Voy Por Ustedes

So the concise account of this evening's effort at Dusk Till Dawn can be summed up in two words: Murphy's Law. For a more detailed account make yourself a cup of cocoa, settle back and we'll begin.

I won't bore you with bad beat stories, but things didn't....no wait, I will bore you with bad beat stories. It's my blog and I'll discuss whatever I choose. I'll even tell you how I may have cracked one off over Delia Smith's recipe page in Woman's Weekly if the mood takes me. Let's hope it doesn't.

So it's a £50 freeze-out; 4,000 starting chips. Not a lot, but 24 minute blinds ought to allow a little latitude for some real play. In reality, it doesn't.

Everyone plays according to the nature of the shitty structured freeze-outs they're used to playing elsewhere so if you don't have your water wings on you get carried off by a tide of donkamatron bets and drown.

So, with the accumulation of chips early doors a necessity I of course fold J-3 from UTG+1 on the first hand only to see a 3-3-9 flop - which I could have seen for 50 chips - with two diamonds, followed of course by the Jack of diamonds and look on with a heavy heart and loosening bowels as a dude with an obvious flush bets out.

Second hand I of course fold 6s-4s from UTG only to see a flop of 3d-5s-7s. Again with subsequent betting which would have seen me bust two players! The worse start to a campaign since Lord Cardigan's horses versus heavy artillery strategy at Balaclava.

I then folded for the next two levels really with not a suited connector or pair coming my way the whole damn time. So at this point I take myself off to the toilet for a consolation poo. And this is where the evening really started to stink, literally and metaphorically.

Now, I'm a chap...I recognise how hard it can be to control the initial spurts of wee and to keep Captain Winky's aim true. So the inordinate amount of piss on the floors surrounding the urinals was par for the course with a few hundred beer drinking poker players mostly from the north in close proximity. Piss on the floor off the cubicles however is unacceptable and piss on the toilet seat is really a criminal offense in my book.

I enter a cubicle for my consolation poo and not only is there piss on the floor, but the seat is soaked also. I'm gagging as we speak. What sort of low life northern monkey was responsible for this days work I think I said out loud. Fair enough you don't want to use one of the ten urinals if you're paranoid about the size of Mr Kanish, but if you are to use a cubicle, put the fucking seat up, or better still, sit down.

If you're at home you can piss in the sink if you want to, but in public, Christ in nappies, take more care. If there is splashage, wipe it up you dirty rancid bastard. I know alot of DTD's patrons are from Yorskhire and some of them clearly won't have even sat on chairs before, but really, I don't think it's asking too much to not behave like a fucking ape on an evening is it? Really people, how inconsiderate do you have to be to do something like that?

So anyway, I choke down the sick rising in my throat and return to the table where I receive shite after shite and wish I was back on the toilet and then I'm out after some silly bastard went and played Aces against me.

Cash tables now and apart from a hand where a dude explained his decision to not bet his set of Jacks was because he felt his opponent had Aces up, (figure that one out) the only hand of note involving me saw me holding pocket threes on a board of Jh-3c-5h. Woo, a set! Finally a ray of hope through the mist of piss and shit.

I bet. One caller. Hoorah! Turn card 5d. Woooot! A full-house, please mateyboy have a flush draw. I bet a wee bit. Mateyboy re-raises!! Hoooorah...he's committed too and all-in we both go. £170 pot.

Mateyboy shows J-6. All's I have to do is dodge a 5 or a Jack. Four outs. River... 5s CUNT CUNT OH DEAR LORD CUNT CUNT OH YOU FUCKING CUNT!

A disappointing evening I think you'll agree. I'm now going to take my frustrations out on a picture of Delia making Quiche Lorraine and getting some eggs and milk all over herself.

Slightly off topic, I saw Michael Greco tonight. He's a tiny foul mouthed chap I can report. Worse than me even. And he was with the nasally and equally Lilliputian 'Greekfish,' who is 4ft 4" if he's an inch.

Talking about Skiing they were. It's daft really, but I always assume people from telly are tall. I'm funny like that. And it might have been someone's dinner, but they seemed to smell a bit like pickled onion monster munch too.

Finally, I think I might start wearing my Tuxedo to poker games. People don't dress fancy enough these days. I might see if I can't change that.

I'm off now to listen to meloncholy songs and stare forlornly out of the window while the kettle boils.

boomp3.com

Come on Oxford, bally Cambridge they get my dander up don't you know

I bought me some US dollary-doos this week via the post-office's online facility. No handling fee, no commission and free delivery. Dollars arrived not 48 hours later. Marvelous. But wait! A cash charge appears on my bank statement for £4.50.

Say what!?

The bank are charging me for buying dollars from the Post Office? How does that work? What's the difference here between me buying dollars from the Post Office and buying a nice cardigan from Keepwarmthiswinter.com? They don't charge me a cash charge when I buy petrol or anything else for that matter when using ones debit card.

If I had just removed monies from the cash point and trotted off to the Post Office to buy my dollars, no charge, so why..why please I asked politely to the Lloyds-TSB lady. Well sir, because it's an electronic charge...the Post Office charges Lloyds-TSB when you buy currency from them using your debit-card.

But why don't Tesco's charge you £4.50 when I buy a selection of breads and some margarine from them using my debit card? Because exchanging currency involves extra costs to process the transaction.

So the Post Office are actually being sneaky bloody sucking bastards then by claiming their currency facility has no commission or handling charge, because they know they will get it back from you and you'll do their dirty work for them by passing on the charge to me? Are you people happy about this? Have you emailed in?

Well, I'm not in a position to answer that sir, but our charges are detailed clearly in the terms and conditions of your card although I can understand your confusion, and yes it does seem a rather stealthy means of acquiring commission...are you going anywhere nice?

What's annoyed me most about this, is this woman was Welsh and the more she spoke the more I found her accent was arousing me. It's been a trying morning.

The end.

The Pringles people claim that once you pop you can't stop, well that's bullshit in my opinion. I can eat just a single Pringle and have no desire for more. Gummy Bears though, Jesus Christ in a sweet shop, for me they're more addictive than crack cocaine.

I don't know what they put in those little glucose gems, but any intentions of just having a few of them and walking away is an exercise in futility. I've had sixty bags of them just today. I've had to sell my Dad's car to finance my habit. I've joined an online community for support. They've suggested injecting heroine directly into my cock to help wean myself off them.

Tissues at the ready I tuned into the Girls Guide to Sex tonight, but what confronted me was not a bunch of girl guides enjoying a particularly naughty camping weekend, it wasn't even hard-core porn thinly disguised as sex education. What I witnessed was an appalling series of internal camera shots that no non-medical individual should have to see. I've only recently come to terms with the fact that women have three holes, what I saw tonight via some sort of wi-fi bluetooth minge-cam will set me back emotionally for months.

Have you ever looked through the peep-hole of your front door and seen a bald man standing on your door step? When he leans forward to ring the bell again his distorted bald pate looks Mecon large and rather frightening - this is how I can best describe the 'head-on' internal shot of a mans pee-pee thrusting itself in and out of this poor woman's glistening sex piping.

How? How I asked myself out loud, how have they filmed this? How? How did they get this camera up there and how in God's name will they get it out again. Tongs? Surely not. Will she sort of squeeze it out like strippers do with ping pong balls? Is there not a danger it'll get stuck? And do we really need to witness an ejaculation from the inside to enhance our sex lives? How will this help couples maintain and nurture their bedroom intimacies? All it's done for me is made me not look forward to seeing my bald postman again.

Am I to understand the medical profession have really invented a wi-fi bluetooth vagina camera? While people are struggling with all sorts of health concerns, the medical profession are spending their time and money not developing cures, but building minge-cams? It's enough, as was this show, to make you weep.

Let's forgo how unnecessary and completely unerotic this show was, can someone please explain to me how this camera was fitted and removed? So far all I can think of was some sort of variation of Fantastic Voyage. I wouldn't sign up for that journey would you? I hear gynecologists have a hard enough time remaining aroused during intercourse, actually traveling to the deepest parts of the female wizard's sleeve and standing next to a jizz soaked cervix would surely ruin women for you forever?

So anyway..if anyone can explain this camera work, do please email in. Eleswise I won't sleep. Not that I'll sleep anyway after witnessing this fleshy horror show.

If you need a visual aid to further explain the logistical difficulties of what I'm talking about, have a look here, but I warn you, it's unpleasant.

I’m hearing now that the Americans have stopped using the term “special relationship” when referring to the diplomatic status between our great nation and theirs. We too seem to have dropped the term, possibly because it’s now too closely associated with the Iraq invasion and Bush and Blair and so on. I find this disappointing.

America on the other hand we have always fought with. I say fought with, this is rather flattering to our militarily inept progeny. The reality is we’ve bailed them out of trouble on a number of occasions as they seem incapable of winning a war on their own bless them, but they are historically our allies, where as France are and will forever be our garlic smelling enemy, without honour and without personal hygiene.

Incidentally, I’m not counting the War of Independence as a conflict between our good selves and America and it doesn’t really count as a victory for the US of A. Not by my rules as our real army was in India at the time protecting the jewel of the British Empire.

The Army they sent over to America was a bunch of hired continental freelance douchebags who decided that American was actually a nicer place to live than the flee pits they came from so they turned their coats and fought with the American army instead or just plain ran off in a typical Franco-Continental cowardly manoeuvre.

People think I don’t like America as I’ve been so critical of them in the past. No no no. My criticisms are akin to parental frustrations rather than confrontational malice, France on the other hand; pure hatred.

I accept that Americans are a little ignorant, a wee bit brash, a little loud and slightly lacking in social skills, but a relationship with America is a lot like working in a crèche.

While it can be taxing at times trying to guide and educate the simple and academically underdeveloped, ultimately it’s very rewarding as they eventually advance and mature.

There’s a simple innocence about the Americans, just as with little kiddies. They make mistakes, they lack respect, when they talk they rarely have anything to say and they say it far too loudly, but they speak their mind, even when there’s nothing in there they’ll have their say and I think that’s a good thing as the world needs dreamers and when eventually it is channeled in the right direction it can only be a good thing for ourselves and the wider world.

Who cares how fat they are, who cares about their delusions of grandeur...super-powering is a phase all countries go through, like puberty. They’ll get over it, we’re hardly in a position to judge them on the Imperialist front anyway, France even less so.

America means well. It really does. It’s just being lead temporarily by a moron. This will change very soon. It’s just struggling with the conflicting issues that affect any rebellious adolescent.

France on the other hand should know better. France is an old incontinent duffer by contrast. A relationship with the French has equivalence to working in an old people’s home; miserable antagonistic bastards, stuck in their ways and smelling of sick and shit.

A concordant relationship with France is not possible. History has proven this time and time again. Try and get two bickering pensioners to agree on something and compromise and you just end up with a tennis match of wheezy verbal abuse.

I would much rather England become America’s 51st state than be part of a United States of Europe, in other words, you know what I’m saying, I’d much rather work in a crèche than a retirement home.

Come on now people; let us rebuild our special relationship. We have the technology. One or two things need to happen first of course, starting with a massive heart attack for Gordon Brown, the deportation of that slimy fuck Sarkozy and his wretched whore of a wife and an election victory for Barrack Obama, but the special relationship can be retained, it can be great again. Like Jason Donovan and Kylie Minogue who I think we've all secretly hoped would get back together, they were a lovely couple.

If dreams were wings, you know I would have flown to you America, to be where you are, no matter how far, and now that I'm next to you. Woooo.

Things didn't go according to plan this evening. The tournament ended for me before it really got started. To cut a short story even shorter, Matt in a rather unsporting manoeuver held a legitimate hand and I ran straight into it as fast as I could, sort of like this:

The second major error I made this evening was sitting down at the cash table. The third error was sitting to the right of big Rich. Mountaineers have their Everest, the Fox has Rich, the Pot Limit Omaha manifestation of Chomolungma.

It's an unforgiving ascent even coming in from the west, but from the east, well I barely made base camp. Even with a gang of Sherpa's and supplementary oxygen I doubt if I would have faired any better.

I'm not entirely sure I did anything drastically wrong, it's just that the strategies and tactics that were unleashed on me in this game didn't appear to bare any resemblance to those detailed in the Omaha books I've read and games I've seen on the telly.

From what I can make out, the optimum strategy appears to be raise the fuck out of every single pot until your opponent wets himself; essentially a process of poker dialysis and a strategy that takes an awful lot of money to combat. Ironically the kind of money I can only raise by Ebaying a kidney, which would mean I'd wet myself even more. A cruel and foul smelling catch 22 I think you'll agree.


Speaking of not faring so well. I came across a couple of pictures of Tony at the Paddy Power Irish Open last week. Initially looking rather pleased with himself..

So the fucking catholic church is at it again. Do they not read my blog? I thought I told them all to go and fuck themselves. See this joker pictured above, Cardinal Keith O'Brian, he's after a free vote in the Commons over this Embryo Bill cause he thinks the catholic ministers and other christian ministers will want to vote according to their faith.

I'll tell you this and i'll tell you no lie, if there's one thing that gets my arse grapes an itchin' it's a fucking nosey bastard hypocritical religious crazy telling everyone where the bear sits. This is a secular Government, ministers don't have the authority to vote according to their various super-natural mumbo-jumbo beliefs, they have a duty to forgo their parochial tunnel visioned view of why things are the way they are and vote according to whatever the dudes and dudettes in their constituencies desire.

And since when does the catholic church believe in natural processes anyway? You can't object to a field of medical research on the grounds that it interfers with nature and in the same tiny mind refuse point blank to accept Darwinian evolution. If you must insist on everyone and everything being the result of intelligent design, then essentially there is no nature, nothing's natural it's all manufactured, no? Manufactured by God, but still manufactured, so how can this research be contradictory to those beliefs?

If anything it's God's work surely? God made man so this is basically God's devolution of creation to the science boffins, oui? And even if it's not allowed, religious crazies still have nothing to worry about cause God will surely make sure all this research fails and comes to nothing and all those nasty science dudes will get a lightning bolt in the face, oui?

This whole who-ha is down to a complete lack of understanding of what this field of research is about. This isn't about creating hybrid beasts with a several heads and three or four cocks.

Even if it was, it still has absolutely fuck all to do with the damn church and any religious minister who votes according to his beliefs needs removing from office, preferably by the ankles and you can quote me.

It's true that I dislike Ashley Cole more than most people. If the truth be told I never liked the guy when he was at Arsenal. When he snuck off to a hotel somewhere in the west end to see Chelsea after he'd decided that the 55k a week he was offered by Arsenal wasn't good enough for him, my loathing for him increased to the levels usually only reserved for Tottenham players and staunch republicans.

Paradoxically though people, I didn't really have much of a problem with his derisive ridiculing of Mike Riley this week following his mistimed but certainly not malicious tackle on that Tottenham no-mark (if people can make this argument for Martin Taylor I can make it for Ashley Cole).

I looked deep within myself after that incident and to be fair to Cashley, I think I'd have behaved the same way if I was in his position, how could you not? It's just so hard not to have less respect for our pitiful band of Premiership referees than for Premiership footballers. With the possible exception of Robbie Savage.

They're all just so weasely. Their obsequious please be my friend approach to dealing with Premiership footballers makes me dry wretch. Referees are not employed to be arse-chums with the players, they're there to blow their whistle and point at the appropriate times.

A concordant approach is not realistic. The relationship referees are trying to develop is not possible because that form of respect has to be earned and these refs are so utterly un-respectable. Discipline has to be imposed on the players.

Players have proven they're not capable of behaving professionally, respecting the officials and preserving the integrity of the game. They need to be dictated to until they can show they've learned how to behave. It's just like raising nippers really. Primary school kids don't call their teachers by their first names.


You don't see the same level of disrespect from the players when they play in the Champions League. The referee's are made of sterner and much cooler stuff across the channel. My research shows that players respond positively to either uncompromising authority or European chic.

Continental referees tend to look healthier and fitter and have enough hair to be able to use gel and those that don't look mentally unstable and not worth messing with.

They also wear cooler shirts; reds and luminous yellows and so on instead of black which is a colour not conducive to the harmonious relationships our refs are attempting to nurture. The European refs that do wear black do so because they don't want the players fucking around with them.

Premiership referees look like unfit red-faced used car salesmen and puff and pant their way through matches narrowly avoiding serious coronary collapse each 90 minutes. They also have names like Clive and Kevin instead of cooler monickers such as Pierre and Johan.

If the FA is serious about tackling this issue of respect they either need to instruct referee's to approach games in a far more draconian manner and abandon their desperate desires to be liked by the players, or simply find some cooler or crazier referees. It's basic psychology.

Footballers are essentially acting as bullies, the way to stop a bully from forcefully removing your lunch money is not to hand it to him before he attacks you, it's to attack him back, or simply be too cool and imposing looking that he won't target you in the first place. Oui?

So there's a couple of hands from my recent wins that I've been considering since. These were both final table hands; both of which I won, but ultimately got very lucky. I did however get my money in first on both occasions, but I'm wondering whether my play was reckless or at least too aggressive and the same for the respective mateyboys for both hands.

I'm on the big-blind. Button mateyboy raises another 30,000. Small-blind folds, I call as I'm intending to stop and go him.

I push on the flop for 110,000. If mateyboy folds he is left with 180,000. I would have 280,000 and the third player 120,000. He decides to call, but I hit my ten on the turn (a two outer!) and I'm in a whizzy jolly position to win the tournament.

Was I being too risky betting into a pre-flop raiser with an ace on the flop? Was he priced in with just a flush draw? Were we both playing too fast? Will Batman escape? Find out next week. I think I played this hand about as badly as was possible under the circumstances and just got away with it.

I'm on the button, folded round to me. I make it 15,000 to go. Small-blind folds, mateyboy Martin on the big-blind umms and ahhhs and flat calls.

After the flop some more umming and ahhhing from mateyboy Martin ultimately he decides to check at which point I insta-shove. Now, immediately I'm thinking oops I shouldn't have done that. Even if it's the right thing to do an immediate shove like that screams of bluff.

By my way of thinking, mateyboy Martin had flat called with the intention of shoving whatever came down on the flop, so for him to check the way he did could only mean two things: either he's hit flop massively or he's a great big nancy boy and lost his bottle.

To be fair to him, I had to discount the latter theory, but when he didn't call immediately it did indeed seem that he'd talked himself out of the stop and go which would have won him the pot.

I assume at this point that I am safe, however he rediscovered his courage and did eventually call with nothing but King high!! That took balls I said to myself. Balls you'd normally see swinging between the hind legs of a hippo.

My blood turned to ice the heavens fell as did my jaw when I saw his hand. Fortunately, very fortunately, I hit an eight on the river and mateyboy Martins' amazing call was rewarded with noffin but a seat at the cash table.

So, the same questions apply as with the last hand; with blinds at 2,000/4,000 where we both playing too fast? Approximate chip counts before the hand were 65,000-ish to me and 35,000 for Martin. Something like that.

Let me know what you think people because if I'm playing too fast I need to calm the fuck down as I can't keep getting this lucky. I thank you.

boomp3.com

In light of Heather Mills' gargantuan divorce settlement from Paul McCartney, let me offer up this boon of financial advice; I won't amgry up my blood by focusing on why someone deserves £25m just for being married to someone rich, but I hope this serves as a lesson to all gentlemen who are considering getting hitched that a prenuptial-agreement is a necessity.

Not just the super rich either. In fact it's more important for someone earning an average wage to get one of these agreements than someone who makes cazillions a year. If you make £30m and your wife wants £15m, you can cope, you're not broke, you're still financial secure forever, but if you make £30,000 a year and your wife wants £15,000 you're gonna have to move back in with your parents.

Surely it's just far easier and cheaper not to get married in the first place? Don't let a woman guilt you into thinking a pre-nup. is unromantic because it turns your wonderful relationship into a business contract. A marriage is a business contract. You wouldn't enter into a business contract without having a contingency plan should the people you're dealing with no quite be the people you thought they were and it all go tits up.

I've waffled on about this before plenty of times, but it seems people are still not listening to me. Marriage is not romantic and it's not big or clever. Just live together until the tedium of it all becomes so soul destroying you have to go your separate ways and then start all over again with someone else who you've convinced yourself will really be your soul mate this time.

If you don't get married you can make this mistake as many times as you like and all it will cost is your self respect and the respect your friends and family have for you. If you marry each time you've convinced yourself she is the one however it'll cost you something even more valuable, money. And no, I haven't got that the wrong way round.

I think you know what I'm trying to say.

So I'm having a cappuccino this morning and a couple of Daily Mail readers are putting the world to rights at a table just east of my position. According to them there are now more single mothers under the age of 20 than Topic bars (or something) in the south of England.

Patricia (I assume that was her name) argued that this statistic coincided with the demise of the Girl Guides while Brenda (that was her name) argued that it was the Government's fault.

They want girls getting pregnant she argued because keeping them on benefits is cheaper than having them in the workforce because they can get Hungarians to work as secretaries and nurses for peanuts.

Something like that anyway, I could only catch the gist of their rabid hysteria over the sounds of Mel Tormé's Careless Hands. I don't think the eastern European waitress quite agreed with her logic, but I think we both agreed that Brenda's cardigan was pretty.

boomp3.com

Speaking of careless hands, controversy at the Pigeons last night; with only seven runners and the blinds at 200/400 I'm sitting before a healthy stack of approximately 12,000. Steve v.03 UTG (I think) shoves for 3,500. Steve's range is quite rangey. I elect to call with 6-6. Alan on the button (I think) comes over the top for about 3,500 more again.

I decide to call. Alan has Kings and isn't happy when I hit my set (666 the number of the Asno) and bust both players. A fair enough point of view considering how big a dog I was and how often he has had Aces and Kings cracked in recent times.

My justification for calling was the somewhere between 3/1 and 4/1 odds I was getting from the pot and the chance to knock two players out of a seven runners tournament in one go, one of which was one of the better players and the other of which was Steve...whose rangey range is a double edged sword. I also have average chips if I don't hit my set.

Careless? Oui. Wrong? Not in that game. My strategy in the Pigeons is a potent blend of laggy play laced with raw lunacy and my results there seem to suggest it's quite effective so I'm sticking with it. In 'proper' games however I accept a more circumspect approach is necessary.

Finally, I almost took a shit today without pulling my pants down. I pulled my trousers down but not my pants, I realised something wasn't quite right just in time.

A final update then on Cheltenham. Mildly pissed off A. P. McCoy decided to ease off on Refinement and hand the race back to Whiteoak after having it all sewn up.

Not quite as pissed off as Ruby Walsh must have been though when Derek Thompson asked him if he thought he should have chosen to ride Denman instead of Kauto Star immediately after the race which Denman won comfortably.

Tommo really is a senile old duffer. What a fucking stupid and insensitive question. How was Ruby Walsh supposed to respond to that? He was actually very diplomatic - "Tommo that's the most ridiculous question I've ever been asked." I'd have been less restrained - "Would you rather have won this race Rich?" "Erm..let me think.." SMACK!

boomp3.com

So it's here then people. Gold Cup day, in a couple of hours anyway. It's been an odd festival this year, not least because I've actually secured a profit for the first time in three years, but the cancellation of day two has discombobulated the card - nineteen races in two days, it's all just two much man, I can't cope.

Racing before 2pm is not natural. Anything before 2pm is tricky for me if you want to know the truth. I've been going to bed at 10pm just to prepare myself.

Cousin Vinny secured me a profit for the week, so tomorrow with only a proper bet on Refinement in the first race, it will all be about enjoying the build up to the big one as I've only had a cheeky each-way bet on Neptune Collonges (48 for the win).

I can't be backing horses at the 'Nam at Denman and Kauto Star prices no matter how good they is. Who shall win it though eh? Eh?

Well, I've been a Kauto Star man up until today but now I'm drifting like tumblewood towards the Denman camp. It ought to be a cracker though, one of the few races I'd want to see without having a vested interest in it.

First of all, I hope they both finish the race. It'll be a terrible anti-climax if Kauto Star thrashes his way through a fence and ends up hooves over tits as he's been threatening to do for quite some time. I'd actually prefer Kauto Star to win. It's a tenuous and haughty reason, but I like Clive Smith and I'm afraid I have a snobby dislike of the brash working class hero types.

Harry Findlay is either a lovable rogue who spills his peas all over the table cloth at posh dinners or just one of those loud cockney spiv types who we can all do without.

I'm not sure which, so for now I'm siding with Mr Smith. To my knowledge there's yet to be an Englishman named Clive you couldn't depend on. Let's hope this still holds true tomorrow.

I've been dreaming about Vegas a lot recently, which is understandable as I'm off there pretty soon. But it's the Mirage Hotel specifically which keeps popping up in my dreams and this I cannot understand. No sir.

I've only ever been to Vegas once before and I didn't go into the Mirage and I'm not staying there in May, so why..why the dreams? Why? Well now, I think last night I figured it out; it's down to memory triggers I reckon.

You'll have seen Rambo and similar movies involving Vietnam vets where they go all crazy cause some innocuous object reminds them of their hellish war experiences. Usually it's ceiling fans that remind them of helicopters, of grates or grills that remind them of bamboo prisons.

You see? So in my case I think my Mirage dreaming is down to my heaters. This is the last thing I see at night before the sandman chucks sand in my eyes:

You see, it looks just like the Mirage no? Sort of. Since Vegas is on my mind a lot anyway, I think that, combined with the similarity of my heaters to the Mirage's facade is causing my Mirage dreams. Oui? You can scoff, but it wouldn't surprise me one bit if Steve Wynn had storage heaters in his house. The End.