Recovery

I've just about recovered from the bank holiday weekend. Three 18 hour days, and a 21 hour day to finish off. By 7am Tuesday morning I felt drunk. Euphoric.

It followed four days of coverage from the glorious Gutshot Series of Poker, a nightmare really, but worth the work, even though being busy whilst my girlfriend had three days leave pissed me off no end.

But it was good to see her Tuesday. I get the impression that if you're reading this you probably found it through my girlfriend's blog. She's must better at this than me. Her posts have a start, a middle and an end; tend to be funny and are a full demonstration of how great she is. Here, we use whatever's available and run with it.

Back to work today. The next stop is Barcelona. As usual it's more time away from home when I'd rather stick around. And I have to find a hotel. The special shiny PokerStars recommended hotels are full, so are the ones near those. It's harder than you think to find a good place to stay in a city you've never been to before. And besides, the press credentials haven't come through yet so it could be a mission to nothing.

See what I mean? No start, no middle, and no end here.

My Beard

It was a terrible mistake. Shaving off my beard in a spur of the moment thing that wasn’t thought through.

I should have known. In the past I’ve had beards, thought ‘why not shave it off?’ only to be horrendously disappointed when I took that first look in the mirror. This time was no different. Looking back at me with pink skin was a man who looked like he was made of plasticine – and in a rush too. Lumps everywhere.

So now all concentration is directed towards re-growing the thing. For one my face is cold. For two, I want my old face back. I’ve learned my lesson. People at work keep saying I look younger. Screw that. I’m 30 next month. I’ve accepted I’m getting older; I can at least look the part.

So yes. The stubble has already started. They’ll be more tomorrow. I’ll feel better then and be able to show my face without shame. Well, with the usual shame.

Help Needed

All done. And technically with 15 hours to spare. Even made it to my girlfriend's house on time. This is good for me. Getting an article written and pressing 'send'. Normally I work till the last minute, tweaking. Not last night. Liberating.

Of course there's another to do for Saturday. Unless people start sending us articles. For the love of God please send us some articles...

Time to go through more old notes, the cringe-worthy stuff that didn't even get put on hold, just held against a wall and threatened that bad things will happen if it ever tried to see the light of day.

But anything goes right now. What's to complain about? Nothing from me. I can feel wisdom and level-headedness seeping in, filling gaps that used to be filled with worry and panic. This is good. But I meant it about sending those articles in.

Champion Blogging

Time to blog like a motherfucker. It's the only way to grease these terrible writing wheels. So far so good on the emergency article, but there remains one looming obstacle. It reads crap.

But hell, that's never stopped any of the thirty-odd articles that have come before. And besides, I'm playing poker tonight. A hideous recreation of everything I've learned, wrapped up in a fearless suit of armour, with the words "Bet Everything" emblazoned on the front. Tonight Matthew I'm going to be Gus Hansen's slightly shorter, hirsute and less freaky cousin.

Because some things are more important. Not for us the glory, just the satisfaction of a job, well, done in a way that nobody expected. It's time to rip the heart out, attach it to a sleeve and regret nothing. I'm already there. Queen-Three is a monster. Ace-high is good.

Then I'll stay up late writing in the only way I know how. With a deadline, no food or sleep, no sunshine, and with cigarettes. Things will be good. Take that look of disbelief off your face.

An all-night search for a miracle

Just when you think things seem to be calming down a bit, the flames that you didn't notice leaping up, take off your eyebrows and remind you that there is no rest period. No time to regroup. Get back to work. Back to the edge of your seat. Put some pants on and hold on to them.

We're back on 'situation serious', also known as 'situation normal'. An article to do; not in the leisurely and thoughtful way I'm used to. Instead, a hell for leather 24 hour thing where anything goes and anything will just have to do.

So what to write about? Las Vegas? No, I'm done with that, at least until May. No, this will have to be original. How I hate that. Something off the top of my head, crafted out of stone with nothing more than the skin of my fingers.

But I can already feel professionalism creeping in. Botheredness you might say. It has to be done so do it right.

Crap, what the hell am I going to do? And shouldn't I be writing work stuff and not this? To hell with that. No fear. Time to dust off the 600 words of gibberish from one of those tricky ones that ran away from me and got put in a draw several months ago. Dress it up a little. Change the level of believability if you must. I think I can pull this off.

Life is Gravy

Oooh, blogging again. What does this mean? Well, first of all time. Back from Las Vegas and slowly recovering from the 18 hour days, the ten hour flight and a new feeling of being constantly cold, which I've never had before. I can't be bothered going on about Las Vegas. Maybe some other time. For now, it's good to be back.

Still weird in Streatham though. When I left for America it was with the noise of partying neighbours in the back garden. When I got back, it was the noise of neighbours throwing up in the back garden. I was away for three weeks but oh, how things change.

When I got home from Tooting tonight I'd only just made it back into my room before I heard frantic, but very gentle knocking on the front door. At least I thought it was the front door. But there was no-one standing there. And that's probably worse than if a hulking great big 'man and axe' silouhette had been there. Nope, nothing. Just this frantic knocking. The knock you'd expect either a killer to use when trying to persuade a survivor to let him back in for one last chance to finish the job. Or a body, not quite dead, trying to attract the attention of a passer by from inside a sealed coffin. Or maybe someone locked out of the house, and watching a rabid pit bull taking it's time walking up to you with an appetite and a taste for blood and jeans. Cheery stuff. Enough to put you off your soya lump and Yorkshire pudding.

I love that stuff. Leftovers from Sunday. I even made gravy, and all at 1.30am. There's something about re-heated food. Must be the chance to relive happy memories - like putting good stuff in your head on hold and then reviving it a few days later - just heated up and more firm. Plus, a woman cooking for you and wanting to feed you is always good. It's nice that they worry.