VPU

Now then. It's open. Finally. Dusk Till Dawn. Europe's swankiest poker venue. I shall sample its delights later this evening. I'm hearing only good things about the place. Obviously I'm expecting it to be just like this place:

Alright now what the fuck is going on? Stop the world, stop the fucking world. Shhhhhhh QUIET!! Thank you.

Now then, have I understood this correctly; am I to accept as a British citizen that one of our school teachers working in Sudan is to be sent to prison or receive 40 lashes because she allowed her class of wee ones to name a teddy bear Mohammed?

I've got this straight have I? We're allowing this to happen? Deep breaths, deeeeep breaths. Woooooosh woooooosh ocean noises, wooosh, in with the good air out with the bad. 1..2..3..4..5..6...ARE YOU FUCKING SHITTING ME!!

There was a time not too long ago when anyone uncivilised and stupid enough to harm a hair on a British citizen would meet the wrath of H.M Armed forces no matter how far away or what the cost.

Field Marshall Robert Napier hiked his way across 400 miles of mountains in Abyssinia in 1868 with his army just to rescue a couple of diplomats and crazy missionaries - who I would argue are worth significantly less than a teacher - from Emperor Tewodros II who mistakenly assumed he was a match for John Bull. I don't know what the Amharic translation for "d'oh" might be, but I imagine that may have been his last word before he blew the back of own head wide open with a gun which ironically was a present from Queen Victoria. Wicked sense of humour old Vicky, gawd bless her.

But not now though. Today we've probably apologised to the Government of Sudan for any offense and sent them a few billion quid in gold bullion by way of recompense. I don't generally have much sympathy for anyone from Liverpool, but it's hard to really appreciate how much bullshit this is. Muslim's really; are you honestly telling me that your God and his side-kick are so fucking vein and insecure they can't stand to be compared to a bear? A fucking teddy bear?

Would they not seek out his own vengance anyway? And I notice you're not flogging the kids...they named the bastard thing Mohammed, not the teacher. Shouldn't you be flogging them too if you feel this is such an unforgivable blasphemy?

Speaking off punitive flogging for blasphemy, you do realise what a contradiction it is don't you? I mean by punishing blasphemy you're actually blaspheming yourself. You're essentially saying God and his prophet need us to do their dirty work for them. You're saying they're a couple of pussies and need you to fight their battles. Your all omnipotent, all powerful omniscient God is afraid of school kids and a teacher from Toxteth so we better punish them so he doesn't cry.

If Mohammed really was that insecure you'd receive a lightning bolt to the face the moment your whip splits that poor womans skin open. Gordon Brown's response, "I'm surprised and disappointed." Oh well gee, thanks. It's great to know our Government is right behind us should we come unjustly unstuck abroad.

Me as Prime Minister...well I'm afraid you'd need more than a fictictious sky fairy to help you out of the trouble I'd give you. I'd fuck the Iraq and Afghanistan 'wars' and I'd send every regiment to Sudan instead, I'd bring the scally woman home, send all the Sudanese kids and women to Canada and I'd burn the entire fucking country Napier style and let's just see how quick Allah is to help you as you try and put the flames out on each other's backs in a country that hasn't seen rainfall since 1923.

One more thing...calm now. Seriously, who are these clerics that are always wanting cartoonists, authors and teachers whipped and blown to pieces? Does anyone appoint them? Has anyone actually consented to having these people represent them? No, I didn't think so.

Forty lashes could kill this woman. I sincerely hope the British Government do everything in their powers to reverse this sentence. If not to send a message to extremists, if not to encourage the rest of the world to treat our citizens with respect, if not to encourage the muslim world to calm the fuck down, then at the very least to prevent Liverpudlians from playing the martyr yet again and giving them an excuse for another fucking minutes silence at Anfield and Goodison.

Those people can't wait to get up in the morning to feel persecuted and have a minutes silence over something. They love it. Ken Bigley, Hillsbrough, the screening process for income support, anything. Cruel but they do...they do. No, but day do doh don't dee doh? Day do, day do doh don't dee doh?

Check flight prices to Vegas for Christmas Day and New Years Eve. How classy. It's all the class Christmas deserves. The tackiest holiday of the year in the city of tack. All you can eat roast turkey baby YEAH!

Woooo.

If you don't think this is funny then I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do for you.

The half-arsed autopsy into the death of English football continues and it's all getting a little bit tedious. You don't have to be Quincy to work out why we have failed yet again and you don't have to be Nostradamus to foresee future disasters.

This has nothing to do with our inability to nurture young talent at the grass roots level. Holland have the best football academies in the world and have never won the World Cup. It has nothing to do with a lack of passion either. We're fanatical to the point of Nationalism. And it certainly has nothing to do with the "foreign" players in our domestic football. England won fuck all between 1967 and 1995 when this influx began.

It's simply a case of colonial guilt. We don't want to win. We feel guilty at the thought of duffing up other countries again, even in sport. It's sweet of us really. Spain and Portugal are the same. Once great nations, huge empires, and now completely impotent because of their national conscience. Now they spend their time asleep or taking their frustrations out on doped up bulls.

Italy and France are exceptions, but look how long it took them to get over their contrition. Two thousand years in Italy's case. And France...actually, no not France, they're abject cowards who have just failed simply because they were consistently shit. We're not though. We have the skills, we have the tools, we just don't want to use them. Consequently, we have no winning mentality and we need to find one. Simple as that. We need to give ourselves a cuddle and accept that it's just sport, it's ok to win.

Unfortunately for England's fans, the dude in charge of putting things right is blind to these clear observations and the same mistakes will be made again. One can't find answers when one doesn't even know the questions. So he'll continue to search for solutions where are there are no problems and England will have an empty calendar in the summer of 2010.

Speaking of which: Can someone explain to me how Kazakhstan are in England's World Cup qualifying group? Since when is this country in Europe? It borders China for fuck's sake. It's 3,500 miles away and everyone of it's neighbouring countries that are involved in the World Cup are all in the Asian section. Except Russia obviously but that's only because there's a bit of Russia in every continent.

Kazakhstan is most definitely entirely in Asia though. To get there you have to fly to Islamabad in Pakistan and then it's donkeys and yaks due north through the central Asian desert, through Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan to Almaty. Forgive me for doubting the commitment of our playing staff, but I can foresee a number of niggling injuries flaring up amongst the England squad a few days prior to this fixture.

Call me cynical but I just can't see Ashley Cole chomping at the bit to make the 7,000 mile round trip to what is essentially, a different planet just to help England sneak into the play-offs for the World Cup held in what the United Nations have classified as the most dangerous country in the world not officially at war. Oh well, who cares?


Since Arsenal stopped picking English players and therefore had no representatives in the national side, I started following Mexico. They have a cool kit and their anthem is excellent. Also, their female fans don't mind getting their bouncers out in celebration. If you want to have an interest in the next World Cup and save yourself an ulcer I suggest you do the same. Think of it like adopting a panda or an elephant; just £2 a month etc only this is free.

How is it possible a custom built expedition ship can sink after hitting ice in the Antarctic? Surely, the one thing this thing ought to be fortified against given that it's sole purpose is cruising through a region of the world perpetually iced over, is damage from hitting fucking ice, no?

This is up there with the MoD's purchase of eight Chinoock helicopters that couldn't be flown in cloudy weather and Wembley stadium which cost £800m and doesn't have a roof.

I laughed at this. We were in a pharmacy surrounded by hundreds of boxes of remedies and potions all of which looked fairly similar and Valerie was quite certain if he were allowed behind the counter to peruse the shelves he could pick out the exact medication he had been given earlier. This I thought to myself, was a woman who clearly leaves the day to day mothering duties to the nanny while she traps off with the help in the pool house.

The pharmacist surely will now diplomatically inform her that this was not possible and suggest a few medications which may be suitable? No. A great idea apparently and off he went behind the counter scratching his head and chin and arm-pits, staring up at boxes and bottles of medication for haemorrhoid's, acid indigestion and herpes.

Eventually he zeroed in on a couple of boxes he felt were his cough syrup, however the pharmacist was adamant this was not the one and quickly suggested Benylin. Quite right too, unless the source of his cough was his menstrual cramps or vaginal thrush. Valerie, looking sheepish, said we'll take all of them and some stamps and off they went. Outside the kid wheezed himself up into their 4x4 and Valerie caught my eye. I hope your itchy twat feels better soon, says I. "Thanks," says Valerie, "I'm sure he'll be fine by Monday."

Haha, no that last bit isn't true, the rest is though. Parents today, I ask you.


Sport now and Sky Sports News' hysterical coverage of England's futile search for a saviour is really starting to get tedious. It's all very melodramatic typical of Rupert Murdoch's approach to news casting.

Essentially if there is no news make it appear as if there is. Hence, six of seven news tickers running across the screen and various lists of completely irrelevant facts and figures listed on the side and in the corner of the screen, the news readers who appear to be saying something but you can't take any of it in because of all the other pointless bullshit you're trying to process at the same time. It has me in quite a daze I can tell you.

Now then, this is a congratulatory celebratory blog entry. Oli Lewington; I’ve never been comfortable with the length of your hair - being a traditional short back and sides kinda guy I always feel slightly uneasy around blokes with hair longer than the length of a Topic - but you’re a decent enough chap and I’m hearing that you’ve just been given a precious gift and not a more deserving chap can I think of to receive it.

This won’t mean an awful lot to anyone else reading this. Oli and I have very little in common, except Cystic Fibrosis. By all accounts Oli has in the last 24 hours breezed through a lung transplant operation and as I understand it, has today enjoyed a nice salad (salad! Gayer) sammich, which maybe for the first time in his life he was able to chew and swallow without feeling like he’d just negotiated a steep flight of stairs carrying a heavy suitcase.



For Oli I could not be happier. For me, a moment of reflection: mixed emotions overwhelm when things like this occur. I feel elation for Oli of course, but a sense of jealousy and envy too as I have turned down this opportunity for a new life and one can’t help asking the question, am I a fool? Ha, this was meant to be a celebratory entry, but sod it, it’s my blog and I’ll whine if I want to.

I’ve been through this dilemma many times before and I always feel secure that I am right and I still do. I would dearly love to know how it feels to take a really deep breath, and I am jealous of anyone with real physical strength, but everything else a transplant offers has no real value to me. In a nutshell I don’t and never really have felt the world was a rewarding enough place for me to fight that hard to stay in it. I’m a Logan’s Run kinda guy. I think three decades is more than enough time to experience what life has to offer. I’ve experienced and I have no regrets.

I like to discuss these things with myself over coffee once in a while, but dwelling on them never helps so let’s end here, you pay’s your money and you takes your choc-ice. Back to the celebratory aspect of the blog, Oli, this one’s for you. Sing along if you know the words.

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Hang on that's a bit gay isn't it. Let's have something more macho and lung related, I don't want people thinking I'm a whoopsie.

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I'm just hearing in my ear that to qualify for the Special Olympics you don't actually need a physical disability. Learning disabilities are enough to get you in. There's scope (excuse the pun) here for England to redeem themselves. I'm not sure if I'd play Joe Cole on the left or in the middle in a kind of diamond formation for Lamps and Gerrard, but either way the current national side may not be able to qualify for Euro 2008, but a Bronze medal in the Special Olympics must surely be within their compass particularly when you consider the German side has a left winger with one leg and the Spanish teams' centre-backs are Siamese twins. Come on England, do us proud!

Speaking of mongers, have a look at this:


Is it me or is this not just a little bit patronising? I may have missed something but Autism is surely a mental disability rather than a physical one no? If this kid can shoot six three-pointers in a couple of minutes it does rather beg the question, why the fuck was he not in the side on a regular basis?

This is not one of those god awful Chicken Soup for the Soul stories about some physical mongaloid who dribbles who gets to play baseball with the normal kids and they let him hit the winning home run and his parents weep as the team cheers and carries him shoulder high back to the special kids' bus; that's patronising enough, but the dude in this film actually can play and he appears to be articulate and has a complete knowledge of the tactics and rules of the game, so really the only reason he hasn't played would appear to be ignorance of his condition and what he's capable of. Throwing him a bone by letting him play doesn't really reflect well on those people. I think. It's early, but I think I'm right.


Continuing with the monger theme. What a pathetic sorry image this is. Poor ickle Steve with his brolly trying to keep his half barnet from getting wet.

I've never felt so alive. This truly was an historical astonishing failure. The worst since the Battle of Hastings the Sun are probably saying. Shame Eduardo didn't score, but what a fantastic result nontheless. This is great news from my point of view because I really resent the England national team and the morons who follow it in vans with little St George's flag attached to the roof. But even England supporters should breath a sigh of relief that England have failed to qualify from a group containing six countries who's combined population is less than London's. Except for Russia.

I say this is good news, obviously it leaves a lot of people with nothing to get excited about next summer, but for England's World Cup prospects in 2010 this was the best possible outcome. Steve McClaren will now have to accept that his vocation in life was never meant to be International football, he's a photocopier salesman at best and good luck to him.

Who though, who though, shall replace him and put things right again. Again? Who will put things right. My money is on no one as it's really the players who are to blame because they don't care. I've explained why previously, so let's not get into that again. Slavan Bilic hit the nail on the head in his interview this evening when he stated Croatia were simply a better team; team being the operative word. Not necessarily better players, but certainly a better team. They didn't need to win, they had already qualified, but they did win, because they are a proud nation and the players are as proud as the fans.

Anyways...from a punting point of view as this is really the only point of interest for me, the next England manager market represents some intriguing possibilities as no one single dude stands out. This may represent some value in the form of Alan Shearer at around 16/1 and more intriguingly Steve Bruce at 66/1 who suspiciously did not become Wigan's new manager today for no apparent reason.

Obviously Steve Bruce has achieved fuck all in the way of managerial success, but neither had McClaren, Glenda Hoddle or Kevin Keegan. They were English though and thanks to Sven's horrendous tenure, 'foreigners' are a no no for the national coach. Steve Bruce at least won things as a player. He's also from the north-east as is Shearer and this seems to be of significance for some reason.

So then, a few shillings on Messrs Shearer and Bruce to replace McClaren and why not?

I just happened to be flicking through Decembers issue of Cosmopolitan. I bought it by accident when I went out for a copy of Screw-Fix Direct. They had similar colours on the covers. Anyways, I was astonished at how you could fit such a load of crap and bullshit in one magazine, but it has cleared a few things up for me - not just the dog shit on my front lawn either. I now fully appreciate why men and women have such problems communicating and how a simple conversation can have both parties walking off wondering what the hell it was all about.

Women; you people have got to try and start thinking for yourselves. A relationship is not a business contract, or it's not meant to be. There really shouldn't be a series of clauses and sub-clauses on how the thing will be conducted. The fun is in the exploring. You will make mistakes, you will get confused and it will all end in crushing disappointment, frustration, anger and on some occasions, restraining orders. However, what sets us apart from the animals is our ability to kid ourselves time and time again that our soul mates are indeed out there, waiting for us and they probably even drink in the same pub as us, or work in the same department as us at work. So why tie yourself to one loser cause Cosmo promises to turn him into a winner?

Look at this nonsense on page 54. Four things your man dare not tell you;

1. He has a stash of porn
2. He wants more oral sex
3. He hates it when you're more successful than he is
4. He's more loyal to you than he is to his buddies

Huh? What? Looky here now. I dispute number three as it goes, but anyway..these are things we don't want to tell you? NO! These are things we'd assume you already know and things no one ought to care about anyway.

From a chaps point of view, I'd assume you knew I looked at porn. I won't have a physical stack of Asian babes under the mattress - the Internet means I no longer have to subject myself to the humiliation of being tutted at by an old woman in a cardigan in the newsagents now that every conceivable type of filth and depravity is available at the click of a mouse - but I will obviously surf these bongo sites on a regular basis and you wouldn't have to open my history folder to realise this.

If you assumed your man doesn't look at porn. Do get over yourself. I'm afraid it's true, your man does still wank. It's not cause you don't turn him on though sweetie, although if you've been together longer than say, two months, I doubt if you do. This is simply something chaps do when there's nothing on telly. It's a cathartic exercise. Self-comfort if you will; like how you people spend three hours on the phone without actually saying anything; blokes don't assume by this that you no longer find their own conversation stimulating so do try not to obsess over your husbands/boyfriends need to crack one off after you've gone to work.


More oral sex? If you're unaware that your man wants more oral sex, then I'm astonished that you've even managed to pull at all. However, I'm also astonished that some men seem to enjoy this more than sex. A blowie is a stimulant, in my book. Like the Lucozade before a race or soup before a meal, it's something to prepare you for what you're really there for. We won't go into technique today, but what I will say ladies is next time you bitch and moan about your man's oral competence do bear in mind you may not be any good either. This is partly because neither of you know what you're doing but more importantly, you don't know why you're doing it. See my leaflet entitled, "OK honey, that's enough" for more details on masturbation techniques.

This thing about success is just silly and if it's an issue in your relationship, then I'm afraid you're with the wrong person. If you're a successful nurse or secretary and your husband is the very definition of failure, then I'm afraid you need to be with someone with a comparable C.V. If you're a man and feel insecure about your partners wealth and success and confidence, I'm afraid you can longer call yourself a man. Either change your career or change your way of defining success or grow some testicles. Otherwise you'll end up living with a loser or alone and you're only friends will be on Face-Book and I'm afraid you'll deserve it.


Finally, this bonding issue. Women, sweeties, lovies, you've got to stop competing with his friends. There's absolutely no grounds whatsoever for you to feel you should be the centre of this poor mans universe. You're one area of his life, just like his family, his work, his friends, his me-time and his doggie. There really is no need to feel jealous because you think he shares more with his chums than you. This is not the case, he just shares different things and usually these things won't interest you. Despite what you may assume, his friends won't have detailed information on the geography of your twat for example, although I'll wager good money that you've told your female friends how big his knob is. The point here again is one of security. If you're with the right person these issues won't even occur, if they do, I'm afraid once again you're with the wrong person.


Can you see a pattern emerging? At the core of these problems is the diametric needs, desires, expectations and approaches to relationships between the two sexes. Both unrealistic and unreasonable, but crucially, for different reasons. A chap will want to find someone with whom he is compatible and thus will not have to change his lifestyle or personality - logical, yet unreasonable and completely unrealistic. A female will want to find a man who satisfies the defining characteristic which is her priority, usually his financial status, and will then attempt to morph all the other areas of his life and character into her perfect partner. Again, logical in a female kind of way, yet unreasonable and completely unrealistic.

The key then is either to accept that the pursuit of long-term compatibility and happiness is a futile exercise and move from relationship to relationship, which will offer a brief and wonderful intimacy leaving you happy, but ultimately unfulfilled or bury your sense of pride and self-respect deep deep within and lie to yourself on a daily basis that this complex misery that has become your relationship is exactly what you want and that a loving relationship requires work and compromise and that eventually you'll both be very very happy together. Very happy indeed, and anyway it's better than being alone - but ultimately feel unfulfilled.

Let me tell you a story. Back in the day I used to perform a sort of All-Blacks Haka to Ini Kamoze's Hotstepper before making love.

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Obviously it wasn't confrontational, it was a sensuous ritual which I felt brought our rising sexual chemistry to an explosive climax after which earth moving love making would follow. On one occasion however, I stumped my toe mid-way through the first section of the dance and although she assumed the hopping about in agony was all part of the process, I was no longer in the zone as it were and in this moment of clarity I was able to see the expression on her face for the fear and alarm it was rather than the deep sexual arousal I had previously mistaken it for.

Only through intense pain was I able to see things as my partner saw them, only then could I recognise our previous incompatibility and only then was I able to appreciate that I will have to experience immense pain - either physical or emotional, but probably both - in order to achieve this fabled utopian intimacy these magazines promise but never deliver.

What I'm saying here, is that these magazines don't help, they only confuse. They are the instructions which turn something which should be spontaneous, beautiful, unpredictable and completely without expectations into something as baffling as self-assembly furniture. A relationship is a journey and the pleasure is in the exploring. You can't get lost when there's no destination and these magazines give your relationships a destination and expectations and an ideal. In short, it's all bollocks and there's no recipes. You'd be better off looking for guidance in screw-fix direct.

The end.

For further information on these issues and some nice recipes, see my leaflets listed below available at Boots and Jonny Wongs Chinese restaurant.

I wouldn't want to sit on those chairs though to be honest.

I might have had a bit more on this had I not been anally savaged by the gambling Gods yesterday. A win is a win is a win though as they say. Why they say that though is just silly.

What a sh*t day for punting yesterday was. There's a fine line between winning and losing and this translates to a fine line between having a nice Columbia University mug and having one in a thousand pieces on the floor and coffee stains on the walls and ceiling.

Micheal Owen nearly scores then goes off injured AGAIN. Of course Peter Crotch then scores England's winner. Someone that tall should not be called Crouch in my opinion. Russia then go and hit the post which had it gone in would have won the match and of course Israel somehow go and win instead. And Italy score in the last minute. I think Bob Hall is still running.

***

As some of my recent posts have alluded to, I've got a wee cold at the moment bless my little cotton socks, and some of the remedies and medications I've been experimenting with have taken me off to some pretty strange places when I dream and when I've been awake as it happens.

When I'm in this state I become incredibly brusque. Not because I'm taking my bad mood out on people, I'm just denied my natural alacrity and speed of thought. When I'm asked a question my mind chooses the path of least resistance to find an answer to save me time and energy and my delivery can sometimes come across as rather discourteous.

So now, it's pissing with rain and there's a knock on my door. I have a bell you know, but people still knock. I'm dressed in my warmest Marks and Sparks pyjamas, dressing gown and a cream coloured cowboy hat. I open the door and stood before me is a gentleman of about 40, he's wearing a wax jacket and seems fairly harmless; he has slightly feminine mannerisms and seems to be the type who get out of the bath when they need a piss and can't wait to creosote the garden fence when opportunity arises. We'll call him Ron.

I don't know why I called him ma'am, it wasn't meant to be derogatory, it just seemed like the thing to say at the time. I've been laughing retrospectively ever since. If I do say so myself, even if I didn't mean it, it was a wonderful piece of deadpan delivery in the sort of Bill Murray style. I didn't mean to offend the chap or be rude to him, this is just how I am when I'm in this state. I shan't go out until my condition improves or I'll lose friends.

***

In other news, I've played a lot of poker recently so all my dreams and reveries involve poker. While that creepy kid in the 'Sixth Sense' sees dead people, I see flops, turn cards and rivers. This morning I played a heads-up no-limit session with Fidel Castro. I've always sort of admired Castro in so much as he's gotten at least nine US presidents arse hairs up, not quite so much for the starving of his own people, but his David to the USA's Goliath is inspiring stuff.

Now then...heads-up we played with live chickens flying about the place and a woman with a snake around her body dancing seductively. Hugo Chavez was also present and played the recorder every time Fidel took a pot down and sort of cackled like a Latin American looney-toon.

I lost the battle when my Kings were beaten by Fidel's hand which contained the Old Kent Road, and the four Railway Stations. By this time the dream was not quite so lucid and I began to wake. When I did come round there was moisture around me. I have a water bed and feared it had sprung a leak, but fortunately I had just pissed myself. Phew!

Mark Twain once said the greatest of all inventors is accident. This is very true. True for poor Thomas Midgley who's best intentions and inventions nearly killed us all and true for Alexander Flemming who saved us all by accidentally inventing penicillin.

Ralph Waldo Emerson held to the maxim only the shallow believe in luck, the strong believe in cause and effect. I like the boy Emerson, he's says some clever things. The kind of things you can plagiarise at parties to make your self sound clever and trap off with the dumb blonde with the comfy chest furniture.

From a punting point of view, the Twains of this world would appear to be in the "it's all a lottery camp," while your Waldos' are of the ilk that stay up all night analyzing horse racing form and weather reports and generally researching the life out of a race or football match in order to find an edge.

This weekend offers a cornucopia of delicious punting opportunities and none of them involve Arsenal so there is potential here to really get myself into some financial deep waters. Thusly, I shall be using a blended gambling strategy of blind luck for the horse racing and informed opinion for the football as I don't want to posthumously upset Messrs Twain and Emerson as I know they'll be keeping an eye on me.

Using blind luck I shall be having a shilling or two on Bob Hall in the Gold Cup tomorrow. A P McCoy and Cheltenham go together like a concrete bench and piles, but I'm getting a stirring somewhere within about Bob Hall and although it may be the prawn sandwich I ate for lunch, I'm confident it's something more profound and at 13.5 there's value in finding out.






Football now and golly where to begin? It's important that one set aside all xenophobic prejudices and approach these fixtures clinically and unemotionally. This is tricky for me as I'm afraid I have a deep seated hatred for the other members of our Union. Fortunately, I couldn't give a hoot about Englands chances of qualifying so this balances things out somewhat.

When it comes to patriotism, my love or loathing of my own country does not begin and end with the England national football team and all those fans, mostly from the North with very little in the way of education, who accuse people like me of not being a true fan and being unpatriotic, do run along.

You have not the intelligence or the vocabulary to argue constructively on this matter. Just put your little flag on your van, eat your burger, give your wife a hard time and leave me alone. If being a true fan and being a true Englishman involves being over weight, toothless, wrecking whatever city England are playing in, beating up the locals and singing songs about the war, then let me never be a true Englishman.


I digress. England will not qualify for Euro 2008 simply because the players don't care about it. And nor should they. International football has become an irritating diversion for them rather than an honour. Why bust your chops playing against Austria or Andorra when you might have a Champions League game the following week against Barcelona?

If your club is paying you 100,000 bags of sand per week and you're getting appearance money and win bonuses which amount to many more bags of sand, why would you risk an injury playing for England when your only reward is qualifying for a tournament that would interfere with your summer holiday?

The idea that the large numbers of "foreign" players has evaporated the pool of talent the England coach can draw from is nothing short of Xenophobic drivel. Between 1967 and the mid 1990's there were hardly any non British players in the top division in England and the national time in that time won absolutely fuck all.

The fact that we even refer to non-UK players as foreign is pretty prejudicial in my opinion and indicative of how we view anyone not from these shores. Look up foreign in a thesaurus; "unfamiliar, unknown, unheard of, strange, alien." I might be being over-sensitive, but language matters, ask the feminist types. Incidentally, before anyone accuses me of hypocrisy, my indifference to certain countries are based on real experiences rather than pre-judgements, which obviously makes all the difference, so there.

Anyways, it's money that's prevented England building on the relative success in Italia 90, not "foreign" players. Two years after Italia 90 Sky TV arrived on the scene and club football has taken precedence over the National side ever since. This is evident in all other countries in Europe. France, Italy and Germany have recent World Cup success, but with the exception of AC Milan, have been god awful in the Champions League. Spain and England on the other hand, shit in the International competitions, very strong in the Champions League.

Consequently I shall back teams that don't have a strong representation in the Champions League. Or lay the ones that do. Soooo, I shall lay Italy. I shall back Russia even though they appear to be the lay of the century. I shall also back Croatia to beat England next week because England should by then have failed to qualify and will give even less of a hoot than they may have done had it been a do or die confrontation and because Croatia have Eduardo and I love him, he is the best kept secret in the Premiership and how he keeps his hair so soft and manageable is testament to his pride and self-respect.


England v Austria - Owen and Crotchy to score 6/1
Bob Hall - Cheltenham Paddy Power Gold Cup 10/1
Israel V Russia - Russia win 1/2
Scotland v Italy - Lay Italy - Possibly back the 0-0 (11/2) or 1-1 (5/1)
England v Croatia - Back Croatia 9/2 - Eduardo to score in 90 minutes n/a

Cause I'm naturally so funny I don't often tell jokes, so I'm not sure how old this one is. I'm not even 100% sure it's funny, but at this time of the night it's made me laugh. I'm full of night nurse though, see what you think.

Tiger Woods pulls up at a petrol station and the attendant dude comes out to fill his car up. As the boy Woods leans over to unscrew his petrol cap a couple of golf tees fall out of his breast pocket. "What are those?" asks the attendant. "They're for resting my balls on when I'm driving" says Woodsey. "Fuck me," says the attendant, "BMW think of everything don't they."

Now then, I was supposed to be on a break from poker until the end of the month, but ennui took a hold of me from within late in the afternoon as I sat in my pyjamas eating a delicious chocolate flapjack and by early evening around 7pm after I’d wasted ten minutes shaving my hair off and trying on some of my hats, I made an impromptu decision to Mario Andretti my way up the M40 to Coventry to take a wild stab at the £40 double-chance freeze-out at the Isle of Capri casino attached like a large boil to the Ricoh Arena.

OK things have reached a point where enough is enough. I'm bombing out of far far too many poker tournaments cause I can't relax and pick my spots accordingly. Poker and a lack of patience is so much of a handicap. Imagine Heather McCartney having to run for a bus or take a free-kick and you'll have some idea of how difficult it is to maneuver your way through a MTT when you're constantly almost choking to get your chips in the middle.

I think this stems from a deep seated insecurity I am burdened with. Yes I know ostensibly I am a brash, handsome, ferociously intelligent, funny and confident chap. A 21st century male and a Leo to boot. Inside however, I'm a but a flower, limp and starved of sunlight and love. This is the currency of life and I am a very poor man indeed.

Consequently, I am constantly concerned about the lack of abundance in whatever aspect of my life. Not enough money, not enough chips, not nearly enough oral sex; my inner chi is constantly off balance making my decision making through this fog of insecurity very tricky.

So the solution as with most things, is to turn to a man who is so at one with himself, he is not afraid to sport a nappy in public. I wouldn't usually take advise from adult nappy wearers. Ghandi for example, was in my opinion, a twat. I wouldn't have him in my top ten humans of all time anymore than I'd put Pele in my top ten players of all time. Frauds, both of them.

Although the Dalai Lama might just be a lunatic who's spent way too much time on his own, I like his style and I don't count Buddhism as blind faith so it's ok to learn from these people. Plus those little Burmese monks are all tough little cookies and anyone who's prepared to take on an army wearing nothing but sandals and a bed sheet is worth listening to.


I'm on holiday now poker wise until November 30th when I shall visit Dusk Til Dawn for the £100 freeze-out. Only time will tell if this will allow me enough time to chill the fuck out. Oooooh, I can't wait I can't wait.

That was a joke, see what I did there? I'll get me coat.

With all the attempts made recently to sample the buffets of Europe’s most exotic poker locations, no attempt had been made at the Pigeons game for quite some time. So it was on Armistice Day with renewed determination and a side bet on who could knock Tim out, the Mob embarked on what was to become yet another futile attempt to negotiate a minefield of poker ability and disability to take down what has become the hardest game to beat in the western world and another tally of unacceptable Pigeon K.I.A’s.

With two tables I at least had an advantage as far as the side bet was concerned, as I was the only Mob member on Tim’s table, but as the saying goes, be careful what you wish for. As it unfolded, a series of four hands sealed my fate; each one arriving with as much welcome and promise as the four horsemen of the apocalypse.


So it goes.

In middle position with the gay mechanic (queen with a jack) I raise to 150 called by Joy, SB folds BB calls.

The only time I ever really felt confident I was ahead in this hand was on the turn. I knew I was beaten when the board paired on 5th street. I didn’t expect Aces, but I knew somehow I was beaten. The Terminatress still insists she’s not sure what she’s doing. I have my doubts. There’s an icing of the blood that occurs when Joy calls a substantial bet and with not a flicker of emotional behind her bi-focals, any bet on the next betting street requires a perfect blend of courage and lunacy.

***

In hindsight, I have to concede I played this hand badly. I wasn’t aggressive enough and fortune favours the brave or the maniac. At the time however, I wasn’t thinking quite so lucidly, so I’ll recount the hand according to my reactions at the time as that’s more entertaining.

Ok what the fuck is this all about? I accept that you need the poker equivalent of the Rosetta stone to figure Tim’s play out, but even by his standards this is insane. Had Gus Hansen played a hand like this it would be on YouTube within minutes, but with all due respect to Tim, he might be unpredictable, but he’s not Gus Hansen. Gus has a method to his madness. Tim, Tim is just …Tim is just on this Earth to deprive me of pleasure.

Let’s just look at this hand again kids. Tim is under the gun here with 2-3 of hearts. Now, I know he likes his suited connectors, and I like them just as much as the next man or woman (thank you Loretta), but 2-3 in first position is going in the muck every time in almost all circumstances. Especially in a game with 5000 starting chips and it’s the first cock-sucking, pussy pig-fucking level.

Deeeeep breaths, deeeep breaths. Ocean noises. Woooooosh woooooosh. OK calm now. So I’ve re-raised to 500 and surely he’ll muck now? It’s ok seeing a flop cheaply with this hand, but calling a re-raise? No! Obviously though, he calls. On a board of 2h, Kd, 4s of course he’s gonna fucking ignore my initial re-raise and bet 600 on the flop. Who wouldn’t? Everyone, that’s who! OK OK woooooosh woooooosh, in with the good air, out with the bad.

Now then, since he didn’t think about his bet, I assume he has no king. If he had a king he’d at least have taken a couple of seconds to think before betting. So, I call. I should have re-raised to find out where I was, but even if he had called or re-raised, with this player, to be honest, I still wouldn’t know.

Obviously as it happened he didn’t have a hand so surely, even Tim must now give up the ghost? Surely, please Lord and the baby Jesus, please tell me Tim isn’t thinking his pair of fucking cunt knocking deuce’s is still good after the action I’ve given him.

Turn card is the five of spades. Tim now has an open ended straight draw and obviously he chucks in a 1000 because this is Christmas for him. At this point I said to myself, if he’s got A-3 I’m never playing this game again. I dismiss this and call. Again I should have re-raised if I felt I was winning, but for several reasons I took the circumspect approach and in doing so got what I deserved.

So far though, from Tim’s point of view, he’s seen me raise his initial bet, call his bet on the flop, call his bigger bet on the turn and so please, Allah, Zeus and Yahweh, please wake Tim up. Please give him vision enough to see that his pair of knob jerking, bollock jockeying deuces is cock sucking cunt licking beaten. Straight draw or not…if the river does not improve your hand you must give up Tim, even General fucking Custer would wave the white flag.

River card, 6s. Tim bets 1500. I fold. I’m still not entirely sure how I’m beaten, but with three spades and 2, 4, 5 and 6 on board I know I’m fucked. Even if has no straight or flush, there is still the faintest of chances he was betting with a King anyway.

Deuce, three of hearts it is then! I think the Pigeons swear box is owed £1 per gentle swear word, £2 for a fuck (bargain Paul!) and £3 for a cunt. I owe it £250. In real terms, I played as badly as Tim here. I should have jammed it on the turn. I didn’t want to go out early and I paid the price.

The aggressive player won the pot and fair enough, although I do feel that he was betting initially because he felt 2-3 of hearts was a decent starting hand and I do feel he felt his pair of deuce’s on the flop was still good, after that with the open-ender coming on the turn it was gravy for him.

Obviously he then went on to shit-cunt my chips off to all and sundry and was out within 30 minutes, but this was of scant consolation to me. Tim is an intriguing blend of all three of Dorothy’s companions in the Wizard of Oz. You can’t fault him for his heart and courage. Brains? Well, that’s a different matter. His potential should he find some is really quite frightening.

***

I forget what possessed me to move all-in here. I was very comfortable chip wise at this point after recovering from my earlier losing confrontations. My lack of patience again or the combination of painkillers and Guinness had me thinking I was indestructible. I destructed though.

***

Board no help

Bubble boy. On Remembrance Day a day to forget for the Mob. Let’s have a moment’s silence shall we.

I played at being a grumpy old man this afternoon by confiscating a football launched into my garden by one of the local urchins. I did it properly too by retrieving it wearing a dressing gown and slippers.

As the nation remembered and honoured it's war dead today I couldn't help feeling that one or two guests at the Cenotaph kind of looked out of place. Royal family, fair enough; Prime Minister, fair do's; David Cameron? Not sure why he needs to be there anymore than anyone else, but ok leader of the opposition and all; Tony Blair?? Not entirely sure that was the most appropriate name on the guest list, what with his illegal war and the 100 or so dead British troops as a consequence. Perhaps his invite might have got lost in the mail strike out of respect for all those we're supposed to be remembering today who died in just causes. Finally, Ian fucking Paisley. Ian Paisley, a religious bigoted lunatic who took every opportunity possible to pour petrol on the flames of sectarian hatred in Northern Ireland and god only knows how many soldiers were killed over those decades. Was Jerry Adams there? I couldn't see.

I've just taken some pain killers cause I'm a circumspect kind of chap and I want to hit the ground running if any pain is coming my way...er..so anyway, this unlike my other blog entries, may not really make much sense and may leave you with a sense of nervousness and apprehension should you have an appointment with my company any time soon.

I do have a cold approaching from the south though I think. I've got that vague cacky feeling developing in my throat and I had a Mars bar just now that didn't taste quite right. No doubt the source of my fever is the high November winds which buffeted me and the various meanderers along Marble Arch tonight when I was waiting for my bus home from the Vic. Gotta get the red bus next time...always the red bus.

Couple of things of note occurred. Firstly, I didn't win a seat in the Manchester APAT thingy. I did get a nice Grosvenor Casino key chain though and I had some lovely lamb curry. Didn't spot Vicky Coren, but I did see one young lady who had ass that forgot to quit. Huge it was. By contrast I also saw an ass you could have bounced a ten pence piece off.

As you can tell, my poker playing this evening was so unspectacular there's really nothing to tell. I was dealt Aces first hand and a fortunate misdeal a few hours later allowed to me to remain in the tournament a few hours longer when the chap to my right was dealt aces, I was dealt ace-queen and the chap to my left was dealt Ace-king, but unfortunately for the dude to my right, another chap was also dealt a hand despite his exiting the tournament some twenty minutes previous. Phew!

Moving on from poker, I don't wish to sound anti-semetic, but have a look...no wait, I do wish to sound anti-semetic, I am anti-semetic. I'm anti all monotheistic religions. Not in a blow you up if you come near our children kind of way, but I do think they're silly. In fact I'm anti-all super-natural beliefs, except Santa. Is he super-natural? Of course he is. I digress, look at this picture. It's a bit fuzzy but it's two Jewish dudes playing No-limit Texas Hold 'em earlier tonight.

You know how you sometimes have to look at something twice before you realise that something is seriously wrong. Like when you come home and your wife is in bed with loads of blokes or something. Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't gambling expressly forbidden in the Torah? I'm quite sure gamblers are not welcome in the rabbihood or rabbidom or rabbi-ing as it's considered on a par with thieving and aaaaaand, it's the fucking sabbath anyway.

These people should be at home sat in a chair not moving a muscle shouldn't they? I know you people change the sabbath depending on what's on TV in a given season, but I checked and it's Saturday at the moment. Jesus fucking Christ chaps (see what I did there, blasphemy and so what)...if you're gonna sport those daft curls and yarmulkes cause you don't want to make the little baby jesus cry, then the least you can do surely is not go in a fucking casino on the sabbath.

Even if you are allowed to gamble, even if you're allowed to go to a casino on the sabbath you definitely are still not allowed to steal and no bearing false witness against your neighbour, so that's bluffing and stealing the blinds out the window, and these things are an integral part of Hold 'em. You're gonna fry boys, fry in hell. Do you people have hell? Or is that just the Christians these days? You're in trouble anyway, with someone. And if you're not, you've wasted your life on a daft religion so either way, have a word with yourselves. Grow up.

So anyway, I can't remember the rest of what I wanted to say. I need a lemsip.

In truth dear reader, of all the Victorias I could enter on a lazy Saturday afternoon, Grosvenor's Victoria Casino comes someway down the list; ahead of Victoria Wood, but way below Victoria Beckham (come on you would too, get off your high horse).

This is a casino I have been meaning to visit for some time. The APAT regional series of tournaments allows me to kill two birds with one stone. Firstly, to have a look at the place and secondly to atone for my performance in the first regional event in Brizzle where I was out before my buttocks had had time to make an impression on my seat.

In real terms and under normal circumstances, since this is only a £20 game I would struggle to find the patience to take it seriously enough to make any real progress, but on this occasion I have additional motivations other than the money and those medals they give out for the top three spots.

It occurred to me a few weeks ago epiphanic stylee, that if I looked deep deep deep within myself, I'd have to accept that I'm a better writer than I ever will be a poker player. I'm still a fucking good player, just I'm an even more awesomer writer. Now then, the book sto's are full of poker manuals and essential reading they are too, but there are relatively few poker novels and since the demographics of your average casino full of poker players is wide and diverse, this is somewhat surprising to me.

Sooooo, from this moment hence, I shall begin collecting my experiences of players and games in my thinking head, and eventually I shall morph them all into a booker prize winning poker novel to be found in the hand luggage of every player from here to Vegas.

AhahahahahahahahaHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

So this is a bit rude and I advise those easily offended to move along, and to relax a bit too. Anyway..so a friend of mine, let’s call him Peter, no Walter, he was alone last night and stuck for something to do, nothing on telly and so on, so like any normal chap he took the decision to have a wank. Why not, that’s what I always say, or rather, that’s what Walter always says.

Now then, it seems Walter had his iTunes playing in the background and within a short time had settled into a decent enough rhythm. Well now, after a thoroughly delicious and filthy series of thoughts involving Felicity Kendall and her muddy wellies had taken effect, his rhythm had reached a fair clip and tissue at the ready, he prepared to receive his dishonourable discharge. At this point “Run to the Hills” by Iron Maiden kicked in rather loudly and the drum solo caused a frantic surge of self aggression that almost caused some irreparable damage.

What were we all playing at in the 80's with the clothes and what not? I used to wear Grolsch beer bottle tops on my shoes for fucks sake. I also had an enormous Euro haircut (white mans afro). It was the size of a basketball. I used two cans of hairspray a day to puff it out. No shit, hairspray. Ha, bless us all, everyone.

They're just saying this to annoy me now I think. I was saying just a few days ago that science boffins spend all their time doing fuck all and then publish some extremely tenuous conclusions and theories in the medical journals to justify their funding, when this load of horse-hockey masquerading as medical research appears between the useless pages of the Pediatrics Journal; "Sleep may cut childhood obesity."

First of all American Scientists, if you can't even spell Paediatrics properly don't expect your research to be taken seriously. Secondly, this is bullshit. If a kid slept for 24 hours for a month, which is basically a coma, then maybe a few lbs would be lost, but it's not a lack of sleep that causes obesity in children is it? It's simply the fact that kids today do fuck all in the way of exercise and spend most of their waking moments eating cakes and chocolate. You don't need a Ph.D to appreciate the consequences of consuming 4000 calories a day in chocolate if the only physical exertion in your day is lifting your fat arse off the sofa to go and get more chocolate.

Some of these kids could get ten hours sleep a day and they'd still have plenty of time to wade through a box of celebrations, a tub of strawberry ice cream and a kilo of chocolate flap jacks. I'm sorry fat kids, but if there's one single child in your class who gets no sleep and is still thin, then this research is worthless. Surely the reason you feel hungry more often if you only get five hours sleep per night than someone who gets eight hours, is because you're awake longer and need more fuel to keep you going, but that doesn't give you license to eat two kilo's of chocolate mousse before school.

The reason so many kids are fat little bastards now is because the blame has been taken away from the parents. In fact, parents are no longer held accountable for their children's development in any way shape or form. They have been completely assuaged from responsibility. If a child is 7 years old and weighs the same as a Fiat Punto, it's their glands. If a kid is 13 and been arrested once a week since his 8th birthday, society has let the poor little darling down. If by school leaving age a kid can't even hold a pen properly let alone pass an exam, it'll be the lack of funding in Comprehensive schools.

For this I blame political correctness, human rights activists, the European Union and call centres. You're no longer allowed to point the finger of blame at someone without breaching their human rights. Consequently, parents (most of whom appear to be children themselves) are now free to rear the most hideous generation of blubbery pigeon toed illiterate foul mouthed shits and since they're under no pressure from anyone to provide them with any form of nutrition, either in their diet or any other area of their upbringing, they can meander down the parenting path of least resistance providing minimal moral guidance, only one or two hugs per year and food that comes out of a box that tastes better than the food. That's why Mums go to Iceland.

Two British traffic patrol officers from North Berwick were involved in an unusual incident while checking for speeding motorists on the A1 Great North Road . One of the officers used a hand-held radar device to check the speed of a vehicle approaching over the crest of a hill, and was surprised when the speed was recorded at over 300 mph. Their radar suddenly stopped working and the officers were not able to reset it.

A LOTTERY scratchcard has been withdrawn from sale by Camelot - because players couldn't understand it.

The Cool Cash game - launched on Monday - was taken out of shops yesterday after some players failed to grasp whether or not they had won.

I bought a newspaper today. By page 5 I realised why I never buy newspapers. How depressing. Poor Rodney King after taking an ass-whupping from the LAPD ten years ago asked his country and the wider world, 'can't we all just get along?" I'm afraid the answer is still a most definite no.

For example, Pakistan. Now Pakistan was always destined to be a godforsaken place...er obviously, since it's an Islamic state founded to give India's Muslims a place to oppress their women and wear silly hats in "peace." But what I mean is, any project undertaken on foundations of religious nonsense is doomed.

Religion makes no sense anyway, but Islam is the biggest load of bollocks out of all of them. I mean, with your Bible you've got a beginning a middle and an end and although it's laced with a series of contradictions and sexual deviation, it's message is generally virtuous, although is still bastardised to fuel peoples random hatreds of one group of people or another.

The Qur'an however, is just chapter upon chapter of rhetorical drivelling ambiguity with no clear message and thus, through a combination of abrogation and paranoid lunacy, provides an open opportunity for your basic, violent, fruit baskets to use it as a means of justifying their own oppressive ideologies and anyone who dares to question it is considered to be stirring up religious hatred, which is so ironic and ridiculous it's very difficult to know where to start to explain why.

So anyway...any state with a non-secular Government will inevitably be a crappy and extremely violent place to live, but, it's really their own fault, so leave them to it I always say. We in this country know better of course, but if you pop out for a pint of milk after dark, you'll be doing well if you return without being accosted by a gang of misunderstood youngsters. I know I've just expressed my loathing of all things religious, but I can't help believing that a series of public teenage crucifixions wouldn't go someway to installing a bit of respect and decency in this hooded social menace. The Romans would have our town centres secured in no time.

If global violence in one form or another wasn't depressing enough the newspaper also ran a story detailing scientists attempts to genetically engineer super-mice! This is terrible news for cats and huge black women from the southern states of America (Thooooomas!) ..but it's also another complete waste of time, money and genius from Science boffins. This sort of thing really reeeally pisses me off.

Why can't these people use their research to cure some fucking diseases? Instead of making incredibly strong mice, why not make incredibly weak humans, normal?? The thought of a bunch of nerdy scientists marveling over a mouse that can run for three days without a cheese break, and spending millions to achieve it is enough to make me dry wretch in disgust.

For fucks sake, you people were given enormous brains and limited social skills to make a difference to mankind. While you're fucking about with Uber-vermin, there's an awful lot of people struggling to negotiate a single steep flight of stairs without tremendous wheezing. And don't give me that shit about the benefits this will have to humans "eventually," cause I've been hearing that shit since I was a kid.

It's always the same with research teams. You get your miwyans of pounds in grant money and piss it up the wall creating strong rodents, then claim eventually it'll lead to a cure for diabetes so they don't cut your funding. When was the last time you people cured anything? Bastards.

In other news and on a brighter note, I did something cool today. I dropped my mobile phone, but with my cat like reflexes I was able to volley it back into my hands - using my left foot too! Unfortunately no one was there to witness it. If Georgie Thompson from Sky Sports News had of seen it I might have got a shag off her, or at least a blowie.

Speaking of delicious lady folk, I saw an interesting package today as I returned home. A lovely face, silky black-blue hair, perfectly pert breasts and a look in her almond shaped eyes that promised nothing but suggested everything...the tease. However, her arse and hips wouldn't have looked out of place on the winner of the St Ledger. Huge they were! How on earth do so many women achieve this physical contradiction? It's such a shame. I have a feeling it has something to do with working in a call-centre, I can't really expand on this theory, but I continue to hold call-centre work accountable for many individual and social deformations and anomalies.

The end.

Wrong move at the wrong time (again)

OK look, it’s not as bad as it sounds. I mean, in the cold light of day, the move I made stinks like a fish’s fanny fart, but if you’ll let me explain. The thing I wanted to avoid in this event, apart from the money evidently, was to get stuck in that ‘orrible no-mans land of boring tedious “all-in or fold’ poker. Soooooo, after the dinner break (Wooo made it to the buffet tables suckers!) I was sitting with about 25,000 and I decided I shall either build some chips or go home for more Horlicks. I do so much enjoy a mug, do you?

Anyhooo, with the blinds at 400-800 an opportunity presented itself like a pikey selling gravel. The whole situation screamed RUN RICH RUN, RUN FOR THE HILLS, but I stuck to the tenet signed sealed and delivered when I was having a sh*t after the buffet, that chips would come my way or be damned.

And thus…in the cut-off with 8-8 I made it 3,000 to go; folded round to the big blind who re-raised a further 18,000 all-in. 18,000 I tells ya. I believe I broke wind when he pounded his chips in the middle of the table. Surprised? Does the Pope eat kids?



My only thoughts here were this must be a standard all-in move with A-K. I could not for the life of me figure out what other hand could motivate someone to thrust such a substantial bet back at an opponent. In truth, I just didn’t want to believe he had anything other than A-K, cause that’s all I could beat. So, after a couple of minutes of umming and aaaahing and hmmmming,…I called. I figured, if I win, I have 45,000 and some room to play proper poker - if I lose, I can be home in time for Match of the Day. Cracking game between Arsenal and Manchester United it was too. He had pocket Queens.

This was a bad call obviously. I could have folded and continued with a perfectly respectable chip stack, but I feared the attritional grinding leather arsed pokering of tournaments past and the shit or bust option that I continue to accept in these games was too seductive to ignore. In future, I shall either have to adjust my expectations, or start getting lucky.

Alan on the other hand looked in great shape and I believe has made the money as I type and is poised like a hawk preparing to swoop on a vulnerable mouse, to add to his collection of APAT medallions..I’m having Horlicks as we speak, let’s finish on a song shall we.

My poker travels take me to the most exotic locations. Bristol, Coventry, Luton and Gloucestershire etc. Tomorrow, its Walsall. Although twinned with Mulhouse in France and a fat American guy's arse cleavage in Montana, Walsall boasts a culture and frangrence all of its own.

The plan is to take down the APAT English championship game, although I don't actually have a seat yet. I shall use my charm and wherever possible, my cunning (a bribe) to get in, and then subject the 200 strong field to a lesson in poker. Or, I shall not get a seat and pop over to Staffordshire to see my cousin and have some tea. He still has my watch you know.

Prior to the poker, there's the small matter of the mighty Arsenal showing Man Yoo how to play the beautiful game. I shall not bet on Arsenal, but a loop-hole in my self-imposed rule may see a cheeky punt on Eduardo to score in 90 minutes.

I have nothing interesting to say in this post, I'm just killing time while my Horlicks heats up. And now the weather..they say it may cool down...ooooh Horlicks.

Sports minister Gerry Sutcliffe, has claimed Premiership footballers salaries are obscene. Yaaawn. I can't stand this pathetic jealous argument. There's no such thing as earning too much. Only earning too little. Anyway, the average dude on the street makes £450 a week. The boy Sutcliffe makes £5,500 a week. By my calculations he's in no position to judge anyone on value for money.

Take a look at the faces of a crowd at a football match when a crucial goal goes in. When David Platt scored for England against Belgium in the dying seconds of the Quarter final in Italia 90 most of the country lost control of themselves for the rest of the evening. And when they lost the penalty shoot-out against the Jormans in the semi-final, we as a nation were as devastated as the Jormans in the autumn of 1945. There's nothing else on this god forsaken planet that provoke those kinds of emotions.

When did thousands of people last behave that way because of something a politician did? Are politicians worth a basic salary of £5,500 a week? How would we all cope without the work of Gerry Sutcliffe? Dogs would play with cats, the skies would fall, it would be anarchy. Or..no one would notice. Take football away from the globe and you've got about a billion people stuck for something to do with their lives.

The reeeeeeal obscenity as far as wages go in this country, the fifth richest economy on the planet, is that some people are not making enough. There's people in England who can't afford to eat or live in a house or buy new trainers.

Nurses who do back breaking work, cannot afford to eat, how does that work? That my dear sports minister, is unforgivable, not John Terry earning cazzilions a year. And why is it that in this country we have families that are below the poverty line and nurses in those inexplicably sexy uniforms not being able to enjoy a nutritious diet? Because the Government which you are a part of Mr Sutcliffe, functions with as much sensitivity and concern for the British people, as your namesake Peter Sutcliffe had for northern women between 1975 and 1980. Tosser.