Weird, and turning pro

Lifeboats

2006-12-15T03:31:00.000Z

Apparently the world is heating up. There's no snow in the Alps, Kew Garden's bushes are blossoming again, thinking it’s Spring, (it stresses them out apparently) and a US Senator from one of the Dakotas is critically ill. If he dies we say goodbye to what Green policies were prepared to come out of corporate America.

The thing is, I don't care. Not today. A few years ago these things would make me angry. But as you get older the world gets smaller and you learn to keep the important things never more than an arms reach away. Only tonight they're not in arms reach. Instead they hurt and live just beyond the world you can get to. I can see them in my head but can't find a way through the glass to fix it all. It’s a helpless feeling and at the same time I feel like a coward.

And on these nights that seem like the world is ending there is always an episode of ER on late night TV; God-like story lines about the beautiful people pretending to struggle. Well, the beautiful people are right here on ground level too and there's no pretending. So you do all you can and drink yourself tired so you'll go to sleep. You hope that all that crap about tomorrow being better is true. Turn over and go to sleep. It'll be better tomorrow, and you won't hate everything so much.

No Winners

2006-12-10T10:53:00.000Z

Mission to Maidstone. How I hate these trips. They seem to go slow and travelling there and back is a slow painful ride that never seems as quick as the Transport website promises. Something adds to the misery. Today will be no exception.

It feels like detention. Working when you should be at home, warm, doing Sunday stuff with people far more love worthy than a room full of poker players. But alas, this is what we signed on for all those months ago, 12 actually. A year ago yesterday I started my first day on the job. It happened to involve a flight to Las Vegas and a week at Bellagio. Not a bad first day.

But it's a cold Sunday in Kent today. A semi-final heat for a place in the European Open Final, and a race against time to get a train back at a humane hour. The odds are against me. They always are. I take them on anyway and wonder why I disappointed at the end. Give up on the evening. It will all be in Maidstone. Get used to that and nevermind.

Hunting the Magic

2006-12-09T00:58:00.000Z

With a spear and dynamite if necessary. The night bus, with the first fizz of a cold brewing in my head. Lemsip, from Tooting Bec's best non-corner corner shop. There's no cure, but that doesn't stop us from pretending these things will work and work fast. But the bus was on time. No wait. Get home, put all your clothes on and turning the heating up full blast.

Of course, I don't know how the heating works. But my clothes are all in ready reach. It's good to look after yourself, apparently. And keeping warm falls under that. You only ever know this when the right time has passed, but you promise to learn next time. Then you get busy forgetting that.

So the night bus. Two oldish men sat at the front, slightly drunk, named Rob and George. They spoke loudly, made requests of the driver and were pretty much well loved by everyone at their end of the bus. Particularly two younger drunks, who had earlier looked worried about there being no ketchup at home.

Further down the usual lovers were standing close, holding onto the rail tightly, but each other tighter. And opposite them, a young woman sending a text to a man containing the words 'You' and 'Wonderful' and 'Night'. There should be this kind of slush on a bus home. Right minds thinking right things, that the only important thing in the world was right now.

It could all be gibberish of course, and most of it probably is. And it will all be forgotten soon enough. But we'll promise to learn next time. That things can be nice. Even if not for long. And sooner or later it will come round again.

How to get a seat by yourself

2006-12-06T12:26:00.000Z

I'm back. Seems like a while. A mixture of last minute typing to reach 50,000 words, a few days of coming down from that, then a trip to Maidstone for two days, including an overnight stop I hadn't planned and a late finish last night. Was that it? Yes, that's just about it.

Nightbus home again tonight. It seemed ordinary until I sat down and noticed the woman in the seat in front was reading 'Porn for Obese people'. The magazine might not have been called that. In fact it wasn't necessary a porn mag, just an article about obese porn inside. But whatever it was it put me off my granola bar.

But yes. Home again. It was cold out. Colder still with my new haircut which said goodbye to long haired insulation and hello short cropped pneumonia.

But where was I? A busy week won't stop being busy until tomorrow afternoon sometime. Three articles in four days of varying quality. Sometimes that's how it goes. More tomorrow.

Race to the Finish

2006-11-29T14:04:00.000Z

November 29th. I have 34 hours to write 6,500 words to have the 50,000 needed to claim I've written a book in a month. It's a bad book, no mistake about that, but it must be done. So a wild cavalier ride for the next day and a half is plan plan. Yes, that plan has flaws too but hell, the only way is forward. Allez Tonto!

Yeah, those flaws. Work is one, and Toddy is an all-nighter to do coverage of an event at Gutshot. So that's tonight out. Then there's an ordinary work day tomorrow, leaving several careful hours in between to write like a fucker and get the job done. It will be close.

But, as instructed, there could be champagne at the end. Time to focus. Be professional. Or at least act it.

Night Shift Magic

2006-11-28T02:46:00.001Z

The walk home. No wait, I mean the taxi home. As I turned onto Tooting Bec Road I figured walking would be the only option at 2am. No buses, that much was certain, and taxis are few. But a man was standing outside the taxi office and as he turned to look at me he waved. I looked behind me, no point waving if there was someone behind me, but there was no one. I waved back.

The last taxi driver in Tooting was on his way home. "I saw you coming and know you're a regular. I thought you might need a taxi." He needed no directions, just the five minute drive and a four minute chat about the weather. I tipped big. I got home, and he set off to his.

Come in Control

2006-11-27T01:18:00.000Z

Three days in Tooting Bec, now back here. With the crickets.

A long day. So, a taxi home. It's Sunday after all and no one in the transport department is going to waste their budget on 1am buses when half of the town has spent the day praying for their sins, and the other half committing the sins the other half were praying for.

So to the taxi office. Some nights go better than others. Tonight not so good. The 'Controller' was in his booth watching TV. He saw me, and went back to the screen behind him. I tapped my feet, coughed politely, then not so politely, rang the bell and knocked on his window. Aha, that got him. So it was he who put up the advert 'Controller wanted - No experience necessary.'

I'd never seen tonight's driver before, and I never want to see his like again. He was big. He had a hat on, and his car was five minutes walk away. In the car things were no better. He sat low and the rear view mirror was angled to give no rear view. What's more he wore a cap on the side of his head with the peak blocking all views left. It was an odd look, like he'd been slapped around the back of the head by a parent and was too defiant to adjust the fit. He also fell asleep at the lights.

But nevermind. I'm 40,000 words in to a 50,000 word novel. This week will be busy, with an article needed for Tuesday as well that I might have to sell to my editor. Not to mention normal work. We're into Monday. Hold on.

Busload of Nutters

2006-11-24T01:15:00.000Z

Scarier than a bus full of nutters. How these people find me on the bus home I'm not sure. Perhaps it's me? Perhaps I see more of the nutter in people than others do? Perhaps I, and I alone, am the real nutter?

Enough of that. Head down on Upper Tooting Road, as a fuck face ape in a tracksuit began yelling. Something like 'Fat fucking cunt!' at a girl who was somewhere, although on the street I saw just me and a few people taking advantage of Cottage Chicken not knowing when to quit.

But yes, head down. Keep walking. Don't say anything. Or, take out your sword, challenge the fucker and finish him with a swift chop to the shoulder blade. That's how Hemingway would have done it. No, Hemingway would have shot him, posed for photos and had the head prepared for mounting. Then home for drinks.

But not me, at least not yet. I kept walking. I'd decided on a taxi. £7 well spent I thought. But a ten minute wait persuaded me that the good old bus was still an option. It arrived unpromted. Rejoice.

Only it seemed full of nutters. Did I mention that? One man towards the back, opposite me, decided to spend two stops laughing to himself. Only another guy with grey hair and a pale blue shirt took exception to this and thought the laughing was aimed at him. Hell, I thought he was laughing at me. Imagine my relief. "No, no" he said.

Then, a girl who had got on at my stop, couldn't find her ticket, even after half the route to Streatham. So, the bus driver kicked her off. I think she said 'I love you' as she got off, still looking for that ticket.

But back to Streatham. Passed the empty mainroad with sparkling snowflake christmas lights. Passed the the house, lights still on, with a mock tudor interior. Another night. The magic of Tooting doesn't reach this far. So I pretend.

Normal Service

2006-11-23T01:24:00.001Z

It's been a week. What have I been doing with my time? Well, this damn novel takes up a lot of it, all to be done by midnight on the 30th. There have been trips back from Tooting Bec to report on of course, but nothing more than the spotting of new Christmas lights on Streatham High Street, and the Diwali lights switched off on Upper Tooting Road. But I'm working on that.

The novel rests uneasily on 33,600 words, about 3,000 words behind schedule. At least it was yesterday. Add today's quota and I'm 4,600 words behind. The goal is always running away.. . looking over its shoulder at you and laughing. Trying to keep up is hard, and if I do catch up I'll just want to bludgeon the fucker. So the blog has become a casualty.

Don't Mess with Superstition

2006-11-15T23:49:00.000Z

I didn’t blog a few nights ago when normally I would. This triggered a right hook of bad luck. But I have now learnt my lesson. So this blog resumes as previous. I’m locked in for the duration.

I made it home Monday night and set down to finish off some work for 10am the next morning. Only my laptop wouldn’t switch on. Some sort of power failure. First overboard to make weight was the blog post. Second over the side was bashing out some more words on my ‘novel-in-a-month’. Lastly, and perhaps at that point of the week most importantly, was the interview I needed to finish in the next eight hours.

So I spent four hours pressing ‘on’ to no avail. At 4am I decided to risk three hours of sleep, before planning to wake at 8am for a mercy mission to a nearby repair shop. At 8.10am low and behold I discovered that my right knee is in fact magic. A kick to the I.T. balls and power was restored. Either my knee is magic or my laptop is fucked. I think it’s probably both.

Still, as long as I don’t switch this thing off everything is fine. And tonight it was back to normal. The journey from Tooting Bec. Wednesday, the midway point of a week’s worth of adventures in the magical kingdom. I was taking my time, feeling a chipperness re-flowing to my veins and experiencing the first pangs of nerves at the prospect of meeting ‘in-laws’ this weekend. A man passed me, bracing his face to the wind, his eyes fighting the effects of a night of passionless beer. He paid no attention to me.

Then to the bus stop, where a strong crowd was waiting. Maybe once the day of the week determined what breed of person would be waiting for a bus at 11.30pm. But London by-passes this distinction, favouring instead a homogeneousness to its night crawlers. No discrimination here. All of us are equally weird.

Back to the Garrett. Two days to go before York. It’s night time though. That old friend. No time to think about that, especially when there are 25,000 words done and another 25,000 to go before December. Time to write drivel without fear of reprisal.

Dearth in the Afternoon

2006-11-13T02:50:00.000Z

Hideous Sundays. They're better than normal at the moment but I still struggle through the daylight hours of Sunday afternoon. Difficult to stay cheery. Too easy to think miserable thoughts.

But anyway, it's okay. It was soon dark, and that cloak can be a friend to the Sunday melancholic. Plus, there was Quorn lump and stuffing for tea to help ease ourselves into Monday. This guarantees sure-fire success.

The walk home was inevitable after dawdling with goodbyes until after 1am. I like dawdling. Along Upper Tooting Road where no one was about, a Kebab Shop man was staring out of the window, looking for signs of anyone, at 1am on Monday morning, looking for a kebab. God, that man looked like he wanted to sell kebabs. But he’d found no one. I waved and carried on.

I’m getting used to the walk again. Walking has never been too much of a big deal to me. As a kid my parents never owned a car, so we walked. Then, when started to go out with friends I would use potential taxi money for more beer. I’d walk the five miles home instead, slightly drunk, zigzagging along unlit streets to the middle of nowhere.

So now I don’t think of a 30 minute walk home. There were the usual goblins on the dirt path home, but I can handle them now. The Ipod battery ran out too, despite my vocal encouragement. But I could handle that too. The man stopping his car for a piss was more surprised to see me than I was of him. The walk home at night is my country.

And you can handle a lot when you decide not to worry about it. But I forgot to buy milk. What am I going to do for milk in the morning?

Unplugged

2006-11-10T01:57:00.000Z

13 minutes. Still I shouldn't complain. At least there was a bus to wait for. Tooting Bec was quiet tonight. Maybe Thursday is the quiet night after all, and not the pre-friday test run I thought it was. Or, maybe I was out too early to catch the test-clubbers. It was midnight. A good rehearsal won't finish till one.

13 minutes is the absolute cut-off time for the late night 'bus-it/walk-it' question. 13 minutes. Another seven for the bus journey itself, then five more for the walk home at the other end. 25 minutes? I can walk it in 26. 'Bugger it', I thought. 'I'll wait'.

Besides, I was feeling less cavalier than earlier. I think this is a good thing. It stops me from singing out loud as I walk. But previous heroics had been cancelled out tonight by a one inch mouse. I caught one yesterday and released into the Tooting wild, ending the screams the women and children. But tonight the little bastard was back. It escaped, and made me look bad. I'm going to have to wrestle and capture a tiger now to make up for it. I could have done with the heart monitors still attached for that one.

Magazines Need More Dogs and Balls

2006-11-09T01:58:00.000Z

Home in Streatham. With the crickets.

I walked home from Tooting Bec tonight, purely for medical reasons. A few weeks ago I had an ECG test run to pick out what's making my heart protest at pivotal moments in the day. Today was 'Holter Tape' Day, a small box thing with three cables running from it which are each attached to strategic points of my chest to track my heart beat for 24 hours. After nine hours the box, about the size of a mobile phone, is still in my pocket. There's a problem.

So far my heart has behaved impeccably. I'm now worried I'm wasting NHS money with no sign of previous problems likely to show up before tomorrow afternoon. Hence, the walk home, full pace, and smoking the last of my cigarettes along the way. I walked the darker route too, just to boost anxiety. Nothing.

Technically, this is good. But I need to prove a point to the woman who shaved a crop circle out of my chest hair to stick the thing on. Plus, I was kind of hoping it wasn't the six espressos I tend to drink each morning - enough caffeine to bring back the dead. It can't be that. What possible harm could the good people at Sagafredo want to do to me?

So I walked home with my heavy bag. The fact I had to go home at all should have kicked off the stress motors. But dammit, I picked now to feel healthy. I have some explaining to do when I have the thing removed tomorrow.

Tuesday Night

2006-11-07T22:45:00.000Z

Blogging on a Tuesday night. Days like these and I’m glad when it’s dark. It’s like cover. Less exposure to the world. Hide inside.

I only realised yesterday that today was voting day in America. I realised shortly after that that I don’t really care. Terrible. I used to follow this stuff closely, but now, having allowed cynicism to grasp me in its iron claw, I realise that the best man or woman can never win, because they don’t ever stand in the first place. And in America the best lawyers win.

But enough of that. I have to fill the hours somehow and election news might just do the trick. Besides, I’ve written an article today to be published somewhere over in the States. The least I can do is see what kind of moron will be elected to ban it from ever reaching print.

But first it has to pass the eager eye of my editor. Only then will it be emailed to some muppet with bad grammar to cut it in half and paste it onto page 19. I love being a hack.

And what is it I’m avoiding now? My Nanowrimo novel thing. 50,000 words. I’m not even keen to say how far I am along. Basically it’s a chance to let my imagination run around for a while, before I reign it in and tell it to stop wasting time and write about some Norwegian bloke who plays poker online. But whilst it can run free that’s good.

Where was I? Yes. I can’t remember. Avoiding stuff. Enough of that. When there's no bus to get at 1 o'clock in the morning I'm not sure what to do with myself.

Big Elephants Can't Always Understand Small Elephants

2006-11-07T01:51:00.000Z

Bus stops come in two forms at 1am on a school night. One form has a digital sign telling you when the next bus is due. Often there are people there. The other form has 'Countdown' on the screen. It means a long wait.

No one about on Upper Tooting Road tonight. Good for them. It was freezing. I'd left late, and made my girlfriend sit through a little too much Serge Gainsbourg. She battled well. But it was bus or walk. No taxi tonight. Must show discipline. So out into the night with my gold ears. Face painting earlier with no veto. So I spent an hour as a red faced goblin, with gold ears. Apparently that's rare.

But it was okay. I'd come prepared, with my expensive scarf and a hoodie. It works well in the cold; you look 16 but at the same time makes it clear that as you no longer care about your public appearance you will happily look stupid flailing your arms and legs at any potential attacker.

So here it was. Bus or walk? It was a risky time to expect a bus, but I could see the glow of the digital screen as I got closer to the shelter. Naturally, as I was on my own I was talking out loud. 'Is there a bus, is there a bus?' I saw a man in the distance, crossing over from the bus stop to the taxi office opposite. This is a tell tale sign of bad news. 'There must be a bus. There's a bus, no it's countdown, no it's a bus, shit no it's countdown.'

Countdown it was. But nevermind. Hoodie hood up - clothing given to me by my younger brother a few years ago, effectively a 'hand me up'. Ipod in. Tooting Bec Road.

In hindsight I should have just walked backwards. I'm not good with the dark. The fear that someone might be sneaking up on me as I walk, hoodie or not, is too great to leave alone. So, each five yards is punctuated by a rapid swing to look behind me. There's never anyone there. There was a mist on Tooting Common, the type of mist zombies appear from. But no zombies either. Just me and my shadow, scaring the fuck out of me as I swung back around.

I've walked with the same fear before, no doubt I'll do it again.

I made it back regardless, waling along the middle of the road for the final 200 yards. Back to the house and the usual welcome; a high pitch mid-west sound of crickets. I'd like to say there's no reason why we should have a cricket sound in the house at night. But my housemate decided some time ago that lizards would make a good pet. They do. But their dinner makes a hell of a noise all night. Crickets. Poor bastards must know they're doomed.

But the rest of us are fine, more than we know. For tomorrow is Tuesday! What harm could possibly come from that?

Blue Lights and Gold Sparkly Things

2006-11-06T00:48:00.000Z

The trip home cost a little more than expected tonight. 50p left on my Oyster Card. Not good. At least not for a bus fare. 50p in my pocket. Also not good. And no way to combine the two to make the full 'welcome aboard' pound. No problem, I'll get change. Only there's nowhere open at half past midnight on a Monday. At least not somewhere I could get to and back in the six minutes I had until the bus arrived. Fuck it. A taxi.

So, a swipe of the travel card turned into an £8 hop across the Wandsworth border. Nevermind. Tooting was quiet. A blue light was on in the hairdressers. There was also a blue light on the bottom of the bus time table. This is to allow you to see bus times in the dark. Not sure what the hairdresser wants you to see.

The taxi people know me now. 'Did you have a nice night?' Yes thanks. 'Working?' No, girlfriend. 'Ahh yes, it's Sunday.' They still charge me full fare though. But you get to chat about the weather. I wanted to chat about Halloween and fireworks parties, but the relationship between driver and fare is a rigid one. Stories of how you managed not to blow up yourself, your girlfriend, her daughter and nearly a dozen neighbourhood kids, don't seem relevant.

But I didn't blow us up. The 'Disposition Reorganiser' or whatever the long explosive thing made in China was, didn't turn against us. I still have my eyebrows. And the kids didn't blind each other with the sparklers. Another good day. Who cares about an Oyster Card?

Ice Cold in tooting

2006-11-05T01:24:00.000Z

How did it get so fucking freezing? That's it. The scarf is coming out. Well, it wasn't that bad. But two jumpers underneath my summer coat make me look bulky. At least no one will mess with me as I wait 11 minutes again for a bus.

There was I thinking there was nothing much to report until I passed the now vacant Curry Express, where a girl was leaning up against some shutters asleep. I've never seen that before. Someone leaning against a wall sleeping. At 1am. I don't think you'd see that anywhere else. Maybe her face had frozen to the metal. I can't be sure.

But yes. Home with the window closed. It makes a leaning cigarette a tougher decision than normal. But what the hell. I'll freeze. And it's a big day tomorrow. I may be painted several colours and blow my eyebrows off with some fireworks. Can't wait.

Bed Head and a Mission for Veg

2006-11-04T15:25:00.000Z

A daylight adventure from Tooting Bec, north, across the undrawn border that crosses into Balham. Today, a late Halloween mission for supplies. And fireworks. That was the easy bit. First pumpkin, green jelly, face paint and any common food stuffs that could pass, at least through the eyes of a terrified six year old, as witch poo, rats eyeballs, goat brain or whatever.

I walked. First along Upper Tooting Road where it turns out Curry Express is not applying for a licence. At first I thought maybe a drinks licence or um, an ice cream license. But no. They're closing. The 'All you can eat' offer saw them literally eaten out of house and home. The license is for a new place. Always strange when one curry house shuts down only to be replaced by another. "I know those guys failed, but we're different dammit! We'll have 'Eat all you buy!' Yes, that will be our slogan! Next!"

Ten minutes walk. It was at this stage that I noticed my bed head. Not in my reflection as such, but the triangle shaped shadow my head was making in front of me. Pointy at the top. Two bits sticking out on each side. People treat you differently when you look like this. You either get sympathy (this poor guy can't even comb his hair). Or people don't trust you. Like you're too busy sniffing glue to brush. Either way you're going to cause trouble. People want you out of the shop as soon as possible.

This happened when I tried to buy cigarettes. I asked for ten, he went through what was on offer. Camel, Elephant, Rabbit. I think that's how it went. Aware of my status with the hair situation I read him for being, well, a wanker. I paused a second and said 'oh I get it'. Then paid for ten. Then I asked if I could swap them and pay for twenty. Nope. This would involve a trip to customer services, forms to fill in, applications, paperwork and an administrator working weekend overtime. "I'll do it!"

No, I didn't. They were inches away from security. I was inches away from losing it with a part-ripe pumpkin. Instead I bought chocolate money, Angel Delight and then made my way back to the safety of Tooting lines. And a shower. Only go out again clean.

Are those thermal pants?

2006-11-03T01:08:00.001Z

It’s cold out now. 12.30am and anyone will feel the cold. But there’s much to report from Upper Tooting Road. For a start Curry Express is applying for some kind of license. Terrific. What license? I’m not sure. Who cares? Good luck to them.

Like I said it’s cold. Girls are first to go for hats and scarves. Wrapped warm after a night out. Men on the other hand play the waiting game. It’s a battle of endurance for us before we capitulate to this open sign of feeling the chill, that other men will surely see. Not for me I should add. I’m going for hat and scarf immediately. No stinging fingers for me. Gloves too. Must find them.

The doors of the shops are closed now, rather than left open to entice the late night and normally drunk clientele of London’s night time world. All except the fast food outlets, which try against all odds to expel the stench of cooked meat from the premises in exchange for cold and having to wear your coat to work.

The same Toyota taxi did the same five point U-turn unnecessarily by the bus stop. I walked passed the secret Tooting house to the bus stop on Tooting Bec Road. 11 minutes for a bus. A stop for iced tea from the shop opposite. This is one of my favourite roads and the faces are friendly. The same people waiting for a bus, the same things going on depending on the time. Like people coming out of the tube or zigzagging their way home with a bag of chips.

I first came to this road on a wild diversion in a taxi one night back in March. I didn’t know then that I’d get this familiar with it. But on that night it was £30 extra quid well spent.

9 minutes. A cigarette, the happy kind, with the Ipod blasting Joni Mitchell and a team of fellow passengers waiting against the cold, watching their breath as we each admitted that mild daylight was no match for night time that’s fucking freezing. The bus came. Before you know it Tooting has turned to Streatham. A quick, cold, but chipper reminder that it’s time to get out.

Making it up

2006-11-01T02:12:00.000Z

No trip back from Tooting Bec tonight. But I wish there was. So I’m making one up.

It was one of those nights not spent with my girlfriend, which means I miss her. That terrible feeling of being way from something that feels like home. Days are separated into those spent with her and those not. I know which ones I prefer.

So it’s 1am now. That would be about an hour after we would say something like ‘I suppose I’d better go’. Then an hour would pass of ignoring the time. We’d fall asleep watching rubbish on telly, because we can’t ever find anything to watch.

So I’d leave the house. This is the worst bit. And then the walk to the bus stop. Five minutes, passed the best Tooting Bec Non-Corner Corner Shop. Passed the 90 year old lady. Passed the Cottage Chicken outlet and half a dozen curry houses. Passed any night time harmless lunatic on their own adventure. Then the bus, or a taxi, or on those other days a half an hour walk across Tooting Common where not even dark hiding places for the nutters puts me off. So yes. I like these adventures.

And this month is Nanorimo. National Novel Writing Month. I’ve written close to 600 words so I’m rewarding myself with a break. Leaning out of the window to smoke. The cost is that the garret is fucking freezing. Feels good. Everyone should feel like this.

Strange and Unusual Men in Cars

2006-10-31T01:44:00.000Z

The journey home from Tooting Bec. All is well in the world.

Walking up Upper Tooting Road tonight with my Dublin luggage and usual laptop bag. A car of drunks pulled up and asked if I wanted a lift. Three fifty-ish drunks. I think they were kidding. I was too tired to speak anyway so gave them a brief head shake. I was outside Tooting Bec's best Non-corner Corner shop going in to buy milk. I'm always glad I remember these things at 1am when coffee eight hours later can make or break a day.

I've been asked if I wanted to get into a car by strange men once before. I was about ten years old I think, living on an RAF estate in Chester. I was out on my bike with a friend and at the end of the road was a red Austin Marina. Two guys, one old one young asked us if we wanted to get in? At least we thought they said that. The memory is blurred but there were two of us so we both couldn't have been making it up. And I wasn't yet mental in those days.

Anyway, we were good kids. The police were called. Juliet Bravo and Reg from The Bill I think. We were separated for questioning and then an estate wide man-hunt was set up, looking for a dodgy red car. That's all I remember. Very exciting.

So yes, I said no to the drunks tonight. I'm still a good kid. Up to the taxi office instead where different old men drive around looking for people to get in. But at least these ones know where I live and make small talk if I want it and shut up if I don't. Passed the 90 year old lady bent double. I didn't even say hello this time. She has things on her mind.

Back to Streatham. Dull. Must look to move soon.

Gel sir?

2006-10-30T18:22:00.000Z

There's only so much hair left on my head these days that soon a trip to the barber will be over, start to finish, in a little under two minutes. So while it lasts I find it's best to give it the attention it deserves. Attention yes, but I'm having trouble justifying to myself the £16 bill.

All I wanted was a quick trim. I went in, waited a few minutes reading a magazine, and then got into the chair. Fair enough, it was a mess. No shower this morning, a two hour wait in an airport, a one hour flight, another hour to work and a hassled day of cigarettes and coffee. Nobody facing those conditions is going to look like they just walked out of a salon. "Wash as well?" he asked. I knew what he meant. I had no choice. "Lean forward please."

This marked the first time anybody else has washed my hair since I was about 8 years old. A man in his late fifties began lathering my head. Soon, he had the hairdryer in my eyes. Then, a snip here and there before the clippers came out. That was it. Over. "£16 please". It costs £6 down the road.

Perhaps I'm not myself today. Perhaps it was the late onset of cheeriness that made me go for an impulse cut. But it needed doing before I went away, and now that I'm back it was time to toast being home. Look smart, the rest will follow.

Glad to be back. And at least the winner was a good bloke. Humble. That's scarce in these circles.

Dublin

2006-10-30T00:55:00.000Z

I'm done in Dublin. Four days of poker reporting and a hotel intent on screwing up the room service. But I was free-rolling when it came to a hotel room, so what the hell if it took two days to find the hair dryer.

It'll be good to get out of here, to clear my head of work stress and get back to the misery of Streatham. that's where the real action is afterall, and whilst the Heineken slowly works its joy-riding way around my veins I can contemplate other things. Like National Novel Writing Month, which my good friend Barron, a Republican to the core, has persuaded me to join. 50,000 words in a month. Sometimes I have no idea.

But first it's back to the hotel with my girlfriend for roughly six hours of time flying fast before the airport and home. It's been an odd one. I had compliments from places I hadn't expected, but still felt my work was flat. But they'll be others. Bugger it. You should never expect to find magic in a place like this. the magic is getting out feeling fine.

Quick

2006-10-23T02:12:00.000+01:00

I was the only person on the bus tonight. As I was walking to the bust stop I figured if there was still a bus at 1am then it must be down to some hard working, high-up official who had decided that no matter what the time, some nut job will want to get home. I’m thankful to that guy. Even though it meant deploying those drivers not fit to be seen out on the road in daylight.

Anyway, where was I? That'll do. Chipper feeling.

Adventures with Moon Face and Saucepan Man

2006-10-22T00:43:00.000+01:00

It's getting cold these days at around midnight. Not that frosty cold that attacks your bones, but that first glimpse of what's to come. Hats and scarf soon. The idiot look.

Unusual, but it seems rush hour in Tooting is around this time, at least on a Saturday night. Cars lined up both ways with some pushing in from side roads and getting dodgy looks from the passing police with better things to do.

At the bus stop with nine minutes to wait a crowd was gathering, opposite the taxi rank and kebab shop, and a few steps along from the happy looking hidden house of tooting Bec. Two dozen people waiting for the bus.

The taxi driver did his usual three point turn in his white Toyota. He could make the turn in one move but he always plays the safety card, even with traffic coming at him from both directions, by shifting backwards and forwards as fast as he can.

Then there are the drunks, a couple tonight. One pulled faces at herself; another seemed to be having trouble keeping his head still. With six minutes left to wait he decided to dash across the road to buy veg. Sometimes the urge takes you and you have no choice but to go with it. So courgettes it would be for this brave warrior of the night.

But I’ll always find some kind of adventure on the way back to Streatham. I don’t even care if they aren’t really adventurous. But they are anyway. They keep the magic alive, even when I know the magic comes from elsewhere and that this stuff could probably be left alone.

But it was a good day. The Peter Pan park, conker hunting, conker smashing, and rowing the length of the Serpentine, even if each stroke took us slightly to the left. Either way we always get back to Tooting Bec.

Thursday's Dry Run

2006-10-20T00:38:00.000+01:00

The bus home. It seemed earlier tonight, but it wasn't. Just there are more people out on a Thursday. The strong drinkers, out for a practice run on Thursday night before a maximum effort on Friday. They finish the 'dry' run at 11pm and head home, happy to dice with public transport.

The bus coincided with a last tube. Out of Tooting Bec came a line of men in suits. A long line of men, spaced exactly ten yards apart; a long line of men in black with white shirts and ties long forgotten. Some wobbled and faded off into a kebab shop. Others crossed over to the bus stop before changing plan and double backing to the taxi rank. The rest kept walking.

The taxis were doing good business. A driver got over cautious on a u-turn and, in a manoeuvre seen every night, five point turned his way back up Tooting Bec Road. The rest of us waited for the bus. One man shaking his head to get the voices out, but talking out loud to them nonetheless. Another younger guy, with his mobile phone on speakerphone speaking to a girl. In Polish. Basically, a normal night.

And for the first time I remember the driver was no lunatic, no member of the elite 'fuck you' driver corp reserved for late shifts by London Transport, the ones who show no fear to the drunks. Instead, a speedless crawl by an elderly driver. Perhaps he had loved ones waiting for him and felt finishing his shift alive would have it's good points? I know how he feels.

Friday tomorrow, or later today. What time is it?

The night shift

2006-10-19T00:07:00.000+01:00

Another trip home from the magical Tooting Bec. The night shift of keeping the magic alive. There's normally an adventure to report, but perhaps nothing tonight. Just the usual people you'd expect to see late at night. People walking home, a couple here and there. A French couple tonight. From what I made out she was talking about spending time with him. That was nice. They were headed towards a kebab shop. It seemed out of character. But no, to the taxi office next door.

For me the night bus with the usual crowd. A comforting bunch. A mixture of the slightly drunk and the late commuters ready for bed.

These journeys seem to be all I blog about. Perhaps it's the safest thing I have. I feel chipper at this time of day, but it always follows that time when you say goodbye for the night. That bit is the difficult part, so I head out to find an adventure. This suits me fine. Keeping the magic going in Tooting Bec is important, like a Quixotic mission, armed with a cardboard sword and shield, out to defend all that's good from any hint of ill will and from any bad thoughts. It's enough to keep me heroic. And in cowards like me this is important.

Mushy

2006-10-16T01:33:00.000+01:00

Walking past Tooting Bec's finest non-corner corner shop. Should I go in for supplies? Or just keep on walking? I couldn't think of anything, so passed a white man with dreadlocks looking pale and carrying some sort of coat at arms length as if something uninvited had pissed on it. Then passed the 90 year old woman, who I've seen many times before in Tooting Bec, bent double, neck bowed. I smiled at her. Maybe she recognised me? But when I smiled all I got was a look that said 'I've heard it before' and kept walking.

I made it to the junction with Trinity Road. A bus went past, the driver had opened his window and was making the universal 'wanker' sign at a taxi driver infront. This, it turned out, was also the last bus to Streatham. But nevermind. I was feeling too fine to want a wanker-driver. So I set off walking the half an hour road home.

Out came the Ipod. Coming with it six small satchets of tomato sauce half-inched from a day out today and a part-ingredient of a new sauce created with the addition of either salad cream or mustard. Good with chips.

It's a dark path and I'm not one to brag about any comfort with gloom, so I started singing to forewarn any potential muggers that they could, in fact, be dealing with someone far stranger than them. I also had on a home made sticker-badge with four stars on it and the word 'Steve is cool' scribbled on it. Any mugger would know I was not to be messed with.

So I kept walking, with the chipperish mood that comes with these times. All that broke the calm was occasional looks behind me to check that my own shadow was just that. Otherwise, an uneventful trip. A good trip. A good day before a long one tomorrow.

A doughnut, a taxi and the usual suspects

2006-10-15T01:46:00.000+01:00

A half squished glazed doughnut for the trip home tonight. One of the late trips. The taxi kind. But a circle of sugary fun is always good, keeping the blood on high alert long enough to keep your senses on the short walk to the taxi office.

The car was waiting, of course, with one of my three regular drivers ready to take the wheel. Into the back and we're away. Unusually the excitement wasn't in Tooting tonight, but more at the Streatham end. Something happens when you cross the reailway line on Tooting Bec Road. Wandsworth gives way to Lambeth ('Welcome to the New Millenium in Lambeth' as the signs say). But like milk turning lumpy, the atmosphere flips, becoming less friendly, with less magic and more police.

Which is pretty much what the revellers found on Streatham High Road tonight at 1.30am. As the taxi pulled into traffic a police van made the flashing 30 yard journey from the station to the pub opposite, where one guy held back another, and two officers manacled a girl with red trousers and a red face. The smeared kind. The long worn alcohol face that appears the same from any distance after too many hours of the fun turned up to a level higher than the mind can handle.

She was screaming, which made good entertainment for the locals craning their necks out of windows, hangin on from high up, leaning slightly too far, perhaps smoking cigarettes.

For us though it was out of here. Up the hill before the sharp left to home. Only tonight he missed it. A quick reverse and onto my street. I saw a black cat on the road as we turned, and yelled out as I thought we'd hit it. But gee, these guys are professionals. He'd seen it. The cat had seen us. No bad luck. The opposite really. Earlier melancholy turned to chipperness. The cat probably felt the same way too.

Saturday

2006-10-14T13:52:00.000+01:00

Absolutely bugger all to blog about. This is new.

I could mention the small bets on West Ham and Spurs today. But that would be all. No insight. Just impulse bets with no reasoning.

Then there’s the dismal ‘drama-documentary’ I spent three hours watching about Dresden this afternoon. Rubbish from start to finish. And it was Channel 4. They’re supposed to be groundbreaking. Instead they went for stereotypes and villains. Anyone can do that.

I could mention the Zidane film we went to see yesterday, but that was one of the highlights of a bad week, so I’m keeping that for myself.

I have interviews to prepare, for Phil Laak and Antonio Esfandiari on Monday. I could almost like Laak; but I’m not sure about Esfandiari. And in the meantime I may have offended one of the few Muslim players to make a good living from poker.

I could mention the duty free cigarettes from Austria and the slight shame I felt buying them. I could mention the misery of knowing it’s my week to vacuum the house and I really can’t be bothered. Or the fact that I haven’t been food shopping for over ten days but somehow I’ve managed to stay alive.

I could mention that Tranmere Rovers lost last night to a team I’ve hated for years. And that our season is effectively over, despite that promising start. And I could mention how good it is to actually care for a change. There’s not much else to mention. The days go by fast.

The Trusted Routine

2006-10-13T01:31:00.000+01:00

The only adventurous part of the trip home from Tooting Bec tonight was the speed the bus driver reached on Tooting Bec Road. I had him pushing sixty. It may have been less. Either way the ease at which he handled the corners, at speed, and between parked cars, would be enough to bring a tear to any London Transport head's eye. And not just the legal department.

So yes, nothing much, and all to the soundtrack provided by Britney Spears. It's a secret shame, I like two Britney Spears songs and one just happened to pop up as the bus arrived. And i should be grateful that the bus arrived in teh first place. There's no real right to expect a bus at 1am. But maybe this is the start of another run of good luck.

Today was better than yesterday, which came with a good chunk of post-Austrian angst. It'd been a tough five days. I'm not keen on Austria. The atmosphere, the look of the place and miserable people. It brought out the temper in me. I warned my colleague about this. He took it well. The transport, the bill, the lumpy bed. The lift that didn't work, the stairs I couldnt find. The black and white women serving breakfast. The cold war clothes. I felt like they'd ask us to pay in silk stockings and American cigarettes.

But enough of that. No more Austria. And bus rides from Tooting Bec mean one thing. That life is getting back to normal. Getting home late to finding nothing on the telly. And going to bed at a stupid hour. There's only one more thing to do. To hang out of the window without safety ropes and have a cigarette.

Welcome to Austria. Please smoke these.

2006-10-12T12:41:00.000+01:00

There must be another Vienna somewhere. There must be two. The one we went to was too Eastern-bloc to be part of Europe. It's the only country I've been to which gave me the impression that encouraging smoking had government funding. You can smoke anywhere. Lifts, toilets, in public.

There were things to get used to over the five days. First, the sense of having no idea where you are in relation to the world. No clue of north or south, safe or dangerous. Worse than this was the strong belief that the taxi drivers new this too. The same trip from Vienna to Baden ranged from between €50 and €80.

This includes when the driver gets lost. The first trip back involved the driver asking for directions twice. Then asking us in German where the hell this hotel stood. Using the German I could remember I repeated the address and asked for a cup of coffee with milk. He drove on looking for a place to dump us.

The last night's driver was best. Heading home late we tried to sleep off the journey. It's the only way to block out the German radio music - men with moustaches playing keyboards. This plan was ruined by the Baden driver who seemed unfamiliar with this Vienna place. He woke me up to say something. My 'ja ja's' were met with more German. My 'Ich spreche kein deutsch' was also met with more German, only this time it sounded harsh. The fucker was arguing with me. He asked if I had a map. I did, but wouldn't find it until I was back in the hotel several hours later. He seemed annoyed at this and blamed me for not knowing where we were going - a task traditionally entrusted to the man behind the wheel.

More attacks as we pulled over to ask for directions. Surprisingly few people about the town at 4.30am. I was stuck for local dialect and decided if he went on I'd just shout back in English. But it was at this stage I realised he was just worried, not mad, and lost. The reputation of his country was at stake. I made reassuring sounds whilst trying to hold back laughter.

We found the hotel. Eventually. After asking twice and then having a guy in his car lead the way. Ironically it was this taxi man who took the shortest route. The others who knew their way managed to add €20 to the trip.

But enough of Austria. I didn't like it. But it'll be a year at least before I go back. I have a theory that the further East you go from the UK the further behind the times they are. Room service for example. Grey buildings. Coffee. But this theory falls flat as it makes Wales the most advanced civilisation in the world. I'm from Wales. I know this not to be true. Bit of a bigoted theory. It needs work.

I'm back though. Nothing could stop that. Not even a lightening strike on the plane. Just a flash and a bang and reassuring words from the BA pilot. It takes more than a few million volts to make me run away.

We've come to Austria by mistake...

2006-10-12T11:51:00.000+01:00

The hotel in Vienna was a terrible mistake. I’ll take the blame for permission to talk about it. Hotel Donauwaltzer. To begin with it was miles away from Baden. I’m convinced Baden is only 10 miles from the capital, but taxis charge €70 for the trip there and back. Then there’s the wireless.

Wireless is essential for these trips. For work, but mainly for keeping in touch with home. Austria has wireless. It’s just no one has told them.

When I asked at the hotel whether they had wireless the young guy behind the desk said yes. Great. In the room though there was nothing. ‘Don’t worry’, he said, ‘it works downstairs in the restaurant’. Terrific. This would do.

By the time I got downstairs a new man had taken over and he was unused to questions. He’s also never heard of wireless and began to vehemently deny that the hotel had it. I tried it. They did. Only I needed the password.

‘No, there is no wireless’.

‘Sir, hi. Yes there is, I can see it. I just need the password’. No sorry.

‘There is!’

Now he began asking colleagues, who until now had ignored me. I was beginning to think I didn’t exist. Someone found a code though, on the modem of all places, I’ll try that. It worked. Thanks for your help.

Then there was ironing. I had shirts to wear. The same guy was on the desk, only this time he was sleeping. Time to wake the fucker up. Sorry there is no iron in the entire building. He actually said ‘entire’. The answer was like a stock one, as if he’d been so used to police raids and his employers ordered him to deny the existence of anything. Now I was beginning to think this guy didn’t exist either.

The hotel leaflet said laundry service. It also said mini-bar and wireless. I figured I’d ask the new guy on the desk for an iron in the morning. Then iron the night shift’s face the next day. In the meantime I had only Cheers on TV. In German. Nobody knew my name there. Nobody seemed to know anything.

Argh Vienna

2006-10-06T23:42:00.000+01:00

I never liked that song. Reminds me of bed at 7pm. How old am I now? Anyway, I'm in Vienna. The map I looked at showed Baden as being about three inches away. Didn't seem far. In reality it's €70 away in a taxi. Belts will have to be tightened. No money for food.

Getting here was okay, thanks to some hideous overspending on my part in alliance with a British Airways ticket. BA are like the BBC of airlines. Incredibly polite, and with a tone of voice designed to send you to sleep happy, and not at all concerned about the potential disaster that lies ahead.

I'm a nervous flyer. Have I mentioned this? Not so much anymore but still enough to keep awake on a short-haul flight. A baseball player named Bill Lee once wrote about a teammate who was only happy flying if he talked him through the whole process. Whilst the rest of the team tucked into margheritas, he would be muttering to himself "a little more power... easy on the flaps... left a bit... adjust the trim..." that sort of thing. I'm a little like that on landing. Talking myself through the noises as the ground comes hurtling up.

But it turns out the taxi's are more cause for concern, and not just because of the price. The lady who drove us from the airport to the hotel was in the midst of some paperwork it seemed, which she was happy to finish as we swept along the autbahn at 80 mph. She drove with a pen in one hand, her mobile in the other, perhaps steering with her knees. It ruled out general chit-chat in favour of prayer and a new found love of God.

But we got here alright, wherever the hell that is. I think this is the red light district of Vienna. Hard to find food but a peep show s never far away. Not my scene, but food is. And these trips bring famine with the cigarettes. Must be careful.

So yes, another EPT. This time without my girlfriend which makes it a lonely one. The drunks are yelling outside the hotel window and hotel staff look mean. But the usual crowd are here, like a roadshow, popping up in places you've never been before. And PokerStars do a good spread, and their people are nice. Like Conrad, who I'm under orders to say is a bit posh and has a lot of kids. I'll be racing him to the airport on Wednesday to get home fast.

Cheap Taxi Big Tip

2006-10-06T01:31:00.000+01:00

Here we are again. Another trip away. One trip ends, a brief period of less stress follows, then another trip pops up. So be it. What the hell. They'll be cigarettes. But it still doesn't get rid of that stretching sensation in my stomach, like being taken away from somewhere you're supposed to be. A giraffe on the tube. After-dinner sprouts. It doesnt seem right.

So a late trip home from Tooting Bec. Outside Tooting Bec best non-corner corner shop there was a lot of noise tonight. Some towns boast of being 24 hour places. London isn't. Neither is Las Vegas for that matter (no Bran Flakes beyond 1am), but Tooting Bec at least has a go.

And a late finish brings up that agonising decision. No night bus, so either a 30 minute walk or a taxi home. I've just been given a payrise. Taxi it was.

Like walking was ever an option. And the taxi company know me by sight now. The driver said hello and set off driving without instruction tonight. When I thought he was about to miss the turning I spoke out. He seemed dissapointed I'd interrupted. Then, so did I. Damn. And the fare was a quid less than it ever has been before. I tipped big.

Where was I? Yes, away again. And I'm feeling too splendid for any real kind of blog post. The start-middle-end type. And this isn't misery, it's love sickness. And if that's what it is I can't feel too bad.

Don't stop - it's here somewhere

2006-10-04T23:58:00.000+01:00

A clear night tonight, with a full moon making it cold too. Clear maybe but this didn't stop me getting lost on the way home from Tooting Bec. It always happens with the car. I set out in the general direction of home, get cocky, and end up speeding the other way wondering where the hell it all went wrong.

Of course that precious male gene is weaved into this pattern. That of feeling no need to ask directions. It's not that I feel lesser for doing this, just that it always seems more fun to try and work it out myself. This I did. Intending to refuel the hire car in Streatham, instead the closest I managed was three miles away in Balham. Ah, what the hell...

The car goes back tomorrow, after three great days that cover a trip I'm keeping in my head for now. Life picks up again where it left off. Then away again on Friday. It never stops. I'm looking for more clear weather and a quicker trip home.

I'll remember in a minute...

2006-09-29T01:18:00.000+01:00

This is more like it. An adventure in Tooting Bec. Only I couldn’t really find one tonight. And I wanted one. So I hung around and dawdled for a bit.

It was raining. I like the rain. Rain is really designed for people like me and people happy for me to go on about it. These are the people who are prepared to try and understand. I’ve always loved rain. First it was to suit my standard issue teenaged misery. But now it’s a comfort thing with the opposite effect. Perfect for adventures.

Still nothing though. I hung around outside Tooting Bec’s best non-corner corner shop. I knew I needed something. Perhaps the adventure was in there? I just couldn’t think how. And besides, people were starting to stare at me. At least one guy, who walked past. He was shaking his head from side to side and talking to himself, a man in a business suit and overcoat, walking down the street shaking his head, disagreeing with he voices inside.

So I moved away before anyone else got suspicious. Perhaps the adventure lay elsewhere? Passed the Rastafarian guy who was wearing perfume, or very brave aftershave. It was here somewhere. Hmm. ‘Nevermind’, I thought. ‘Time to catch the bus’.

There are only a few buses out working at midnight, mixed in with the off duty ones. You can tell the difference quite easily. The off duty buses have no lights on. It’s as if they needed no driver either, happy to be off route, free to go whichever direction they want. They go quicker, break later and ignore people at bus stops with their arms out. The things are filled with fun.

I passed another shop before the bus stop and went in anyway. Perhaps this would remind me what I needed in the first place. No, nothing. I bought bread in a paper bag, missed one bus and waited for the next. Not long, and whilst people huddled under the shelter, I put away the half knackered girl-colour- umbrella I knicked from my girlfriend’s house and let myself get rained on. I’ll wait for an adventure another night. And I’ll take a notebook to write it down, rather than scribbling all this on a crusty bread roll.

But it’s nice to get home feeling chipper, and covered in rain, and slightly damp, and with nice thoughts in my head. Muffin, dammit, I meant to buy a muffin.

The Move East

2006-09-28T01:33:00.001+01:00

Bugger it. The smoking has to end. I was leaning so far out the window tonight, arms extended to the breeze, that I cut off the blood to my hands. It’s a miracle I can type. And all for another cigarette. Those little bastards make people do terrible things. Like hang half suspended from a first floor window. There are only two options. Pack them in, or move to a smoking house.

So moving it is. A bigger place. I’m kidding about the smoking of course. That stops anyway. The moving doesn’t though. I’m sick of Streatham. Small supermarkets, no tube. So I’m heading east. That’s the plan. East by about a mile and a half. Balham. ‘Bal Ham’ as Peter Sellers called it. Where pretentious café’s are in abundance and Tooting Bec is only a short 1am walk away.

This is still only a plan of course. The technical side of things, like finding somewhere and actually paying for it could be months away. But the thought is good. Enough to reassure me that window dangling is only a short term measure and that things will improve on the home front. And that new adventures will start that don’t depend on night buses.

White Pants Today

2006-09-28T01:02:00.001+01:00

The first glimpse of just over two consecutive days off are coming into view. Grab hold. Don’t let go. For this I need to keep working. Do this week’s work then get a good chunk of next week’s in the bag. Two full days and nights of care free living with no laptop and a bill for accommodation, food, cleaning - things I wouldn’t want to have to sort myself.

This will all be with my girlfriend Jo. I hardly mention my girlfriend here, even after over six months together. I’m a private guy. I don’t talk about stuff. Perhaps I should. Unless I’m asked of course, then the floodgates open. I’ll talk about her for hours.

Maybe I should say something here. I know my world revolves around her and nothing else matters when she’s there. This is about as sentimental as I get I’m afraid. The rest I keep for myself. Wish I could say more. She puts up with my rubbish, and I put up with hers. Only her rubbish isn’t rubbish at all. It’s the stuff that makes it worth hanging around for. The bits that no one else knows about - just special to me. She doesn’t realise this perhaps, but I’m still here. That’s the long term plan.

So yes, two days away. Then to work again. Austria. Never been. Anyway, I’m not thinking about that tonight. I’ll blog about ready meals and living in a mess some other time.

I like Bloo

2006-09-27T14:28:00.001+01:00

Well yes, I’m 30 now. 30 and a day. That makes me “Thirty-something”. It doesn’t feel much different, but it never does. And getting through the weekend was the bigger deal this last week. Four days of strain at the EPT, which turned out to be more bearable than the first thought.

I have a bad record with birthdays. Something tends to go wrong, either with me or other people playing a direct part. So I try not to put any significance into them. Get through it - an ordinary day. And if I can divert attention away from me then so much the better.

I do this last thing a lot. I don’t like attention. Perhaps I do things to get attention, but then I step aside rather than watch directly. Like turning up as a ghost at your own funeral. I don’t want to be around but it’s hard to say ‘piss off’ to curiosity. Instead I wait for it to turn up and then tell it to bugger off. It’s not an attractive quality and it leads to under-valuing yourself. But if it’s your nature then there’s not much you can do.

So yes, my birthday. This one went well. Cards, presents, things to do, with the person I wanted it to be with. Football, curry, home. In between were those special gifts that feel a bit more than just that. Special things. The ones that remind you that your brain is only tricking you into thinking you’re an island and that you should keep your distance to protect home shores. But it turns out open borders are much better.

Anyway, not much of a post but a birthday one nonetheless, and with underlying chipperness. They’ll be more adventures in Tooting Bec to come. I hope they’re still adventures now I’m a little older.

Last two minutes of my twenties!

2006-09-25T23:59:00.000+01:00

Here's goes.

There are soft drinks... so it could be worse.

2006-09-21T01:30:00.000+01:00

The EPT London starts today. Another four long days of poker. This one of course has an extra twist in that my girlfriend Jo is also blogging. We'll be working in the same room for the first time. It's her first EPT so she's terrified. It's my 7th EPT and i'm still terrified. I think it will be fine.

As usual with these events long hard days mean long hard nights for my lungs. Intensive smoking, coupled with fizzy drinks and a few dreams short of a full night's sleep. They make for weariness in the eyes and a slow death march for the mind. The smoking has escalated a little and my diet has switched to a more fluid base. I'm 30 next week. At what stage do you need to pay attention to these things?

But anyway. Stay focused. Concentrate. Hide in the press room.

Test Day

2006-09-19T19:02:00.000+01:00

Blood first, then a series of small stickered circles carefully attached to my chest. Then ripped off less carefully. There's only one person in the world I'm comfortable taking my shirt off for, and it's not a Tooting General Hospital staffer with a waiting list to get through. Bedside manner has been dropped from medical degrees in order to shave a year off the training.

Nonetheless early indications say I'm fine. Although aren't they supposed to say that? It's fair to say that frightening the life out of someone with a heart complaint risks making the situation worse. It probably opens up prosecution channels too. She was lying to me!

No, wait. I think I'm alright. The wobbly line on the heart monitor seemed normal to someone of my 'Cubs first aid badge' experience. And there are more tests in a month to look forward to which should rule out imminent death at least.

Probably heart burn...

2006-09-19T03:26:00.000+01:00

I’ve broken the last taboo of living in the house I’m in. It’s happened before in previous flats. Now it’s happened here. I’m leaning out of the window to smoke. Should my flat mates find out I could be put through one of those righteous talks about letting people down. Really, I just feel like a cigarette and it’s too dark and scary to go downstairs.

I do need to quit. Crap, have I said that before? I do. I mean it. For various reasons, a couple of which are really important. Second on the list is ‘health’. Kurt Vonnegut says he wants to sue the tobacco firms for lying on the packets and not killing him. He’s in his 80s and feels let down. I know what he means. But I’m quite happy being alive right now, so health has become a viable prompt to give up this terrible habit.

I also have chest trouble, no doubt brought on by the nicotine and the caffeined lifestyle I lead. A battery of tests will be run tomorrow on blood and beats. I’m not worried about a catastrophic collapse, just a warning that the fags are speeding up this whole death thing.

But as usual for now it’s falling out the window that poses the biggest threat. And also the question of whether I should smoke before the test later to calm down?

Looking poor, feeling fine

2006-09-19T02:47:00.000+01:00

Tonight a young guy asked me for money. The normal place, outside Tooting Bec’s premier corner shop, a place where no matter the hour the staff are friendly and the Milky-ways are only 18p. Specifically he wanted 80p. First a light. “You look like the kind of guy who could help. I’m really hungry; I just need 80p to get some food.” I’m not sure he intended the semi-colon.

He didn’t look poor. But I knew I had 80p and was enjoying a fine mood and that feeling of whatever is around the corner really doesn’t matter right now. I decided it was his. If only I felt this good at Christmas. Only I couldn’t find it. Then I noticed his left hand clutching a handful of coins. I was being ripped off. For 80p. Jesus. An 80p I couldn’t find in the first place. Was that all I was worth? He’d obviously seen my shoes and determined that this wasn’t the schmuck to push his luck on. I said sorry and moved on. Poor-looking, and short 80p.

But enough of that. There are nights where nothing can harm a general sense of well-being, and I’ve had a lot of those recently. Being back from Barcelona helps. But sometimes I like writing about impending doom just so I can use swear words. Harmless. And it’s so fucking hard to use swear words when you feel good.

Where was I? Yes. The bus. Bus home. Rare. And another night of playing the same tune in on my Ipod; another I found by accident and can’t get enough of. And no nutters on the streets of Streatham tonight. Something is obviously going my way. They’re bound to catch up with me sooner or later, I know that. I suspect by the end of the week. Sunday latest.

News from the front

2006-09-16T12:58:00.000+01:00

One more day of wretched poker players. Final table day in Barcelona. It’s about time this bastard tournament was wrapped up so we can all get out of this place.

I woke up with a sore throat and aches today. The sore throat probably comes from intensive smoking over the last few days. Each morning I wake up thinking I have to quit only to find the only way of making it through the day is to smoke like a trooper.

The aches no doubt came from the 75 minute walk from the casino back to the hotel at 5 o’clock this morning. It wasn’t my idea. And the first 15 minutes still held the adventure element to it. But from then on the bags got heavy and the maps came out.

I do try to get a drink at the bar when the ‘must relax’ reflex needs ironing, but all that means is ten minutes waiting at a bar before giving up on being served. Not a crowded bar, one with a couple of people waiting. I did this twice yesterday, once with a new blogger friend who had more staying power than me as I got back to work after ten fruitless minutes. So yes, it turns out I’m invisible in Barcelona.

No time for a walk to find decent coffee today, just the powerful sludge on offer at the café around the corner, sitting next to the house drunk and getting change for yet more cigarettes.

So, one more day. One more day of trying to remember to eat, drink and sit down from time to time. Then I can come home. Not exactly thrilled by the idea of today. But there are just as many people to piss me off here as there are back in London. I should be used to this by now.

Here we go again

2006-09-12T21:52:00.000+01:00

I’m in Barcelona. I nearly didn’t make it. I pushed my luck a little too far this morning by trying to get two bags through the hand luggage x-ray machine. I tried to look innocent but the highly skilled bag pusher was having none of it. So, I marched back to the start again feeling like I’d hit a snake and was sent back to square one.

Then, when I got back in line, I realised I had just 15 minutes to find the plane. In a good, solid, and probably healthy non-British way I pushed in at the front, with my shoes in my hand ‘pilgrim’ like. Then I legged it to gate 14, dropping and kicking my mobile phone ahead of me and picking it up in a single-motion scoop as I negotiated a turn. Impressive for a man, and a smoker nonetheless, of my age.

But I’m here anyway. No idea where ‘here’ is although I had someone put a cross on my city map for me, but for taxi’s I hand over the hotel business card and hope for the best.

Can’t say I’ve seen much of Barcelona. Just a big road and the casino. The first looks dangerous, the second looks like any other casino. Bright in parts, dark in other, miserable through and through. Or is that just me?

But anyway, due to an administrative oversight on the part of the organisers, and the casino too, play doesn’t start until 5pm tomorrow. This means a 6am finish before we do it all again for three more days.

But enough of that. At least it leaves some time to look around. And walking out of the casino tonight in the wrong direction I hit a beach. That must be good. But either way right now I just want to get it over with. My head hurts. My chest hurts and I can’t work out how to close the automatic window blinds. I need food, drink, rest and only then might this ordeal seem manageable. Until then we’ll see how it goes.

Control Freakery

2006-09-11T14:10:00.000+01:00

Outside Tooting Bec’s best non-corner corner-shop last night at 1am. I think the guy said ‘Do you want any ganja bro?’ Yeah, that was it. ‘No thanks mate’ I said. He gave me a friendly eyebrow raise to be sure. I waved him off and went in to buy water.

It was a friendly exchange considering. I have a cowardly policy when it comes to drugs of any kind. I’m a control freak, I think, something that only occurred to me as I wandered off to find a taxi. I don’t like drugs at all. And being a control freak means an insular world. Probably due to bad experiences and bad memories. Ironic really. Hunter Thompson was a hero of mine and he used to start the day with a bowl of cocaine and two quarts of Chives Regal. At a distance this is fine, or was fine. But too close to home and I freak out.

Not having had a drink in over six years, and not touching what Paul McCartney once described as the ‘Herbal Jazz Cigarettes’ for about the same time, meant my escapade in Las Vegas had doom written all over it.

Coming off a 14 hour shift, a short day, the plan was to ‘relax’ and then head out for dinner. Part of the relaxing involved four short drags on a cigarette that seemed to do little for me at the time. So, I handed it back, happy that I’d made an effort to shut my friend up who had effectively become the pusher. It seemed the only way to move the night forward. This, in hindsight, was a mistake.

In the lift from the 14th floor to the lobby I noticed that things seemed quieter in my head and a permanent smile had formed on my face. I also noticed my friend Ed looking at me and laughing back, like he’d told me a funny story and thought I was laughing at it.

That was the last of any sense of well-being. On the casino floor of the Rio there’s a show every hour or so. Dancers, clowns, singing, that sort of thing. I missed the dancers but a clown got in my face and stayed there waving his arms. A few more steps and I realised my head and chest were moving forward quicker than my legs. I stopped to let them catch up but this had the effect of encouraging the blood in my limbs pick up speed, making a whirring sound in my head.

“Ed, I have to go back to the room.”

After his laughter died and he realised I wasn’t joking he snapped into serious friend mode and we headed back to the lift, him leading the way, me picking up my feet a little higher than was really necessary to take a step.

Back in the room I managed to lean my head against the window. By now the only thing I could grasp was that this had been a terrible idea. Then I decided sitting down would be better. Laying down I meant. So I got into the corner of the couch and tried not to move.

Moving did all sorts of weird things. First of all my body went fizzy. Wiggling my toes sent strange waves to the top of my head and back again. My eyes wouldn’t keep still. I wanted to throw up.

Things were getting worse by the second. ‘Best crawl to the toilet and throw up now’ I thought ‘there’s no telling how little I’ll be able to move ten minutes from now’. I made it. But we’d been heading out to dinner because we hadn’t eaten. So I couldn’t throw anything up, except a little more dignity. And the wall paper was a confusing pattern which screwed with my head just a little more.

Back on the sofa. Ed put on the TV as a means to getting me to quiet the fuck down. He didn’t use these words, but my constant asking for reassurance had by now gotten to him. I felt like I was dying. I could feel the lining of my brain getting hot. My heart was beating twice as fast as normal. I got scared. ‘I’m going to die in Vegas’ I thought. This seemed sad. Then… ‘I’m going to die in Vegas’ I thought. This didn’t seem so bad after all.

I took to focusing on one minute at a time. My original room mate came and went, ignoring cries for help, and got on with his night, barking an order for Ed to stay with me as he headed towards a party I would never know and didn’t want to hear about later.

I got into a steady rhythm of watching the news. The funny thing was that even the breaking news seemed to be something I’d already seen. Déjà vu for a solid hour and a half.

Half an hour later things seemed to have returned to some sense of normal. I was hungry. This, it turns out, is what mini-bars are for. Then I got into bed, found a position that didn’t make things worse, and left Ed to go out for food and home.

It took me another day to get it out of my system. And I hated myself for it. I freaked. And I knew other people would freak too. And I hate the whole culture around whatever chemical of substance people use to block out stuff. Because as a control freak that’s what it looks like. Altering your sense of reality. Then, anything can happen - regardless. That frightens me. There’s cowardice in my genes that I’ll have to get used to for the rest of my life.

How to freak yourself out and get through Sunday

2006-09-10T18:25:00.000+01:00

Did I mention the sheer hell of Sunday? I think I did. Sundays are still a vivid journey to the edge of some dark places inside my head, before my imagination is hauled back on bungee cord for milky ways and tea. I really do hate Sundays.

One thing occurred to me. I could solve this terrible limbo by going out. A change of scenery might do something. But when your brain is working on an escape from bad thoughts it has little time to plan a day out in London. I could have gone anywhere. Museums, shops, parks. Last week I went to the Imperial War museum. The type of place a boy in a man’s body can spend a week. Not today.

Then there are things I could buy to make life a little easier. Like food for instance, or new clothes. Not today either. It seriously is an all-hands effort to get through the hours of about 1pm to 6pm. We’ve only just made it. Rescued. If I’d been picked up at sea they’d be offering me brandy and a blanket about now.

I wrote a post for my parallel blog, also known as the ‘drafts file’. And that’s where it will stay. I tried to describe this terrible mess in my head. Instead it read like an apology. I don’t feel like that. I’m quite chipper considering. It’s a careful chipper though. Like a surf-lover paddling out to ride a wave he knows is far too big and dangerous.

Besides. It’s too easy to blog about nothing. But when everything feels like a threat, and your head feels 12 years old, this is one way of staying focused in a single direction. Turning to look around runs the risk of being scared by even more windmills.

Anyway. 6.25pm. Fine now.

Hobbies and perfectionism problems

2006-09-09T16:07:00.000+01:00

I had a plan this year to try and carve some kind of hobby for myself. The plan was to follow several European football teams that I had some faint form of allegiance to. Then, keep track in a diary or something, just to record that the world was actually taking place around me. It felt like a great idea in the summer. Then, like so many of my other ideas, it fell away. I think I suffer from a strain of perfectionism. If I can’t do it really well, I won’t do it at all. My standards are high, and sometimes the enjoyment is in the idea rather than carrying it out. It’s a shame.

The teams were from across Europe. First were the easy ones. Tranmere Rovers and West Ham United. My team and my girlfriend’s team. Then, from France, Paris Saint-Germain and Sannois-SG. I like Paris, and the latter is a local team from a small town I used to pass through.

Then there’s Italy, with Hellas Verona and Napoli the picks from there. Verona because of Tim Parks’ book ‘A Season with Verona’ and Napoli because I like the city – a filthy, cramped, Vespa place that I once visited.

I couldn’t think of anymore. And frankly the ones I did choose were dicey at best. The English teams are easy to follow but with the exception of PSG the others played in second divisions or worse. I speak no Italian, so reading the Italian press was out, and UK papers only cover the bigger teams. That left results from the internet the only alternative and that seemed a bit lame.

The French teams are a little easier as I can manage some French, but whilst I know the teams their players are anonymous. How could I tell it was a good game or if someone had had played well? See, the plan had its drawbacks.

But I liked the idea. And it popped up again as I started watching Italian football on the telly this afternoon. Loads has been written about how significant football matches can be, and how great the experience is of watching a game. For me it was the hour before kick off and the feeling afterwards of seeing things that other people will have to watch highlighted on TV. I miss that a bit. Or do I miss a ticket, programme and a cup of tea for £5?

I could still press on with the plan. I could catch up. I like useless information kept in notebooks. But there is the second problem. The notebook would have to be worthy of such as task – expensive, leather bound, perhaps even pretentious. There are all sorts of these problems on the horizon, and it could be Christmas before I have the proper equipment in place. Maybe an even better plan would be more appropriate for the 2006/07 season?

Barcelona

2006-09-09T13:21:00.000+01:00

I have to go to Barcelona. Tuesday. I’m looking for a quick five days. Get there. Work. Get back. It’s a simple plan, but one that got me through Las Vegas relatively unscathed.

I only hear great things about Barcelona, which in a way makes things worse. I’m not sure I want to enjoy it. I like my job, or at least what I do, but being away from home is annoying these days. I’m feeling responsible for the first time in my life. And going away seems unnatural.

So I arrive Tuesday afternoon, head over to PokerStars base camp to interview a German player I have no interest in and then a popular Spanish player who I’m told doesn’t speak much English. ‘Fuck it’, I said, ‘we’ll give it a go’.

It could be a good tournament. The EPT normally is, and PokerStars know what they’re doing now, dammit. I’ll try and see Barcelona. Like Paris, they start late in the day, leaving time for other stuff, which I’ll try to fill up to avoid it seeming slow. Counter that with 4am finishes and things should speed up again.

But this isn’t a rant about work. I can’t complain too much. If I was suddenly plunged into office hours I’d probably freak out. Just that trips away always coincide with wanting to stay home. It’s difficult to get used to.

Coffee and a heart complaint

2006-09-09T12:16:00.000+01:00

It can’t be good for me, but six cups of coffee before noon, and a bottle of caffiened pop after noon makes for a standard day for me. Add to that anywhere from five to twenty-five cigarettes, depending on the level of pissed-off-ness, and you have my staple diet. I’m 30 soon. Health is beginning to be a more serious consideration. And I have to stop this pain in my chest.

Panic struck recently when my coffee maker was deemed beyond repair. Leaving old coffee inside whilst I went to Las Vegas for three weeks didn’t help. When I got back there was a kind of green new world forming inside. It had to go.

I tried stealing my housemate’s coffee maker. This worked until a veiled reluctance to let me carry on began to emerge from behind his fake smile. This plan had to go too. Then my girlfriend came up with a good plan. Buy another! Excellent. And she did.

But where was I? Yes. I still have to cut back. Strange things are happening in my chest which isn’t helped by cigarettes. I need to see a doctor.

This is never easy, particularly after you’ve moved. When I first got to London I had to be forced onto one surgery which claimed to have no room left for more sick people. They took me eventually but I could see in their faces each time I went that the mere site of me disgusted them. I was like the adopted son they’d grown to hate.

So, I returned fire. Probably not a good idea but it was the same thing every time. So I made it a point to arrive each time like I’d been called in to handle an emergency; barking orders and looking serious. Didn’t work though.

So yes. I need to get a Streatham doctor. He’ll tell me to cut back on caffeine and quit smoking. I don’t really need him to tell me this. I have better people to do that for.

Londoners

2006-09-07T01:20:00.000+01:00

Three Asian guys approached me as I walked up Upper Tooting Road tonight. They were in the late stages of an earlier period of extreme drunkenness, but they were happy. Melancholic too perhaps, walking the easy to recognise ‘zigzag pattern’ along the pavement.

It was late. Three guys in this formation can often mean trouble. But not tonight. These guys wanted to chat. I was feeling chipper too. The chatty one stopped me. He wanted to ask something.

I can’t remember the exact words, and after a few drinks I don’t think he could either. But it was something along the lines of 'why do English people see Asian men and think they’re suicide bombers?' He wasn’t a suicide bomber, he said. I believed him.

“Suicide bombers don’t have jobs. They think things are miserable and want to try things out ‘upstairs’”. He pointed at the sky. Fair enough. He was laughing. His friend interrupted…

“He makes too much money here to be a suicide bomber!”

He went on a bit more, saying how fed up he was about feeling like this and about maybe going back ‘home’. “I want to look like you!”

The prognosis in the heart of a man can get no worse than when he admits to the desire to be pale and ginger haired. Now I knew he was serious. I told him that not everyone thinks like that and he should stick around. In many ways he looked more British than me. He was young, slightly pissed, dressed in fashionable clothes and had just got off the tube. He was a Londoner. You don’t get much more British than that.

We left it with a handshake. His two friends, who’d been keeping a lower but giggling profile, really just wanting to keep moving, waved goodnight. They walked on, back to working out where they lived. I went back to Streatham to try and forget where I still did.

The Food Crisis

2006-09-05T21:52:00.000+01:00

Food is a bit of a problem right now. Lack of it mainly, combined with a strong urge to stay away from Streatham supermarkets. They're miserable places, not helped by the fact that it's a Sainsbury's local and they only sell ready meals, sweets and booze. I don't like the first, should cut back on the second and gave up the third six years ago. At this rate though I'll be back on all three sooner than I think.

I'm pretty sure it's because my fondness for Streatham is fading. I liked it at first. I felt I was at one with the people. Then disaster struck. I realised I've never been one of the people and when I am the people don't like me and it's best to keep clear.

But today I cooked 'proper' food. Proper being 'warm food' rather than a bowl of Bran Flakes. At this stage cooking is too much like ready steady cook. Five items are found in the cupboard, totally inappropriate for any kind of team work. But each item is thrown in the pan regardless resulting in a kind of tuna-basil-old ham-yoghurt hot pot. Few can stomach it.

So I'm putting the option of moving back on the table. Somewhere with shops and that's a walk rather than a nightbus away from Tooting. I can't afford it of course. The table neither. So technically the idea is on the floor. But it's still there to be stepped over everyday, and that's a start.

Night Bus Weirdos

2006-09-05T00:53:00.000+01:00

It's not much of a consolation for having to leave in the first place, but the bus home from Tooting Bec has now taken on a 'second highlight of the day' role.

Stood hanging on whichever way I could, whilst the driver - the same lunatic from the other night equipped with a bobble hat and a sense of adventure - drove at paranoia speed down Tooting Bec Road, I thought this one would pass without anything to report. I only notice the people that are either happy or sad at around midnight on the bus. A couple were hanging onto the rail, kissing. Another couple were not.

A cropped lady in hoop earrings and with a tattoo on her arm was growling at a man sat playing with his mobile phone. She looked drunk and unhappy. He looked like he didn’t care. It’s sad. Some men just don’t know when to say sorry regardless and be grateful for what they have.

The driver liked to accelerate early and brake late. It’s why I sat down after nearly falling over as we moved at speed around and between parked cars. Sitting down was a mistake though.

A guy with a can of Carlsberg stood up to get off. He was pissed and trying to manoeuvre a can of lager and his bag towards the door. As the bus braked he was too caught up in the spirit of booze to realise his heightened sense of wellbeing was no match for a sudden stop. At first he grabbed, then he lunged, and then fell arse first along he gangway. His lunge was partly successful, taking my glasses with him as he went aft.

He apologised and made it to the door whilst I went looking for glasses. I expected a tangled mess, but I spent money on these, and the debt Gods were feeling merciful tonight. No two-year battle in the small claims court to replace a pair of broken specs for me.

But I still like these adventures. If I have to make the trip then it may as well have some kind of story to it. I walked in the middle of the street at the other end, the last leg to my house. A stumpy man was walking slowly along Pinfold Road trying to open car doors. Then he stopped and sat down on a garden wall. A town can have too many weirdo’s. You just can’t avoid them all.

Monday Eve

2006-09-03T22:14:00.000+01:00

It’s dark. That much is good. As for the rest of this Sunday it goes down as another dull one. What kind of a person does it make me if I can’t have a day off without worrying about it? What have I become?

But it's Monday tomorrow. I have an interview to write. I should have done it today, and made it easier for myself tomorrow, but I figured 'day off - I should take that advice'. So, I did nothing, ate badly and watched the clock. I also played a play money tournament on PokerStars. Play money. Real money seems bad somehow. Four hours I played. Cripes. Where the hell is monday?

The Poles are back out next door, talking into the night. No monsters on their side of the fence.
And no fear about Sunday. What's the secret?

Sundays

2006-09-03T17:28:00.000+01:00

Dammit. I hate Sundays. I should have gone out. Further than the garden. Rapid indecision followed total failure to be bothered. Crap. And now the only thing on the horizon is a trip to the off-license for cigarettes and pretend beer.

Not complaining though. Well, not anymore. Sundays have always been like this. Since I can remember. Miserable. Like being on hold. There's a formula though. When it gets dark things tend to get better. Like a rescue ship on the horizon. So that will come soon. It takes its time though.

Yeah, I hate Sundays...

Feeling Lucky

2006-09-03T03:26:00.000+01:00

Something went thud in the garden tonight. Fair enough, it was 3am and the mind can play tricks on you during hours like that. But it did. And I was looking the other way when it happened, which is worse. Yeah I know there aren't monsters in the backgarden, but something fucking moved. And it was just me and a lit cigarette between it and the booze in the kitchen. At that time I wasn't sure if I was ready for that kind of responsibility.

What was I doing out there in the first place? Well, I was digging up keys. I'd forgotten mine, and thanks to a well prepared housemate who thinks of these things, there was a spare set burried in the back garden. I found them, and smoked a fag in salute of this piece of good luck. The invisible fuck-off huge monster was just keeping my mind on the job.

So yes, home safe. Screw the nightbus, it was taxi all the way tonight. It's the worst part of the day, leaving Tooting. Really, if you have to leave your girlfriend in the middle of the night it should be aboard a horse or something - something with a bit of class to it. Or a tank! Long story, but a tank would work. Instead, Abba cars and a driver asking how my saturday night was whilst I was busy counting the change in my pocket to make sure I had enough to keep him talking all the way home. Lucky again.

I'm very lucky these days. So was the snail in the garden tonight who narrowly missed having a cigarette put out on his back. We're both lucky then. It's a nice feeling. It makes you feel you could get through anything. Even monsters in the back garden.

The Tooting-Streatham Line

2006-09-02T00:43:00.000+01:00

I’m not exactly sure why there is always the need to make an adventure out of the trip home to Streatham from Tooting, but there always seem to be. Maybe it’s because my idea of an adventure is set to a lower standard than most people. And I like to think there’s some kind of magic, or excitement in as much as I can.

So yes, that’ll do me. A nice boring adventure. And tonight was nothing more than a man giving that bloke-ish ‘half smile nod’ of recognition – one sober man to another waiting for a bus amongst a crowd of kebab eating revellers. The other night it was giving a cigarette to a lad which seemed to make a night bus appear. That’s all it takes though. The bus driver drove like a lunatic. Comforting that some things remain the same…

This is good for me, because today I had a weird day. Basically I was being an arse. I took it out on myself. Then I took it out on Ace-Ten in a £20 freezeout this afternoon. My poker trouble always involves an Ace, and another card ten or lower. Must stop that. It happens from time to time. The imagination gets unleashed and the world goes weird. But I got hold of it again. I had the best help too. And finished it off with rice pudding.

So I’ll stick to the overblown adventures, which is really nothing more than paying attention to the world. And standing at a bus stop in Tooting is a far better adventure than anything with deserts, Nazis, missing gold and gunfights.

No ending again. I’m putting the brakes on now.

Early Starts

2006-09-01T07:18:00.000+01:00

I like getting up early. Odd really, as I do it so rarely. But today is one of those exceptional days where a 6.40am start doesn’t quite seem the disaster scenario it normally would be, and the only truly difficult moment in your morning is the choc-chip or blueberry decision when it comes to a muffin.

There’s a lot I could do today. Despite looking out the window first thing and seeing grey misery, I want to get started at it; get hold of a potentially miserable day and whack the fucker with a nine-iron. Show it that despite the slow march of work, there could still be moments of happy trotting.

So I’m up early. I suppose I should really have a go at the ‘quit smoking’ thing too, seeing as though I’m feeling chipper. But it never seems to work. My original plan was to find a calm period, stress free, and quit then. But the seasoned smoker can always find something to be stressed about, so why wait?

But enough of hullabaloo. Good work yesterday means easier work today. Barcelona is sorted. Press credentials happily agreed. I’m a ‘blogger’ apparently. Not sure how I feel about that? Perhaps I’m being snobbish? Just that ‘Blogger’ has a happy, cheery connotation. And that’s normally the last thing I feel in these places.

Recovery

2006-08-31T12:00:00.000+01:00

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

2006-08-25T22:41:00.000+01:00

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

2006-08-24T10:47:00.000+01:00

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

2006-08-22T18:53:00.000+01:00

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

2006-08-22T18:11:00.000+01:00

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

2006-08-22T01:41:00.000+01:00

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.

Polish neighbours

2006-07-20T13:31:00.000+01:00

I live in Streatham, which apparently has a large Polish population. You could insert any area in outer London instead of Streatham - but this is good. I like foreigners. I can’t understand a word they say but Polish people are included in that. Although apparently there are lots of shortages in Poland now because they all come to work in London. But they make good au pairs over there.

My neighbours at the back are Polish, judging by their accents. I’m guessing they are. Or they’re eastern European, or maybe drunk and from Newcastle. Either way they stay outside very late playing music and talking loud. More impressive is that this then goes on into the day. Impressiver - they then go on again the next night. It has to be a rotor system as no one can stay out indefinitely and maintain this level of noise. They’ve started to become irritating. It’s not the noise – just the predictability of it all.

Irritating people are tough to deal with. They’re probably having fun so to interrupt that makes you the bad guy. Not that I was going to go and complain. I was just going to lob over a few water balloons from my bathroom window.

But I’ll be away soon so I’ll let another neighbour take action. I’m going to an even bigger noise for three weeks, where the heat will be fierce and the windows sealed to keep in the air conditioning. Las Vegas in the summer, the World Series of Poker. Only a lunatic would fancy this, and I’m not a lunatic.

In the past a trip this long would have posed no problems. This time though it seems more of a worry. All those people. The heat. The press restrictions and an unnatural and sinister cynicism towards the poker world. It could make or break me. Send me back bright and successful, or burnt and a failure.

Either way when I get back in August the neighbours will still be there, regardless of the outcome, playing bubblegum music and talking with beer. But I’ll probably like it by then. Right now it feels like I’m going to the moon. Except this is a moon where hotdogs cost $9.

First blog post in a couple of weeks. Must try harder.

Nightshift, and control of the remote

2006-06-27T03:30:00.000+01:00

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

2006-06-21T01:12:00.000+01:00

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

2006-06-19T20:43:00.000+01:00

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

2006-06-18T11:30:00.000+01:00

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

2006-06-14T09:38:00.000+01:00

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

2006-06-10T19:39:00.000+01:00

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

2006-06-08T11:38:00.000+01:00

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.

2006-06-07T16:48:00.000+01:00

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

2006-06-06T15:31:00.000+01:00

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

2006-06-05T04:20:00.000+01:00

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

2006-06-04T16:22:00.000+01:00

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

2006-06-04T10:37:00.000+01:00

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

2006-06-03T16:52:00.000+01:00

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

2006-06-03T15:15:00.000+01:00

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.

2006-06-02T00:29:00.000+01:00

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.

Re-writes and Corporate Flyers

2006-05-31T12:25:00.000+01:00

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....

2006-05-30T10:40:00.000+01:00

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

2006-05-29T21:23:00.000+01:00

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

2006-05-29T12:31:00.000+01:00

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

2006-05-28T10:36:00.000+01:00

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

2006-05-27T11:06:00.000+01:00

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

2006-05-26T18:22:00.000+01:00

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?

2006-05-25T21:11:00.000+01:00

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

2006-05-25T14:38:00.000+01:00

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

2006-05-22T11:35:00.000+01:00

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

2006-05-20T12:09:00.000+01:00

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

2006-05-18T14:32:00.000+01:00

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

2006-05-17T19:07:00.000+01:00

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

2006-05-15T22:34:00.000+01:00

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

2006-05-15T17:41:00.000+01:00

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

2006-05-14T21:32:00.000+01:00

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

2006-05-14T16:43:00.000+01:00

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

2006-05-13T22:38:00.000+01:00

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.