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Lewis Hamilton is moving to Switzerland because he cannot cope with the excessive public and media attention he now receives. "I go to the bathroom in a petrol station and people come in there asking for autographs."

Autographs Lewis?? Autographs!?? Think yourself lucky. If a lorry driver follows you into a petrol station bathroom he usually wants his cock sucked, you're getting off lightly (excuse the pun) with just giving him an autograph.

The temperatures have started to drop and jack frost has been nipping at my spuds, so today it was time to unhook the winter coats. I've always said there's only one thing in life sweeter than a mars bar with one end dipped in sugar and the other end dipped in the pink fleshy sex of a loose housewife, and that's finding money. As I stuffed my hands in my winter jacket pocket this afternoon my hand felt the silky texture of a £10 note which had nestled in their for the past eight months and I saw that it was good.

No wait... finding a tenner isn't sweeter than the mars bar thing, I meant it the other way round. It is good though and it paid for my lunch with a bit to spare. I had a McDonalds' sammich and coincidentally, a Mars bar; the dude at the drive-through window asked if I wanted any dips, I laughed hysterically and shouted COR, DO I EVER!!. He was close to calling his supervisor or the police as I roared off laughing. Bless him, he had no idea what delicious images were projected on the walls of my filthy mind.

Yes, so erm...anyway, I digress. Finding money I felt was a good omen with a game at the Fox on the cards this evening and so it proved to be as I ploughed through the field with relentless aggression. Grown men begged for mercy, and the tournament was at mine. I then took a wrong turn and shitcunted most of my chips away unnecessarily and ended up having to settle for third place. One hundred of our English monies and a bunch of points, but really, to quote Napoleon at the battle of Trafalgar, the victory should have been mine. Or theee victorwee shoot av been marne.

Another final table and what not, but really consistency is for people with sensible trousers and a side parting. The kind of people who always have a pen and don't ever fuck their wives. I want to win god damn it! I want to wear silly trousers and have two superbly defined side partings. I don't have a wife, but by the grace of god I'd fuck her on the hour every hour if I did; except for if she got fat obviously.

Oscar Wilde may have been a thundering whoopsie and anyone born in Dublin who dies in Paris ought to have their own section of hell waiting for them, fenced off and warmed up, but I like him, I admire his wit and philosophising and I shall venture to Walsall this weekend for the English APAT championship game, with his loathing of consistency in mind.

One must take ones chances in life. Whoever sets the agenda controls the outcome of the debate. Quite right, Noam. This of course, assumes I do get a seat. Elsewise I'll just tackle the tricky looking 1000 piece jigsaw I saw today propped up in the window of the spastics and christians charity shop in town. Woooo!

A long time ago in a betting shop far far away, I decreed that never again would I bet on Arsenal. The reason was because in order to have any chance of showing a profit with sports betting, one must remain objective and unemotional, but such is the power of blind faith, I had a habit of believing Arsenal could turn over anyone, even in the George Graham era. We couldn't, so I lost.

This chap on Betfair last night, I hope, has just learned the same harsh truth. Hee hee, I'm laughing as I post this. Just picturing him in his living room going f*cking mental. Aaah, poor everyone but me.

What's quite alarming about this outburst is that this guy is actually training to become a GP. He disclosed this information when someone suggested putting your entire betting bank on one single wager is bordering on lunacy. I wouldn't want to have my balls examined by this bloke the day after another Champions League disaster. Erm..Doctor, I've found a lump in my bollock. Yeah, well f*ck off and die of cancer then you c*nt, NEXT!

I love the way gamblers justify their bets that have gone south. His rational here seems to be; we'd have won if we'd have won. Nice one fella. Hee hee.

Back in Nam they used to say "what happens in the field stays in the field." This was possibly because the G.I's used to go around arbitrarily cutting of the heads of villagers and raping hogs and they didn't want these minor indiscretions discussed where prosecuting ears may be listening. So with this prudent agreement in mind I shall have to miss out one or two details of my trip to Slovenia, it's best this way and while other events described in this entry will be true, names will be changed to protect identities.

I must concede that in my youth I was a bit of a rascal. I gave not much thought to the consequences of my actions and consequences there were plenty. I developed a habit of finding myself on the wrong side of the law whenever I went anywhere and so, even though I have matured and been civilised since, on this trip I decided I would not leave the hotel. I would be safe from my own inner demons if I kept them confined to the mirrored walls of the casino and I would leave the drinking and debauchery to the other 14 members of our party and I would return to Blighty safe and if the poker gods were with me, I may even return with a few quid, or euros in this case.

As George W. Bush once mistakenly announced; MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. Not once did I even see the law, let alone venture towards the wrong side of it. And I did return with euros. Phew! So to recap, the plan was to play in two tournaments; the €360+40 freeze-out and the €550+50 double-chance freeze-out. In the €360+40 freeze-out I got nowhere and once again I didn't make the dinner break (I missed it by 35 seconds) ...I wasn't paying attention to the time and threw my few remaining chips in with nothing only to run into..erm..let's call him Donald, who had pocket kings.

At this point I decided that the bargain 80 cent glasses of wine looked appealing and subsequently donked off about 50 euros on the stuff and a further 300 euros at the cash tables. It's hard to take this currency seriously so at this point without fully comprehending how much I had lost and how much I had drunk, I laughed, said my goodnights and negotiated my way to my room where I think I may have slipped into a mild coma. I heard tell the next morning of a small British gentleman almost drowning in the fountain after miscalculating its depth, but as yet this rumour is unconfirmed.

The hang-over that greeted me when I woke up on Friday morning was brutal. Imagine waking to find an Orangutan straddling your chest and him punching you in the face as soon as you open your eyes. With only a few hours to go before the €550 tournament, the chances of my even being able to dress myself let alone play poker were about the same as an Italian man moving out of his mother's house before his 30th birthday.

But play I did, and thank fuck for that as I dodged and weaved myself to fourth place for €2,782, very narrowly missing out on at least third place and a €6,000 pay-out when my AK was beaten by an AJ. It was still the biggest pay day for me at the poker tables and although for the most part, it was a tedious attritional grind, I was pleased with the evenings work and there were at least a few pockets of comedy and excitement to keep me from slipping back into my earlier coma.

As the later stages of the tournament progressed a hand brought an astonishing outburst of Incredible Hulk proportions from a guy who did actually look like the Hulk. Sort of a cross between Fabrizio Ravanelli and the Hulk. He lost a pot when his pocket 5's were between by an AQ. It was nothing to get excited about, but the Italians are a passionate people and this guy was very very Italian. The gist of his rambling yet beautifully sounding diatribe was basically, "you cunt, how could you call with Ace Queen?" The poor chap who had made the call though was short stacked and wearing pink jeans so what was he supposed to do?

This was great theatre though. In England in any of our regional accents you'd have wanted the guy escorted from the premises, but in Italian it sounded like a contemporary opera and I was in awe. I've said this before, the Italians, however cowardly they may be by nature, are the coolest people. They can wear the shittest clothes and look fantastic, except for some of the older dudes who wear leather jackets and just look like the worst kind of sexual predator. Anything they say, even if they're just ordering a glass or Orangina sounds beautiful.

Their coolness is exceeded only by their baffling religious fanaticism. As we got down to 12 and with the final two tables six handed one lady had her friend sat next to her. She was short stacked and every time the chips went in, her lady friend busted out her rosaries and started praying. No shit! I thought this was hilarious. I tried to explain that if their was a God, first of all, would he not be pissed off with your gambling habit? Is God really going to help you sin? Secondly, even if God didn't mind, you're up against another Roman Catholic, so why should he help you more than the other dude? Finally, if he wanted you to win he wouldn't have allowed you to get so short stacked in the first place.

She didn't speak a word of English so my arguments were lost on her, but the dealer agreed and winked at me which I took as a sign that she'd like pour olive oil on me and slide around on me for an hour or two. But anyway, I digress. So I finished fourth and with 4 members of the Fox card club on the final table of nine - 3 finishing in the top 4 - we were all rather impressed with our performance and I felt it gave credence to my opinion that if you can win a game in the Fox, you can win anyway. Right on!!

Meanwhile, out in the dirty world, it was carnage. I shan't go into details but suffice to say there was a brothel about 100 yards from the hotel. When I got home I found a message from er..let's say, Clive, on my mobile which I hadn't taken with me, that simply said, I have just received a blowie from the best looking women in Slovenia.

An image in my mind of such an encounter still remains and will put me off my food for some days to come. Almost as sickening as the image that greeted Donald as he return to the room he was sharing with Clive. I think his exact words were. "fucking hell, there were two sets of bollocks flying around in the room." Thailand it seems does not have a monopoly of dual-gendered intrigue.

Evidently, things were also occurring elsewhere...immoral on the scale of the old testament and by golly thank god I wasn't near it all. I mean really, who wants to spend an entire three days drinking and thundering away at the local brass, stopping only for a short nap and some toast? Not me I tell you. Not me. I mean the thought of nibbling away at the succulent starboard poont of some foreign whore of babylon when I could be in my room watching Superman in Italian just seems ridiculous. No regrets from me, that's what I always say. God didn't want that woman to win at poker so I'm sure he wouldn't want me indulging in such immoral miscreance. Oh but wait.."Rejoice oh young man in thy youth" -- Ecclesiastes 11:9.

Wooooo - one ticket back to Slovenia please.

October 3rd, 1957 is his date of birth. I'm genuinely shocked by this. I knew he was no spring chicken, but Jesus, my Dad is only 57. Oh no, is he someones Dad?? He could conceivably have 30 year old progeny. Oh the shame of it. Incidentally, if you're unaware of whom I speak, Tim Westwood was Sacha Baron Cohen's inspiration for his Ali G character. White man from the English middle classes who thinks he's from South Central L.A.

See how much of this you can endure.

Now then, I'm off to Slovenia tomorrow. If you're not familiar with the place, it borders Italy, Austria, Hungary and Croatia. It's famous for it's singing goats and they say the women smell of strawberries. I'm going for the poker though.

Two tournaments initially. A €360 freeze-out and €550 double-chance freeze-out. The goal is to win about €20,000 and head to Vegas for Christmas. I just came up with that idea and I like it. Realistically the plan is just to win something, anything, so I don't spend the rest of the year at home, alone, cold in the darkness. At the very least I want to still be involved when we reach the dinner break. So bad have my recent efforts been, that I have now cruelly been nicknamed the buffet queue kid. The most ironic nickname in poker today.

A quick peruse through the casino's web pages and I came across this picture. This funny looking little chap is Dario Minieri. He's Italian, a Roman. They nicknamed him Harry Potter at this years WSOP main event cause he had a wee cold bless him and sported a Roma Scarf to keep the cold out, which did indeed make him look uncannily like Harry Potter and Potter himself couldn't have bested the trick he performed to make over 2,000,000 chips disappear into thin air.


A good novel they say reveals the truth about the hero. A bad novel reveals the truth about the author. A good point there and one which translated into poker language means, making good decisions consistently means you win, even when you lose, winning only by getting lucky means you lose even when you win. Or something. I don't know. I'm confusing myself now. Ours not to wonder why, ours but to do or die. Let's just play.

I have just watched Spiderman 3 for the first time. I like Spiderman, I've got a Spiderman tattoo you know. I got it done when I was 19, waaaaay before all the recent Spiderman razzmatazz.

Anyway so, Spiderman 3; cool it was too. No way as cool as the 70's Spiderman films with Nicholas Hammond, but awesome nonetheless. I gave a huge high five to myself after I finished watching it, then I had some cake.

I bought an iPod today, one of those Nano efforts. The sales lass, probably about 17 years old, asked me if I wanted the three year warranty. I initially said no, but she said she recommended it because these things are rubbish and don't work sometimes. I'm not even paraphrasing, those were her exact words. I asked her whether they were even worth buying then if they were so temperamental. I sensed her inner monologue had just "D'oh'd" at her poor sales pitch and she then went on to explain how they were cool but there were the odd cases where they stopped working for no apparent reason.

Sir Menzies Campbell has resigned as the leader of the Liberal Democrats!! Oh no, oh my god, I don't believe it! What ever shall we do? Somebody, quick, ...call somebody!

Ha, see what I did there? That was sarcasm, cause really, an irrelevant party to Britain's political process losing their leader who was about 90 and Scottish with a ridiculous first name, replaced - probably by that wonky faced Estonian dude with an even more ridiculous name - is as sensational as H from Steps declaring himself a whoopsie.

I predict the Liberals' approval rating will sky rocket from about 15% to nearly 16% before the next General Election in 2009.

I'm still pretty hyper from earlier so it goes without saying this entry won't make any sense.

So, the other day 'A Beautiful Mind' was on TV. Russel Crowe starring, an adaption of the biography by Sylvia Nasar of the life and times of John Forbes Nash. I didn't watch it all cause I don't really like films about mentalists, so I'm still confused as to why it's called the Beautiful Mind.

Ostensibly this is about a mathematics dude who goes crazy cause he thinks the Russians are after him and he shags one of his students and eventually he wins the Nobel Prize for mathematics. Fair do's, but what's beautiful about his mind pray tell?

If from his mind were born wonderful sculptures or poems or novels or musical compositions, then fair enough, these things are beautiful..but what's so beautiful about doing long division quickly? Is a calculator beautiful? I think not. That's the sort of thing the Germans might find beautiful, but people with emotions and a soul ought to just view it as genius.

Not that I'm belittling genius, some of those crazy autistic freaks can do mind boggling stuff, it's fascinating, it's just not beautiful; especially when you do something seemingly innocuous like pat them on the shoulder and they suddenly fly into a violent rage and you end up having to chain them to a radiator or something.

As for nobel prizes, I think Al Gore as demonstrated what a nonsense they are and I think the less said about knobbing your students the better.

Thumbs down from me I'm afraid Hollywood.

Purchase a 2 litre bottle of Diet Coke and some Mento's...the fruity flavoured ones if possible. Take your purchases outside somewhere, pop the top off the bottle and drop a couple of Mento's in....oh and quickly stand back.

This is the kind of thing that could gain you God like status on an island untouched by civilisation.

Oooooh ooga-chooga white man wizard and so on.

That's a medium cappuccino. A Medium for heavens sake! I'm f*cked now after drinking that. Why so big Mr Costa? It's nice coffee but now I feel awful. I feel as if I've got a hang-over and Parkinson's disease. I'm also in that horrible no-mans land of feeling hungry but having no appetite for anything. What must a large size be like? And what condition must a person be in after consuming such a belt of caffeine?

OK so the South Africans will give us a pasting in the final, but any time we beat France, even if it's at conkers, we can all find cause to rejoice.

So this will be just a few rambling outbursts with no real points or opinions raised, so if you have something better to do, which in real terms means if you're not in a coma, then you may want to skip this entry.

So, let's catch up, let's chat Hilary Clinton style. How are you all anyway? I've been to Bristol twice recently. That's an amusing accent. Brizzle. Nice enough people; the kind of people you'd worry about if they had to travel to a big city, bless them. They are city folk I suppose, but hicks at the same time.

Anyways, I obviously went there to play poker. I only go any place to play poker. I did pretty badly in the first one. And as bad as you can possibly do in the second as I was out first. I made the final table (with one single chip) of the third and final tournament, which was a rootin' tootin' 20 minute clock £10 freeze-out, so that's 90% luck anyway and I was also second man out of a game on Monday night last.

What this means, is that while I have been unlucky to a degree, my poor performances have been mainly due to playing like a c*nt. C*nts poker won't get me too far when I head to Slovenia in a couple of days to play in what will be the biggest buy-in tournaments of my poker playing life. Therefore in the time that is left before my flight, I shall be going back to poker school taught by Professors Brunson, Harrington, Gordon, Hellmuth and Lake.

On a final poker note, I'd like to apologise to Daniel Negreanu. I doubt if he still reads my blog after I was so nasty to him, but if he does, I hope he forgives me. I still don't think there's any excuse for a member of the human race - the species at the pinnacle of the food chain - to be a vegetarian, but he's a very good poker player and for this he deserves respect. I doubt if he'd have gone out first at the Brizzle games anyhoo, not with the cards I was playing anyway.


Do you know who Thomas Midgley Jr. is? Possibly the most tragic man in human history. Tony Blair was always concerned about his legacy, but his issues were spilt milk compared to this fella. He was the dude who first discovered that putting lead in petrol reduced knocking. Obviously completely oblivious to the harmful effects on the environment and peoples health - including his own as he was struck down with lead poisoning.

To atone for his honest blunder and to reverse the damage he had done to the environment he knuckled down and developed a non-toxic and safe refrigerant for household appliances to replace the toxic and potentially explosive efforts that were available at the time. The fruits of his research however, coming in the shape of "Freon," were to be even more poisonous to the human race.

In science speak he had discovered dichlorodifluoromethane. Which the science boffins amongst you will recognise as a chlorinated fluorocarbon; or CFC to the layman. In an attempt to reverse his devastatingly poisonous lead fuels, he destroyed a huge percentage of the Ozone layer giving any number of people and nice children, cancer and causing further environmental damage. To coin a phrase, "D'oh."

Depending on your point of view, his luck took a further downturn or fate took pity on him and put him out of his misery. Midgley developed polio and strangled himself on a harness he had built to help him get in and out of bed. I'm laughing as I type this, but it's not funny really is it..it's tragic (snigger).

I can just see him now swinging by his neck on his harness slowly choking to death. Probably a suicide attempt I reckon, but still, the irony!


I've developed a taste for Diet Coke lately. It's nice really, and I've found my dreams are less frenetic too if I drink the stuff before going to bed than drinking the sugered up stuff. I dreamed (dreamt?) that I bashed my own head in with a hammer a few weeks ago. I woke up in a sweat and told myself, "Rich man, you've got to drink less fat coke."


In other news; I'm really not happy about the tax payer forking out £10million for another enquiry into how Diana Princess of Eeeeeerales was killed. Not when that money could be going to me. This is like our version of the Kennedy assassination. You can have as many trials and enquiries as you want, but Mohammed Al Fayed will never accept that she and her son weren't gunned down by MI5 or the Cubans or somethings. My theory is she was giving the driver a blow job when they crashed.

I know I wouldn't be able to steer straight in a tunnel if she was sucking my magic sap out of me and there's no denying she loved a bit of cock. They do say the more relaxed you are in a crash the better your chances of survival and the driver was the only one who survived. How much more relaxed can a man be than post oral-coital bliss? I mean reeeally, a world class footballer can endure 90 minutes of sheer hell and recover after a ten minute shower and bottle of lucozade, but he's asleep within seconds when he's shot his bolt into a page three girl.


Finally, I'm sick of people insisting that bears are cute. Bears are seven feet tall and they weigh 40 stone, A bear will rip your child's face to pieces if he has so much as a gob stopper in his mouth. When you think bear think Grizzly, not Winnie. That's all I'm asking.

Why does Al Gore get a Nobel Peace prize for his alarmist approach to global warming awareness? All he's done is scare the hell out of people with very suspect analysis and tales about drowning polar bears. Global warming has nothing to do with peace anyway and he's a fat bastard now.

Anyhoo, let's not forget that had this doucebag hired some decent lawyers during the 2000 US presidential election nonsense, the world would have never had to suffer George Bush's administration and consequently the world wouldn't be in it's most unstable volatile state since the second world war. If this is a Nobel Peace Prize winner, who's getting the prize for literature this year? David Beckham?

If there's one thing that'll make my bowels dissolve instantly, it's spiders. Spiders and Prawn Madras as it goes. But I had to stop a moment and admire this web attached to my wheelie bin this afternoon. That spiders 'house' juxtaposed to my house reminded me just how beautiful nature can be and how ugly..no it didn't really..I lost interest in admiring it after 30 seconds or so and then I went inside and watched Top Gun. Turn and Buuuuurn etc Wooooooooooo.

Look at the size of this strawberry. I've held it up next to a Pepsi can for scale. Huge. It took me four bites to eat it.

The End.

Try referring to women as totty without feeling like you should be wearing tweed. It's very difficult. Anyway, so which is the most appealing beer/totty combination; A,B or C?

C. Fosters' (I know she's a bit minging, but I ran out of combinations. This seemed funny when I first thought it up, not quite so now but I've come too far to stop. So to speak)

Marion Jones has pleaded guilty to pumping chemicals into her bloodstream on a regular basis during her athletics career and is now pleading for forgiveness because she is very very sorry.

Not forced attrition you understand, she's not confessing because it may save her fast-ass from prison, no no no, she's very sincere, she even cried and asked the almighty God for forgiveness too.

The same God who she thanked for winning her the Gold medals she's now saying she didn't deserve. Huh? How does that work then? If there was a God, he obviously didn't mind that you were cheating Marion cause he would have sent down a lightning bolt to stop you winning, so there's no need to ask for his forgiveness.

To be fair, there's no need to ask for anyone elses either in real terms. It's hardly a sensation is it. USA SUPERSTAR ATHLETE CONFESSES TO TAKING STEROIDS. Oh..wow, you don't say. Shit, I don't believe it. I mean reeeeeeally, if there's a single world class athlete out there who isn't taking some sort of chemical performance enhancer, then more fool them.

I've been saying for years steroid supplementation ought to be compulsory. Especially in the Tour de France. Jaysus, the human body was not built to ride a bike for 200 miles a day, up mountains. You can spot the guys in that race that aren't doped up, they're the ones who pass out and shit themselves and then slip into coma's.

Looky here now, take a decent look at your average retired athlete. Someone who's been retired for about 5-10 years who was at the top of their field in whatever sport they competed in; they're usually a physical wreck after a few years of retirement. Most of them can hardly walk. And it's got to be because the demands of the sport are too much for a wee human to tolerate. Without a substantial program of, ....well, substances, you might win people's respect for being 'clean', but you probably won't be able to walk when you're 40. Banana's and pasta are just not gonna cut it.

So anyway, I'd have more respect for Ms Jones if she'd just said looky here people, I took me some steroids, but I was still fucking good, that weren't no machine running them races, that was me, flesh and blood and you jolly well enjoyed watching me so who cares what petrol I was using? And aaaand, she may well have a knackered liver and kidney's and the fella's may have to lose a testicle, but that sort of surgery can be done over the weekend, lot easier than having new knees and a spine fitted, just ask Christopher Reeves, the ultimate clean guy. Right on!


Incidentally, there's a pretty simple way of spotting someone on steroids. Their bodies tend to look like they're sculpted out of plastecine. Something to do with lack of water or moisture in the body, probably why footballers get cramp so often late in games too. There's a definition in the muscles of your average basic doped up athlete that can't be achieved naturally. See Kelly Holmes suddenly out of the blue, winning two gold medals as an example. She looked like something out of that He-Man cartoon. Who cares though..what would the cat owning divorcee's in this country have to cheer about if she'd stayed clean?

Not cause I'm bored or noffin, but this would be how I see things this evening. If you're a gambling man/wooman, I suggest you do not follow these predictions.

So anyway, yes. I may not be 100% here, but I do know that the British teams always have a good day and a shit day, which is to say if the British teams do well on Toosday, the British teams playing on Wednesday will do not so very well and vice-versa. Since all British teams won yesterday, even Rangers!..I predict a most piss poor showing from the other three tonight. I shall now have some chocolate mousse.