Nightshift, and control of the remote

It turns out that TV in the middle of the night is much better than the middle of the day. 3am and there's a choice of a double episode of ER, or a replay of the Italy vs Australia game played earlier today. Or I can learn Spanish on BBC 2. Australia were robbed by the looks of things, but that Italy goal saved me a one point bet in the 93rd minute.

I haven't seen ER for a while. Not really the best show to watch when you're looking to fall asleep. A plane crash in today's episode. The viewer knew this would be a good one when the Channel 4 announcer said there were graphic scenes of carnage prior to the credits. This is always a good way to bump up the viewing figures. We expect the promise of mayhem to be paid off in full. The thirst for blood is strong.

Instead, it's just the emotional side of things that we should be warned about. Also a warning about how you'll feel about mortality before the first break. It's enough to put you off your cigarettes in the hope of a long and painfree life. All of a sudden I feel bad about the nine cigarettes I chained smoked in the garden tonight.

But the world is a distorted place at 3am, and should never be trusted. Like an old friend who turns up on your door and asks to borrow money after a stint inside. You remember things should be right, but at the same time you know not to trust it. 3am used to be a friend of mine. Now it feels like someone I used to know letting me sleep on their sofa.

Last time I watched ER was at university, when friends would go to one house and watch with tea. I hated university - I've been there already haven't I? But I suppose in amongst the wreckage, the baggage and crooked memories, there were moments on niceness. No, I still hated those three years.

And just as the mood changes so too does the telly. We're back to Big Brother, "live from the house". What does that mean? Watching people sleep? Or are they sat awake too wondering what's stoping their brain from shutting down for a few hours? I'm not sure. I'm not going to wait and see.

But wait. What's this? "There could be strong language and adult content". All of a sudden we're back in business. Wake those fuckers up.

From the drafts file

Just waiting for my eyes to get tired. It's late, but no sense of sleep yet. There's a howling wind outside and the window is open so the room is cold. Nothing on TV after a day of football. Now, that gap between distractions. Too late to carry on with anything from yesterday, too early to start anything for tomorrow. Nothing to do but wait.

England drew with Sweden last night. I don't care that they still won their group. I don't care that they didn't lose. I wanted total victory. I have a nasty habit of seeing too much in a simple football game, and in the past got burned on a stupid run with West Ham. But England is dfferent. I feel like those fuckers betrayed me.

The police helicopters are circling over Streatham. Perhaps it's too dangerous to go out for cigarettes after all? And the alcohol-free booze I've been drinking has run out. Put this day down to being on tilt. It would always run against me - from the TV at work not working to the train I ran for breaking down. Forget that. Tomorrow will be better. Perhaps if I say that again and again I'll start ot believe it. And tomorrow is the week's half-way point.

Le President

One way of exploring a foreign country is to go to as many places as possible; different restaurants, café’s, that type of place. Get a general picture of the town, a broader experience. Learn nothing.

Another way to do it is to go to the same place everyday, the same routine. No variation. This way you build familiarity, you feel like a regular - a local. Familiar with one small thing, rather than knowing nothing about many. It’s intimate. Better.

For me, this was Le President, a Brasserie on the corner of Avenue Franklin D Roosevelt and Rue du Colisee, not far from the Aviation club de France on the Champs Elysees, but far enough not to run into any poker players who I have no interest in talking to outside of the card room.

Green leather seats, tables tucked in so legs can’t be, hanging lights, a long bar and a TV mounted high up on the wall, just too far for any reasonable eyes to see.

Monday
Distaste from the waiter at an Englander eating in his place of work. Ask for a drink, some muttering. Then ask for the menu – my fault, I should have asked at the same time I asked for a drink. A coffee? Nope, no coffee. Fair enough. Orangina. Try and get the bastard on my side by drinking his nation’s favourite children’s drink. Order the salad and the bill. Leave with an unanswered ‘bonsoir’.

Tuesday
‘Hello’. This time a hello. A hint of recognition. This guy is back for more, even though we tried to put him off. Sit in the same place, look tired. Write a bit. After all, there’s always time for pretension. ‘Are you eating?’ excellent – they get the idea now. Choose another salad, a drink, the bill; get out with a ‘bonsoir’.

Wednesday
This is interesting. Today I get asked how I am. Good thanks. Change table, go for variety, but still pick the salad, not enough trust yet to veer off course. Watch the football. What the hell, this time let’s go for desert, payback for the warmer welcome? Chocolate mousse. Takes nearly an hour start to finish. But I got fresher bread today. They’ve assumed I’m happy to stay. Also, a quick chat with the locals about poker. They ask if Elky is playing. Or at least I think they ask that. Could have been anything.

Thursday
A warm welcome, how are you and a quick chat about the football. Not on the TV tonight, it’s a satellite TV game. Too bad I say, but not serious. Salad again, and crème caramel. ‘How about a coffee?’ thanks, but no time.

Friday
The last night. I said this was the case and was ordering steak. Good choice. Then, the apple tart to finish with and coffee of course. Well, ‘nice to work in Paris for a week’. I agree. I liked the place and would be back ‘the next time you’re in Paris.’ Of course.

That’s what I suggest next time you go anywhere abroad, where the locals don’t speak your language but you speak a little of theirs. Get past the initial hostility and reap the rewards of grudging acceptance.

On the last night an English couple came in and were given the ‘day one’ treatment. It’s probably what causes part of the hatred between French and English. I of course put my allegiance in with the waiter. Smugness is good. It may be true that locals appreciate tourists attempting some of their language, but this excludes absolute beginners .The rule only take effect once you can hold a conversation. Anything less is treated with contempt and flashy superiority. Don’t even start to think otherwise. Until then don’t say a word and stick to McDonalds. They’ll be happy to have you.

Mister Iceberg

I like to look up to heroes, people I've never met or will ever know, who I can turn into a figure to look up to, imitate or use to feel cheerful. It helps if they're dead too. That way their reputation cannot be changed.

In Paris they like to bury their dead in elaborate tombs, normally with as many other family members as will fit. On a previous trip I'd seen the graves of Edith Piaf and Marshall Ney in Pere Lachaise. Piaf's black tomb was constantly surrounded by elderly women bringing bouquets of flowers. Ney's tomb was tatty.. He was Napoleon's ginger-haired hell-raising warrior, the bravest of the brave, who had that slight flaw - tactical ignorance, which cost him his life, and Napoleon his empire. No one visits.

There's also Jim Morrison, famously buried in Paris after his overdose in the early 70s, and with a grave constantly abused by witless 18 year old American tourists who want a piece of the Lizard King. Pere Lachaise cemetery has them all. But it doesn't have Serge Gainsbourg. He's on the left bank, in Montparnasse. I had a morning off. I went to find him.

Serge Gainsbourg went from a lounge pianist in the 50s, to general songwriter, lyricist, actor, Eurovision song contest winner, to perhaps the most famous and innovative musician France has ever seen. He was years ahead of his time, listen to Melody Nelson to find out. And I will stub out a cigarette on anyone who disagrees.

Born ugly, Serge died ugly, but along the way attracted a string of internationally famous women who wanted to cling to his arm. Bridget Bardot was one; Catherine Deneurve (I think) was another. And Jane Birken? That's where the actress Charlotte Gainsbourg comes from.

His tomb is covered in tributes, flowers and Metro tickets. I'd been to see his house before on Rue de Verneuil in the 6th Arr, covered in similar tributes - graffiti'd poems, lyrics and the like. It's empty, and was bought by his daughter who stared in a film simply to pay for the lease.

So this trip completed the Serge pilgrimage. I didn't know how else to mark the occasion so went for basic - a pack of Gitanes. Gitanes are the world's most evil and lethal cigarettes, an iconic friend to Serge. Filterless, it's like smoking wire wool. Probably why the last Gitanes factory closed in France last year. They're cigarettes for people who don't like to have to take the fag from their mouth. If you do they get soggy, and you don't want that. So you leave it there until the flame starts to burn your lips.

I got an idea of how bad they were later that night. A teenager stopped me on the Champs Elysees and asked for a cigarette. 'Sure', I said, and produced the Gitanes. 'Gitanes?' he said, 'No no no, those things will kill you', and he disappeared into the night. Ungrateful fucker. Serge died from these things so that ugly people like us could look cool. Teenagers are so vain.

So a Gitanes for me, and one left on the grave for Serge. Wherever he is now he'll probably need one to keep the boredom away. A quick drag from behind a harp somewhere whilst no-one's looking. So plug in the Ipod for a quick blast of "Mister Iceberg" before anyone sees me. For these are personal moments that can be destroyed at any time to hide embarrassment. That should do. Thanks for the music Serge, and all that stuff about ugly people rising to the top. And how the hell did you make it to 59 smoking those things?

Anyway...

"Les cigarillos ont cet avantage d'faire le vide autour de moi."

Very true.

Grand Prix de Paris

Fewer posts this week because of fewer hours awake with free time. The WPT Gand Prix de Paris is in full swing at the Aviation Club in Paris. I'm here, and so are the elite of France's obstinate waiting staff, gathered from around the country after months of auditions to convene on Paris's best casino and piss off several hundred foreigners.

Actually, it's not that bad. Well yes it is. But maybe I'll go into it another time. Instead I'm trying to explore Paris, collect new memories and not get sick. The first bit is going well, the last bit not so good.

Some warrior-like smoking on day one means my throat feels like a scouring pad. Smiling, yawning and coughing feels like spewing up glass. But how else can I look sophisticated sat writing in zinc bars, brasseries and the casino lounge? Smoking comes with the territory in these parts, I have no option but to give it my best.

So day three today. 135 players left, some of whom will smell bad after the first two levels. But it goes. This has been my favourite event so far, working alone, starting late and enjoying long dinner breaks eating good food. Also trying to work out ways of saying "another coffee please" without sounding repetitive.

Sven and I make mistakes

What was that I was saying about the World Cup? I'm working next week, and working away from a television. And suddenly it registers why I'm going to Paris, and not my Editor-boss...

And now finding a hotel isn't as easy as first thought. Everywhere is booked. Or at least the two places I know are booked, which is a shame as they were in the middle of my favourite part of town. But enough. I have the rough guide and an A-Z. And a phone. And a standard of French that's a few swear words over schoolboy level. Things will be fine.

Work isn't going to well these days though. Too many stupid mistakes, either through exhaustion or not knowing. I'm not stupid, but these kinds of things make me look it.

So maybe Paris will be a good opportunity to do something well and re-start with a good piece of work done, rather than trying too hard and missing the mark? I'm tired feeling miserable and thinking of doing the honourable resignation thing.

So yes, to Paris. Nothing bad has ever happened to me there. It's a place to blend in, be anonymous and work well. I may even sit in a cafe being pretentious. The opportunity is there to be seized.

Because right now I haven't written a word in anger for days. I wake up each day as stressed as I felt the night before and it doesn't take long for whatever energy I have left to disappear. I need to plug the hole and recharge.

And I'll miss my girlfriend. That much is certain. Lots I don't want in my head right now. But time away passes quickly. It will soon be the weekend. And England could be out by then so why worry about the World Cup?

The World Cup

The World Cup starts tomorrow. The planet will almost stop tomorrow (checks wall-chart) at 5pm to watch Germany play Costa Rica. Then the whole shebang will finally be underway. All except for the Americans. They'll be finding burgers for lunch.

The World Cup plays a crucial role in guaranteeing the security of the world, and the people on it. You see, however miserable you may feel, however low life gets, the one stable thing you can count on that will always be there, not like a person or an off license, is the World Cup.

And being every four years you can't waste them. Figuring a healthy life, no accidents, good living, no war - you still get only 15 of them that you can watch with all your faculties. It’s important not to waste one.

But seriously, can you really put life's troubles aside simply for football? Is that insensitive and a brutish alternative reality to how the world works? Can you really forget it all? Of course you can! Togo will be playing South Korea - it's a month of football everyday!

The picture is of Zinedine Zidane lifting the Cup in 1998. Zidane was good. Is good. Wear's the number 5, which of course is a lucky number.

Another distraction is the heavy backing of one team over another. Like tomorrow for instance. Germany to beat the Costa Ricans. Put a pound on and you might get 20p back. So put a lot of pounds on and ride the luck wave. This, people, is the highlife we were all promised at school if we worked hard. Tuck in, there's plenty for everyone.

Mystery and dark sides. Wanted.

Some good dust on the horse track between Tooting Bec and Streatham this morning. Kicking your feet to get up a good cloud, the suns glare, already hot, shining in my face. All I needed was some good boots and a guitar slung over my shoulder. Or a rifle.

It's good for the mystery, a man out early, appearing form a cloud of grey dirt, with bed head and a glint in his eye. Lot of glint on those there paths. It's important to have a dark side, or at least look like you have one. I don't, so this all helps. Dark sides are brewed in silence and ferment in the souls of people who don't talk. I talk to much, give too much away, so have lost my darkness. If you're still with me at this point, thanks for hanging on.

I do have one slight dark side, more a shadow really. My perception of some people is twisted. A fear of pretension has seen me barking bile on random strangers. Nothing out loud, that would be pretentious, no, just an inward poison directed at acts most people, quite rightly, deem normal.

What are these acts? Well, writing in public is one. Forget that I'm typing this in a bar for a second. I've always found public writing a problem. But I should also point out that I've decided I need to change. I'm looking for the cure. I can beat this.

I have trouble with the "writer" tag, which has connotations for me that being seen to be a "writer" is far more important than actually writing. It took me a while to get paid to write this nonsense. It's hard work. It's not supposed to be easy for people like me. Hence a random dislike for people who do this. Notebook open, often a moleskin (I have one too), jotting down random thoughts, holding the end of a pen against their lips, and "watching life drift by as the muse pays a visit."

I have a problem with "muse" too. In fact that would be what the rifle would be for. There's an excuse not to write - waiting for that cunning bastard to show up. He will never come.

Jees, listen to this stuff. Someone, call the medics.

This is why I'm fighting off these demons and am going to Borders to set up my laptop to work. I will buy a large coffee, perhaps even a "latte", a word I still can't say out loud, and then leave a big red copy of the Writers year book on the table. If I'm lucky I'll find one of the sofas to sit on. Well if you're going to do it, you may as well do it right. Yes, the time has come to take this step, for my better angels who have been threatened with lighted cigarettes for so long. Yes, smoking. That's pretentious too.

We'll always have Paris

Did you see that? Three days since the last post? Incredible. That shows nothing of the posts I type out and never publish. But anyway. All-nighter followed by all-nighter, followed by news today which is good and bad.

Next week is the WPT in Paris. It's one of only two events to take place outside the mainland USA. Our original plan was to skip it. Who wants to follow poker during the world cup anyway? And then, an emended plan splashed on to the drawing board. We'll cover the final day. A one day trip - come back the morning after. This was better.

Then, a bolt of lightening struck someone somewhere in the face. A two day trip seemed half hearted. Instead, a five day trip. What the hell, let's cover the whole thing. We'll send Steve!

So yes, Paris for a week. Ordinarily this would be good. And of course I'll go where they tell me. Play starts at 4pm everyday so there's plenty of time to look around. But without sounding ungrateful for what would ordinarily be the prestige posting, I'd rather not.

I used to think Paris was mine, after almost two years of going there every couple of months. But now I perhaps need to make the effort for it not to be mine. Leave it to the American tourists who head for McDonalds and Shakespeare and Co. Leave the past behind. There are better things to look forward to.

So a week away, get back, and then my girlfriend goes away to do a similar job in Barcelona for a week. Yes, we're grown-ups. But I have an adolescent brain and my heart is weak. I'm being sent to the romantic capital of the world on my own. Would anyone believe that?

Up Early, Awake Late

Apparently the shortest day of the year is coming up. Could have sworn it was today based on the light skies over London at 4.15am, and the birds outside my window, singing like snitches. The red eyes are flying in low over south London and have begun to queue up for Heathrow.

I'm up providing whatever support I can to our man in Vegas covering the World Poker tour at the Mandalay Bay, the furthest casino down on the strip. He does a great job and my input is minimal. But I'm up. The body clock will be fucked for the rest of the week.

I have the TV on for company, but options are short. Big Brother is on, with cameras focused on several strange people sleeping in the dark. Cutting edge. Seems like a bad idea to watch. But it's that or a programme for fat people trying to lose weight. Someone has just lost three pounds. Others are looking on pissed.

Let's see. I can do the same thing tomorrow night, stay up helping out whilst my Editor has an "early" night. Then, I'll ask for Tuesday night off to see my girlfriend. I'll sleep in the day, skip coffee, and wake up dancing at around three. Sounds like a plan.

Worst time of the week

There are a terrible couple of hours on a Sunday, every Sunday, where life looks back at you and tells you you're crap. At least it does over here. We're just about through the worst of it, but the tail end normally takes a little longer to fuck off. All you can do is sit tight and wait for it to pass. Rely on past experience. Don't expect any progress ahead of time. The fog will clear soon enough.

The Sunday paper helps a little, or at least looking at the pictures does. Then, feeling on top of world events you drink coffee until you feel sick. Sunburn in the garden, a walk to the shop. The middle class things that you do to convince yourself your place is safe. But then the terrible hours come and prod you in the ribs, knocking you off your perch. 'Holy fuck', you think. Some poor bastards think Monday is bad.

It's the same every week, and when evening begins and things seem better. No need for alarm, at least not until next week.

The Mother Ship

Working on a Sunday. The temptation to have a day off is strong. The likelihood low.

The World Poker Tour continues today, starting at 8pm our time for five days of Poker on Mandalay Bay time. I've never been to the Mandalay Bay, neither has the WPT. It will be new and interesting.

It was December when I was in Las Vegas, for my first full-time week working for Gutshot. After Rehne Pedersen defeated Patrick Antonius in the Five Diamond Classic at Bellagio I had a night off before flying back to London. Not being the most outgoing bloke, I figured I'd start walking, looking inconspicuous, past the teams working the strip handing out flyers for call girls, and accidentally find a low stakes limit game, where I could lose money and fly back to London able to say 'yes, I've played in Vegas.' I did this in the Luxor, wrote about it, and left $14 down feeling quite happy with myself.

My second trip to HQ has now been finalised, and what I first thought might be a week away in the desert will now be a two-and-a-half-week gallop into 110 degree heat, starting on 25 July. It will test all sorts of things. Professional, personal and physical. I'm looking forward to it, in a schoolboy adventure way, but at the same time it may feel like longer. I know it will. I can be ready for most of it, just not everything.

The Derby

I don't know how the hell it happens sometimes, but betting luck has picked up again after the disastrous FA Cup Final a few weeks ago - the Cup Final I want confined to the depths of hell.

Sir Percy came home first by a short head. Last week at the Johnny Chan press lunch I had a tip from a Racing correspondent who said it would be Sir Percy or Septimus who would run to the line good. I have a bad record on tips, the last being that Cambridge was a cert to take the boat race. This, it turned out, was utter crap.

But this tip seemed more legit. Even I could see that Sir Percy had RP and speed ratings to potentially lead the field after 1m 4f. On went the money. At the very least I had someone to blame.

So yes. What does this mean? Nothing I hope. I'm sick of karma bets, so I'll just take the loot. Although if it means a run of nice things I'll take that too.

Streatham Common

A few hours in London sunshine, 22 degrees and zero cloud cover. I now have a pink neck and a warm feeling on my face.

Streatham Common, with my girlfriend and a six year old. This one is pretty great, and not just because she's my girlfriend's daughter. Mainly because she wants to have fun all the time, and play. All six-year-olds should be like this. No worries in the world. We should all try this.

A picnic, with pretend ham wrap things, crisps and chocolate Elf cakes. Then up to the Rookery, a park-type place which follows the hill and has a view that stretches all the way to Croydon. Then it went wrong a little bit...

It was pretty much my fault for saying there was a view. I couldn't remember how to get there. I just remember it's near a big white house. But I would have bought all the blueberry ice lollies in the Borough of Lambeth to have been able to find it really quick.

But six-year-olds are entitled to get a bit pissed off when things go wrong. Even when it isn't relly that bad. Just wanted her mum not to, and she didnt much - just some rubbish about me being put off.

Anyway. This has to be the most whimsical post here so far. I'll return to hell and fury some other time.

Working and the dark. No fear.

Bad form. Not posting for a day. There is such a thing as the blog police, isn't there? Like the Stasi. They spot who is updating regularly and switch off the rest.

But I've been busy. Wednesday was bad, the work never really gripped me and I never gripped it. Trouble starting, a boss feeling the heat from all directions. I tried to lay low. Instead I felt like I was being dragged along gravel.

Tried to wind down during a midnight smoke in the garden. It was quiet and not too cold. I could see the stars and a few planes, possibly lost. Then I heard a leaf move. A moment of foolish calm, followed by more noise and the quick decision to go back indoors. Whatever it was would have been small and possibly furry, but armed only with a burning cigar-end I couldn't take the risk that I hdn't pissed it off. I'm no afraid of the dark, just the monsters that hide in it.

Then today, an early start, too much work, but the iron determination executioners must have had in the old days to get through bad times. I figured I'd just work. After two hours I realised I hadn't even put music on, after four hours I'd forgotten about going into the office. After six hours I was done and only my Editor stood in the way of me and an evening of worry free living.

Didn't quite get it, but what the hell. He's got enough on. I'd earned by pay. And my friend Kate finally had her baby. I say finally, it was three days short of nine months. Nice news is better than not-nice news, and things in general are going well . I've got no reason to feel anything but chipper right now.