Poker, Pique and Parenthood

V for Vendetta in Kinetic Typography

2010-11-05T23:40:00.002Z

Rather appropriate for tonight.

Aside from politicians, I'd also chuck the loons who are still setting off fireworks at 11.30pm on the bonfire.

They Don't Write Them Like This Anymore!

2010-10-19T19:23:00.001Z

Proper sports reporting from the past.

What Is The Difference Between Israel and North Korea?

2010-05-31T19:41:00.002Z

Not much so far as I can see. Though North Korea seems more efficient in the art of high seas terrorism.

Election Time Again

2010-05-04T20:43:00.002Z

Before the last election, I actually managed to put together a post I was quite proud of. Alas, nothing changed for the better in the last five years, and now I can't even motivate myself to put my thoughts in print.

Instead, I'll offer up some comedy genius from long ago, with a political slant. (Hint: Stick with it til the end!)

QFT

2010-03-03T15:00:00.001Z

The "Honest Mistake" Files from lovethesfa on Vimeo.

Match fixing, anyone?

More On Poker and Luck

2010-02-18T12:28:00.002Z

I've finally gotten round to dipping my toes in the world of Rush Poker. Initially, with some success, but latterly I seem to have ended up with scalded feet.

It all started so well. On my way back from a training course in England, I finally managed to get my wifi connection to the T-Mobile hot spot on the Virgin Train working.

Which meant that as I whizzed northwards at 125mph or so, I was able to fire up Full Tilt on my little Samsung netbook. Since the screen on this is tiny, and I'm generally used to playing six tables simultaneously, Rush Poker seemed the ideal compromise. One table, but many more hands per hour.

My initial impressions were that it's great fun, but I am not convinced that it will supersede multi-tabling regular games as my preferred mode of play.

This feeling should be qualified against yesterday's experiment, where I worked my way up to four-tabling Rush Poker, by which time I seemed to be averaging over 1200 hands per hour! Absolutely incredible.

I did play, by my standards, very tight (11%/8%) but the results were execrable. I finished the day, after three hours play, a whopping eight buy-ins down.

Which leads me to luck. Looking over the results, I was able to attribute one buy-in to bad play on my part (3-bet from the blinds with AK, c-bet a whiffed flop and got a bit carried away on a K turn versus oppo with KQ who flopped top pair and turned two pair).

However the overall loss was primarily a combination of cooler situations (set-under-set, QQ v AA on a low flop, flush vs top set who fills up on the river, bottom set vs top-two who fills up on turn, etc.), and some teeth grindingly neanderthal play (cold calling a 4-bet pre with 97s, floating the flop with nothing and back-dooring a straight on a flushing board, etc.)

Encouragingly, I didn't even stack-off in most of these situations. But taken together, they all added up to a hefty loss!

Which, to me, seems like a hellish run of luck. However, fortune WAS smiling on me in one way.

As I was experimenting, I was playing lower than normal. A mix of $25 and $50 buy-in, instead of $100 and $200.

So, whereas I could easily have been looking at a loss in excess of $1000, the actual damage was more like $300.

Not ideal, but well within the tolerance of my bankroll - and even $25 buy-in games generate some rakeback when you are getting through 1200 hands per hour!

Missives From A Pretend Professional Poker Player - Part 4. Luck

2010-02-09T13:22:00.000Z

I've spend the last few weeks working in Belfast. Cosily ensconced in a nice hotel that was at the upper end of acceptable walking distance to the office.

This meant than on Mondays I took a taxi back to the hotel, as hefting a fairly sizeable suitcase was both impractical, and an open invitation to be mugged.

Belfast rush-hour traffic is much like any other city, with one rather complex junction in particular causing a backlog, as the lights rapidly cycled. Meaning that to my eyes only a few cars got through on each iteration.

Next morning I crossed the same junction on foot. As I waited patiently for the green man to appear, a lengthy stream of cars passed by along the same route I had taken the previous evening. 'ffs', I thought, 'Those lights let LOADS of cars through!'

This simple lesson in perspective took me back to a few hands I've recently played, in both of which, I got lucky. But in very different ways.

Hand A is a classic cooler. KK v AA Effective stacks 80BB deep. Having raised my KK then 4-bet when re-raised, I did get a sinking feeling when my opponent shoved, but his range was wider than just AA, so I had to call.

I needn't have worried, as a K on the board saw me right. Whereupon my opponent went off on an enormous 'how could you call that' type rant. Rather than explain how exploitable it would be to fold KK whenever someone 5-bet shoved pre-flop, I played dumb while gleefully enjoying the suck-out.

Hand B is the stuff of dreams. AA v KK Effective stacks 170BB. All-in pre. I deliberately played this one very fast, to give the impression of AK rather then AA, and it worked perfectly, as my opponent couldn't wait to get his chips in the middle.

No suck-out and a healthy pot to rake.

To me, both these hands are extremely lucky.

I doubt anyone would deny the outcome of Hand A merits that description. But I do think many people lack any sophistication in their appraisal of the entire situation, as opposed to the outcome alone.

To lose with AA v KK is clearly unlucky, but it's also pretty damn unlucky to run KK into AA in the first place. Especially against a fairly aggro opponent.

Having lost the hand, I could have pointed out to my opponent that since he hadn't topped up recently, he'd actually saved 20BB through tardiness.

Taking it to another level, I could have considered that he was still lucky to be playing against people such as myself, who are not good enough to put a stone-cold read on him and (correctly) fold KK pre-flop.

Hand B, conversely, isn't just lucky for being AA v KK that holds, it's doubly lucky because we were both fairly deep-stacked, so the successful outcome was highly rewarding.

How many times have we been dealt AA and got it all-in versus a shortie with 77? In that case one could argue we are actually unlucky when we win (because the profit is < 20BB) and lucky when we lose (because it's only 20BB).

There's a lot more to luck than the RNG running true. Something it pays to bear in mind when grinding a large number of hands, and working hard to manage tilt.

While it's good to understand the odds, a little rationality and perspective can go a long way towards an improved and profitable game.

Back To The Real World

2010-01-27T23:41:00.002Z

So I'm back in the world of 'proper' work again. Albeit on something short term.

Spent a few days in Belfast this week (no I am NOT Gordon Brown), and I'll probably be over there again soon.

Missives From A Pretend Professional Poker Player - Part 3. Tilt

2010-01-12T23:47:00.002Z

I've never had much of a problem with tilt. At least not in the 'smashing the lot in with entirely irrational play' sense.

I'm sure I've occasionally suffered from 'winner's tilt' and made over optimistic plays when running good.

Equally when running bad I DO get frustrated. I DO curse at the monitor. I DO bemoan my luck and swear vengeance on the villains.

What I don't do is throw my money away in an entirely random manner.

I'm not sure whether I've just got a good temperament, or whether I'm so stingy I simply can't bear to drop any cash unnecessarily. Either way, I know it's a good way to be, and I was worried that playing much more intensively than I'm used to might have a negative impact on this trait.

Fortunately, so far it seems, so good. Which may have been helped by a striking incident I was a beneficiary of in more ways than one...

A new Scandie player joined one of my many tables and was seated directly to my right.

Almost immediately we tangled in a few blind v button type hands, where he raised me off a couple of hands post-flop with what I soon came to realise were most probably 'moves'.

Having dropped a few dollars to him, I paid close attention as his aggressive style chipped him up to double his buy-in.

My thoughts were that he seemed a player, but I might be able to trap him if the right hand came along. I needn't have worried. His implosion was imminent.

His downfall began in what probably seemed like a dreamily perfect scenario, as he picked up KK v QQ in an all-in pre coup. His all-action style no doubt ensuring his opponent was eager to commit pre-flop.

The dream was shattered, however, as a third queen returned him to parity.

Ouch, I thought. That's got to hurt. Which it clearly did, as he immediately open shoved 100BB pre-flop in the next hand, and the next, and the next...

Whereupon my prayers were answered as I picked up KK and crushed his Q3o, to almost double me through. That was the end of my Scandie pal, as he disappeared without a word.

We tend to remember the bad beats and gloss over the good ones, but I think the memory of this little adventure has served me well over the couple of weeks since it happened.

The lesson I drew was that talent and skill alone are not enough. A dispassionate temperament is required too.

There's no point winning money with good play, only to throw it away through tilt. Two steps forward followed by two steps back equals a long walk to nowhere.

That's a path I do not intend to tread.

All Aboard!

2010-01-12T00:47:00.001Z

I have registered to play in the PokerStars World Blogger Championship of Online Poker! This PokerStars tournament is a No Limit Texas Hold’em event exclusive to Bloggers, you too can take part by registering on WBCOOP

Registration code: 220984

Yep It's A Bit Chilly In These Parts

2010-01-07T22:28:00.002Z

I picked a REALLY bad week to be driving 70 miles per day for a training course!

Who Said The Games Were Getting Tougher?

2009-12-31T01:53:00.004Z

Just seen a guy take $662 out of a $100 buy-in game in a couple of hours.

If he'd won $666 it would have seemed more appropriate.

56%/4%. Didn't fold to a raise all night. Didn't fold a draw all night. Didn't miss a draw all night. Position a trifling irrelevance. Quite incredible.

Sickening in a way as he was so bad people were almost queuing up to pay him off. The rationale presumably being he couldn't *always* have it.

Still, I'm sure he had a fun night. Wish I could say the same.

Missives From A Pretend Professional Poker Player - Part 2. Game Selection

2009-12-22T13:05:00.002Z

Now I'm playing more regularly again, I decided to take a more critical view of where I play my poker.

Initially I started six-tabling the Full Tilt deep-stack tables. Because, well, that's where I played already so why not keep it going?

This was my leisure game of choice because as well as being potentially lucrative, especially during the happy hours, it's also a lot of fun. I think my A-game is quite unconventional and works best with lots of fairly deep opponents - no swarms of short-stacking Germans and Scandies to contend with.

They also had a bonus offer running which I worked off with ease. A first on Full Tilt!

However my rakeback on Full Tilt is 'only' 27% (the standard it seems), so once the bonus was cleared I started re-appraising my options. I decided to work through a few different sites in turn, and started looking for options that were rakeback friendly, possibly had bonuses running, and had sufficient volume to support multi-tabling.

There are several candidates out there, but the one I settled on initially was my old Eurobet account - which I opened back in the golden days when it was still a Party Poker skin.

This has 30% rakeback, but also allows loyalty points to be converted to cash bonuses. Additionally, the rakeback provider offers a rake-race each month that has relatively few entrants, meaning I could pretty much guarantee myself a small bonus on top.

Effectively then, my money is simultaneously working four ways - poker winnings, rakeback, bonus, and rake-race. That sounded suitably professional to me.

The other habit I've changed is I now pay more attention to my notes and gradings.

I've always been quite good at taking notes on players, and I've always been quite aware of HUD statistics. However when playing for fun I've never really bothered utilising them to choose which tables to play on.

If I found myself seated at a table when several players has notes indicating they were decent I saw it as a challenge rather than a threat. Now I see it as a possible inhibitor to win-rate. Thus it's much more common for me to sit down, scope the table, and exit.

Or, if the table is short-handed and I'm auto seated at a less than optimum location, I'll exit and return at a better position.

This is especially important on the Eurobet tables, as players tend to play with shorter stacks, which means a more conventional approach is needed, as there are very few hands it's profitable to get three-bet with when playing out-of-position.

I learned this lesson the expensive way, as I initially failed to adapt to the switch from Full Tilt deep-stacks. I've now posted a sequence of 11 winning sessions from the last 12 I've played, so it seems to have sunk in now.

The plan at the moment is to see out the month on Eurobet, then look for another site for next month.

Blonde Poker/iPoker/Aqua Disagreement

2009-12-20T13:20:00.003Z

I'm a fairly active member of the forum on Blonde Poker, and when they set up a site on iPoker I played a good few hands there until I got sick of skirmishing with armies of short-stacking mega-multitablers.

The guys who run the forum seem like a decent bunch and they've been very hard done by over some nonsensical rules regarding not only having winning players or their skin, but also credit card charge-backs for transactions they had no control or oversight over.

However the thing that shocked me most about the scenario was the threat to withhold player deposits to cover a possible shortfall in the charge-backs.

My first instinct on reading this was to log into my various iPoker skins and make sure there was no money left in any of them.

For me, any site associated with iPoker can only be seen as a risk not worth taking at present.

When you've got PokerStars, Full Tilt, Party Poker, Everest and various Ongame skins to choose from, why play on iPoker? I don't see the point.

Accenture Dump Tiger Woods

2009-12-14T09:59:00.002Z

More hilarity in the world of sport sponsorship as Accenture dump Tiger Woods on the grounds they "determined that he is no longer the right representative for its advertising".

Having worked with Accenture on a couple of projects, and kept in touch with people who still work with them, it's clear to me that Woods may not be the right representative for their advertising, but he is the PERFECT representative for their business practices.

Like Tiger, Accenture are consummate shafters. Unlike Tiger, they still manage to turn a profit from it.

Don't take my word for it, ask the UK Government or British Gas.

Missives From A Pretend Professional Poker Player - Part 1. Volume

2009-12-14T01:06:00.001Z

With a lot more time to work with, I've been trying to give more thought to how I approach online poker.

I decided to try to adopt more of a professional approach. Not that I want to be a pro, but this seems as good an opportunity as any for some experimentation.

The first thing I gave some thought to was volume. Hands per month, hours to play, etc.

Not having any great knowledge of how online pros operate, I've previously been staggered by some of the numbers people quote for stats such as hands per month.

Yet with just a few weeks experience it seems to me their volumes are not such a hard goal to achieve. Previously I'd thought all these guys had to be sixteen-tabling for twenty hours a day.

My goals started out much more modestly. Whereas a 'normal' job might entail an eight hour working day, I figured that eight hours of online poker five days a week would melt my brain, so instead I targeted two two-hour sessions per day for Monday to Friday, with the weekend left to my whims. Maybe trying a few tournaments, instead of more cash play.

My next task was to decide where to play. As it happens, Full Tilt runs an afternoon (UK time)happy hour, and another evening happy hour when the deep-stack tables are heavily populated, so I made them my first hunting ground.

Initial results were pleasantly surprising. Six tabling seems to be my limit, which I think is a fair compromise between volume and thinking. There are people playing lots more than that but many are short-stackers who are constantly in push or fold mode.

With that set-up two hours seems to fairly whizz past, and I'd been averaging around 440 hands per hour. Which scales up to ~40,000 per month if I were doing it as a part-time job with no weekend play.

Given that a lot of the online pros play six-max rather than full-ring, and don't all get beyond 100k per month, there seems to be some slacking going on!

Of course it's all new to me, so I can imagine that, like most jobs, there's an element of familiarity breeding boredom over time.

Berlusconi Battered

2009-12-13T20:36:00.002Z

Not a good week for high profile philanderers!

Just seen the footage on BBC and Sky News of Silvio Berlusconi being attacked at a rally in Milan.

Obviously it's not right that a pensioner should be assaulted - quite badly judging by the state of his face - but when I heard the assailant was alleged to be a 42 year-old man, I couldn't help wondering if it was the dad of one of Berlusconi's mistresses.

Less Vegas

2009-12-10T00:32:00.002Z

I should have been boarding a plane in about 12 hours to head for London and henceforth Vegas.

The flights were booked. Strip accommodation reserved. ESTA form completed. I was all set. Only packing remained to be done.

Then my youngest daughter took an awkward tumble as she played at home on Monday.

On the way down she cracked her head off a table hard enough to shunt it sidewards.

There were tears, horror, and concern. Which turned out to be misplaced, as there was no harm done other that some faint bruising on her temple. Just another toddler mishap.

What lasted longer than the concern was the sick feeling I felt in my stomach at the point I saw her stumble but was too far away to stop her falling.

As the afternoon wore on, I realised I couldn't bring myself to leave her and the rest of the family for almost a week. A long weekend in Vegas becomes a week away when the starting point is the UK!

So, I cancelled. Maybe it's the Christmas spirit, maybe I'm just a big sap, but something didn't feel right anymore.

I'm genuinely gutted not to be going but I had to follow my instincts. Anyway, a special trip is already being planned for next year.

The Curse Of The Gillette Champion

2009-12-02T23:31:00.003Z

What next!?

Is this a lineup of sporting greats, or a wanted poster for the paparazzi?

First, Thierry Henry gets caught blatantly cheating to send France to the World Cup finals in South Africa.

Then, Tiger Woods obtusely confesses to not so blatantly cheating in a different context.

Now all that remains is for Roger Federer to be caught up to some unlikely mischief and the triumvirate of doom will be complete.

To be fair, I have a degree of sympathy for both men. Henry did something off-the-cuff that has had huge repercussions. It happens. If the ref had been more observant there would have been virtually no comeback.

Woods case is more complex. I can only imagine what it must feel like to be THAT good at such a huge sport; to be THAT rich; THAT universally popular.

If he suffers from some sort of God Syndrome we could hardly be surprised. Throw in a few lengthy injury layoffs where an element of boredom and frustration is bound to set in, and it's maybe not so surprising that he looked for thrills elsewhere.

I'd imagine both might be phoning David Beckham for words of wisdom, as he has managed to recover from both on and off-the-park transgressions in the past, with his image seemingly intact.

All that said, I'll be deeply disappointed if at least one tabloid doesn't run some sort of variation on 'Lies Of The Tiger', as a headline this week. It's an open goal you wouldn't need to be Thierry Henry to score.

BA275

2009-12-02T11:28:00.002Z

This flight number suddenly takes on tremendous significance.

As does, this album, or this song, or for the kids.

Is This Really Genuine?

2009-12-01T00:49:00.004Z

Never mind 'eating a horse', this guy looks like he could swallow it whole!

Tiger Woods

2009-11-28T15:16:00.002Z

Hands up who thinks Tiger Woods was rescued by his wife with a golf-club; or was he rescued *from* his wife with a golf club?

Can I get odds on Betfair?

And yes I did tag this as "current affairs".

Run Goodaments

2009-11-28T00:21:00.002Z

Still running stupidly hot at the tables. Especially considering I'm sticking to the micro levels still.

Perusing Hold Em Manager, my last few sessions of four tabling at $.25/$.50 are showing a win rate of $104 and $199 per hour. If only that were sustainable.

In all honesty I've done nothing more than get lucky in terms of picking up big hands versus idiots, and hitting big draws in multi-way pots. I don't think that level of wisdom is going to earn me a book deal or a sponsorship package just yet.

Today marks a milestone in my career, as I'm pretty sure I passed the first exam I've sat in about 14 years. Which should mean I'm 25% of the way towards being professionally accredited as a business analyst.

What was encouraging about the course was I pretty quickly realised I knew a helluva lot more than most of the other participants. Some of whom already hold down pretty decent jobs in the field.

In their own fields I'm sure they're experts, but the lack of knowledge of what I'd consider general business terms, and the lack of awareness of the economic environment was surprising to me.

Major stress of the week was three days of commuting along the M8. Especially when day one (i.e. the day I didn't have clue where the hell I was going) was possibly the worst day of the year for driving - howling gales, torrential winds, and crashes galore.

I'll be back to the trains as soon as possible.

Resting Between Roles - Update

2009-11-24T12:47:00.003Z

Quick progress report on how my time off is going.

Good

Ironing - almost up-to-date.
Time with kids - fun.
Training/self-improvement - start a 3-day training course tomorrow. Managed to negotiate a 45% discount from the provider.
Career development - had various enquiries for contract roles, and have a job interview today for a permie position that I might actually consider.
Winning at poker - running ridic good on a small sample.

Bad

Gym - not been! Mix of illness, injury, and other distractions.
Catching up with pals - one big night out. Nothing else.
Playing poker - only played about six hours of four tabling.
Blogging - not written as much as I'd like.

General summary would be by Friday the decks will be clear and my time truly will be my own. I doubt I'll get anything lined up before Christmas but so far it's going well.

Pimp Cancels Rabbi's Drug Fuelled Orgy

2009-11-20T13:24:00.002Z

Straight from the Department of You Couldn't Make It Up. This truly puts the occasional lunacy you'll see at the poker table into perspective!

In other news, megacorp can GFT, albeit I didn't present the news to them in exactly that format. I may need work in the New Year.

Dilemma

2009-11-19T22:20:00.003Z

So there I was planning a lovely chilled post about how nice it's been to get a whole list of to-do's ticked off, spend some time with the family, put some career development plans in place, and generally depressurise. Some winning poker sessions have even been booked in Hold Em Manager!

Then I checked my voicemail tonight and found a message from the agency I'd recently been working through...

'Hi, err, we've just heard from megacorp and, err, well, err, they're wondering if you could start back on Monday with a view to working til Christmas?'

It was after five, and I needed some time to think, so I didn't bother phoning back.

Having worked for so long in IT, I've long since come to the conclusion most British businesses are managed by people I wouldn't trust to walk my dog (if I had one).

Generally I'm not someone who panders to fools, though neither do I often seek confrontation with them. I think that's why I ended up as a freelancer.

Career development in big companies requires a degree of politicing, and while I'm smart enough to recognise what's required, I don't always have the inclination to do the needful.

Being a contractor I can tolerate the buffoons for a while then move on to fresh pastures with no harm done to my career, and no middle-managers left lying in a pool of blood and teeth.

However the longer a contract goes, the tougher it becomes to keep the frustration bottled up, and I'd long ago realised the breaking point was looming on my current contract, so I'd already started making moves towards finding something new.

When the end came in this contract a little prematurely it was a surprise but in some ways a relief, and I've felt ten times better for it over the last week.

Now I have the chance to grab another five weeks or so of earnings before the festive period, which in the current economic climate isn't to be sniffed at. It also gives me the opportunity to actually have a conversation with my parents that doesn't involve the 'have you found anything yet?' question.

On the other hand, I've earmarked some of that time for training and re-skilling, and well as general life enhancing stuff.

Plus I'd need to take in a huge box of cakes, as is the convention for people who are given a leaving card and present, only to be re-hired within weeks.

Yes, there is a precedent for this very situation within the department I worked in. Which pretty much sums up their ineptness.

There are other considerations too. Many of the people on the team are friends as well as workmates. Not going back will clearly be leaving them with more shit to shovel (albeit with increased job security); but going back also bails out the idiots who got themselves into a state where they couldn't afford to keep me in the first place.

Decisions, decisions...

Belle de Jour Outs Herself

2009-11-15T13:59:00.002Z

I did have a little laugh today at the news that notorious London prostiblogger Belle de Jour has outed herself to a national newspaper.

I've not been an avid follower of the blog, but the first book is very well written and highly entertaining.

One of the gems in the article is that after struggling for cash and deciding to become an escort to make ends meet, she did actually manage to get a job as a computer programmer, but 'kept up with my other work because it was so much more enjoyable.'

I have to say, I can't blame her one bit. Indeed in her situation I'd recommend her career path over computer programming for sure.

Alas my, ahem, physical attributes, and personal circumstances, mean that's not really an option for me at present.

Eddie Izzard Mini Review

2009-11-12T22:29:00.002Z

Went to see Eddie Izzard last night at the SECC.

He was quite good.

The SECC is a shit venue for stand-up comedy.

CV Time

2009-11-03T17:52:00.003Z

As a freelance IT consultant I should probably be pleased that in a world of 1-month rolling contracts it is four years since I last needed to update my CV.

Numerous renewals and word-of-mouth recommendation has been enough to keep me out of mischief.

Yet it's still a bit of a shock to find myself in that situation, and the timing is somewhat inconvenient. Still, at least I might find some time for the gym between now and Christmas.

My waistline will thank me for it.

Hardly Duelling Scars!

2009-10-27T21:42:00.002Z

I did some work in Exeter a few years back. Lovely place to work, especially during the summer when the balmy nights, and influx of foreign language students, made hanging around the bars and parks a very cosmopolitan experience.

Alas it seems their more run-of-the-mill winter students are not quite of the same calibre. This has to be the lamest student prank ever.

Maimed for life with a 'heated coat hanger'. Presumably the cheapo ones beloved of dry cleaners. Not something you'd really care to boast about to the grandchildren.

Back (Again)

2009-10-18T21:00:00.003Z

But this time it's serious.

I finally quit procrastinating and bought a Netbook (Samsung NC130 fwiw), as well as a broadband dongle, so hopefully my web access will improve.

It's proved a wise investment. First week I had it I was working overtime (a common theme recently) when I spotted the teams for the Rangers/Celtic game, just before kick-off.

My work proxy server blocks any gambling sites, but I just had time to get onto Betfair and see the over 2.5 goals sitting at 6/4. With those defences a small wager was definitely in order, which had paid off within 30 minutes.

In retrospect I definitely should have had a good bit more on it, but I was so rushed and it was really just a tester to prove the set-up worked. Better to win a little than nothing.

The set-up also supports online poker. I've played a few hands on Full Tilt and response times seemed fine. Won't be any multi-tabling going on with a 10" screen though!

I've been forcing myself to play a bit more regularly recently. I say forced because I can't say there's been a lot of joy in it. Partly for reasons of runbaditis, but party because a lot of the games are just so dry it hurts.

In some ways it reminds me of developments in the IT world, with which I am painfully familiar. More on that soon.

PS Sad geek that I am, I cannot resist that little Amazon MP3 widget. Mon the Biffy!

A Letter To Boycott Scotland

2009-08-24T17:44:00.004Z

Dear Mr/Ms Boycott Scotland

After hearing of your site through various news sources, I found myself reading it today with a mix of sadness and confusion.

I've always been a fan of the USA and have enjoyed several visits to your country. I enjoy many aspects of your culture, and I admire the 'can do' attitude many Americans have.

Links between our countries run deep. Right back to the very formation of your nation. I remember learning about John Paul Jones, and being fascinated and proud that a Scot should be credited as the father of the world's most powerful navy.

It seems you now wish to sever these ties. Indeed you would revert to the opposite end of the spectrum with a declaration of some sort of trade war against the United Kingdom in general, and Scotland in particular - and all over the release of one dying man.

A sad and strange decision, but one you are entitled to make. For that is what democracy and freedom is about.

Of course, following this decision through to it's logical conclusion - as you surely must - there are several other steps you will now wish to take.

You can write to the UK Prime Minister and Defence Secretary to tell them the USA no longer needs the support of the 9,000 UK troops currently fighting in Afghanistan.

You can write to the commanders of the two Scottish battalions currently training for their next deployment in Afghanistan - over 1000 Scots - to tell them their services are no longer required.

You can write to the friends and families of the 179 British personnel who died in Iraq to tell them why their sacrifice counts less than the release of one dying man.

You can write to the friends and families of the 206 British personnel who have died so far in Afghanistan to tell them why their sacrifice counts less than the release of one dying man.

You can visit Scotland and the wider UK, and seek out the troops who have suffered horrific injuries. Legs and arms blown off, terrible burns, and other traumas, to tell them why their sacrifice counts less than the release of one dying man.

Once you have done all that, feel free to resume your boycott of haggis, kilts, whisky, and travel to Scotland or the UK.

It won't put me off visiting the USA or my American friends. Indeed plans for my next trip are already underway.

I've stood on the edge of the Hoover Dam and wondered at the ingenuity and endeavour that produced it. I've ascended the Empire State Building and marvelled at the cityscape. I've travelled down the Pacific highways and across the Golden Gate; basked in the hospitality of cosmopolitan San Francisco; played poker in Las Vegas; been below deck on the USS Constitution in Boston; watched The Cubbies win at Wrigley Field, and still I'll come back for more.

Because friends, and allies, see the bigger picture. They respect the differences in the cultures and legal systems of their comrades, and work with them in partnership for the greater common good.

Friends may often disagree, but they often agree to differ. That is a lesson you may wish to reflect upon.

Best wishes.

Div.

Not Dead, Just Resting

2009-07-30T23:09:00.001Z

Nice to know some people do still pass by here, even if they mainly seem to be spamsters - who are rapidly deleted!

Back soon I hope.

Question

2009-05-24T09:00:00.004Z

Is finding a young fox sound asleep in your garden a sign of good luck?

I'll know the answer later today.

Update: Apparently not.

This is just cruelly tempting...

2009-05-20T23:17:00.001Z

The Inbetweeners

2009-04-24T21:01:00.005Z

Can't remember the last time I actually made time to sit and watch a TV show week-on-week.

I missed the first series of The Inbetweeners but caught up with it on 4OD when a workmate recommended it. K and I were hooked from Episode 1. It's fucking hilarious. Good soundtrack too.

Series 2 is on now and the V+ is set, but we've still made sure to catch every episode as broadcast.

Seems a shame it's on E4, where viewing figures around one million are a top performance.

A few snippets courtesy of the E4 website:

The Intro:

The mum IS fit:

Thank fuck my driving test didn't go like this:

Donovan is hard, and Jay is delusional:

Scandie Poker - It's In The Genes

2009-04-15T19:55:00.002Z

Or is that jeans?

Next time some Scandie lunatic four bets you pre-flop with J3, pause and reflect it's not just starting hand values they have an unorthodox approach to.

Fond Memories

2009-04-07T21:57:00.004Z

Where I used to live.

Commuting was a LOT easier then.

I'm not sure what the actual point of Google Street View is, but bloody hell the detail is phenomenal!

(Maybe they could devote some of that techie genius to making Blogger support iframes, or am I missing something?)

Stoked

2009-03-12T23:10:00.002Z

Not a lot of time for poker right now.

Aside from work I am wrapped up in a personal project so gloriously inappropriate for the current world economic situation, a few of my workmates clearly think I have lost my marbles.

Whereas I'm more enthused that I've been in a long time about something that doesn't involve a Miranda Kerr bikini shoot.

If I can pull off the deal I'm aiming for, I'll be ecstatic, but in dire need of improving both my work-rate and win-rate at the tables to supplement the family coffers.

Badder Than Michael Jackson

2009-02-23T20:43:00.003Z

Still plugging away at the tables. Mainly at Everest Poker aka The Land That Sklansky Forgot.

Alas I am running badder than Michael Jackson in a kindergarten right now.

Fortunately I had, for reasons entirely non-bankroll related, decided to drop right down to the micro-stakes for a while.

Which means I've been up and down more than a crack ridden whore's knickers, but ultimately haven't lost or made a penny since Christmas.

Could be worse I suppose.

Growing Old Disgracefully

2009-02-08T22:14:00.003Z

Of the many signs of growing old, one I was not familiar with until this weekend was the experience of attending a 21st birthday party where the celebration was in honour of a very close friend's child.

A close friend who happens to be almost exactly the same age as me. A close friend who, yes, has a 21-year old daughter. That must make me pretty old!

On the plus side, my Friday night plans earned me a bit of kudos with the younger members of my work team. I'm pretty sure I could have sold tickets to a few of them.

Also on the plus side, I could honestly put my hand-on-heart and say I actually did recognise some of the music the DJ was playing. It didn't even seem too loud.

Still down with the kids! Umm, or something like that.

On the slightly disgraceful side, when faced with a sly 'anyone caught your eye?' question from the wife - who had cunningly waited until the booze was clearly seeping into my veins - my answer was honest enough to be credible, but needed a degree of obfuscation to remove the risk of a knee to the groin.

Being a 21st there was of course more boozing going on than the BMA would approve of, and some people took it worse than others.

None more so than the guy who lapsed into incoherence; had to be carried from the club; assisted into a taxi (but only after being handed a plastic bag at the insistence of the driver); and was last seen vomiting from the open cab window, as it weaved it's way through the traffic on Glasgow's party central - Sauchiehall Street.

Par for the course if you're an under-ager who outsmarted the bouncers.

Slightly embarrassing if you're a 20-something living it large with your mates.

When you happen to be aforementioned very close friend and father of the birthday girl, that's got to be a Medal of Honour for growing old disgracefully.

Bonus Rakeback On Everleaf Network

2009-01-27T21:22:00.003Z

Just a quick piece of pimpage for Minted Poker - part of the Everleaf Network.

Sign up through RTR before 1st February 2009 and get 46% rakeback - as well as a 100% to $400 signup bonus.

As I understand it, the standard rakeback terms for the site are 30% if you register direct, so it's a fair margin extra to go through RTR.

Truth be told, I've more of these accounts than I could shake a mouse at, but it never hurts to be an early adopter if there's a long term benefit to be locked in.

Valentines Day Is 14th February

2009-01-23T13:16:00.003Z

Don't forget it!

This has been a public service announcement in collaboration with Agent Provocateur.

Other People's Rakeback FTW

2009-01-22T20:00:00.002Z

It's fair to say my poker play over the last year has been somewhat fragmented. Rather than putting in a major effort on any one site, I've jumped around a fair bit.

Which meant my cash was somewhat thinly spread.

In these straitened times, I figured I should consolidate my funds whilst taking the opportunity to do a quick audit of my online finances.

Which led me, eventually, to my long dormant Eurobet account. Within which I was a little surprised to find over $1000. Eh, what?

After some sleuthing I discovered that the payments had come from Rake The Rake - my longstanding and super reliable rakeback provider.

So out-of-touch have I been recently that I hadn't previously realised they have upgraded their website and introduced an online reporting system.

This allowed me to discover that around a year ago someone signed up using my referral code, and has since been raking around $5000 per month - mainly on Betfair.

I'd left my payment option defaulted to Eurobet when I created my Rake The Rake account, so the payments had been accruing without my noticing them.

All of which came as a very pleasant surprise. If I knew who Mr Betfair was, I'd gladly buy him a drink.

A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words

2009-01-09T22:11:00.004Z

Created by cartuja at Kerrydale Street.

A belated Happy New Year to one and all.

Reaffirmation

2008-12-17T21:58:00.003Z

When you get to my age it's nice to know life can still hold the occasional pleasant surprise.

Last Saturday was one such event. K had decided to give me an early birthday treat of an overnight stay on the east coast - minus kids - to take in a Biffy Clyro gig.

The Biff are one of those local bands who've been around for a while now, and who I've been vaguely aware of, but knew little about.

Recently they seem to be on a real upwards trajectory on the back of some songs I've caught on the radio and really liked. A proper old fashioned slow burner of a band who've served their time and seem to be reaping the rewards.

Rewards such as a sell out pre-Christmas tour, culminating in a gig at Glasgow's biggest arena - the SECC. The SECC has the scale for the biggest bands, but it's a soulless tin box and not on my list of favourite venues.

K however had been thinking creatively and landed two tickets for their warm up 'pre-tour' gig at the Alhambra Theatre in Dunfermline.

We very rarely do live gigs these days but the thought of a hot band at an unknown, but presumably intimate, venue was sufficiently intriguing an option to have us both eagerly anticipating the night.

First pleasant surprise was the venue. The Alhambra is an old 1920s theatre that has obviously seen a fair bit of money recently.

All the seats had been stripped out, so it was standing room only, including, it seemed on the balcony above the stalls where we located ourselves. I doubt there was a bad spot in the entire house to watch the gig from.

The combination of historic setting, modern facilities, and a generously sized bar with minimal queueing was a good start to the evening. I mused that it must be quite similar to how the long departed Glasgow Apollo would have appeared in it's heyday.

We easily found space near the sound desk and awaited the arrival of the band.

First impression. FUCK ME. Possibly the loudest band I've ever heard. Simple but effective lighting effects, almost zero pause between songs, and a forty five minute blitzkrieg of raw power almost blew me away.

I feared my ears may bleed, but I was loving it - despite a few crackles and bangs from the PA as the sound guys fought to harness the on-stage energy.

Just as I was beginning to think this is amazing but a little light to balance the shade wouldn't go amiss, the band paused for breath - and produced a gorgeous short acoustic set that took my breath away.

There's something distinctly incongruous about watching a sweaty, hairy singer and a drummer who looks like he repairs tanks for a living, singing beautiful harmonious tunes, but it works.

Then the noise returned and the rest of the concert was just a sea of adrenalin culminating in one of the best stage dives I've seen live. Proper rock'n'roll to finish the night off.

The whole night just blew me away. Even if my ears were still ringing 48 hours later.

It's a long time since a gig has left me feeling so alive, and it's made me regret not going to more in the last few years. The counterpoint to that argument being, of course, that most gigs probably aren't so good.

Shannon Matthews Revisited

2008-12-04T22:29:00.005Z

When Shannon Matthews was rescued by the police, I had a right go at her mother, Karen Matthews.

Unwittingly I was surprisingly close to the truth when I joked about Karen fancying her chances as an entrepreneur.

It now transpires she was part of a kidnap plot to claim the reward money.

Even more shockingly the police have proved she was feeding Shannon - and probably the rest of her brood - a cocktail of prescription drugs for at least 20 months.

Temazepam, amitriptyline, tramadol and dihydrocodeine - with the dosages peaking during school holiday period.

In my earlier post I wrote, 'How she managed to get time for a social life once she'd got to four or five kids, while still in her twenties, is a puzzle to me.'

Well, I'll puzzle no more. But I won't be taking any of her parenting tips to heart.

It's quite clear the kids were viewed as an inconvenience. A nuisance. But they were a very reliable revenue stream. Worth keeping around!

Karen was making £400 a week in benefits. That's £20,800 a year.

Or, to put it another way, the after tax earnings of someone on around £28,000 per year - and that's before taking into account the various discounts or freebies benefit claimants can qualify for.

What a farce of a system. What a horrible woman.

This has been a particularly harrowing period for child related stories. I'd like to think the powers-that-be will be energised by these events and do something positive, but I'm not holding my breath.

On A Lighter Note...

2008-11-27T20:47:00.002Z

...is this how the most famous dwarf in poker celebrates becoming the 8th best poker player in Latin America?

We should be told.

Who Killed Baby P?

2008-11-18T22:00:00.003Z

They did.

Suck that up Google, Yahoo, MSN, et al.

I can't recall ever being as utterly disgusted and outraged by a case as this one.

Not just for the horrific brutality inflicted on a defenceless child over an extended period of time, but for the shameless self-serving arse covering of Haringey Council.

Sharon Shoesmith, Clive Preece and co. can rot in Hell along with the bastards who did this.

There are very personal reasons that make me feel even more strongly than I might otherwise do about this case, but writing about them would be too difficult right now.

I feel like a volcano ready to explode. I hope there are lots of occupants of maximum-security prisons around England feeling exactly the same way.

2008 WSOP Live Streaming For Nowt

2008-11-10T10:53:00.002Z

Looks like the link I posted last year is still going strong this year.

No idea if this is legit or not and I'm too lazy to find out.

http://www.channelsurfing.net/watch-wsop.html

Lewis Hamilton

2008-11-02T23:26:00.005Z

I'm not a huge fan of Formula One but this afternoon's events were just mind blowing.

The drama, spectacle, and last ditch victory from the jaws of defeat ending, was the stuff of sporting legend.

The sight of the Ferrari team celebrating, only to slump in disbelief as Hamilton caught Timo Glock on the last bend, took me back many years to another event I had an interest in, but no emotional attachment to, which has lived long in sporting folklore.

On that day, Michael Thomas was the hero putting the local favourites to the sword in the dying seconds.

Donald Findlay

2008-10-31T22:26:00.002Z

I don't usually bet on anything other than cards or the odd sporting event, but I wouldn't mind having a few quid on Donald Findlay being involved when this case gets to court.

It's A Sad Day When...

2008-10-31T00:27:00.003Z

...the most incisive political commentator in the country is a transvestite comedian.

On the way to work today, I heard Paul O'Grady (aka Lily Savage) talking about the Jonathan Ross/Russell Brand situation, and he was spot on in his assessment.

"I think it's about time we all moved on, really. I think there are far more important issues at stake than a radio show on a Saturday night and two comics saying silly things.

Yes, it's well out of order but it's not a hanging offence. Why is the prime minister getting involved? Shouldn't he be worrying about the war in Afghanistan, the credit crunch, knife crime?

The most relieved man in the country is George Osbourne. It's blown him right off the front pages."

Enough said!

Running Like David Murray

2008-10-26T21:41:00.002Z

Miracle of miracles. I'm actually back playing a fair bit of online poker over the last month or so. Now all I have to do is start winning again.

Given my rustiness, and with a little concern at numerous reports of toughening of the online game, I've been breaking myself in playing micro stakes and gradually building up the number of tables.

It's been interesting to relearn some aspects of the game, and to observe how my opponents have evolved in my absence.

One of the most notable changes is the tremendous proliferation of short stackers - even at the lowest limits.

This has been particularly noticeable on Full Tilt and iPoker (via Blonde Poker).

I found multi-tabling extremely demanding for a while, and was blaming an imagined shortening of the time to act, until I realised the true reason was other players acting much more quickly, by folding or pushing on almost every hand.

As has been noted elsewhere, this doesn't make these games unbeatable, but it does require different tactics.

Conversely, Everest seems to be the land that evolution forgot. There's still a fair number of short stackers on this site, but they don't seem to know how to play, which makes for a fishier field with the consequently higher bad beat ratio.

I've been remarkably phlegmatic about that so far. Possibly this is one of the lessons I didn't need to re-learn, as it's more of a life skill.

That doesn't make it any more pleasing to survey the remnants of several lost buy-ins, while my Sklansky bucks meter goes off the scale.

Sigh. It's good to be back. I think.

Easily Satisfied By Katy Perry

2008-10-17T21:53:00.003Z

Saw this today in work and couldn't stop laughing. Who said slapstick was dead?

Bizarrely it turned up on, of all websites, The Telegraph. A bit of light relief from Ambrose Evans-Pritchard and Edmund Conway on the credit crunch.

Has to be up there with Fucking Matt Damon in my fave clips of the year.

Buying On The Sound Of Gunfire

2008-10-16T20:54:00.003Z

This might seem a particularly odd time to be making a long term commitment to equities, but this week I signed up for a new pension plan.

I've been focusing on paying down the mortgage but since I'm tied to a long term low fixed rate, reducing my debt isn't an imperative in the current market situation.

Added to that, I've finally tired of handing over a huge proportion of my income to the tax man.

The nature of my work as a freelancer means that my gross earnings are subject not only to employee, but also employer, National Insurance contributions. Meaning personal pension contributions attract an effective tax relief rate of 48%.

That's quite a few BBs!

In addition, I've been rather lax about pension planning. My last contribution was a bottom-fishing lump sum some time around early-2003. At least I got my timing right!

This way I need to wait a long time to get my hands on the money, but at least more of it stays mine.

Michael Palin Usurped

2008-10-15T11:29:00.003Z

They say people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.

With that guidance in mind, I've been refraining from commenting on the US election. UK politicians hardly having covered themselves in glory over recent years.

However I had to laugh at John Cleese's declaration that Michael Palin is no longer the funniest Palin.

The thing that gets me about the McCain/Palin candidacy is that McCain must have realised his health and age were weaknesses, and people would pay more than usual attention to whoever his 'one heartbeat from the White House' running mate was.

Logically this should have meant going for a solid, reliable, experienced running mate. Instead he went for someone who makes George Bush look like Einstein.

Someone who happens to already be more than cosy with 'big oil'.

My inner conspiracy theorist can't help but imagine a triumphant McCain victory, followed by a comfortable demise in his sleep a few months later.

Leaving the White House in the control of a 'nice-looking parrot'.

They'd be drilling on the White House lawn after that! Albeit I could easily foresee an Alexander Haig style declaration, as Palin was hastily packed on a plane to Alaska.

Just my idle thoughts. I've probably watched Syriana too often.

Icesave Iced

2008-10-08T20:49:00.002Z

A few months ago I was perusing the Sunday papers, when I commented to K.

'The Icelandic banking system is looking really dodgy. I think I'll take that money out of Icesave.'

So I did. Online it took me about 2 minutes.

This week, Icesave went tits up. Within hours some woman was on BBC News bewailing the loss of the TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND pounds she had left on deposit with them.

Apparently it wasn't her fault she'd left what, according to her, was her entire cash pile in a failing institution. Oh no, it was the government's fault.

Seems she wasn't smart enough to read the papers, but she was savvy enough to know how to get on TV pronto to pin the blame elsewhere.

Not quite the attitude that made Britain great; and from memory I think she was an Oxford student too. Standards are slipping!

No doubt she will have been grateful today as the government voluntarily bailed out domestic Icesave investors.

News then started to leak that numerous local authorities had left MILLIONS on deposit with Icesave. Kent County Council alone had £50 million on deposit. Now they want bailed out too.

ffs The Chief Executives and Finance Directors of these councils are paid six figures plus benefits and lavish pensions.

Do they read the papers? Can they spell risk assessment? Should they still be in a job tomorrow?

If there are any vacancies maybe I should apply. I've got no relevant experience or skills in running a major local authority. Seems I'd be a shoo-in for the job.

Timing Is Everything

2008-09-16T20:33:00.003Z

Tiered gardens + 50 year old brickwork + incessant summer rain = a bloody complicated insurance claim.

Not the sight I was expecting to see as I investigated a mysterious crashing noise in my garden this afternoon.

Fortunately E was at nursery, so there was no risk to life or limb.

The wall between the properties is commonly owned by the various properties it divides. The visible damage extends across the boundaries of six properties, two of whom are already in dispute.

I suspect the actual area of repair will cover even more. Each with their own insurance cover.

This could get messy!

How To Impress Many Women With One Gift

2008-08-18T21:08:00.008Z

They say the way to a man's heart is via his stomach.

With a woman, the route is more circuitous.

It seems to start at the feet.

For a generation of men more than familiar with the Sex And The City girls and their never-ending lust for the latest Manolo Blahniks, Jimmy Choos, or whatever, this shouldn't be a great surprise. It wasn't to me.

What was surprising, was the effect the right gift can have not only on the recipient, but a multitude of other women too.

The scene was the Div household last Thursday. K was trying on outfits
for a Christening we were to attend on Sunday.

I pride myself on being a good shopping companion. Tactful but honest.

If I don't like something she tries on, I'm not shy about offering an opinion, though always in a constructive manner.

This doesn't always go down well in the heat of the moment, but she knows it means if I say I love an outfit, I really do love it.

With the birth being only six weeks previous, I knew this was a particularly sensitive time for offering opinions.

Outfit one was fine, but not brilliant.

Outfit two was great, except for the shoes. They were just a bit too clumsy for the outfit.

'I think you could do better', I told her.

'Well, I've been looking for weeks. You try finding a pair of blue shoes to match this skirt!', she responded just a little tetchily.

I said nothing, and retired to the computer room. That sounded like a fun challenge...

Step 1 - ASOS. I remember the early dot-com days when this was just another niche start-up that seemed doomed to crash and burn. Now they seem to rule the UK market for (fairly) affordable style. Plus I knew K had bought stuff there before so it was a safe bet.

Alas, they had what appeared to be the perfect shoes, but it was too late for delivery before Sunday.

Step 2 - I checked the website of the designer. Kurt Geiger. Same story here.

Step 3 - Last throw of the dice. Find a local stockist. At which point lady luck smiled on me. There was a Kurt Geiger outlet in one of the out-of-town complexes around fifteen minutes drive from work.

Step 4 - I zoomed over on Friday afternoon.

As an unaccompanied guy, walking into a trendy ladies shoe store alone, and seeking out a particular pair, must rank alongside job interviews, or meeting the parents of a new girlfriend, for pounding heart and clammy palms.

The store was quiet. The solitary sales assistant was young, blonde, and gorgeous.

I loitered while she dealt with a middle-aged couple who obviously weren't going to buy anything. Spotting my target I casually lifted them and did my best to appraise them in a manner devoid of fetishistic overtones.

The other couple left empty handed. The assistant politely enquired if I needed help? I did.

She checked with the store room. They had them in K's size. I bought them.

Gorgeous blonde girl seemed relieved I hadn't asked for them in an eleven.

As she wrapped, her curiosity got the better of her, and she gently quizzed me on the purchase. I explained the story. She looked at me like I'd suddenly transformed into a Thelma and Louise era Brad Pitt-alike.

I left the shop with a smile on my face, and a buzz of satisfaction at mission accomplished.

On my return, a few workmates wondered where I'd been. Flush with success, I explained.

The guys were agog, the few girls in the department impressed. Even more so when they saw the shoes. This felt pretty good!

I sprung the surprise on K once both kids were asleep. She was so amazed I thought she might cry. By now I was feeling positively heroic.

She told her pals, lots of them. The acclaim was universal. Her sister loved them.

By now I was starting to understand how rock stars feel. The smallest action sufficient to have women adoring you from afar, no matter how irrational it may be.

I do seem to have made a couple of enemies. Partners who reckon I've set the bar too high.

Do I care? No! She loved them, and I got to feel like a rock star for just a little while.

A small price to pay for these beauties!

Contraception The Div Way

2008-07-29T20:22:00.003Z

Way back in the early days of this blog, I briefly mentioned some thoughts on pregnancy. Specifically I suggested replacing sex education with pregnancy education, as a way of trying to keep the teenage birth rate down.

How naive I was. I barely scratched the surface - and I use that term advisedly!

If pregnancy one was tough for K, and pregnancy two heartbreaking, pregnancy three was an entirely new experience. One which I couldn't write about on here at the time, as it would have given the game away.

K suffers from bad morning sickness, but in pregnancy three this got to the stage of being classed as hyperemesis gravidarum.

Hyperemesis gravidarum is morning sickness on steroids.

Forget a quick puke in the morning then a relatively normal day to follow.

Think instead waking up and being sick; eating breakfast and being sick; having a glass of water and being sick; having lunch and being sick; having a nap, and waking up to be sick; etc.

The doctors prescribed various combinations of drugs, all of which proved entirely ineffective. One of the major drawbacks being they were orally administered and she puked most of them straight back up.

When it gets to the stage that even a glass of water is intolerable, and sucking an ice cube becomes an ordeal, all paths start to lead to hospital.

K finally got to the stage where she was so dehydrated she could barely stand. Her ketone levels were through the roof - as her body ran out of fuel and resorted to burning fat - and she was clearly dehydrated to the point of incapacitation.

The hospital admitted her, hooked her up to a succession of drips - saline, glucose, and a weird yellow coloured vitamin supplement which, she assures me, stings like hell as it enters the bloodstream.

They also injected anti-sickness drugs that had a more beneficial effect - whether through increased potency, or simply because they were actually absorbed into her system.

After a few days she was discharged, and within a few more days she was ill again.

Another cycle of admission, discharge and regression followed, culminating in a third and final stay of four nights in hospital.

By this time the medics were actually contemplating dispatching a midwife to our home twice daily to administer the anti-sickness injections, as they are not normally available outside hospital. Fortunately K made enough of an improvement to manage without the drugs after this last stay.

With an energetic two year-old to look after, and my job being of the pay-as-you-work variety, stressful barely begins to describe the scenario.

Primarily, of course, for her; but there was certainly an increased burden to be shared by myself and our families.

This is definitely not pregnancy of the movie variety. We are not dealing with Knocked Up or Look Who's Talking here!

If the pregnancy was of the horrendous variety, the labour and delivery went fairly well, particularly when taking into account V being 9lbs 1oz at birth and delivered face-to-pubis i.e. head down but facing the wrong way.

This didn't stop us being regaled with various horror stories from unexpected sources. Such as the lady in the local soft play area, who told us how her daughter's shoulder jammed, and 'ripped' her open during the delivery.

Or, my workmate whose child was wedged so tight the pregnancy culminated in him and a midwife pinning his wife down by the shoulders, while a doctor wielded forceps with his foot braced against the bed for extra leverage.

Amazingly she actually had another child after that ordeal. Women ARE tougher than men!

In my previous post I didn't do justice to the true horror of the forceps.

I'd imagined some delicate almost tweezer like instrument, on a lilliputian scale.

The reality is more akin to something a barbecue enthusiast may be found brandishing with vigour on a sunny weekend afternoon.

Add to that the ventouse cup, scalpels, and the possible side effects of an epidural, and we are into Vincent Price territory. For those who missed my earlier post, a phrase to haunt your nightmares - incise the perineum. Enough said!

If all that failed to discourage the average teenage girl from denying her boyfriend a home run for as long as possible, perhaps the ultimate deterrent is less about pain and more about presentation. Stretch marks!

K got off lightly on these, but while she was pregnant we watched a BBC documentary about a girl who had gotten pregnant at thirteen.

By the time she delivered the poor girl looked like she'd had a particularly extreme session with Max Mosley.

Stretch marks is such a bland term. In severe cases they resemble open welts or burns.

If all else fails, the thought of no more hipster jeans or crop tops would surely deter a high percentage of our fashion conscious female youth from allowing themselves to get impregnated, though it may leave the boys with arms like Rafael Nadal.

Old School Poker

2008-07-22T21:43:00.002Z

These are funny.

There's something pleasingly familiar about poker clips voiced by Jesse May and Padraig Parkinson. I always get the impression a night down the pub with those two would be a riot.

A bit of retro makes me feel all warm and gooey inside.

Time to reinstall my ZX Spectrum emulator on the PC.

Terrible Twos, Tempestuous Threes

2008-07-19T21:52:00.002Z

If I were to kick this blog off again, I'd definitely pick a different name, as the 'Parenthood' content has proved to be extremely thin.

One problem I've come to recognise is that having only one child, and only limited experience of dealing with other people's children, meant it's been very difficult to know what is and isn't comment worthy.

In business terms, there was no benchmark for E, against whom I could make comparisons. Clearly that situation is starting to change, so perhaps more observations on V will be forthcoming.

For now, there's one area of child behaviour which is so commonly recognised, no benchmark is required. Namely, The Terrible Twos - a time of tantrums, tears, and what I've seen described as 'oppositional behaviour'.

It seemed to me that we were getting off quite lightly in this respect with E. For most of her twos she proved to be fairly easy to deal with.

She does seem to have almost endless reserves of energy, but for the most part she channelled them in entertaining or creative ways.

She loves to go to the park, she loves to go to various toddler/nursery groups, she loves things like painting, drawing, play dough, etc.

One activity I was quite happy to embrace revolved around my return from work.

K observed that regardless of her state at the time of my return, E would always spring to life and be ready to play as soon as I crossed the threshold.

Not only that, but she seemed to implicitly recognise that playing with daddy allows a wider spectrum of acceptable behaviour than playing with other kids, or mummy, or grandparents.

Specifically, there's a bit more rough-and-tumble allowed.

This would occasionally irritate K, particularly if I were a bit late home and E was getting sleepy and she looked set for a relatively swift transition from daytime to bedtime.

Sleepy toddler would spontaneously transform to whirling dervish toddler, and a period of tumbling, rolling, climbing, backflips and other games, would ensue. Not ideal preparation for bedtime.

For me, it was a joyous time. It's always nice to be welcomed enthusiastically after not seeing the family - often since the previous evening - and after spending most of my day stuck in front of a PC, a bit of physical exertion was no bad thing.

However, in the months approaching her third birthday, we noticed a definite change in E's behaviour.

The welcome home behaviour got a bit more manic, the games more frenzied, and a staring-eyed, teeth-clenching attitude became more prevalent on E's part.

Which all seemed terribly incongruous coming from this skinny, curly blonde haired, vision of innocence.

In retrospect I perhaps didn't take it as seriously as I should have. Laughing off the occasional slap or scratch as over exuberance. Even one of two headbutts seemed to be merely accidental - and may well have been.

E being our first child, I'd never realised how strong a skinny two year old could actually be. The punches are hardly knockout material but they do have an impact, and if she sets her mind to, for example, not allowing herself to be harnessed in the car seat, it's a tough job to get her secured.

One thing that started to toughen my attitude was her continual attempts to target my glasses. Which eventually led to them being so wrecked they barely clung to my nose and ears.

Replacement cost - £300. I was not happy, albeit my prescription had changed, so a new pair would have been required in the near future anyway.

K and I were now making a conscious effort to clamp down on the naughtiness - maintaining a united front against any misdemeanours - whilst still ensuring we were doing all the stuff the text books say should be done. Lots of activities to harness and focus toddler energy productively, making sure she didn't feel marginalised by the impending new baby, etc.

Still the teeth gritting and aggression continued, though at containable levels.

Until, that is, a bath time last midweek when, as I was lifting her from the bath, she caught me unawares and sunk her teeth hard into my neck with a vigour that would have made Dracula proud.

The pain was equal to anything I've had inflicted on me by an adult, and made worse by the complete surprise. Roars of pain, shouting, finger pointing, tantrum tears, and an early bedtime followed (for her, in case you're wondering).

It's difficult to strike a balance in these circumstances.

One the one hand I'm perfectly aware the Terrible Twos exists, and equally aware they were never going to disappear from the date of her recent third birthday. E is only a toddler, and mishaps and misbehaviour are bound to happen.

On the other hand, I was genuinely shocked by the calculated nature of the biting incident, and I do wonder if we've been a bit too soft on her so far.

She does seem to be a clever kid, and it does seem to us that she has a good understanding of right-and-wrong, but just doesn't feel compelled to comply with it sometimes. Time for some 'tough love', I feel.

Still it could be worse. All I've got to show for my suffering is a rapidly fading set of teeth marks on my neck.

A friend wasn't so lucky, when an incident involving his twenty month old son, himself, and a Thomas The Tank Engine toy, resulted in a broken nose for daddy!

He reckons it was an accident, but with the benefit of experience, I'm not so sure!

RTFM

2008-07-17T22:09:00.004Z

Anyone in my trade knows that acronym.

For those not in the know, it's an impolite exhortation directed at users/customers to read the manual before pestering us with frivolous queries.

Really then, I should know better.

Decide to get second Wii jOG...and Mario Kart...and why not get a spare SD card while I'm here...hey it's only another four quid to get the 4GB card instead of the 2GB card...bargain!

Receive card...plug into Wii...fail to access...RTFM...only accepts cards up to 2GB...ffs!!

I think I'm addicted.

Would anyone like to buy a second hand 4GB SD card? >:-)

Wii jOG - Cardio or ASBO?

2008-07-15T22:05:00.003Z

There I was gleefully filling my virtual trolley on Play.com with peripherals and games. Extra nunchuk for controller 2, memory card, games, when I stumbled across something new.

I've already got a Wii Fit on order for K as a belated birthday present - eta God only knows - so I'm well aware of the supply issues with Wii gadgets.

Thus I was immediately drawn to the Wii jOG - a new device which, according to Play.com, isn't due out until the pre-Christmas period.

A quick Google threw up a couple of videos from a UK based company - New Concept Gaming - demonstrating the device in action.

Basically it seems to be a pedometer which hooks up to the system and means the player can drive their character's motion by running on the spot - taking interactivity to a new level.

The video explains better than words ever could.

My immediate reaction was this looked amazing. Fantastic fun, with a decent health benefit too.

When I thought about it a bit more, I came up with a couple of reservations.

From a personal point of view I'm not sure how my hamstrings will stand up to continual running on the spot.

On a more general level, I'd hate to be living in a block of flats when the 16 stone behemoth in the flat above decides to go on a Wii jOG enabled health kick. Particularly when they're on a guilt trip just after returning from the pub.

I can imagine lots of noise complaints on the back of this. Wii ASBOs anyone?

That said, the benefits do seem to far outweigh the potential negatives. Most importantly it looks like a helluva lot of fun, and I can imagine a definite macho element kicking in when playing against pals.

Play.com have them on pre-order for £14.99 against an RRP of £34.99.

Given what's happened with Wii Fit, I was seriously tempted to order dozens of them, in anticipation of profiteering from a pre-Christmas supply bottleneck.

It could be my conscience got the better of my capitalist instincts, or it could be I'm just too lazy, but I settled for pre-ordering one for myself.

On reflection I really should have got two. Might as well get a second one ordered now, and chuck in Mario Kart while I'm there...

Wii Goes Time

2008-07-12T16:15:00.002Z

I've a terrible habit of getting involved in leisure activities that are comprehensive destroyers of time.

In my youth it was various Play-By-Mail games, alongside some of the earlier war/strategy computer games.

For a while online poker was my main vice - albeit with the advantage that I actually made some pocket money playing it. Not enough to retire on, but enough to fund the Vegas trip amongst other things.

More recently I've fallen under the sway of computer games again. Civilization IV and Company of Heroes being the prime culprits.

Both these games have a tendency to suck me in and completely negate my comprehension of time passing. Which leads to those 'oh shit' moments when realising it's 3am and I've just spent five hours trying to encircle an SS stronghold in western France.

Fortunately I've managed to avoid the temptation to sign up for World Of Warcraft, Second Life, etc, as I fear my friends would never see me again if I got involved in one of those games.

However I have succumbed to a new vice, and I'm already hooked. Namely, the Nintendo Wii.

Hardly groundbreaking stuff, and I've only got a basic bundle at present - although another nunchuk for the second controller, some games, and a Wii Fit are already ordered.

The boxing and tennis have got me totally addicted already, to the point where my arms and shoulders were aching last night.

This in itself is no bad thing. My exercise/fitness regime is totally out the window at present, and my hopes for stepping it up while off on paternity leave have been scuppered, not by time demands of a second child, but by the number of cakes I've consumed during a stream of family and friend visits to meet the newborn.

Return to work is this Monday, and I'm not sure the work trousers will fit. Unless, perhaps, I can squeeze in another few sets tonight...

Life Is Good

2008-07-05T14:19:00.004Z

This blog has been somewhat neglected for quite a while. Partly through time pressures, and partly lack of interesting stuff to blog.

Which isn't to say life hasn't been interesting, just that I've not been willing to put the pertinent parts in the public domain, until now.

Meet the latest addition to the Div clan. Another girl, born 3rd July 2008, who I'll call V for the purposes of this blog...

After we lost our second child to a missed miscarriage I didn't want to tempt fate by mentioning this pregnancy until it was successfully concluded.

There were a few problems along the way, but when V arrived she was fit and healthy, and weighed in at a whopping 9lbs 1oz. Quite a contrast to E's 5lbs 10oz!

Mother and child are both fit and well, and I'm delighted to report V is showing signs of being a good sleeper. No doubt inherited from her daddy.

Public Service Announcement x 2

2008-06-27T21:37:00.003Z

A few words of wisdom borne of my own experiences.

1. Last year I bought a Dell PC. It came pre-installed with McAfee security software.

After a while I noticed a few websites I use - including a forum I share with friends - were loading woefully slowly. I mentioned this to my friends. It ran fine for them.

In the grand scheme of things this was no big deal, so I grinned and bore it.

Recently I got rid of McAfee, and installed the free version of AVG Anti-Virus. Suddenly the web browser is running like a dream across all sites.

At a guess, I suspect McAfee was doing some sort of real-time (sic) validation of embedded content such as adverts.

My recommendation, ditch it.

2. E started off as a really bad sleeper, but after a few months became capable of sleeping soundly for upwards of twelve hours. Fantastic.

Alas, as the early summer mornings arrived this year, they triggered a dramatic change. Suddenly she was waking as early as 5.30am and announcing herself to us, usually with a cry of 'Beebies'. Not good.

K picked up a tip on one of the mummies forums she frequents. The advice was to buy a Stay In Bed Bunny Clock.

My immediate reaction was this was an overpriced gimmick. But sleep deprivation makes a man desperate, so the purchase was made.

When it arrived, my cynicism grew. It feels like it was put together for 50p in some SE Asian sweatshop.

Within days, my cynicism was dispelled. The idea is devastatingly simple yet effective.

The clock is a very basic LCD unit, attached to an illuminated face, split into two halves, only one of which is illuminated at any given time.

The top half shows a little bunny, backpack on, out and about on a sunny day. The bottom half shows the same bunny tucked up asleep in bed.

The time each half is illuminated can be altered.

The child needs simply to be told it's OK to get up when bunny is up, but if bunny is sleeping then they should stay in bed.

I guess this works better for some kids than others, but with E it was an instant success.

She now bounds into our room at a mercifully civilised hour, and usually proclaims 'Bunny is awake'.

I can't guarantee success, but if you are a sleep deprived parent seeking a panacea, this is definitely worth a gamble!

Dutch Deflated

2008-06-22T02:02:00.004Z

The Dutch are on fire right now, but I can't see them winning the tournament. Teams that come out the blocks so quickly have a tendency to burn out in the knockout stages.

Damn I'm good!

The above quote was me, a few days ago. Tonight Russia eliminated Holland in a game that made a mockery of the odds on offer.

I had a very small bet on the Russians at 9/2 on Betfair, and when they scored, I decided to experiment with my first ever lay off of a bet, which came good when Ruud van Nistelrooy snuck in at the back post with a few minutes to go.

Another tool added to the betting locker. Guaranteed winning is good!

The Russian's were just too good in extra time, and Guus Hiddink's record as an international manager just keeps getting better.

Winding Down

2008-06-20T20:52:00.004Z

Mega project live. Defects under control. Propped up in front of the TV - glass of red in hand - watching Euro 2008 quarter finals, and skimming hundreds of unread Bloglines entries.

One of the sizeable backlogs belonged to Las Vegas and Poker, and I was genuinely astounded to see WSOP Event 33 had already been won.

Event 33!! I was dimly aware the WSOP was underway, and I've noticed a marked upturn in search hits for live webcasts or streaming, but Event 33. I just can't get my head around it. I've lost a month somewhere.

For the first time in several months I can contemplate an almost free weekend.

Plans so far encompass - repairing the long neglected lawn, ironing(!), and family time.

E is growing up so fast right now, and I do feel terribly guilty about missing a lot of time with her. Some days our only communication has been by phone - which leaves me feeling like a character from some 3rd rate Hollywood cheese fest.

One of her fascinations is aeroplanes. When she sees one flying overhead, I'll ask her where it's going.

She looks at me like I'm daft. 'To the airport daddy.'

I've taken her over to Edinburgh Airport a few times since it's possible to get really close to the runway and the taxiing planes. Close enough for her to wave to the pilots.

There's also lots of open ground for a kickabout when she gets bored with the planes. If there's one thing she has, it's energy in abundance.

Which is partly why this story really struck a chord.

The Royal Highland Show is held on the land beside the airport. This unfortunate little boy was playing in the same area where we are happy to let E run free.

Stories like this always make me feel terrible for the family, but it's a discomforting feeling to have such a direct link to our own activities.

I'd hate for E to become a McDonalds guzzling couch potato, but at the same time she can scare the living daylights out of me with her fearless approach to play. She always want to swing higher, spin faster, or come down the playpark chute head-first, backwards, or both!

While we always try to make sure she is safe, I think I'd rather have an energetic and independent child, pushing her own boundaries, than a cosseted, over protected, cotton wool child.

Like so many things in life, it's all about striking a balance, and finding the right compromises. Which is earier said than done.

2008-06-20T20:52:00.000Z

Calm Before The Storm

2008-06-13T22:56:00.000Z

In a slightly surreal place today. After six months of hard grind the mega project I've been working on passed it's final development cut-off today at 2pm.

Green for go. No more IT Iron Man for me.

Which meant a comparatively leisurely afternoon in work, and a generally satisfied feeling inside, coupled with some unease about the impending go-live.

I amused myself thumbing through a brochure on drugs that had been distributed to every desk.

It's supposed to be a guide to parents on how to deal with discussing drugs with their kids. High production values, glossy pictures, details of drug types, nicknames, modes of usage, side effects, etc.

If anything I thought it looked just a bit too glamorous.

Given that at thirty seven I'm the second oldest person on the team, and the average age is under thirty, it was receiving a less than reverential reception.

Many comments along the lines, 'There's a fault with this catalogue. They forgot to include the order hotline number, or website address.'

It should be fortuitous timing that Saturday is supposed to be a lads day out - drinking commencement scheduled for 1pm, with an end date likely to be some time in the wee small hours.

Unfortunately mega project is deployed into the production system at 10am on Sunday morning, and my attendance is required. No all day session for me.

We bed it in on Sunday, roll it out to the users in time for the Monday morning call surge. I'm anticipating a couple of days of frantic activity whilst hoping for a swift return to a more rational lifestyle.

So I'll need to content myself with a few afternoon beers and an early night. Partying can wait for a little while.

Contentment tonight came in the form of Euro 2008. The protagonists Holland and France; the football sublime; the atmosphere rocking.

The Dutch are on fire right now, but I can't see them winning the tournament. Teams that come out the blocks so quickly have a tendency to burn out in the knockout stages.

Another highpoint of the tournament is finally getting some value from my Sony HDTV system. Much as I could merrily strangle John Motson, the picture on the BBC HDTV broadcast is fantastic.

Ultra clear, vibrant colour, no smearing, and there's an appreciable depth to the picture. Just a pity there's so little HD content available right now.

No doubt that will be changing over the rest of this year, and with many more people gaining exposure to HD during Euro 2008, there's likely to be more demand for additional content as the difference in quality becomes obvious to non-geeks.

Oil Crisis Hits Home

2008-06-03T20:32:00.005Z

I've been feeling a little smug as the credit crisis wreaked havoc on the financial markets.

Unlike our esteemed PM, I not only talk the prudence talk, I walk the prudence walk too. So our finances have been pretty much oblivious to the unfolding crisis.

Mortgage woes. Increasing rates. Declining choices.

No problem. We are on a long term fixed rate mortgage that's already overpaid.

Negative equity worries.

We paid a big deposit on the house.

Job security fears.

I'm freelance, so perpetually at risk. No change there. The mortgage over payments would give us a couple of years repayment holiday if required.

Reduced opportunities for credit.

We don't have any need for loans, and I've got enough credit on my cards to buy a very decent car. Mainly courtesy of Egg who gave me a £15,000 credit limit without offering me the chance to request a limit during the application process. A sign perhaps of the root of a lot of the current problems.

So, from a purely selfish perspective, all good. If anything the credit crisis might be a chance for me to exploit a buyers market.

The oil crisis isn't quite such a non-event for me. We are a two car household so rising prices are bound to have some effect.

Yet the big car is a very efficient diesel, and the little car is primarily used to get me to the train station for the commute to work.

Which means a relatively limited impact on me so far.

That may be about to change!

I'm pretty keen on environmental issues, so I should be glad that some people seem to have reached a tipping point and are ditching the car in favour of public transport.

The only problem being on my route to work there's already no spare capacity. The last thing I want after another crap day at work is a rugby scrum just to get on a crowded train for the journey home.

You might think the obvious solution is to run more trains, but there are track capacity constraints.

The best solution is to make the existing trains longer. A lot of the trains on my route are three carriage, when the platforms are built for six carriage units.

I suggested to the rail company they might want to lease more trains. They told me they can't afford it. Which makes me wonder what it takes for them to make a profit, when they've already got the punters crammed in like this...

If the oil crisis means more of the above, I might finally start to have some sympathy for the average motorist, so long as they promise to stay in their cars!

Happy Thoughts

2008-05-28T20:11:00.006Z

Work has been killing me recently, so there's been little time for much else.

By this Friday, I'll have worked 19 straight days, and often a fairly extended working day. I feel like I'm running an IT Iron Man competition.

Which isn't great for family life, especially when I get home after E is in bed, and it's pretty wearing in general. On the plus side, I work on a day-rate, so the Div family coffers are swelling.

It's a grind though, so tonight I thought I'd post a couple of small but happy things...

Firstly, remember this bet? Turns out it wasn't so bad after all.

Secondly, happy birthday to Kylie, who turns forty today. Forty!!

The newest pop princesses are all well and good, but as late thirties loom, it's nice to know there are women older than me who I'd still like to do scandalous things to.

Be honest, you would, wouldn't you?

Hate To Say I Told You So

2008-05-10T20:54:00.003Z

Back in February, commenting on the forthcoming conclusion to the Scottish Premier League, I wrote..

Will we see more examples of dodgy decisions over the remainder of what looks sure to be a tight run in? You betcha!

If there's one thing about 'The Establishment' it knows how to close ranks in an hour-of-need.

Look for more invisible hand balls, mysterious offsides, debatable penalties, and more subtle influencing - such as the amazing Aiden McGeady booking count - as The Establishment attempts to fend off three-in-a-row for Celtic.

Today, after the Rangers v Dundee Utd match in which Dundee Utd were denied a blatant penalty, had a goal incorrectly disallowed, and TWO Rangers players escaped from red card offences, the Dundee United manager, Craig Levein, had this to say..

I said to him that we were as well not turning up. What was the point? We were as well going home.

Mike could have phoned me this morning and said: `Look, Rangers are going to get the three points today - just tell your lads to stay in the house.'

Today's referee. Mike McCurry. A man who has made an awful lot of big mistakes this season. A high proportion of which have advantaged Rangers.

As I said of Bobby Tait previously, at what point does dodgy refereeing cross the line into match fixing? I'd love to see that question answered in the courts.

Economic Indicators

2008-05-05T21:33:00.002Z

Aside from all the usual economic indicators - GDP, inflation rates, employment numbers, FTSE, etc. - there are a range of other ways to gauge the state of the economy.

One financial journalist I read came up with the 'skip index' as a means of judging the health of the property market. He routinely monitors the number of builders skips outside properties in his street and uses it as a means of determining whether activity in the market is increasing or declining.

I liked that idea since it is likely to preempt more scientific measures, as renovating a property and selling it can take several months, after which there is then another few months delay until the statisticians compile their numbers.

Recently I've spotted a couple of new indicators of my own. One with a degree of science/rationality. One more of a gut feel.

The more rational one is in the new car market. I've been inundated with flyers from companies offering progressively juicier financing options on new cars.

The standard seems to be 0% interest over three years with a 35% deposit required.

This isn't a new game for the manufacturers. They want to shift stock but don't want to damage their brands by cutting prices, so they dress a price cut up as something else.

Particularly in the midst of a credit crunch where loans are becoming scarcer it makes sense.

However a recent offer from Renault really got my attention.

0% over three years, with a TEN percent deposit required. Or, to put it another way, put £750 down on a base model Renault Clio to drive it out the showroom, and pay it off over three years with no interest charged!

That's practically giving it away, and as clear an indication as anyone should need that the economy is in a bit of a pickle.

That's the 'big ticket' picture, but my less scientific, more intuitive analysis is from a much lower price range.

Recently I've bought a real range of stuff off a whole range of websites. Clothes, shoes, shaving products, plumbers rods (don't ask!), food supplements.

I'm definitely a bit of a 'long tail' shopper but the unifying factor across all the purchases is they are dispatching super fast.

Either a lot of web-based companies simultaneously upped their logistics game, or the oft forecast consumer slowdown is underway. I know which option my money is on.

Simple Pleasures

2008-04-22T21:20:00.002Z

I was in the pub last year regaling my pals with tales of the disastrous stag do in Liverpool, and my run in with the guys who prove there's more than one cunt in Scunthorpe, when one of them remarked that I'd likely carry an intense hatred for Scunthorpe FC around for the rest of my life.

He was right. Which is why this gave me a great deal of pleasure.

Couldn't have happened to a nicer bunch.

Good Bet; Bad Bet

2008-04-08T22:37:00.002Z

I keep a few quid in a Betfair account that comes in handy for fun/spontaneous betting urges.

Like sticking a fiver on Comply or Die at better than 10/1 in The Grand National. Good bet.

Solely on the grounds that I liked the name of the horse, and a jockey called Timmy Murphy had to be worth backing.

Or like sticking twenty five quid on Celtic to win the SPL at better than 4/1. Bad bet!

I'd sat and watched Rangers grind to a halt against Sporting Lisbon and figured they looked like a team dead on their feet, and likely to drop points in their many away games. 4/1 seemed good value on Celtic to overhaul them.

Alas I failed to take into account that while Rangers are, indeed, shite; Celtic appear to be shiter (is there such a word?).

The league isn't dead just yet, but I'd want way better than 4/1 before putting another penny on now.

Al Gore To The Rescue?

2008-03-30T22:14:00.002Z

I've been watching the Democratic presidential candidate nomination process career ever further off-the-rails with increasing dismay.

Like many in the UK I was astounded when chimp-in-a-suit George W. Bush got in for a second term, and have been thinking surely the Republicans are going to get trounced next time around?

That was until the Democrats shot themselves in the foot with a cannon, by getting into a vicious internal war in which victory could well be Pyrrhic.

If the Democrats can manage to produce a third result - as is being speculated - that would be a real rabbit from the hat.

I bet McCain's campaign team have their Al Gore voodoo dolls out this weekend.

Grumpy Old Paxman - M&S and Me

2008-03-30T21:11:00.003Z

It may not have escaped the notice of my few regular readers that not only am I becoming even more of a grumpy bastard recently, my political thoughts appear to be making steady progress from fairly left-of-centre towards the point where Norman Tebbit starts to appear over the horizon.

Not a thrilling thought!

Equally disconcertingly, I now find myself in agreement with professional controversist Jeremy Paxman on a subject so gratingly middle-class even Hyacinth Bucket would be ashamed. Namely the declining quality of Marks and Spencer's products.

Paxman had M&S underpants in his sights. The subject of my ire is a relatively new pair of plain black shoes purchased for work purposes.

When buying shoes for work, I'm generally looking for something smart, unobtrusive, and sensible. Gucci loafers are not in my thoughts.

Only once can I recall owning a pair of work shoes I had any real enthusiasm for, and that was an accidental purchase. A pair of Rockports bought on a US holiday at the same price in dollars I'd have paid in pounds back home in rip-off Britain.

On my return they became my work shoes by default.

Having size 10 feet, the lightness of their sole was a thing of beauty to me, and I mourned their demise, but I was fucked if I was going to pay the going rate in the UK for a replacement pair.

As winter descended upon us, I decided my current work shoes were showing their age and another re-heeling didn't seem justified. Given that I'm trying to prioritise time over money at present, the quick and easy solution seemed to be a visit to the M&S store.

Sure enough, they had exactly what I was looking for. Albeit slightly overpriced, I felt, at £50.

I was somewhat surprised to discover that fifty quid doesn't even entitle one to a cardboard box these days, as the shoes were plonked straight into a plastic carrier bag.

At first they performed exactly as expected. Until, that is, the rains came...

I should point out that my daily work commute consists primarily of car and train, with roughly a ten minute walk between office and train station. Therefore in total the exposure to the elements consists of less than half-an-hour each day.

With that in mind, the rapid deterioration of my not-so-cheap shoes pissed me off more than a little.

Within weeks they'd begun to stain white, necessitating frequent resprays with waterproofer, and a nightly polish.

Within a couple of months, I was starting to get a damp feeling in my socks by the end of the journey home.

After three months, as I was already contemplating a replacement purchase, the sole gave out and invisible leaks were replaced by a hole the size of a 5p piece.

I won't be back in M&S for a while.

It seems to me that the ceaseless drive to keep down prices in the face of competition is driving more and more companies into cutting corners to the point where quality is abandoned in pursuit of another 2% saving.

Not just on the high streeet. My work encounters with Indian IT outsourcers could fill a volume or two with tales of anguish, but that's for another day.

My shoe woes have been soothed by a most unlikely source. Amazon are now selling shoes - more specifically a huge range of Rockports at generous discounts - and my sub-standard M&S pair have now been replaced by these Rockport Conors for a mere £4 more.

The sole isn't quite as light as the earlier ones, but it has some sort of patented spring mechanism, which makes the walk to work feel like a rather pleasant trampoline exercise.

More importantly, they don't fucking leak! Take note Stuart Rose and M&S...

Bobby Tait - The Original Mason In The Black

2008-03-24T21:57:00.000Z

This little article appeared in the local free newspaper that pops through my letterbox each week. It's one of those pieces that leaves you unsure whether to laugh or cry.

The event is a Freemason organised night. The guy in the middle of the photo is ex Scottish football referee Bobby Tait. A man who infamously requested that his last ever game as a Grade 1 referee be at Ibrox, as Rangers played Kilmarnock, in the midst of a historic battle for the title between Celtic and Rangers.

With Rangers desperately needing a win to maintain their chances of winning ten league titles in a row - thus beating Celtic's previously unassailable nine-in-a-row record - the game was of monumental importance. Victory in the title race would hand bragging rights to the dark half of the city for an eternity.

With the game heading for a draw, Tait decided to add an incredible five minutes injury-time at the end of the match.

On top of his previous performances that season - including more timepiece malfunctions that cost Celtic a win at Tynecastle - one could only conclude Bobby Tait valued Rangers wins above his own reputation for honesty and integrity, and would do anything to see them win the title.

Alas for Mr Tait, Kilmarnock had other ideas and scored a last minute winner that crushed Rangers push for a new record.

He must have been devastated. What a way to end your career!

Since retiring, the Celtic rumour mill has been rife with reports of Mr Tait's after dinner speaking. With boasts about never having awarded a penalty against Rangers at Ibrox being the supposed highlight of his act.

Given that he generally speaks at Rangers supporters events, Freemason events, or, allegedly, Orange Order events - in truth almost interchangeable as bastions of Protestantism and Rangers - it's hardly surprising he is a popular guest. Though presumably he focuses on earlier highlights of his career.

There you have it. A supposedly impartial - unimpeachable if the Scottish press are to be believed - figure who openly boasts of his pro-Rangers bias throughout his career. What would Donald McVicar make of it all?

I also wonder what the bookies and fraud squad would make of it. After all, isn't match fixing - which appears to be what that Ibrox penalty boast hints at - a crime?

Articles on the Freemasons and Orange Order are ten-a-penny in the Scottish local press and nobody bats an eyelid.

To be fair they can be a source of great amusement. Check our the 'surprised' eyebrows on the dude middle-back in the above photo. Does make one wonder where Bobby's left hand is!

But there's a more serious point to be made. The Orange Order in particular is a closed club - Protestants only - with an anti-Catholic agenda.

Yet it receives the same polite and sympathetic coverage in the local press that a bowling club might expect.

Imagine visiting Alabama and picking up a local newspaper with similar coverage of a KKK meeting. Or visiting Dagenham and seeing equally sympathetic coverage of a BNP event.

After a fine lamb dinner and some excellent red wine, those present were in full agreement with guest speakers who stated immigration was a blight on the nation, and those annoying blacks should be sent back to where they came from.

£200 was raised for charity.

There would be outrage. Sky News and BBC24 would be on the scene in hours. Questions would be raised in parliament. The tabloids would be foaming with righteous indignation.

Never mind the charity money. Listen to what those loons are actually saying!

Not so in Scotland. Another example of that not-so-secret shame.

Speaking of charity money, am I the only one who wonders how a night that features three 'esteemed' guest speakers only manages to raise two hundred quid? Seems more than a little on the cheap side to me!

I wonder how much was spent at the bar?

Shannon Matthews Safe; Charles Darwin Spinning In Grave

2008-03-16T23:20:00.000Z

Shannon Matthews the missing 9 year-old from West Yorkshire is safe. Which is obviously great news. I always get the feeling after 48 hours in these cases that if the kid hasn't turned up, the police will be looking at either an accident or murder.

So it's great news she has been found, apparently well after being missing for more than three weeks, and I am genuinely delighted for her family.

Yet it's hard to shake off the horrible feeling that her abduction opened a window into a society that shouldn't exist.

The family life of her mother, Karen Matthews, makes Shameless look like Brideshead Revisited. The statistics are mind blowing.

Age 32. Seven children. Five different fathers. Bloody hell!!

If the average British worker was as productive there would be no recession fears, no deficit worries, no trade gap. We'd be world beaters!

Should Karen fancy her chances as an entrepreneur, I'd suggest she looks into setting up an Internet dating site. She obviously has expertise in the meeting and mating market.

In a way you have to admire her inventiveness and time management skills. How she managed to get time for a social life once she'd got to four or five kids, while still in her twenties, is a puzzle to me.

It must really hurt for couples struggling to have just one kid they'd love unconditionally - marooned on NHS IVF waiting lists that measure in years - to be exposed to an alternative word where kids are produced on a production line, with little apparent regard for their welfare or the likelihood of giving them a stable upbringing.

On a more practical level, it must be galling for families where the parents both work but struggle to make ends meet due to child care costs, to witness a culture where work is a swear word and kids are utilised as a means of enhancing social security benefits.

It seems to me we've reached a point where flawed government policies, allied to a culture that really is shameless, has turned Darwin's Theory of Natural Selection on it's head.

If you are smart, motivated, and hard working, the odds are you won't have the cash, or more crucially the time, to raise a big family. This is especially true where the woman is keen to continue working. There aren't many Nicola Horlicks around!

Conversely, if you can't be bothered working, but think the world owes you a living, having loads of kids seems to be the fastest legal route to boosting your income.

The inevitable consequence of this situation is that survival of the fittest ceases to be the norm.

The smart and hard working will be out bred by the feckless, whilst simultaneously being screwed for an ever higher percentage of their income to fund the offspring of the benefit junkies.

All of which sounds perilously close to a Nazi-esque view of the world. Which makes me very uncomfortable, but I cannot see where else current trends are taking us.

I'm absolutely in favour of protecting the weak; a high standard of comprehensive education; free health services; and Gordon Brown's oft quoted desire to end child poverty.

However it's clear to me that current policies are not going to achieve that aim. There has to be a better way.

I've got some post-budget thoughts on the general economy, but here's a quick hit in the area of Child Benefit.

Currently child one gets a higher weekly allowance and all subsequent kids are paid at a reduced rate. Why not continue the taper so that child three gets less than two, etc? I'd imagine that by child four, condoms or The Pill would be a much more prominent part of the conversation with any prospective partners.

This could be kept revenue neutral by increasing the payments for kids one and two, so no stealth tax here.

I can't claim this as a perfect solution - and it has definite echoes of China - but it's a step ahead of current policy which is a licence to breed without any regard for the consequences.

Tweaks

2008-02-28T22:53:00.002Z

Off for what should hopefully be a relaxing family weekend - despite a forecast of snow!! Heck I might even find some time for a bit of online poker due to the wonders of hotel wifi.

I've been doing a little more tidying up on the blog template recently, as well as adding a translation section on the left, courtesy of all powerful Google.

I can't imagine how much it would have cost to get a site of this size translated into multiple languages a few years ago. Now it's entirely free.

Maybe that Rising Sun icon will get a few clicks as the Japanese influence at Celtic grows, courtesy of Koki Mizuno. I really hope that guy is a success - not only since he looks skillful and quick, but because his name is such an absolute gift for song writers!

My language skills are almost nil, so it's difficult to know how good a job these robotic translation services do. All I know is they are 100% more effective than anything I could come up with.

It's been a long time since I trawled through the blogroll, so that's another thing on the todo list for next week.

More Fun With Donald McVicar

2008-02-24T23:55:00.002Z

In the early days of this blog I had an entertaining correspondence with Donald McVicar, SFA referee-in-chief.

The basis of the correspondence being that referee Stuart Dougal had inadvertently confessed on the SFA Whistleblower website to wrongly awarding a penalty against Celtic during a game against Inverness Caledonian Thistle, when the actual aim of the article was to justify the decision.

Here's another interesting example from the same site.

Last season - Celtic player Jan Vennegoor of Hesselink scores a late winner against Inverness Caledonian Thistle (them again!), celebrates with crowd, and is booked by referee Iain Brines - which is effectively a red card as it is his second booking of the game.

Utterly and indisputably correctly, according to both Mr Brines and Mr McVicar.

Not the unerring certainty of the words. The complete lack of any scope for interpretation of this rule...

Iain Brines: "I had no option to show the card....instructions over the past three seasons have been perfectly clear. The player ran off the pitch and over the track to the terracing boundary where he was surrounded by spectators..."

Donald McVicar: "Clubs, managers, players and all those closely involved in the game are aware that spectators should not be encouraged to run down to the perimeter wall or fence. This is a proactive measure to reduce the risk of injury to fans who might fall or be trampled in the rush.

If anone[sic] is in any doubt about the serious[sic] of the instructions they need only contact any of the Police Match Commanders at games or the club Safety Officers, all of whom have clear views on the need to be preventative. It is most unfair for those in the media to brand referees as killjoys in such situations. They are only carrying out instructions."

No scope for interpretation. It must be a booking. Fair enough them; no complaints.

But wait, what's this I see...

Hmmm, looks to me like wantaway Rangers striker Daniel Cousin celebrating with the crowd after scoring today against Gretna. Either that, or he spotted a tunnel in the Broomloan Road Stand that he hoped led to Fulham.

No matter, a booking no doubt. After all, as Mr McVicar says that is what referees are instructed to do. Mr Brines ASSURED us there was 'no option'.

Except, of course, there was no booking.

It seems today's referee - Calum Murray - doesn't know how to follow instructions.

Will we see an apology on The Whistleblower? Don't count on it.

Will we see Mr McVicar accept the decision was wrong? I doubt it.

Will we see more examples of dodgy decisions over the remainder of what looks sure to be a tight run in? You betcha!

If there's one thing about 'The Establishment' it knows how to close ranks in an hour-of-need.

Look for more invisible hand balls, mysterious offsides, debatable penalties, and more subtle influencing - such as the amazing Aiden McGeady booking count - as The Establishment attempts to fend off three-in-a-row for Celtic.

When Robert Met Shaun

2008-02-24T22:52:00.002Z

So maybe I was a bit harsh on that Robert Marsden guy. All problems and not enough solutions.

To redress the balance, may I respectfully suggest he takes a lead from Shaun The Sheep, and shapes up a little.

Hint: Whole episode is funny, but it really picks up around 4:30 when the Stallone influence kicks in.

Tough Love Now!

2008-02-23T00:15:00.000Z

Spotted this story doing the rounds today, and could scarcely believe it.

Robert Marsden, age 40, weighs 41 stone and requires daily visits from carers. Due to his enormous bulk, it sometimes becomes difficult for the carers to move him. So they have to revert to the established procedure and call the fire brigade for assistance!

Which means TEN firefighters in two fire engines are dispatched to his house to shift him. This has happened FOUR times in a single week.

I have no problem with the carers summoning assistance. Otherwise sooner or later someone is likely to end up getting hurt. A friend's wife had her knee ligaments damaged when the hospital she worked in failed to provide proper lifting equipment, so I'm well aware of the dangers.

On so many other levels this is very wrong.

For starters, why does it have to be the fire brigade who are called out? Surely this is a golden opportunity for getting private enterprise involved.

Someone like Reliance - who do prisoner transfers - would be a good candidate, though with their record they'd probably end up going to the wrong house, or inadvertently heaving the guy away and dropping him at Barlinnie.

Maybe one of the airport baggage handling companies could take the contract. They are used to lumping heavy inanimate objects around. Perhaps the prospect of being exposed to their tender hands would motivate Mr Marsden to rediscover his mobility.

Taking my flippant free marketeers hat off, let's get down to the fundamental issue.

This guy is forty, unemployed, spends most of his day in bed, needs daily carers, and regularly requires the assistance of the emergency services. He claims he does not understand 'what the fuss was about'.

Well let me enlighten him. The fuss is about the fact he contributes nothing, while living off state benefits and routinely draining the state coffers due to his ridiculous weight. The state coffers funded by the rest of us who actually get out of bed in the morning and go to work.

Unless he does something to improve his condition there's no prospect of that drain diminishing, or him ever contributing a penny in tax until the day he dies. He is, effectively, a parasite gorging on the rest of us.

'My weight isn't something I like to discuss. It comes up in every conversation I have. I am tired of talking about it.' he says.

Credit where credit is due, at least he doesn't try to hide behind some mysterious medical condition. He is fat because he eats lots, and expends no energy.

How does he maintain his gargantuan weight? Given his obvious lack of mobility, he can't be routinely popping down to the shops for two litre bottles of Coke and family packs of crisps. The food must be brought to him; presumably by his carers or family.

Isn't this an obvious opportunity for some 'tough love'? Why are we paying for this guy to stay fat with the assistance of the local council, when all it's doing is prolonging his nonsensical condition.

Instead of Doritos and Monster Munch, why not just stick him on a lettuce and carrot diet until he is thin enough to get his own food?

No doubt human rights legislation would have something to say about that, but what rights are someone really entitled to when they have eaten themselves into a state of utter helplessness?

There are schoolkids in Scotland being told they can't study the courses they wish to because the council can't afford to fund them. Surely their rights are more important when it comes to allocating council cash?

The only positive thing I can see in Mr Marsden's current state is if he can't move, he can't be sat beside me on a train or plane.

If the carers can't give him some tough love, at the very least, the next time the fire brigade are called out, they should make a stand and nail his kitchen door shut.

Road To Somewhere

2008-02-22T15:03:00.003Z

At first glance the building of a new piece of motorway is hardly something to get excited about.

While bridges and buildings can impress through aesthetic splendour or engineering brilliance, a motorway is rather more mundane. Not much more than a big slab of tarmac built purely for functionality.

Yet I was both excited and relieved when the Scottish Government finally gave the go-ahead for the M74 Completion project.

Excited, because the final five mile stretch of motorway is so glaring an omission from the Scottish road network that it beggars belief.

Relieved, because it has taken a scandalous fourteen years since the completion of the previous phase to commence work on this phase. By the projected completion date of late-2011 an incredible seventeen years will have elapsed.

Seventeen years! Children have been born, reared, educated, and left home in the time it takes us to build five miles of motorway.

Of course some of the delays were self inflicted, as the environmental lobby made full use of the legal and planning processes to attempt to prevent construction ever commencing.

As the legal battles unfolded I've lost a lot of respect for the environmental lobby. I'm all in favour of saving the environment, reducing greenhouse gas emissions, boosting public transport links, etc.

I'm also well of the 'M25 effect' - that boosting capacity simply boosts demand - but on the M74 link the environmental lobby seems to have mistaken connectivity for capacity. The fact is that a key link that should exist does not, which forces thousands of vehicles each day to route along the M8, causing congestion, pollution, and mind searing frustration.

For over a year I was subjected to the 'M8 slog' on a daily basis. I hated it.

A work colleague, who was clearly a masochist, commuted daily from Edinburgh by car. He told me he felt unable to properly converse with anyone for an hour after arriving at work, as it took him that long to depressurise from the journey in.

Eventually we both resigned.

Were the government proposing to widen the existing M8 route to ten lanes wide in each direction, I'd be out chaining myself to a tree too. They are not. They are putting in a sensible alternative route.

I'm equally glad to see the Scottish Government is also pressing ahead with several other major transport schemes.

The relatively new Scottish Nationalist Party (SNP) administration may have gotten lucky to an extent in that several schemes devised by the old Labour/Lib-Deb coalition were nearing fruition when they came to power, but I have been impressed by how they've chosen to implement them and the apparent speed with which they have set the wheels turning.

The Edinburgh Airport Rail Link was one such scheme. The SNP undoubtedly did the right thing in canning the original risky and potentially ruinously expensive 'tunnel under the runway' scheme in favour of a more austere overground scheme tied in to the new Edinburgh trams route.

The SNP weren't keen on the trams, but I am. I've yet to visit a city with a tram network that didn't impress me. Somehow trams feel more secure than buses. They are better suited to moving large numbers of people, and electric power is infinitely preferable to diesel in an urban context.

There's a nifty little promo video for the trams here.

The Glasgow Airport Rail Link falls into the same basket as the Edinburgh Airport link. A no-brainer that has taken far too long to move from the debating chamber to the construction stage.

The new kid on the block is the Forth Replacement Crossing. It's hard to think of a more compelling business case for a new bridge than 'the existing one is falling down', but it seemed to take a change of administration for this to sink in with our esteemed leaders.

The existing bridge will still likely be closed to heavy vehicles before the new one is complete, thanks to the interminable delays in getting the project off the ground. Ridiculous.

The tangible progress we are finally making should of course be seen as a positive development, but in reality the completion of all the above projects will merely bring our transport infrastructure up to a barely acceptable level.

Of the outstanding projects that I'd still consider essential, the easiest to justify has to be Glasgow Crossrail.

The cost (probably £300m+ at current prices) is actually comparatively modest in the context of the estimated £16 billion cost of the new London Crossrail scheme, or the whopping £100 billion of liabilities the UK Government has assumed on behalf of Northern Rock.

The benefits in terms of improved connectivity, capacity increases, and reduced journey times are undeniable. At a time when the local network is maxing out, this seems to be another no-brainer scheme.

When was it first proposed? 1968. FORTY years ago, and still not a solitary length of rail has been laid. Suddenly the M74 link seems almost supercharged.

It would be churlish to mock recent progress, but let's not kid ourselves. There's a very long journey ahead. One of the biggest obstacles on that journey will be the challenge of integrating transport policy more effectively with other policies.

More on that later.

Get Me Mike McCurry On The Phone

2008-02-16T21:52:00.002Z

OK, so the language is definitely NSFW, and it should be 'Mein Führer' not 'Mine Fuhrer', but that's just splitting hairs.

This had me crying with laughter. Put's the average British sitcom to shame.

Clearing The Decks

2008-02-11T12:42:00.000Z

Last week I received an email from a very good friend expressing some concern for my welfare.

Among the criteria he cited as the basis of his concern were: non-attendance at the pub; lack of blog activity.

It's pretty difficult to argue with the facts here. Over the entire festive period and into New Year I was properly drunk once - albeit to such a spectacular level that it went way beyond properly drunk and more into the improper level. The blog activity speaks for itself.

There hasn't actually been any dark reason behind my disappearance from both the real and virtual social scenes. Just a vicious combination of work pressures, family issues, and ill health. At this time of year I seem to attract more bugs than the average UK prison.

Time to put things right!

It's symptomatic of the state the blog has fallen into that I can kick off the regeneration by doing the almost obligatory year-end review/New Year resolutions post in mid-February.

To do so, I had to go back and remind myself what the 2007 resolutions actually were. I was expecting abject failure, and was pleased to actually find a tickable box.

For 2007 I was comparatively unambitious in my online poker goals. I set only two, yet contrived to miss them both spectacularly.

Clear $6,000

2007 was a bad year! I didn't play anywhere near as much as I expected. When I did I either played badly or ran badly. Eventually time constraints and a lack of motivation drove down my table time.

I won a touch over $1000 for the year. Which is gravely disappointing, yet in a way still feels like a victory. 'Only' making $xxxx in a given time period has to be better than losing $yyyy in the same time period?

Deepen Experience of Other Poker Variants

This goal was basically sacrificed in pursuit of trying to remedy the shortcomings in the previous one. Trying to get a high volume of hands in at the table doesn't really lend itself to variants other than Hold Em.

Anyone who has tried multi-tabling HORSE, or even mixing Hold Em and PLO, will be able to attest to the mind altering possibilities of such a strategy.

Do Some Interesting Poker Related Stuff

Box ticking time. On 1st January 2007 I wrote:

A deliberately vague target. This could mean that long anticipated Vegas return. It could be satelliting into a decent size UK event. It could be a trip to one of the EPT events.

Much as I have no desire to live the life of a poker pro, I am envious of the travel opportunities it affords. Doing something along those lines would be a nice segue between poker and my wider ambitions in life.

On 9th October 2007 I landed at McCarran Airport to commence my second Vegas visit.

More than enough was written about that on my return. Suffice to say, I consider this box well and truly ticked.

The Vegas trip pretty much put a cap on my poker time for the year. I think subconsciously I may have burnt myself out by getting a bit too results oriented.

Another lesson learned and not one that will put me off in the longer term (gotta love that phrase). Without poker I wouldn't have gone back to Vegas and got the chance to do this...

For this year I'm not setting any real poker goals. What I am aiming for in the non-poker area is a progression of my aims in terms of simplifying my life and keeping my finances on course for early retirement.

I don't see any point expanding on this at present, as I hope to write more about it soon. Time will tell whether I keep to my resolution.

I-t L-i-v-e-ssss

2007-12-16T22:14:00.000Z

Five weeks without a post!

I've been avalanched by a variety of non-poker demands. Some of which anticipated, and partially responsible for the timing of my Vegas visit, some of which most definitely not and very much of the stress inducing variety.

Thought I'd return with a positive Celtic related thought, after a negative weekend.

If your team is going to hit a bad patch, there's no better time than a few weeks prior to the mid-season transfer window. Especially when there's cash to be spent.

If all else fails, there's always Friday to look forward to.

October Summary

2007-11-08T15:57:00.000Z

A bit late, because I forgot. With good reason too. For the first time in three years, I went a whole month without playing online poker.

I was pretty surprised when I realised this. Although the primary reason for no online play is detailed over the last half-dozen posts or so...

At least it gives me some ammo if anyone ever accuses me of being a gambling addict!

It also means I was level for the month, which makes it one of my more productive 'efforts' this year.

Vegas Day 7 - On The Road Again

2007-11-06T20:28:00.000Z

The return trip, thankfully, went a whole lot smoother than the outbound leg.

Simple checkout via The Tropicana TV screen and key drop, $6 shuttle bus had me at the airport in 25 minutes, swift check in and security clearance, time for a snack, before an on time departure for Newark, slick connection, and the desert sun was effortlessly replaced by Glasgow rain. All good.

There were still a few things that made me chuckle, and one incident on the plane that I'll save for a separate post...

The shuttle bus dropped me off directly at the Continental departure zone. At McCarran there are check-in desks outside the terminal. I approached the first empty desk.

'Where you flying to today, sir?', asked a middle-aged guy in a definite American accent.

'Newark, then on to Glasgow, Scotland.', I replied.

'I'm sorry sir, we may have a problem.'

'Oh?'

'Yes, we don't allow Rangers fans to check-in at these desks.', his eyes twinkled.

'Ah! Then we're OK.', I grinned.

Unreal. 5500 miles from home, and I run into a Celtic fan on the check-in desk. The real 'problem' being international travellers had to check-in at the main zone inside the building.

My heart sank when the seamless check-in was followed by the sight of an absolutely mammoth queue leading up to the security zone. There must have been a thousand people in front of me.

However, the TSA at Vegas are clearly on the case, and we fairly whizzed through.

During this short wait, I became aware of a late 40-ish guy in the queue nearby who was a real shambles. Grubby shorts and shirt, unkempt hair, unshaven, weather beaten, and apparently drunk.

He was muttering incoherently and staring around with a somewhat bewildered expression. I had him stereotyped immediately, and imagined him repairing pick up trucks in some southern backwater.

He disappeared from sight in the melee as the queue forked to pass through the multiple security checkpoints.

Only to reappear an hour later near the departure gates. I was seated near one of the desks, and noticed him wandering aimlessly, with a still bewildered expression.

A Continental agent hailed him.

'Do you require assistance, sir?'

'Mwwmgwhtthghdt'

'Let me help you with that.' she persisted, taking a boarding card from his hand.

'Sir,' she continued, 'you do realise your flight left twenty minutes ago?'

'Mwwmgwhtthghdt'

'Don't worry, come sit over here and we will sort it out.'

Classic Vegas. Priceless!

I was glad to be back home, glad to be met at the airport by wife and child, and glad of a proper sleep, but still slightly sad the adventure was at an end.

An epic trip was over, and there are many memories I'll savour for a very long time. I'm already looking forward to the next one.

Vegas Day 6 - Raging Bulls and Snake Eyes

2007-10-30T21:36:00.000Z

Floating down the strip after my Spearmint Rhino adventures, I encounter a couple of drunken youths weaving in more-or-less the opposite direction.

Often this sort of interaction carries a slight edge, but Bill and Ted, as I immediately label them, aren't so much benign as benevolent, and wear grins as wide as mine.

One raises his hand in greeting. 'Hey man!', he yells, offering me a high-five.

'Dudes!', I reciprocate, with maybe a little more vigour than is polite. Alcohol and adrenalin, a potent combination.

Four hours later, I'm pretty sure they are in the midst of a long, deep sleep.

I, on the other hand, am staring vacantly at a hotel wall. Wondering what the hell to do with myself.

Three hours sleep. It just isn't right.

I drag myself downstairs to the Garden Cafe and feast on orange juice, Denver omelette, and a LOT of coffee.

The pool area is still in the shade. I don't feel like sleeping. There is only one option, and it lies just minutes away.

Around 11am, I take my seat in yet another $1/$2 NLH game in the MGM.

The place is rocking, as the Vikings and Bears battle out a high scoring game. Beer and cocktails flow freely.

Half my fellow players are more interested in the big screen action than the green felt action. Erupting mid-hand with yelps of anguish; cheers of joy; or declamations of officialdom.

One old boy spends most of the game with his head buried in some sort of football statistics book. I gaze around in amusement and allow a warm feeling of contentment to wash over me. What a place to come for a holiday!

Three hours later I cash out $100 down, after some of the most bizarre play I've seen on the trip. Highlights include:

- A huge, extremely quiet guy - who bears a startling resemblance to Evander Holyfield - gets into a big pot after his opponent flops two pair out-of-position and bets it hard.

Evander calls him down with the nut flush draw, and hits on the river. The other guy fires out a blocker. Evander by now is shaking visibly. His shovel-like hands fluttering like butterfly wings - barely able to grasp enough chips to call - yes, CALL - the river bet.

As the cards are tabled an inaudible but clearly detectable tremor goes around the table. Players shift in their seats, glances are exchanged.

Not a word is spoken, as the dealer pushes the chips to a still shaking Evander - who struggles manfully to stack them as the next hand progresses.

- A fat middle-aged guy under the gun makes it $10 to play. In mid-position I look down at pocket nines. What's he got behind? Only $40 more. No implied odds, I muse, and consider folding since surely someone who puts in $10 from $50 UTG must have a real hand?

Then I realise he is watching me intently, and looks like he feels a little sick. I don't play live often enough to have any real talent for making reads, but his play smells as bad as he looks. Unshaven, greasy hair. He may well be wearing last night's clothes.

I make it $50 to discourage anyone else from getting involved.

He shrugs, and throws in his last $40. At the MGM turning cards over when all-in is optional. Most players do it immediately. The others generally agree to do so. It's social, more exciting, just like they do on TV.

He holds his cards in his hand.

'I'm happy to turn them if you want to.', I tell him.

He stares straight ahead. Refuses to even acknowledge me. The dealer spreads a low flop. Inside my heart is pounding. I really want to beat this guy now. The king on the turn is a dagger to the heart. The river irrelevant.

He tosses a solitary K on the table. Throws the other card to the dealer.

'You must show both cards, sir.', chides the dealer, exposing an offsuit ten and pushing the pot his way. Good read. Bad result. Disappointing, but no disaster.

Before he can even stack the chips, he doubles through again with AQ v JT on an QJx flop, against someone who obviously doesn't believe him - and I can see why!

I'm pissed off now, tired, and eager for more sun on my last day, so it's back to the pool for a relaxing afternoon.

After which I return to my room to find a message from Speaker. I've to be at The Venetian at 7pm to register in advance for their 8pm tourney.

Which makes it a bad time for fatigue to finally catch up on me, as I doze off sprawled untidily across the bed.

I awake with a start and grab my watch. 6.45pm. Shit!

A quick shower, superfast change, and after much jinking and weaving through the rush-hour human traffic on The Strip, I arrive in time to join around eighty other players for what is effectively a $180 freezeout.

The Venetian cardroom is in keeping with the rest of the hotel. A thing of beauty.

Opulent, tastefully decorated, auto-shufflers at all tables, and patrolled by some super glamorous cocktail waitresses. All good!

Drawn in the one seat, I settle down and prepare to fold my way to the first break.

I'm harassed, tired, hungry, and seem to have acquired a tremor that would shame an eighty year old.

No fit state to get involved in any high jinks in the early stages of a relatively slow structure.

The guy in the two seat is a different story. Brawny, aggressive, and hyped up. Within two hands he is berating his hapless opponent with a stream of f-bombs after getting outdrawn on the turn.

With a pair of gold boxing gloves dangling from a heavy gold chain, and a New York accent straight out of the movie, I christen him Raging Bull.

Much as I'm unimpressed by his table antics, I do note he flashes top pair as he folds, and is duly rewarded when his victorious opponent unnecessarily shows a turned straight.

The deck co-operates with my initial strategy, and I'm within sight of the break with a diminished stack when I make a monumental error.

The table is a real limp-fest, including the guy directly to my right, who I have surmised through the table chat works for Full Tilt.

He's been in earnest conversation with a few other guys discussing anti-collusion strategies. All of which leads me to assume he has some clue about poker.

On my small blind, it's folded around to his button, and he limps again. I look down at A5s.

Normally I'd raise here, but I keep thinking, surely he must sometimes be trapping?

I complete, and we see a cheap flop.

A5x. Umm, check! Raging Bull bets. Full Tilt guy folds. I decide to get trappy and call.

Blank turn. Check-check. Damn!

River another Ace giving me a full house. I'm now praying Raging Bull has a big ace, or even a smaller full house.

If he does, I get paid. If he doesn't, how to get paid?

I decide to check and give him a chance to 'steal' it.

He checks behind. I'm gutted.

'Awww, you were supposed to bet!', I say pushing my cards forward, but crucially not turning them.

He shows King high, and the dealer sweeps my cards into the muck!!

wtf!? It all happens so fast I barely have time to open my mouth.

'Wait! No. Awww forget it.'

'You had me beat?', he asks. I nod.

'Oh. I thought you meant you should have bluffed cos I would have folded.'

The dealer thinks the same. Another accent/accentuation issue!

It's over so quickly, I'm pretty sure nobody to the right of the dealer even notices.

In retrospect I played the whole hand horribly anyway, and as I rationalise the hand over a coffee during the break, I realise I only lost a few chips, and I was never going to win many, so the net outcome is not totally disastrous.

There was no angle shooting, and it's something that happens to everyone eventually, so it could have been a whole lot worse.

'Antes kick in after the break.', observes Speaker, 'You've only one move now.'

Prescient words.

First hand after the break and I'm in early position and first in with KJo. With an M of under 5 there's only one move indeed. Everyone folds.

I lose my big blind to a raise, before a thing of great beauty occurs in my small blind.

Almost the whole table limps. I look down at A8o, and push. Everyone folds.

Unreal. We are in the home of live poker and nobody knows how to play with a running ante. The full house fiasco fades from memory.

'You don't play a hand for two hours, and now you're all-in twice in ten minutes!', exclaims Raging Bull.

'What did they feed you at the break?', asks an older guy.

'I'm a Celtic fan.', I shrug, gesturing at the growing pile of $25 chips. 'I like the colour.'

I now know what type my next hand needs to be. The dealer obliges within a few minutes with AKo.

I ship them in again. An amused murmur goes around the table. One guy thinks for a while - but not hard enough - and calls me with A3. He misses, and I'm back in the game.

By now Raging Bull and I are buddies. He tells me his gran was from Scotland. Her family name is Auld.

I butter him up with tales of Bertie Auld and the Lisbon Lions.

'A real legend. A true Hall of Fame guy.'

He seems delighted. It's all going well and I'm loving my table image, when to my great disappointment we break, and I'm moved to the right of an old guy who appears to be the chip daddy of the tournament.

First hand in, and my mood is restored when I'm dealt AKs, and manage to get it all-in pre-flop versus the chip daddy. Feeling like a real card rack, until he shows AA and sends me to the rail.

Well, at least I have a chance to grab some dinner now - sometime after 11pm.

I locate a deli-style cafe, and am surprised to see a young boy of around three or four sitting alone, perched on a stool turned to face out to the gaming floor.

He looks sad but not afraid or distressed.

The waitress tells me he's been dumped there unsupervised. She is disgusted, as am I.

Around ten minutes later a glamorous well dressed woman approaches. She gives him a cuddle and they walk off hand-in-hand.

I stare in bemusement. If you can afford to stay at The Venetian, and play at their tables, surely you can afford a childminder?

My mood is lightened as a rotund Uncle Buck type character stumbles into view.

Baggy shorts, socks, sandals, and a florid shirt. He appears to be as steady as the dollar, and entirely out of place amidst the elegance of The Venetian and its glamorous clientele.

I assume he is a survivor from the morning football extravaganza, and watch with amusement as he executes a perfect - but entirely unplanned - circuit around one of the thick columns that punctuate the aisles, and disappears from view, still vertical but almost on his knees.

Soon thereafter Speaker exits the tourney, and we head off some some -EV action.

Pai Gow and blackjack are doing a roaring trade along the central strip, but we find an affordable craps table for me to break my duck on. Another 'to do' ticked off.

The south end of the table comprises a bunch of younger American guys who are having a good time. The north end is a subdued mix of older couples.

We station ourselves to the south. Speaker is soon in the action. I tentatively follow with a few pass line bets.

As my grasp of the action grows, so does my enjoyment.

I'm a physical wreck as my body revolts against the Vegas regime. Rubber legs, churning stomach, quivering hands. To look at me, you'd probably never guess I was having a great time.

A woman from the north end catches my eye. Or rather, her chest catches my eye.

Late thirties/early forties, scraggy dirty blonde hair, in jeans and a white ribbed vest top. She's slim but nothing to write home about.

Except, that is, for a pair of the most outrageous false breasts ever to be displayed on the strip. They appear to be made of stone and superglued in position. Impervious to the lack of a supporting bra.

The pièce de résistance is the presence of nipples so prominent, they threaten to burst through the flimsy material at any second, with all the subtlety of an Alien escaping from stomach.

I can't help but notice. Speaker notices. The younger guys notice. A few points are hit. Tongues are loosened. We share our observations. It's her turn to shoot.

'Man we should have a bet on Snake Eyes', giggles one of our new friends to mild laughter.

Three throws later, she nails two ones. The south end of the table erupts in raucous acclaim, but not profit. Nobody bet it.

Still, I manage to stay in the black and cash out with a very small win from my first ever craps session. Great fun and something I definitely plan to do again.

Speaker and I say our farewells, and I set off on a familiar path. Soon to be interrupted by a familiar conversation.

'Hey sweetie...', in stereo, again. My fourth and fifth hookers of the week.

Within 200 yards, a cab driver adds to the mix. Yelling from his stationary vehicle, 'Hey buddy. I can take you to a strip club where there's no entrance fee.'

Not tempted!

Soon I'm in bed, with two alarms set. Please don't let this be the night I oversleep.

Vegas Day 5 - Hard Rock and Hot Bodies

2007-10-25T21:36:00.000Z

After the epic endeavours of Friday night, I awoke on Saturday feeling queasy, shivery, and drained.

Five hours sleep just wasn't enough, so I ticked off another of my 'to do' list by hitting The Tropicana pool.

Seeking out a quiet corner of the pool complex, I stretched out on a lounger. The sun was strong, the air was hot, and I hoped to get some additional sleep. It wasn't to be.

Instead I spent the time profitably - catching up on phone calls to loved ones and friends - and less profitably - brushing up on some poker literature.

My fellow pool dwellers were feasting on beer and cocktails. I stuck to fruit juice and water. A long night lay ahead of me.

The not so faint scent of stale alcohol sweat alerted me it was time to go.

I returned to my room, giving a wide berth to fellow residents - and my prayers were answered when I found myself in an empty elevator.

The shower was calling, and I was soon thoroughly scrubbed and ready to get going.

The plan was to meet up at The Hard Rock Hotel. I was ahead of schedule.

Cheap blackjack at The Tropicana it was then. I joined an almost empty table, and as the evening progressed all the seats were filled.

The table was dull. One guy was teaching his wife to play, and would slam the table in disgust when the dealer outdrew them. Dude, it's $5 a pop I thought. Take a chill pill.

I lost interest rapidly, and dropped a few dollars. Fortunately for me, things were soon to get a whole lot better.

The bellman looked like he'd be more at home pumping iron on a California beachfront. Blonde, tanned, buff. A ladies man I guessed.

Chatting on his mobile as I approached, he looked up disinterestedly.

'Cab for The Hard Rock please'.

His expression changed. Vacant eyes now gleamed. A broad smile sprang across his face.

'Break some hearts, sir!', he grinned, pocketing my tip as he held the cab door open.

Within minutes I knew exactly where he was coming from.

An MTV fantasy land lay before me. Italian supercars by the kerb, gorgeous girls in abundance, rock memorabilia on all sides.

An immaculate, beautifully lit venue, and a clientele that just oozed money and testosterone.

All contributed to a uniquely charged atmosphere - more club than casino - and an assault on the senses that stripped any semblance of fatigue from my body.

We dined at the Pink Taco. Mexican food - tasty without being over spiced - washed down with mammoth margaritas, served up rapidly and at surprisingly reasonable cost.

A good foundation for the night ahead. A quick detour to the MGM Grand for more blackjack, and we were soon on our way to 'The Rhino'...

At which point I'll draw a discreet veil over proceedings. There are other corners of the net where this tale will no doubt be relayed with infinitely more depth and passion than I can muster, by persons more closely involved than I.

Yet I can't resist two recollections:

The first girl to proposition me was on a loser from the moment she opened her mouth. I'm a big fan of early Steve Martin, and it was The Man With Two Brains all over again. 'Hi, my name's Fran.'

Breasts like enormous, swollen, silicone melons. The voice was the clincher. Screeching, grating. I'm sure dogs in the neighbouring block were looking around in confusion.

She gripped my arm like a drowning swimmer grasping at a piece of driftwood. Thrusting her surgical charms against me like the proverbial weapons of mass distraction, as she gave me the hard sell.

My ears urged me to escape. I made my excuses for the third time, and finally her perseverance waned.

My second observation is this.

When the deliverer of the lapdance is clearly enjoying it as much as the recipient.

When all activity has ceased at the next three tables.

When upwards of a dozen people - guests and employees - are gazing in open mouthed wonder at the unfolding scene.

You KNOW this is the best lapdance ever. And it wasn't even mine!

Vegas Day 4 - Cocktail Doll, Claudio, and Red Headed Sluts

2007-10-22T21:15:00.000Z

I awake on Friday with a head to match the weather. Dull and cloudy.

Four hours sleep last night. Maybe I should cut back on the Vodka and Red Bull?

Another trip to the Studio Cafe - why break a winning streak? - and my legs don't look quite so bad in the mirrored walls. The Vegas sun is working on me - though not always in a good way.

It's my last day at the MGM, and I had planned some time by the pool. Instead, I check out early using the room TV, and make the short trip across the walkway to drop my case at The Tropicana. I'll check in later in the day.

My next destination, a meeting with Cocktail Doll.

I find her easily enough, and intercept her as she serves a tray of drinks to more midday slot addicts.

'Excuse me, miss?'

'I'll be with you in ONE minute, sir.'

The voice is calm but commanding, and tales from her Daily Rounds spring instantly to life. I grin broadly, and take a seat at a machine.

Introductions are made, ice broken, and we chat animatedly for ten or fifteen minutes. I become conscious of time passing, and worry about causing hassles with her management.

She's as lovely as she looks, and I'm pretty sure I maintain eye contact for at least 50% of our time together. The NYNY outfits are a miracle of modern engineering.

Another waitress, Susan, approaches. Dollie introduces us and we chat briefly.

Susan departs, but not before giving Dollie some grief about having to cover her station.

After she's gone, I apologise to Dollie for intruding on her work time.

'Oh that's fine, don't worry about it. She's my best buddy. We were bra shopping at Victoria's Secret together yesterday!'

There's a dull thudding sensation in the side of my head, a rushing sound like waves crashing on a rocky coast. My blood pressure spikes somewhere in the 'imminent stroke' range.

That isn't the sort of thing you should tell a married man whose been away from his wife for four days.

Dollie hopes to get away early, but her boss isn't co-operating. We go our separate ways.

The atmosphere on The Strip has changed noticeably since Thursday.

More groups of young kids, more beers in hand, my first sightings of luminous yard-long margaritas.

It's buzzing, hordes of bodies slow the sidewalk pace to a crawl. The sun burns off the last of the morning clouds. The weekend starts here.

By late afternoon I'm checked in at The Tropicana, having negotiated a mercifully short queue of scarily young people.

The Island Tower room seems well worth an extra $10 per night. Bright, spacious, with a view across the pool area to The Strip ranging from NYNY and MGM Grand via Excalibur to Luxor.

Sure the fittings aren't as fancy as the MGM Grand, but it's clean and airy.

My only quibbles. A shower head located at midget height, and I'm not too sure what to make of the bamboo framed mirror located above the double bed.

I manage a quick nap. Shower, and shave. Poker's number one metrosexual blogger is in town, so I feel I should make an effort.

Miraculously, our meeting plans go perfectly, and after a more leisurely than expected snack at Ballys, we hit the town.

First lesson of the trip. America makes beers other than Budweiser and Miller.

Speaker introduces me to a fine brew that's more Czech Republic than California. By close of play, I'm too drunk to remember the name.

We look for a cheap blackjack table with spare seats. There are none. I can see Speaker is champing at the bit.

Pai Gow? His eyes illuminate. I get a quick rundown of the rules as we search for, and find, a table.

Two things ease my nerves as I spread out $100 on the felt. One, it's very like poker in hand rankings. Two, I'm assured it's OK to ask the dealer.

I get dealt my first hand. Speaker is at the other end of the table, and I find myself looking imploringly to the dealer for assistance, as I struggle to order the cards.

It seems I've got a 9-high and an 8-high hand. That can't be right? Oh, it can.

My first ever hand. The worst possible hand. A sign? I hope not!

My second hand looks way better. Two pair and an Ace-high second hand. Best check with the dealer to make sure I'm reading this right.

She tells me to split the two pair, and gives me a brief explanation why.

As she spreads her cards, she gives me an anguished glance, and I nod knowingly as we push.

'He wanted to keep the two pair', she tells the table, 'and he'd have won if he hadn't taken my advice to split.'

The rest of the table are a friendly bunch, and they sympathise, whilst assuring me the advice was sound. No problem. Here comes the cocktail waitress...

Some time, and a few dollars, later. Paris poker room. $1/2 NLH, but a $300 max buy-in. A VERY drunk table, with plenty chips in play, and wild action. Situation green.

A very drunk ex-soldier is three to my right. He seems to have a deadline to be somewhere else.

The less rowdy, but equally drunk, guy opposite me is due at the airport in a few hours. He appears to be operating on an elastic schedule.

'I need to go in 30 minutes so I can pack, check out, and get a cab to McCarran'.

30 minutes pass.

'I need to go in 30 minutes so I can throw my stuff in a case and get a cab to McCarran.'

Time moves on.

'Awww fuckit, I'll just get a cab from here and stop off at the hotel to grab my stuff.'

A faintly familiar face joins the table. My drink befuddled mind struggles to firm up my initial impression. Eventually it sinks in.

I mouth to Speaker 'Claudio Ranieri'. Speaker nods in agreement.

The more I look, the clearer it becomes. Twin-like looks, close in age, similar mannerisms. Though I doubt the little Italian football manager plays an OESD as aggressively as this guy.

We enlighten him as to his doppelganger. He seems amused.

'Actually you remind me of someone too.'

'Yeah?', I feel a punchline coming.

'Dennis Quaid'. He seems sincere.

'Hah!', I splutter, 'Don't know about that, but if you can sort me out with Meg Ryan...Umm wasn't he an alcoholic, or something?'

Another guy to my right joins in the fun.

'Never mind Meg Ryan. What have you done with Katie Holmes?'

For about 5 seconds, I am truly perplexed. I may be doing my goldfish impression. Finally the wheels turn.

'Huh!? You saying I look like Tom Cruise? Get real. I'm about a foot taller than him.'

He grins delightedly. 'Good answer'

Now I know these guys are truly drunk.

For a few months I've been bothered by a skin infection on my right cheek. It's been bubbling under the surface and flaring up in the form of a nasty shaving rash.

The Vegas sun seems to have driven it to the surface, and my cheek and jaw are glowing like a burns victim. The only Tom Cruise character I'm ever likely to resemble is the guy in Vanilla Sky.

The young guy to my right is, it's fair to say, a little on the well rounded side. He's also one of the quieter guys at the table. Not rude. Probably just not as gassed as the rest of us.

One of his pals wanders over and starts teasing him about something. I hear the word 'bracelet' mentioned.

The guy on the other side quizzes him a little. He tells us he won a $2k WSOP NLH event, and produces said bracelet from his pocket. It all seems very genuine.

'How come you are playing in this game after winning a bracelet event?', asks the other guy.

'I usually play at The Bellagio, but can't be bothered walking across there tonight.'

Seems fair to me.

He tells me his name. I look him up when I get home, and The Hendon Mob has a picture.

It seems Speaker and I did play cash poker with a bracelet winner.

Ben Ponzio took down $600k for that win, but unfortunately I couldn't get any of the chips off him on that Friday night.

Ex-soldier is buying drinks. I know I've had way too much, and decline his offer. Several others are not so wise.

'Bring us your best shots', is the extent of his order.

The waitress obliges with tumblers of sticky red fluid. The drinkers guzzle them down appreciatively, and speculate about the contents.

Cranberry juice and Jägermeister are swiftly identified as key components.

'What's that called?', I ask her.

'Red Headed Slut', she tells me. Ping! A light goes on in the deeper recesses of my head.

'Bring me one of those too! I wanna go home and be able to tell the wife I had a Red Headed Slut in Vegas, without getting slapped.'

She laughs. It proves to be an expensive drink.

Ex-soldier moves all-in UTG for his last $50 in a $3 pot. I make it $150 with AK.

His KJ doesn't improve and it's time to hit the road. The table breaks, leaving me with a small profit and great memories.

Things get blurry. There's a roulette wheel. I'm losing slowly.

A bunch of young English guys join the table. They talk like Arthur Daley's grandchildren, but there's an air of The Football Factory about them too. I don't engage them too deeply in conversation.

They haven't a clue how to bet. The dealer assists them. They correct their errors. The wheel spins. They try to bet again. 'NO more bets!'

They bet again. Wrongly. The dealer assists them, and so it goes on....

Speaker is drinking Blue Moon. A beer with an orange in it. I'm not tempted, but I have lost some more. I try to double through, and lose.

The English boys depart. The Odd Couple arrive. She, young, stunning Scandinavian looking blonde. He, middle aged, Mediterranean looking, and decidedly unstunning.

Speaker heads for his room. I decide to finish my drink, and do.

Blondie asks in an indeterminate accent if Speaker's seat is free now.

Ah, I think. That explains it. Another hooker.

She settles down beside me, and begins to play. Confused am I, but my drink is finished and it's past 6a.m. Time to go.

Hmmm. Under $100 left from $300 invested. Not good. But if I double through twice...

I shove it all on red, and win. The dealer looks to me expectantly.

'Let it ride'

We spin again. The ball clatters, bounces, and lands deliciously, definitively, in red.

Then agonisingly clambers up the wall of the slot, and with seemingly it's last Newton of energy, plops tauntingly into the black neighbour.

'Oh man!' I sigh. Illustrating my despondency with a Swiper the Fox-esque finger click.

Which sends a fully loaded glass of beer sprawling across the felt.

Huh! Where did that come from? The orange amidst the foaming beer tells a story.

Seems Blondie did some reorganising when she claimed her new seat.

Instantaneously the barman springs into action with two great handfuls of paper towels, produced from nowhere it seems.

Within seconds a cocktail waitress is reaching past me with two hand towels.

In 30 seconds the table is clear. I apologise profusely. No offence is taken. It's easy to forgive the guy who just donked off $300 at your table, I guess.

The shock gives me a push in the general direction of sobriety. As dawn breaks over Vegas, I find myself setting a brisk pace down the sidewalk.

Behind me I hear the tell tale clack-clack-clack of stiletto heels following an equally high tempo. Any quicker, and I'd be looking for a cantering horse.

I know what's coming next. Me, if she has her way. The clacking grows closer. Sure enough...

'Hey cutie, you lookin' for company tonight?'

I glance around, without letting the pace drop.

She has the legs of Naomi Campbell, and the body of Venus Williams. I pray she doesn't take rejection badly.

Holding my left hand prominently, I sweeten the pill.

'You're very pretty, but I've already got company.'

Unexpectedly, she smiles, and cantering becomes a trot.

'OK honey, but if you change your mind...'

So ends another Vegas night.

Vegas Day 3 - Carousels, Copperfield, and Crazy Mechanics

2007-10-19T20:51:00.000Z

After two days on the go, I was looking forward to a long, deep, and drunken sleep.

Instead, I find myself back in the Studio Cafe at 8.30am wolfing down a 'Country Skillet'. Basically scrambled eggs swirled in with various other breakfast goodies, and served atop a mound of hash browns.

Back home it could have passed for a two course lunch. In Vegas it's an average way to start the day.

Made all the stranger by the sight of recently awoken tourists perched in mesmerised silence before a multitude of slot machines - mashing the buttons with one hand, whilst swigging fresh beers with the other.

The over sized breakfast is a calculated risk, as my destination on a beautiful clear, still morning is The Stratosphere. More specifically, the three theme rides perched roughly 900 feet above the Nevada landscape.

Still on my $9 24-hour monorail pass, I'm on a smooth ride back to the north of The Strip. At 10am the attractions are just opening and the queue almost non-existent.

Within minutes I'm whizzing to the top in a super fast lift. Ears popping as the guide delivers her monologue to our pressure dulled ears.

The short journey time is no preparation for the stunning view which awaits us at the top. Looking southwards, the Las Vegas Hilton, Treasure Island, even The Wynn, appear to have all the stature of a Travelodge.

I pause for a few moments to admire the view, before taking on the three rides:

Big Shot: First up is Big Shot. I know what this ride does, but don't know how it will feel.

Now I have the answer. Exhilarated. Firing straight up into the sky with the force of an ejector seat, it feels like we will surely soar beyond the top of the structure and float off into the desert. I consciously avoid looking at the city, and focus on the distant mountains, framed by a flawless blue backdrop.

Beautiful and inspiring.

X-Scream: I'm the first rider of the day, the operator tells me.

'Does that mean it hasn't been tested then?', I ask.

'Bwaaahhhaaa', he laughs heartily, walking away, my question unanswered.

By comparison to Big Shot, X-Scream seems just a little dull. If being hung over a 900 foot drop can be described as dull. It just feels more stolid, reserved. A very well mannered theme ride.

Insanity: Now this is a thrill and a half!! Dangling from the side of The Stratosphere in a carousel that spins and tilts to leave the riders facing an uninterrupted view directly downwards, whilst a pumping rock track blasts out across the observation desk.

'If we go, at least we'll go in style', I shout to the young English guy strapped in beside me.

He looks at me doubtfully. Smiles grimly. Later I chat to his parents.

'You looked like you were having fun.'

'I was!!'

A real buzz. Great excitement, and like X-Scream, the riders are all visible to watchers on the observation desk. Not a time to let the poker face waver!

Fortunately the country skillet remains in my stomach, and I am soon on my way down The Strip for a bit more shopping, and a lazy afternoon.

For some early evening entertainment, I've decided to take in a classic Vegas style show. David Copperfield.

Again, the joys of Vegas. Amble through the hotel, check what's on, pick up a ticket, and be seated an hour later watching a world famous entertainer in action.

For me the entertainment starts before the show even begins. I find myself at a four seat table, inhabited by a woman who is seventy if she's a day, and her two sons, who both seem little older than me.

They are Canadian, friendly as could be, chatty, and sort of amazed to meet someone in Vegas on his own. They're regulars - always mother and sons together - and like to play the slots.

In all their visits they've never before seen a show, and are looking forward to the performance with great anticipation.

I like them a lot, for their polite manner and warm attitude; but their ignorance of the rest of the world is mind blowing. At one point we discuss our respective homelands, and the chattier brother asks me...

'We have polar bears in Manitoba. Have you heard of polar bears?'

'Ummm, I've seen them on the TV.'

'Oh wow. That's great!'

They ignore all the warnings about turning off cell phones or refraining from use of photographic equipment. Whipping out their mobile phones every time Copperfield passes by during his many audience excursions.

At one point chatty brother takes a head shot from around five feet, as the magician passes along the aisle below our table. Copperfield gives him a steely glare, but can't make the phone disappear.

I like the Canadians even more now. Strike one for the gormless tourists. Though I do worry about being huckled out by some hulking security at an opportune moment.

As a natural cynic, I'm not there to worship the legend of David Copperfield.

The arena is relatively small - probably not a bad seat in the house - and I want to figure out his illusions.

I fail. I'm blown away.

He may be 100% cheddar, smarmy - when he picks out the girls from the audience to assist on stage his quality control is high, and he always makes sure he gets a kiss - but as a magician/illusionist, he is bloody good!

The final act of the show entails making around a dozen members of the audience disappear. The method of choosing them simply can't be rigged. They have to be for real.

When the lights go up, they're seated around five yards behind me, and I haven't seen a thing. The only clue is one of his black clad assistants still crouching in the aisle between the disappeared and me.

He gets a sincere and rousing round of applause. I join in with gusto.

After that fun start to the evening its back to the $1/2 tables for more entertainment.

The waiting list grows huge and as one of the first ten names on the list I soon find myself starting a new table, which turns out to be as enjoyable as the previous show.

The real characters are to my left. Not ideal, but at least I don't miss any chat.

Directly next to me is Crazy Mechanic - sleeveless t-shirt, multiple tattoos, backwards baseball cap, a little tuft of beard beneath his bottom lip, and tons of attitude. A real redneck.

He reminds me of the dumb soldier brother in Mars Attacks, but it later transpires he is a mechanic for a motorcycle team. Somewhat incongruously, he is drinking gin and tonic.

I start off disliking him. In a few hours we'll be bumping fists, and mock thieving chips from each other.

To his left is Young Pro - intense, eyes sheathed by a pair of huge gold shades, complaining about having dropped a wad at the Bellagio, and being forced to drop down to the smaller games. He loosens up later.

Next is Married Couple - thirtyish I'd guess. She a classy blonde in a slinky dress, who reminds me of a younger Carol Smillie. He - goatee beard, quiet, well mannered, but not afraid of making a move at a pot.

There's no slowplaying here, so much so that it takes a while for some people to catch on they are together. By the end of the evening Carol is wearing Young Pro's shades, and goatee is reminiscing about how they met at a card game.

The other side of the table is less interesting. Generally filled with middle aged males, with some of the seats being replaced on a regular basis.

I start quite slowly, picking up a few pots and gradually building up my chips as the vodka/Red Bulls work their magic.

Crazy Mechanic is right into the thick of the action. Raising, reraising, and showing a lot of bluffs.

A guy in late position makes it $7 to play into one limper. He is doing this a lot, and enjoying that Crazy Mechanic always complains. The standard raise in the MGM seems to be $10 to $15 dependent on number of limpers.

I look down at QQ and call hoping for Crazy Mechanic to make a play. He folds. Bollocks!

Three to a low flop and I decide to take the lead. Limp/caller folds. $7 Guy smooth calls. I bet big on the turn. He smooth calls.

Now I really don't like this. On the river, the board is ten high and I'm struggling to put him on a hand. I'm hoping for AK or JJ, but he doesn't yet look to have considered folding, though he is hardly exuding strength either.

Still, I reason, I've played this like I flopped a set. He can't put me on queens.

I bet the river unsure whether it's for value, or a blocker. He smooth calls. With Aces. Whoops.

Bang goes a whole chunk of chips. In retrospect, I misplayed that horribly out-of-position. Reraise pre-flop, fold to the re-reraise, and I save a good percentage of my stack.

I top up, and continue. The cocktail waitress is having a good night, the table is friendly, Crazy Mechanic continues to play super-LAG. The atmosphere is great, I'm having a brilliant time, and along comes a real humdinger of a hand.

With three limpers to me in mid-position, I look down at AdQd, and make it $15 to play. Crazy Mechanic and Young Pro both call, one of the limpers calls, and the nice middle aged guy directly to my right announces all-in for around $150 in total!

Shit, that wasn't supposed to happen. I go into the tank. First I try to rationalise the hand. What hand could limp behind two others, then reraise all-in, and why play that way?

The second answer is easier than the first. Crazy Mechanic. It's obvious the guy was aiming to trap him, and now it's me whose fallen into the pit.

What hand could he have? I just can't see him playing AK this way. Nor Aces. Too risky.

It could be a medium pair, but he strikes me as the sort that would try to flop a set with them.

I narrow it down to a probable KK or QQ, and a possible JJ. Anything lesser being unlikely.

Then I count the pot. It's over $200 and it's about $135 to call. I know I'm behind, I know I don't really have odds to call. The whole table is watching me intently. They can see I am agonising.

I turn to the raiser and gesture to Crazy Mechanic:

'You were expecting him to raise. I know you've got me, but hey, it's Vegas. Let's gamble. I call.'

He immediately tables Kings. No flourish. Just a matter of fact motion. I nod and show my hand.

The table leans forward as the dealer peels off a flop - and spreads THREE diamonds on the board. I flopped the nuts.

'Whoa!' yell ten voices in unison. Some more excited than others. The turn pairs the board.

'You're not dead yet.' I tell him.

He looks at me dubiously.

The river is a blank, and I scoop a monster pot. As I toss a red chip to the dealer, I turn to the nice guy.

'That was a terrible call. I feel quite embarrassed.' I grimace.

'I'd have called too.' he tells me, and we shake hands.

An Asian guy fills the seat between Young Pro and Carol Smillie. He's what we call in Glasgow a nippy sweetie. Sour faced, all attitude, and no charm. He makes it clear he's killing time while waiting for a seat in a bigger game.

Within a few hands, Crazy Mechanic calls him out. They exchange words, there's a bit of financial dick swinging, and suddenly it's all sweetness and light again. Crazy Mechanic bumps fists with him, and it's smiles all round.

Finally we run out of replacements for the right hand side of the table, after Carol recovers from a $300 deficit and cleans out another player by flopping a set vs a straight, and hitting the full house.

The table breaks. We've been there the whole time. I started out thinking Crazy Mechanic was a redneck idiot, by the end of the night we're all best buddies. Even nippy sweetie Asian guy.

Young Pro reclaims his shades from Carol, and we go our separate ways.

I count my chips. I'm $13 down for the night, including drinks and tips. It doesn't matter.

Munching on a greatly delayed 'dinner' of hot dog and Sprite, I reflect on a fantastic night. If this is what Vegas it all about, I'm all about Vegas.

Vegas Day 2 - Acclimatisation

2007-10-18T14:48:00.000Z

If there's one activity I can claim to be an expert on, it's sleeping.

Every workday is an effort for me. On weekends I can sleep for 12 hours, and still want an afternoon nap. When flying I've been known to fall asleep before the plane is in the sky, and not awake until the thump of rubber on tarmac as we arrive at our destination.

Thus I was stunned to find myself staring at a clock which told me the time was 7.45am. My sleep had lasted for less than five hours, after over a day of constant activity. I'd not been so surprised since Maurice Johnston signed for Rangers.

I lingered in the room for an hour. Convinced I'd nod off again at any second. It didn't happen.

Surveying my accommodation, I had mixed views on the MGM Grand West Wing concept.

On the plus side, the rooms are luxuriously fitted out. Nice bed linen, BOSE radio/CD, leather seat, big TV with DVD, and a second TV embedded in the bathroom mirror.

All very swish, and ultra modern. It just reeks of an expensive finish.

On the negative side, the rooms are tiny. There's no separate bathroom. Instead a partition and transition from carpet to tiles marks out the bathroom section, where a very powerful shower, and a toilet, are encapsulated in two frosted glass walk-in cubicles.

Throw in a view of an opposing wall from the window, and I was somewhat ambivalent about the concept.

The corridors are depressing. Dark carpet, dark walls, and a low ceiling gave it the air of an open prison. Compensating for this was the short distance from room to designer bar, with the poker room just a few paces beyond.

By 9.30am I was perched at the bar in the Studio Cafe, awaiting commencement of my first proper breakfast of the trip. I'd ordered coffee and water to get me going.

The waitress placed a large glass of a reddish liquid in front of me.

'Errr, what's this?'

'Your cranberry juice.'

Second accent issue of the trip.

Communication difficulties resolved, I tucked into an enormous Grand Breakfast. Eggs, bacon, pancakes, and more. I'm a big fan of US breakfasts!

The guy next to me at the bar engaged me in conversation. He resembled a more animated version of Mr Miyagi, and told me he was an ex-paratrooper.

Together with his wife, they'd retired to Vegas and although they owned an apartment, they spent most of their time residing in hotels using the comps they built up through gaming activities.

'You gotta be careful.' he told me, 'The only game you can beat is poker.'

I nodded sagely.

Returning to my room, I caught a glimpse of myself in the full length hallway mirrors. I paused and stared for a second.

Many people wish for film star looks. Right now, I resembled Casper the Ghost.

I needed some sun and had some shopping to do, as I was planning to exploit the weak dollar to get a new digital camera.

An oversight on my part had also found me in Vegas minus a watch. Not a good idea. A new timepiece was also on the agenda.

I navigated The Strip from the shops at Planet Hollywood, where I found a decent watch, to The Forum at Caesars Palace where my new camera was purchased.

The scale of Vegas really is astounding. On my previous visit, K and I had made a big effort to get round all the major landmarks, from Mandalay Bay to The Stratosphere, and on to Fremont Street.

Yet as I wandered around The Forum shops - which are ornate, luxurious, and vast - I had no recollection of being there before. Had we missed them, had they changed beyond recognition, or had I simply forgotten? I had no clue.

As I meandered around town, I couldn't help noticing the preoccupation Vegas has with some rather unlikely UK artists.

Spice Girls in The Bellagio was strange but at least proportionate; Human League blasting out onto The Strip from an unidentifiable venue was unexpected; but the icing on the cake was Rick Astley in the MGM. Downright weird.

Entering the MGM to a rather more contemporary soundtrack, I experienced one of those bizarre moments only Vegas can provide.

Dancing on the Centrifuge bar to Christina Aguilera were three bartenders. Edging through the watching tourists was a wedding party - complete with bride in white.

As I stepped aside, a lion roared to my right. Not a taped roar. A real, full blooded roar from one of the two lions being fed in the perspex cage, as another crowd of tourists snapped merrily away.

Dancing bartenders, brides, and lions. I grinned broadly and paused for a moment to absorb the scene.

After dropping off my purchases in my room, I made my first use of the relatively new Las Vegas Monorail.

I've seen some derogatory comments about this system, but to me it was a fantastic resource. A $9 ticket gets unlimited travel for 24 hours, and the trip from MGM to Sahara took only 15 minutes. It seemed extremely well utilised whenever I was on board.

The purpose of my visit to The Sahara was to sample their two theme rides. The Speed rollercoaster, and Cyber Speedway Nascar simulator.

I wasn't too concerned about my hearty breakfast, since I'd done a fair bit of walking since then.

A group of middle aged English guys queued ahead of me, as we awaited the arrival of the Speed carriage.

I settled down in the carriage behind them, eagerly anticipating the ride commencement.

'Fucking hell', I exclaimed, as the carriage suddenly shot forward like a bullet from a gun.

My cheeks felt like they were pinned back to my ears as we hurtled through a succession of twists and into a loop. Pausing momentarily before reversing the original route back to the start.

I staggered off the ride elated but more than a little queasy. The English guys in front all had similar expressions. We were giggling like kids.

In the past I've been on bigger, higher, twistier rides, but I've never experienced one where I still felt like I was waiting for my stomach to catch up with the rest of my body an hour after the ride finished.

Which made it a supremely bad idea to go straight onto the Nascar ride, but it didn't stop me.

In comparison to Speed, Nascar was a bit of a letdown. No one else was driving, and me against the circuit was a bit dull - even if I did manage to spin off once. At least I 'won' a t-shirt.

The plan was to continue onwards to The Stratosphere, but the desert winds were gusting and I could see the rides weren't running, which came as a great relief to the empty space where my stomach used to reside.

Instead I went back to my room for a quick snooze, before hitting up the MGM Poker Room again.

When I got there the place was rocking and I was soon seated at one of many $1/2 NLH tables.

The table was fun, friendly, and wild. I post to play and look down at AKs. So pretty! Making it $10 to play, I'm instantly repopped by an older guy to my left.

Aaargh. 1st hand, no reads, I take a flop, miss completely, and check fold. He tells me he had AA. Maybe he did. Most of his future play does point in that direction.

I then get QQ. Raise up a multitude of callers, c-bet an A9x high flop, and when the board pairs 9s on the turn, the only flop check-caller leads into me, which makes it an easy fold.

Still, it's all good fun. An English dealer joins the table. Pretty soon she is chiding two Hispanic guys who are talking Spanish during a hand.

They've been warned a few times before by other dealers and take it all in good spirits, claiming they've never played before. I don't believe that, but I do believe they aren't taking the game seriously.

The dealer and I are having a good chat about UK matters, and one of the Hispanic guys butts in with the 'English only' warning to us. We all have a good laugh about the accent issues.

One of the Hispanic guys is playing pretty wild. He's in the habit of min re-raising anyone who raises pre-flop. It's working too. People keep calling the reraise then folding on the flop. I resolve not to give him the opportunity to bet me off a flop.

I find AK again and raise. As expected he doubles the bet. I push for roughly $150 in total. He gives me a slightly surprised look, shrugs nonchalantly, and calls.

For a second I'm having one of those 'shit I just ran into a real hand' moments, until he tables AJo. Happy days, as my hand holds up and I'm ahead for the evening.

The table is mostly tourists, but there are obviously a couple of faces more familiar to the dealers. One of whom is a young, pretty brunette girl who gets into a hand with a table newbie sat immediately to my left.

The Newbie is the one bad egg at the table. Terrible player, and whiny with it.

There's some light action on the flop; he gives a free card on the turn; and eventually calls after heavy river action, only to discover his flopped two pair has gone down to the girl's rivered set of Jacks.

He slams the table in disgust, and turns to me.

'Why do I always lose like that!? I've lost so much today, and always on the river.'

I nod sympathetically, whilst thinking if you knew how to bet, she'd never have got there. For the rest of his time at the table, I studiously ignore him.

Cashing out ahead, I make my way to the Crazy Horse Paris burlesque show. The joy of being in Vegas is being able to make last minute decisions on the most outlandish range of entertainment options!

I was glad not to be seated at a table with any particularly lovey-dovey couples. Could have got a bit embarrassing!

The show itself was fun without being wild. The girls are amazing - I doubt there's a finer collection of (naturally) perky boobs and bums in Vegas - and it's all very stylishly lit and tastefully choreographed, but it's hardly raunchy.

'More flirty than dirty', was how I described it to K later.

I presume the MGM management have certain ideas about the image of their establishment that necessitates keeping the sexy stuff at a rather anodyne level.

It didn't help that the crowd was somewhat unresponsive. Mostly sitting back and exuding a 'here we are now, entertain us' vibe. The grand finale was a real showstopper, but it got little more than polite applause.

After the show I headed back to Centrifuge for a few drinks. The waiting lists in the poker room were huge, and I figured I'd be ready for bed before a seat was available.

First full day in Vegas complete. Sun, cheap gadgets, thrill rides, booze, poker, and naked girls. Not a bad way to start the holiday.

Vegas Day 1 - Direct Flights, Delays, and Donkeys

2007-10-17T20:19:00.000Z

I'm a fan of flying and travel. So much so, that when it comes to planning a trip, the fun starts with finding the right flights and hotels.

For trips to the USA from Glasgow, the preferred option has to be Continental, since they go directly to Newark, thus bypassing the hassle of an additional stop over in London, Amsterdam, or Iceland, and the annoyance in many cases of flying in the wrong direction for 90 minutes, only to then retrace the same route, and find myself flying over Scotland again on the westbound leg.

The problem with this, is that lots of other people hold the same view, which means the flights are generally popular i.e. more expensive. Thus I was delighted to eventually grab a deal that was comparable with the two-stoppers offered by American Airlines, Northwest, etc. £403 (~$810) return from Glasgow to Las Vegas. I was ahead before I even began.

This planning saw me and K at Glasgow Airport last Tuesday morning around 7am. In good time for the 9am departure. We passed some time with a coffee, before saying our fond farewells. Much as I was looking forward to the trip, and a week away from work, I wasn't looking forward to a week without my family.

The flight to Newark was ready to leave in good time, which left only a short period for some people watching on the international pier.

It's late in the season for holidays to the Mediterranean sun, but even so, two flights to Palma were due for departure, and there were more than a few pints of lager being sunk at 8am.

I settled down to fill in my immigration and customs forms, only to hit the first snag of the trip. The instructions were to complete in pen. I had only a pencil.

No problem. There's a WH Smith 20 yards away. Which doesn't sell pens. ffs.

Around now, I noticed a minor panic occurring within earshot. An extended family unit was in disarray. The plane at gate 33 had gone; they'd missed their flight.

Except they hadn't, as the group were too drunk/stupid to realise the departure of the second Palma flight was from gate 31. In direct line of sight, but at the furthest point in the pier.

Eventually it sunk in, and as the 'last call' tannoy messages grew sterner, they sped off down the corridor. All, save for a grotesquely fat woman, who waddled past at a glacial pace. Wheezing like an asthmatic seal. Her stubby arms pumping frantically as she tried to work up a pace.

I feared for the health of whoever was wedged beside her sweaty carcass on that three hour flight.

Soon enough my flight was called, and I soon found myself on a packed 757 winging across the Atlantic.

Time considerations meant I'd eaten little, so was looking forward to the airline 'breakfast'. This transpired to be the classic 'beef or chicken' option.

Roast beef and mashed potatoes isn't my ideal breakfast, but it was tasty enough, and certainly filled the gap.

My travel companions were a middle aged Scots couple, headed to their annual 28 days in Tampa. Not a bad life! The guy worked in the military sector, which made for an interesting chat, and they had a pen to loan me, so all was good.

It got better at Newark, as I sailed through Immigration and Customs in around fifteen minutes. Well short of the two hours I'd been briefed to expect on a couple of online forums.

After re-checking my case for the flight to Las Vegas I headed for the security checks, which took only another 15 minutes.

No great hardship, though the TSA staff at Newark are probably the second most sullen people in the airport. The checks had an air of chaos, with some agents waving people forward, others gesturing to the back. Some shouting, others apparently oblivious to the travellers around them.

My swift journey through the various checks was in one way a bad-beat, since I'd planned in sufficient time to ensure I made my connection, and now found myself in the departure area, an hour before an EARLIER flight was due to depart.

I decided to chance my arm with customer services. Approaching the desk I explained my desire to switch to the earlier flight. The lady behind the computer eyed me with a vacant, uncomprehending gaze.

My first accent issue. I explained again. Slowly. Precisely. With much reinforcement through hand gestures.

She tapped at her keyboard for a few seconds. An aura of pure disinterest emanating from her very soul. 'Eeeees full.'

The conversation was over. I thanked her for her 'assistance' and headed to the Garden State diner for a distinctly average tasting, but gargantuan in scale, pastrami and corned beef melt.

A big lunch was to prove a fortuitous choice, as the day progressed.

Newark is a slightly strange airport. Bright and airy, lots of space, a good range of eating options, and comfortable seats at the gates. Yet lacking in options to amuse anyone caught there for a lengthy period of time.

As I wandered around, I was surprised to see the queue at one of the ladies restrooms stretch onto the concourse, despite the airport appearing to be less than packed. The queue seemed more commensurate with a club at 3am than a modern hub airport.

Arriving at the departure gate, my heart sank as a two hour delay was flagged up for my flight. It sank further as the delay grew to three hours, and the bad news spread across a range of flights. Bad weather to the west was shutting out a number of destinations, including Vegas.

My people watching urges were sated by the arrival of a group of three media/PR types who were in loud despair at the hole blown in their schedule by the weather.

They were making great play of their missing some important meeting, and their voices seemed to be on a bizarre volume control setting, which peaked ostentatiously at each mention of their itinerary, or cutting edge MO.

'We'll call you when we get there and CHECK IN AT THE BELLAGIO'

'Yeah after we shoot the video AT THE VENETIAN, I'll head back to my room and POST IT ON YOU TUBE'

PR1 was a camp guy with confused fashion sense - suit by Wall Street, shirt by Saturday Night Fever.

PR2 was a foxy brunette in perilous heels and pencil skirt, who took the sexy executive vibe to it's logical conclusion with a pair of designer glasses, after firing up her MacBook.

PR3 was another girl, though more chunky than foxy. This hadn't deterred her from an outfit that was greatly more revealing than PR2, and about 100 times less sexy.

100 became 1000 when she sat down directly opposite me, and performed the first of many 'movie star' leg crosses - her skirt riding up to reveal not a Sharon Stone approach to underwear (thankfully!), but a post-pregnancy Katie Holmes style bodyshaping garment.

It was a car crash flash. I couldn't help but look, as her retreating skirt revealed what appeared to be a pair of exploding sausages beneath. Eventually, I had to move, and went off to acquire a banana and raspberry smoothie. This wasn't to be the last thought of Katie on this trip.

Finally we were boarded and ready to go. Except we weren't. The pilot explained that all the 'western gates' were closed due to weather, so he was planning to take a 'north gate' up around Detroit to skirt the troublesome front. This would add an hour to the flight time, but at least we'd get away.

As we neared the end of the taxiway, alarms bells went off in my head. We exited from the queue of departing aircraft, crossing the runway to park alone on the opposite taxiway. The pilot returned to the intercom. The north gates had just shut down, so we'd be turning off the engines and awaiting the passing of the bad weather.

For roughly an hour we had a planespotters dream view of a succession of 747, 777, A340, etc. taking off to head eastwards across the Atlantic. The plane shook with each surging roar of jet engines.

I nodded off. The sole comfort of the flight being the low occupancy rate meant I had three seats to myself.

My thoughts darkened as I recalled Ms 'Eees Full' from earlier. Had the earlier flight really been full? Could I be in Vegas by now?

Later these suspicions were allayed as I overheard another passenger complaining on her cellphone about going through the same conversation as I - though probably without the hand gestures.

I managed to sleep for a good part of the flight, and my spirits soared as the plane descended and the bright lights of The Strip hove into view.

Awaiting disembarkation, I chatted to the travellers behind me, a couple of off-duty cabin crew who were in town for some partying.

The girl was in town for one night only, so the delay had put a real dent in her evening. The guy was a Vegas local, back for ten days, but even so he was ready to hit the town straight away.

He told me he loved Glasgow as a stopover, and his favourite bar was The Polo Lounge, which made me smile as it reinforces just about every stereotype you'd care to apply to male cabin crew.

They were chatty and friendly, like most of the Continental cabin crew, and we all agreed the Vegas skyline had remarkable restorative powers after a bad flight.

The MGM Grand check-in at McCarran was closed due to the late hour, so I grabbed my case and headed for the cab rank.

Soon I was being regaled by a wiry Latino cab driver - who told me he was a boxer - with tales of his half-Scottish girlfriend.

I smiled indulgently, assuming I was getting some tourist patter, though my scepticism faded as he waxed lyrical on the merits of her pale skin, freckles, and reddish hair. This guy needn't box, he's a world class bullshitter, I thought, as his phone rang.

'Hey baby, I got a Scottish guy in my cab. I'm taking him to the MGM.', he yelled into the phone, as he activated the loud speaker.

'Omigod! I'm half-Scottish!', yelled an American female voice.

Only in Vegas!

I got a great deal at the MGM Grand via Fatwallet. $225 for three nights, inclusive of some drinks and entertainment credits.

The check in queue was mercifully short, and I was soon allocated a 'West Wing' room on the 5th floor.

I trekked to the room, dragging my case behind me, and slid the plastic key into the slot. Nothing happened. I tried again. Nothing happened.

From inside the room I detected the sound of a TV, and a female voice, unaware of my presence and in conversation with another occupant.

I contemplated my options. Knock the door, explain my predicament, and get them to call reception and sort it out, or traipse back to reception myself and find out what the hell was happening.

With visions of being shot on my first night, or busted on an attempted rape charge, I took the second option. This never happens to James Bond, I thought, as I descended in the lift.

'Oh, you went to the 5th floor.', deadpanned a different receptionist.

'Well it says five on the card?'

'She meant to write a three' tutted the receptionist, as she corrected the original numeral.

Seems I wasn't the only one having a bad day.

Finally at around midnight, after being on-the-go for over 26 hours, I entered my room in Vegas. I was tired, hungry, and sweaty.

There was only one thing to do. I showered, changed, collected my players card from the desk in the casino, and headed for the poker room to break myself in gently.

'Have you got any small limit games going?'

'We have a 3/6 table with a seat open.'

'Perfect', I smiled.

An hour later I was slightly regretting my decision. The table was dull, with a definite lack of social chat, and I'd had no cards at all to play.

My only consolation, most of the players were rubbish. It was a total loose-passive limpathon.

Finally, I looked down at AQo. Two players limped, I raised, and the only two players I'd labelled as half-decent both cold called with position on me. My heart sank and I immediately discounted trying to win this pot with aggression if I missed the flop - which was AQ3 rainbow.

So, not a miss. Of course I bet when checked to, both to my left called, but the pattern took an unexpected twist when I got check-raised by a dull guy in the BB who'd been haemorrhaging chips since I sat down, and communicating only with a friend who was railing him.

Three betting was automatic, which drove everyone else out of the pot, and he check-called me down, and mucked on the river, leaving me to rake a healthy pot.

Soon after, the last of his chips were gone, and he departed in silence.

By about 3am little else of interest had happened, and I was finally succumbing to fatigue. Forgetting when my blinds were due, losing track of the action, and taking an age to read the board.

Calling it quits I liberated a rack from a short-stack and cashed in about $60 to the good. A pleasant way to end a very long day.

Navigating my way through the corridor between poker room and hotel room, I chanced upon a couple of young black girls loitering outside the West Wing bar.

'Hey cutie!', they called in unison.

'Sorry girls.', I motioned apologetically. Rapidly deducing their company would cost a lot more than $60, as I detoured around them and headed for the solitude of my room, and what was sure to be a long, deep sleep.

I Did Survive

2007-10-16T15:57:00.000Z

Made it back with a thankfully flawless return trip.

Bankroll slightly depleted.
Liver somewhat distended.
Sleep pattern greatly distorted.

Back to work in sixteen hours. Full report to follow, including...

Journey from hell.
Donkey calls win monster pots.
Staring into the abyss at 10am.
Drunken poker with a bracelet winner.
Have you heard of polar bears?
What I did with Katie Holmes.
Only in Vegas.
Best lapdance. Ever.
Spillage with Swiper the Fox.
Who thinks I'm a cutie.
Vegas on three hours sleep and one meal a day.

Bliss

2007-10-08T21:47:00.000Z

As a pasty faced Scotsman, who can barely recall what warm sun feels like on his back, I have to say that this...

gives me almost as much pleasure as this...

Eleven hours to take off.