 3rd at Bellagio last week is making a non-playing appearance. He's here for the applause.

But I'm safe here, in the corner. Where the wireless is good and the coke tap just a few short feet away. Stay calm. There are people here you've pissed off recently. Now is not the time to get in their way.

Accounts

I used to work in a payroll department for a government agency. I left because I was very bad at it. It's all rushing back to me now though, as I sift through receipts for the Foxwoods trip.

Everytime I go away for work I set out to be meticulous, keeping track of every penny and cent. Every drink, every €€40 fruit salad (Monte Carlo) , and every $9 hotdog (Bellagio). Instead I collect all the receipts and stuff them in my bag.

But I have them. And apparently that's important. I just can't understand them. But that doesn't stop me, for I have imagination, and accountancy is one of the creative arts. I also have the added fire-burning incentive of the boss coming in. Always clears the mind.

Otherwise the good mood lives on.

Getting off the road

No more car. Thank God. It's for the best.

I'm a competant driver, more nervous than the average bloke-loon type behind the wheel of a Mazda with the stereo on perhaps, but either way it's not for me. Keeping calm is getting too tough. These other people on the road have the potential to kill me. Or at least get in my way. They should be removed to let me travel in peace.

But whilst this doesn't happen I'm stuck with public transport. This can be a nightmare too. A study once showed that only 10% of London bus drivers actually care for their lives, let alone the 80 or so people hangin on in the back. I don't like working with these odds if I can help it. But with no car I can't help it. The tube is good. Except it doesn't go south enough. I'm no longer scared of bombs, my bag is too heavy to be picky about sitting in certain places anymore. And I normally fall asleep anyway.

The only other option is Taxi. I've been cavalier with those recently and woke up this morning thinking "what was I thinking?" Too much thinking for a start. But the taxi's will have to stop.

I'm walking home tonight.

Distracted?

I may have moved, but I'm back in my temporary office today, at Gutshot, the bar to be precise, where a £20 satellite is on a break. The sensible play is to keep away from the booze when you're in a game. But thankfully for profits this unwritten rule is largely ignored here, and the player who orders a mineral water is generally frowned upon as not getting with the programme.

So this is where I am for most of today, with another satellite tonight which will Christen the new card room in the building next door. Things are happy here, and I'm with the programme, albeit without the booze.

I just caught up with Derek, the boss (still not in prison), about work and cowboy boots. The boots will have to wait today, mainly as I spent too long talking about them. Tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow. He also thinks I'm distracted. "You're distracted a little bit, Stephen". I had to yell at him to get through. Yeah, I am distracted a little bit, only because life is pretty good at the moment. He's prying. That will keep him occupied for a bit.

Swearing in French is not rock 'n roll

The old 'Road Rage' gene is still strong. Found that out yesterday when I was moving my stuff from Blackheath to Streatham. I don't get out of the car and start yelling. It's more like I get annoyed when people let people in ahead of me when traffic is generally bad. Then I swear out loud, sometimes in French, and hope nobody sees me. Obviously I keep it down at traffic lights.

Tonight was good though, a short trip to Tooting. But on the way back it was like getting into the car for the first time. I couldn't find the windscreen wipers, forgot to take the hand brake off, tried to start the car in gear and for half the journey didn't have my seat belt on. Had a great night. Maybe this is as much Rock 'n Roll as I need to be?

It's Bank Holiday tomorrow. Again. But for some of us in the press Corp, the hardcore elite you might say, it's just another day hacking away at useless gibberish before someone persuades us to get a real job. Caffeine and chocolate, with attempts to write the perfect sentence in between. Hmm. Perhaps this is as much Rock 'n Roll as I need to be?

I'll try and play a satellite tomorrow too, probably in the afternoon, depending on work. Winners get a seat to the main event on Saturday, which I can't play in anyway. But then again I may buy sheets, and cowboy boots on The Kings Road. These are heady days, with no time for second thoughts. Act now without hesitation or regrets. That just might be as Rock 'n Roll as I need to be.