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Celtic have just ruined my eight game accumulator by not being able to over-come a bunch of communist part-timers; their left back is the bus driver I think. And Spartak Moscow only had ten men; a guy who works as a butcher was sent-off, probably for distributing Communist propaganda pamphlets amongst the Celtic back four. Or something.

Bastards, though. I was gonna buy something other than a Pot Noodle with the winnings.

You know how sometimes you can feel so hungry you could suck the acid out of a dead wino? Well that's how I felt today and by George did I not find the perfect sammich to put my hungries to bed. The McDonalds meatball Melt.

Ok, so McDonalds have more chavs per 100 patrons than any other eating house in town and there's barely a work visa between the employees, but Christ on a pogo stick, credit where credit's due, they really do offer up some good eating.

I can't wait until tomorrow to fill my face with more of them; and it's not cause I'm living an empty existence to an extent where a sammich can provoke genuine euphoria...well, it's partly that, but they really are good and it was served with a smile (by "Steve"), which I appreciate. I had considered for a moment just rubbing it on my bare chest..I wanted to become one with the sammich..I might buy two tomorrow and pop my todger between the bun of the second one,..no wait, I didn't mean that.

Seriously though. I liked it. Excuse me, I'm still sort of fatigued from the weekend and I'm not sleeping properly. It's a deuce of a bad show I know, but I can't help myself at the moment wittering on. It was this kind of mood that led me to offering up a high five to a old check-out girl not too long ago and what led me to bet £100 on Brizzle Rovers to beat West Ham tonight. D'oh.

So I didn't win then and I still have turbulence in the bowels. I've never been one for the gracious loser speeches; even if I enjoyed being there and did my best, it's still shit to not get anywhere. As it turned out, I didn't do my best and once I was out, I didn't really enjoy being there. After my departure I was able to have a quick perv at a trampy looking package at the Black Jack tables who's breasts appeared to have volume enough to influence the tides, but really, I was so tired I just wanted to sleep.

It all started well, I was dealt pocket Aces in the first hand and got paid off nicely from the small and big blind who kept calling my bets, slackening my already loose bowels until showdown time when they turned over utter garbage and I parped in celebration and relief. And so it went until the break.

After the break it all went bandy. Fuelled by over-confidence and chili beef from the buffet table I launched myself into a pot which was as folly as the Charge of Light Brigade. I lost most of my stack in that confrontation and flung the rest in with Ace-King a little later which lost a race with Jacks and left me with nothing but a chip and chair.

Once I was out, I was able to have a good shit for myself while two Arabs stood by the wash basins complaining about a "slut" who evidently refused to become his property in exchange for four camels; seemed like a bargain to me, but I didn't say so. I then managed to get myself involved in two of the longest Sit 'n Go's in the history of small stakes poker. So long we actually had a break half way through and finished way after the main tournament had finished.

I'm pokered out now and on a two week hiatus while I improve Anglo-American relations and absorb some good honest English culture such as it is. Roughly translated that means I'm gonna teach an American how to drink and steal traffic cones.

I've been a little under the weather recently, but the mild jungle fever I picked up probably from queuing in the Spar shop with squaddies seems to have passed and my constipation has eased up a little. I was digging it out with a stick at one point, but it's oozing out of it's own accord now, sort of slowly, like traffic filtering it's way onto the M6 from the junction with the M5.

Anyway, so it's off to Luton tomorrow for the European APAT poker event. I'm slacking behind the other two mob members as far as medals go in the APAT series of tournaments, but through my will and blind luck I plan to set things right again.

A field of 300 of the ugliest people you ever saw sweating away in a poker room for twelve hours a day over the course of the bank holiday weekend shall have to be overcome, assuming the stench doesn't overcome me first and sometime late on Monday evening I hope to be holding aloft a nice little cup and gold medal and some monies for spending purposes and a seat in the GUKPT Grand final at which I shall win financial security allowing me to live the rest of my life Hugh Hefner "style" in silk pyjamas on a diet of pink gin and melted cheese and lobster hors d'oeuvres.

As a contingency plan, should the cards abandon me, I plan to live in abject poverty, living off pot noodles and Panda shandy.

The thing about this book is this; while the game theory concepts are explained to give even a post-office worker a chance of understanding them, applying them all in a live game requires a mind of Sklanksy's enormity, I've also felt for some time that Sklansky's beard was false and I didn't like the yellow cover.

It's a book that needs to be read however, along with the Harrington series and your Brunson's Super Systems. One needs to be cautious when reading such books though. While a satellite navigation system will get you anywhere you want to go, you ought to have a rough idea of how to get there anyway in case it fails, with poker books, you can follow the strategies suggested by it's principles, but you ought to understand the principles themselves so you can develop your own strategies according to the conditions of play you find yourself in.

I prefer to use these books as means of looking clever in coffee shops rather than as a guide to playing poker. One cannot deny one's own personality, so all the poker books in the world will not help you if their strategies demand a conflicting style of play to your personality. One can't play tight patient poker if you're a hyper-active lunatic for example. So sayeth me, amen.

I was sat next to this today. Is this odd or is it me? A chair in a pub dedicated to the memory of a patron? Fair enough I suppose, but I didn't really feel comfortable sitting at that table, let alone that chair. I didn't want Sharron to float through a wall and tell me to move.

Call me egotistical or a little conceited, but if I am to be remembered at all upon my passing, I hope it's with something a little more grandiose than pub seating.

We may have given up on politics in this country because our MP's are a dour bunch of grey-suited, sexually eccentric, megalomaniacs, but they're amateurs compared to their American doppelgängers.

Allow me to introduce you to Bob Allen; (I'm giggling as a write this) Bob Allen is a Florida State Representative and Co-Chairman of Senator John McCain's Florida presidential election campaign. He's also a guy who sponsored legislation that toughened penalties for lewd and lascivious conduct in public.

Bob was arrested on Thursday after offering to perform oral sex on an under-cover police officer for the princely sum of $20. Hee hee, you couldn't make it up. Only in American. Bob's excuse was that the officer was a big black stocky guy and the near-by park was populated by other big black stocky guys and in his blind panic he offered to suck one of them off to save his life!

So let's get this straight. A House of Representatives Congressman who championed a bill to toughen penalties for lewd and lascivious acts in public, has been arrested for offering to perform a lewd and lascivious act in public on a black under-cover police officer for the princely sum of $20 and his excuse was that he felt his life was in danger cause, you know, black dudes are crazy, so he offered to suck one of them off to appease him!?

I may have missed something here, but the last thing I think I would do if I was to be confronted by an enormous black dude who was looking to make me "just another statistic", --to quote Mr Allen, -- the very last thing I would do, would be to offer to suck his cock. Ha...I'm still laughing as I write this. He ought to thank his lucky stars he wasn't at the million man march. He'd have suffocated.

Bob is obviously a very troubled and emotionally damaged individual and to hide his sexual perversions, he's promoted this bill to increase penalties for sexual solicitations, and doesn't it make you wonder about other Congressman's legislation sponsorships? I think we now have a clearer idea as to why a Mississippi State Representative wanted the death penalty for the rape of raccoons and why a State Rep. from Montana was keen to see the sexual molestation of the recently deceased, met with life imprisonment. Me thinks thou doth protest too much chaps.

As political scandals in Florida go, I'd have to say I think this one beats the rigging of the Presidential election in 2000 when George W. Bush's brother Jeb, won him the keys to the White House. It's funnier at least.

Gaaaaaard bless Merca.

You see now, the thing about that is, there are millions of people, in some cases, educated people too, that actually believe it and take the Bible literally. We’re living in an age where man can pay to go on holiday in space and we have computers capable of beating the Russians at Chess, yet still people are susceptible to this kind of absurd blind faith and super-natural nonsense.

To give some scale to how astonishing it is that in this day and age we still extend any kind of respect to religious types who not only insist on the Universe being of Intelligent Design, but who also insist that we believe it too, despite any real-life tangible evidence of God’s existence, I shall ask you to consider the experiences of Captain Ortega from the Snorks cartoon.

Now then, if you’re not familiar with this cartoon, allow me to introduce you to it (the intro is in Japanese, but you can guess what's going on).


So, Captain Ortega is attaked by pirates, his boat sinks and when he's at the bottom of the sea he sees the Snorks and makes a note of them in his log book.

Well now imagine Captain Ortega in a Tavern somewhere in deepest Bristol, or Brizzle, as the locals call it. Captain Ortega and his bluff old sea-dog mates drinking ale and farting and bedding wenches and so on. With his pipe lit and the fire place cracking away he begins a tale of his last voyage, his vessel was sunk by pirates and as he drifted to bottom of Davey Jones’ locker he saw a bunch of creatures with snorkels coming out of their heads looking through the glass at him and then swimming off. He’d explain how they were no bigger than a horse’s bollock and how they’d laughed and smiled at him.

Obviously, everyone would then laugh at Cap’in Ortega and shout har-harghhh me hearty, and then clap old Ortega on the back for spinning such a yarn and they’d be off bedding more wenches, giving them a different sort of clap.

Captain Ortega would of course, insist that it was true and show them his log book, but obviously without any real proof he’d have no chance at all of persuading them of these amazing creatures and he’d laugh too and then go off and die of scurvy and that would be the end of it.

Three hundred years later, some historian would discover his log book which detailed the meeting Ortega had with the Snorks and what would he conclude from such an incredible entry in an authentic Captains log? He’d think the dude was drunk at the time and had seen some crazy fish or something and no more would be thought of it.

However, swap the Snork for God and his logbook for the Bible and you can expect to be burnt if don’t damn well believe it’s true. No evidence required, only blind faith that what was detailed in that book is the word of Yahweh and you better believe it buddy boy or it’s a decent sized religious war you’ll have on your hands.

Fucking ridiculous. It’s actually more likely that there are real Snorks somewhere at the bottom of the sea than an all-omnipotent God overseeing everything. Evolution has produced some crazy looking critters, and who knows what’s down there in them Oceans.

The point is, if you want someone to believe in the extraordinary, the onus is on you to provide that extraordinary proof before you can expect the sceptics amongst us to believe it too.

But no, Christians, Muslims, Jews and so on are beyond criticism, cynicism and many other words ending in “ism,” they are extended a level of respect not afforded or enjoyed by any other group in any other walk of life.

Consequently, wars happen, people waiting to go to Spain on holiday get run over by burning Jeeps in the departure lounge and kids get raped on a daily basis by sexually ferocious Catholic Priests and all the victims can do is hope for financial recompense after they’ve satisfied the Catholic churches insurance policy assessor that they have indeed been sufficiently damaged physically and mentally to warrant a payout.

It's my birthday today. Thirty three; the double carpets in betting parlance. I celebrated with Horlicks. I'm in a cautious mood. The number 33 has featured significantly in my life. I feel this can only mean that this will either be a stupendous year for me, or, well, if you've read your New Testament..eek!

Taking anything George W. Bush has to say seriously has always been a challenge, but his talks with the Afghanistan President are taking the piss. The whole conference is one big double entendre.

The US president is called Bush, his Vice-President is called Dick and the Afghan President is called Kharzi. Well, Karzhai really, but if you say it in a posh accent it's still sounds like cockney rhyming slang for a toilet.

Even if their names weren't so school boyishly comical, the shite they're coming out with is impossible not to giggle away at. It's either giggle and hope they're not serious or not sleep at night.

Apparently, the Taleban are a defeated people. Cowards; no more harm can come from them, says President Shitter. "They're now reduced only to killing children on the way to school."

Oh, sorted then. If it's only the kids getting slaughtered at break time then we're quids in. All our soldiers who have been shot out there and had their guts dug out with spades (probably) and all the billions spent on this war and the fact that it has rejuvenated the heroine industry the Taleban had all but shut down, is fine, as long as it's only the wee kiddies that are being beheaded. Marvelous. Yay us, that's progress that is.

Or, back in the sane world, perhaps not. If a serial killer in this country had resorted to murdering school kids instead of say, taxi drivers, one could hardly begin to refer to him as a spent force. One may even suggest that he presents a more considerable threat.

In relation to the South Korean hostages held by the Taleban, Bush and Karzai agreed that compromise was not on the menu. "There's nothing on our menu except fried chicken and corny dogs," said Bush. No, he didn't say that really, but they did say that negotiations would produce no "quid pro quo" over the captives. He didn't know what that meant, but he said it anyway.

So good luck to those guys, who probably have names like Wan King and Fuk Mi. Serves them right really. I hate the arrogance of Christian groups who think they can troop about in the most dangerous and violent parts of the globe and expect exaggerated levels of respect because they're doing Gods work. Some one really should have told them, the last place you want to do Gods work, if your Gods name is Yaweh, is amongst the Taleban. You might as well send a bunch of Jewish Cub Scouts to Hitlers house for bob-a-job week.

The population of an Island paradise have been destroyed by aliens after failing to comply with the visitor's demands to hand over their entire supply of water melon and children.

Initial reports from eye witness accounts say the aliens from the planet Zspastix failed to give the Islanders the universal standard one Earth hour to comply with their demands, instead issuing only three Zspastix Xwanks, which is roughly four seconds in proper money.

Eye witness Xang Twang Gang Bang, 23, spoke of the terror inflicted on the Island by the Xspastix invaders; "a space ship landed and out came this dude, he said his planet had run out of water melon and kids and we had to hand ours over or they'd photon us.

"Anyone who has seen Star Trek will know that an Earth hour is the minimum any population here should be given to comply with demands from aliens, yet these guys gave us four seconds. That wasn't even enough time for us to shit ourselves."

A spokesman from the Xspastix Empire released a statement expressing their deepest apologies and regrets to the population of Xng in the Indian Ocean for it's loss and blamed the destruction by it's visiting army on an administration error.

"There was a typo in Captain Zxapps orders," read the statement. "He was instructed to allow the Island four Xtwats, which is roughly four Earth days, but the intern who typed out the orders had mistakenly made it Xwanks, which only gave the Island population a few seconds to comply before we melted them. Sorry about that."

Hate is a strong word. There are a handful of words I do my best to use sparingly, either because of their extreme connotations or because I’m not really sure what they mean and I don’t want to make a prat of myself by using them out of context. I’ll use them, I mean, as part of my extensive vocabulary, they have their place, but the moment has to be right. C@nt is an example of such a word. Hate is another. Indecorous is a third example.

In Daniel Negreanu’s case, hate is entirely justified, hate and c@nt actually. The seeds of my contempt for the man began to grow because of his hair, which was obviously receding and combing it forward in a ridiculous attempt to fool people into thinking he had a full head of hair was just insulting. That sort of hair-subterfuge just says, I think you people are idiots, and I can fool you. I’d like to see someone kick his teeth in just for that.

A further source of resentment for me is his diet; he’s a Vegan. Another reason why he should have his teeth kicked in. All vegetarians should have their teeth kicked out since they only eat lettuce. There are plenty of hockey players, pikeys, old people and tramps who are in need of the teeth vegetarians aren’t use. The fact that he gets his mammy to bring him his lunch when he’s playing is just pathetic. Grow up for fucks sake, you’re not nine.

Thirdly, he’s Canadian. Canadians are freaks. They’re sitting up there all cold and crime-less. I don’t trust any community that has no crime. Canada is like those worlds in Sci-Fi movies where everyone lives in perfect harmony, but it’s a creepy uneasy harmony. Everyone might be smiling, but their eyes betray them. There’s something deeply suspicious about the whole country. They also add the suffix, “eh” to every sentence as if they’re never sure about anything and need confirmation from a more intelligent mind. When someone acts weak, they're usually strong.

I’ve often felt that the Chinese were aliens and they were fixing to attack any time now, but an attempt at world domination is just as likely to come from Canada. Sun Tze’s maxim, adopted by poker players the world over, states one should act strong when weak and weak when strong; China has been involving itself in wars for centuries. Canada on the other hand just sits there as innocent as grandma, but a grandma with a gun under her frock I’ll wager.

Not that I’d be too concerned if a legion of Negreanues invaded, but not every Canadian is as weedy and pathetic looking and bald as him. See the NHL for examples of the toothless menace you don’t want to see scaling the white cliffs of Dover with heavy machine guns and shouting “charge eh.”

Barry Dawson, 56 from Radford near Coventry has confessed to friends that his obesity is not down to a liver condition; rather simply, he is just a fat bastard. Dawson, who works in West Bromich as an Estate Agent, hid his secret from close friends since childhood, but finally decided to reveal his all after the weight of the lies became far greater than the weight of his huge gut.

“I couldn’t keep it up loike,” said Barry. “My loife since I were a kid has been a pack of lies, so I just said to myself, alrooit, enough is enough, I can’t keep lying to everyone, including myself. So I got me mates together and told ‘em straight loike.”

On hearing the truth, that the huge chunks of flesh hanging off Barry’s bones were in fact the consequences of seven meals a day rather than a life threatening liver disease, Barry’s close circle of friends felt relieved his life was only in danger from heart disease and high cholesterol rather than a rapidly dissolving liver, but there was also a palpable sense of betrayal.

Mary Dangleflex 48, a close friend of Barry’s since they trapped off together down the grave yard when they were teenagers, explained her mixed emotions: “At first oi didn’t know what to feel. I’ve knooown Barriii for over thirty five years and I never had any secrets wiv ‘im, so this really ‘urt it did, it really ;urt. But I’m glad ‘is liver is ok though loike.”

Barry’s best friend, Wayne Cack, 55, also felt let down by his deception. “Oi remember once we had a flat tyre on the M6 and we let Barry steer, whoile me and the wife pushed the car for four miles to the nearest garage. Barry said his liver would burst if he pushed so we let him steer. The woife was six months pregnant at the toime too, but we love Barry and we didn’t want ‘im to ger’urt loike.

“When he first told us the truth I wanted to smash is bloody face in loike, but ‘e’s a mate isn’t he, so what can you do? It was ‘ard for ‘im to tell us the truth, but ‘e’s done it now and it’s water under the bridge, I forgive ‘im. I’m not sure the woife will though, she shit herself pushing that car, it was an hell of a mess,” laughed Wayne.

The real tragedy in Barry’s story is thousands of fat bastards like him are telling similar lies not just in poor horrible areas like Birmingham, Coventry and the North, but in affluent nice areas in the south, where children play in the street, unaware of the lies that lurk behind the curtains of their fat neighbours.