Voy Por Ustedes

People often say to me, Rich, how in Gah's name did you cope with a week of considerable drinking in a climate with no moisture and not succumb to a series a hideous hang-overs? And it's an interesting question.

My one hang-over came on the last morning when I was unfortunate enough to be so drunk as to not be able to prepare and consume my prophylactic solution. It was the kind of drunk where you wake up with fully clothed including shoes. Nasty.

Anyway, my routine was to fall out of the lift, cross myself in front of the Mexican cleaning lady and stumble into my room and head straight for the little table in the corner. In a seated position I would undress myself being careful to remove everything in order.

I'd then clean my teeth and wash my face, then I'd giggle at my reflection. Again back to the table I'd mix a sachet of blackcurrant Dioralyte - available at all good chemists for about £2.50
- in a cup of bottled water.

I'd accompany that with two wicked strength cocodamol tablets, available to anyone on prescription, or from a guy called Danno who works out of the back of a Ford Capri in the car park of Waitrose.

On two fronts with this routine I was able to combat dehydration and nausea. I'd wake up having never felt so alive. I have no advice however for how to cope with the first hour of the limit $22 freeze-out at the Gold Coast.

I've just paid £50 to put petrol in my car. Not to fill up, cause that didn't fill it up. I'm annoyed by this. I've noticed though, that most people still seem to say 'please' when they're paying. Pump number 6 please love. Why do people do this? Please take my money? I'll say please if someone does me a favour. BP have never done me no favours never.

It's not really the bullshit way that oil producing nations and oil companies are financially arse buggering us every couple of weeks that's got me annoyed. It's the cost of beer. Beer is way more expensive than petrol, but surely must be easier to manufacture. A litre is about 1.8 pints no? If I bought two pints of beer it would cost me about £6.00. Two pints of petrol cost me £1.36.

If the oil dudes are extortionate for raising the prices on a barrel of crude anytime a fist fight breaks out in Basra, then the suits at Fosters Group surely need sentencing to at least forty years in the back room of the Glitter Gulch on Freemont Street. Am I right? High five!

I'm going to make an audacious attempt to recover my petrol money this evening by laying England. What the hell they're doing playing a friendly a gnats hair away from June when we're not even involved in Euro 2008 is too much for me to figure out, but I can't see how anyone's going to give a shit. If you're backing England at 1.44 good luck to you, but there must be better odds on shots than that this day.

The door bell rings, you want to have a little look see through your spy hole to see who it is in case it's the Jehovah's Witnesses again, and you're confronted by a huge bastard spider resting inside your spy hole!!!

Dear lord, it's hard to convey just how terrifying an experience that was for me. I hate spiders. I hate 'em. I also hate things that get in my eyes. A big spider inside my eye lid then is of course the stuff of nightmares.

Can you imagine having a spider crawl inside your eye ball!? I immediately took to it with a Biro. His crawling days are over. I'll never be able to look through that hole again of course as it's now smeared with spider guts, but having to open the door to the Jehovah's people is a small price to pay if it means I never get a spider in my eyes.

Jeff Daniels who looks just like a Candian poker playing preacher who lost a $50 last longer bet to Paul in the 10am $22 Gold Coast freeze-out.

Completely surreal indoor canal at the Venetian.

A couple of awesome rednecks sporting their best dungarees dancing away at the Fremont Street experience.

An actual Rainman!! This bloke was the most awesomest video poker player I've every seen. He was chuntering away at himself as he played that thing at 100mph. Waargh, it's a full house it's a fullhouse, gimme a straight that's a straight.

It's fairly traditional for anyone writing a postcard from their holiday destination to arrive back before it does, so why break with tradition. I'm back now you see and I think it's time we discussed what the hell I've been up to. The names, dates and locations may be changed, possibly, but not to protect identities, just cause I can't fucking remember anything really.

It had been twelve years since my last trip to Vegas and after three drinks at the airport, a two hour delay and one squirty poo, the countdown was over and we were finally hurtling towards Vegas at 600mph.

After possibly the most tedious ten hours of my life, we were taxiing parallel to the strip, towards McCarren airport's arrivals lounge. The Strip, although totally redeveloped since my last visit, looked very familiar - all the same, only the names had changed as the saying goes. Lego land for adults. Block after block of temptation. Splendid.

Vegas hit me right in the face as we left the airport. The hottest day of the year they said. Over the course of the week it worked my kidneys and liver too. By the seventh day the only thing keeping me on my feet was having such sore knee joints I couldn't bend my legs. Note to self, on my next trip to Vegas, sleep at least twice, eat and drink more than four times.

It was immediately apparent I'd packed too much stuff. My suitcase was so heavy, whenever I tried to pick it up my testicles rose into my throat and a tiny bit of poo stained my boxers. I'll bring less stuff time.

More though than the waitresses at the Rio, (our first destination) are obliged to wear..if you've never been there, you'll have to trust me when I say the "clean shaven employees" policy they have over there applies only to the women.

After a few hours of cash and a measly $30 profit a stroll around the place was called for. Paul headed back for an early night however, but as I would discover as the week progressed, when Paul says he needs an early night, he's generally speaking euphemistically. What he means is, "I'm off to pay good money to be handcuffed to my bed, have a bin liner placed on my head and an apple shoe horned up my arse."

I suspected so, but my suspicions were only confirmed one morning when Alan and I returned to the hotel from whichever tournament we had been playing, to find a truck from the fire department and a private practice Proctologist's Lexus parked haphazardly in the hotel main entrance car park.

If I've learnt anything on this trip it's not to be within four square miles of Paul when he needs an early night. After busting out of a tournament at Binions I was encouraged to have a quiet beer next door with him at a Gentlemans club. There was nothing gentle about it. Within 5 minutes of seating myself in a booth, two creatures emerged from the darkness, creatures I have since nicknamed "Die Nachthexe" - the Night Witches.

They were in no mood for negotiation. My belt was removed and I was taken by the throat into the shadows for 45 minutes and $200 of sexual violence, the degree of which would have had Geoffrey Archer howling in submission. I've slept with the lights on ever since and have received email support from Elizabeth Fritzl.

I still see them at night though when I close my eyes and the demons come. If you're ever downtown with Paul and he suggests a quiet beer somewhere nice, I suggest you decline politely and head for the nearest taxi - ask for the airport and don't look back.

Despite this one ordeal, I did enjoy downtown Vegas. I saw a lot of cowboy hats and listened to a lot of country music and I'll have "Love me if you can" by Toby Keith in my head every time I see the big neon cowboy outside the Pioneer Club on TV.

Somewhere I had not visited on my previous visit, Fremont Street was my kind of place. Many a cash session was played at Binions - while the Strip was tack and unapologetic deception, Binions had character and was as honest as a gambling hall could ever be.

The collective sense of humour of the dealers were drier than the weather. They were old school, with names like Buck and Gregory. The average player in there was old enough to call Doyle Brunson "son" and all the waitresses were called Betty.

Generally I was able to find something to talk about with most players. My one faux pas after a couple of drinks was asking a Jewish guy if his mother had circumcised him with a rusty pair of scissors. I forget the context of this remark or what I was implying, but he didn't hang around too long after that. I too made my excuses and left.

Binions saved my holiday. I made no money, but the experiences were worth it. My plan was to play tournaments, but I stunk the place up in almost all of them. I was playing too recreational and too drunk for the most part. The cash games were generally profitable.

The standard of play varied from very strong to "did yo momma have any kids that lived" - that's a direct quote from a dealer called Chris at Binions aimed at a little farm boy from Indiana who made a rather loose call in a cash game with Doyle Brunson's uncle.

My one experience of going deep in a tournament came at the Venetian in their daily $150 game on the last day. My exit hand (*see at bottom of post) is subject to debate and although I maintain I did the right thing, it stung as much as twenty minutes at the Glitter Gulch to go out 24th of 112 after five and half hours of play and being chip leader for most of it.

Everything else is just a drunken hazy blur. Vegas is what it is. I didn't win any money, but by turns vivid, stark, funny, frustrating, sad and hilarious, a whirlwind of a trip paid for itself in memories.

If things don't go well in Vegas you can't hate it. It's not like leaving other casino's. You know it's as unforgiving as the heat as soon as you arrive. The road sign when you leave says come back soon, it should say hate me if you want to, love me if you can. Take it away Toby ....



* * *

At this point I had 52,000 chips, mateyboy had 48,000. The average was 35,000. My rational for shoving on him was that I was essentially at 52% to guarantee a final table place. Every final table place was getting paid.

I would have just over 100,000, with the next player on my table at somewhere around the average. Had I folded I would have to continue to grind it out with some very good players, giving me no where near a 50-50 shot to finally cash.

As it turned out, I was right. I shoved with my 8's, he called showed Ace-Queen and hit an Ace and a Queen. I lost, but I'd still do the same thing in the same situation again. Had I folded I would no longer have been chip leader at my table and the blinds were increasing to 1,000/2,000 shortly.

OK so I've stopped the milk and papers and told the neighbours to watch out for strangers in my back garden while I'm gone. I've also left a yogurt on the window sill in my kitchen just to see what's there when I get back.

I shall be appearing here at 7pm Vegas time Sunday on cam 7. And if anything exciting happens I'll update in the field, as long as it won't get anyone in trouble with anyone. Elsewise see you in a week, that's what I always say.

Now let's get out there and twat 'em.

In real terms this is not the best time for my form and luck to desert me, with just 4 days to go until Vegas baby, but I just checked form and lucks rooms and all their stuff is gone.

Let's ignore the Pigeons game on Sunday because who knows what the fuck goes on in that game. I can only conclude that we play the game vicariously through the commands of the poker gods and somewhere in a smoky corner of their equivalent of Mount Olympus there's a selection of them pissed up on wine and moldy grapes laughing their fucking heads off at us.

The Fox though was different. I thought I played well, up until the last hand where a bitch slap too many forced me to call an all-in I shouldn't have gone near with someone else's cards.

In the first two levels I was dealth Ace-Jack about four times, King-Queen three times and Ace-Queen four times. I won two pots I think, the rest of the time they hit the muck after re-raises.

Good folds too as it happens, but I'm not keen on the hands that other people were being dealt. It's, it's, it's not fair. I hope this is not a trend that will follow me across the globe because Las Vegas is the very last place on Earth I would choose to be frustrated and in need of blowing off some steam.

Bitch slap 1

Blind on blind confrontation. Paul of Peros small blind, me big blind.

Blinds at 25/50

Paul of Peros - raise to 250
Me: (holding Ah-Qh) - re-raise to 850*
Paul of Peros: re-re-raise all-in
Matt of Bowden on the button: Folds like an old lady on stilts.
Me: Fold like a gay sailor
Paul of Peros shows Ace-Ace.

*Matt of Bowden folded pocket 9's to my 850 re-raise, this has repercussions in bitch slap 2


Bitch slap 2

Blinds 50/100

Four handed: pot 550. Flop: 3c - 8d - Jd

Me: (holding Jh-10c) raise 500
Matt of Bowden: all-in
Me: Fold like shit stained bed sheet

Matt shows 3d-4d. I believe this was a good fold despite technically being ahead. Had I not re-raised in bitch slap 1, Matt said he would have raised with his nines, Paul would then have re-re-raised him and I would have been able to fold my Ace Queen and saved 600 chips.


Bitch slap 3

Blinds 50/100

Four handed: pot 550. Flop Qc-3s-8s

Checked to me, (holding Qd-10c) I bet 300
Called by Mateyboy everyone else folds.

Turn: 9c

Me: Bet 600
Mateyboy, re-raise to 1600

Yes I know, I should have folded. I was ticked off though with all the previous folds. I took a leap of faith hoping mateyboy would have a similar hand to Matt of Bowden in the bitch slap 2 with a pair and flush draw. So I shove it all-in like a rapist in spring time.

Mateyboy then dwells up for 10 seconds announces he "has to call me" and shows me a set of threes. I'm home before 9.45pm. I didn't even get any of the food I paid for. I burnt my Gus Hansen book though.

boomp3.com

I've decided to come and speak to you good people instead of watching pictures on Sky Sports of fans crying cause their teams have been relegated.

I'd like to take this opportunity though to tell Chelsea to bugger off for messing up my Arsenal/Everton/Chelsea treble. You had to do it didn't you?

You had to let a stinking poxy goal in in the last few seconds. Bastardos! Hopefully some good will come of it and that evil Israeli freak Avram Grant will receive the old heave ho and a Chelsea smile to boot as a thank you for fucking up what should have been a piss easy season for them.

It's nice to be able to forget about football for a while. I can't remember the last time I enjoyed the game. It's true I've never really been able to figure out why I bother with it.

* * *

I've had four poos today. I'm all blocked and gassed up. I've had a lot of fudge this last few days and it can take its time working its way through me. I can't resist it though of course. Fudgey goodness.

I'm having to wipe my bottom with baby wipes though as it's getting a little raw down there I don't mind telling you. I blame the 2 ply paper I've got. I had to buy the cheap stuff didn't I? I had to save the extra 14p it would have cost me for some softer 4 ply luxury. Who's laughing now eh? It ain't me.

* * *

What's all this talk of a cyclone in Burma? I get very suspicious when things like this occur. Like that tsunami a few years ago that obviously didn't really happen yet supposedly took out most of Asia. I looked on Google maps and it's all still there. Someone's lying.

Let's say though for the sake of argument that it did happen. Let's say there actually was a cyclone and it's flooded vast areas of Burma where they grow rice and it's devastated. Why can't we help them?

I get that we couldn't help those monks before cause it was a bit more gay in that we'd have had to fight the Government and probably the Chinese too and if we're gonna fight a billion chinese folks, let's make it over some more important that a gang of bald dudes.


But why can't we intervene on this occasion? Why do we need permission from the Burmese Government to help those rice growing folks out? What are they gonna do shoot all our aid planes down? Cant we just say sod off, we're helping these bare footed monk dudes and what are you gonna do about it?

Apparently it's becaue they're a sovereign nation and we're not allowed to do things like that. Same reason why we can't intervene in Zimbabwe. The rules are, we can invade a sovereign nation if it's to kill everyone and destroy everything, but NOT if it's to hand out bags of free M&M's, bottles of Evian and tooth brushes? Sigh! We're such silly billies.

Possibly the funniest thing ever that. This post was initially about Bros fighting with New kids on the block, but then I stumbled upon this E17 video and I've been forced to change the subject.

I am unashamedly fascinated by this video. It is my favourite music video ever. I could watch it all day for ever. From watching E17 on the telly at their peak it was clear that even for the music industry what we had here was a quartet of the most obnoxious twats you're ever likely to see in one life time and for them all to be in one band, well...what are the odds?

I love the idea that by the time this video was produced, their custume people and video directors and managers and so on, were so sick of them, so fucked off with them, so full of hatred and resentment for them and their own sycophantic lives that forced them to deal with such arrogant little sods, that they made them wear the stuff in this video just to make them look like cocks for ever, safe in the knowledge that all four of them were all so far up their own arses by this time, that it would be decades before they all realised how ridiculous they looked.

It's gold. They're so into it..it's beautiful..watch their faces, their hand gestures, they're so in the moment, so completely unaware that it is possible for them to look like wankers and they haven't stopped even for a minute to question their producers about the stuff they're being made to wear.

It's incredible what fame can do to one's sense of perspective. There's something in this video to keep the medical profession's finest psychologists, psychiatrists and proctologists occupied for their entire careers. It's so full of embarrassment, but the whole is so much greater than the sum of it's part. The humiliation should be exponential, there in lies its genius. I must now watch it again if you'll excuse me.

It's fifteen years to the day they locked me up and fifteen years to the day that ball from Nayim sailed over the head of David Seaman in the last seconds of extra-time injury time to win the Cup Winners Cup for Real Zaragoza and the catalyst for a million Nayim songs, Arsenal fans would have to endure for years from Tottenham fans - about five years actually until Arsene Wenger arrived and set things right again.

It was my own May day and Christ in sandals would I need help. My Dad told me not to go. They hate us son, you'll get arrested. I'll be fine I said. But I found out they did and I would. I was naive, but that's what you're like when you're a young whipper snapper ain't it? One has to be given the freedom to make ones own mistakes, even if it actually costs one ones freedom.

I wasn't in jail for long to be fair to me and them. They were decent enough once they'd given us a bit of a shoeing in the van and a female officer had laughed at my little cock at the station (it was 2am, it was cold). After about 16 hours I recall they even gave me a nice sammich. Ah the bread in Paris, so soft.

I don't recall much about the rest of time, I do remember playing two aside with three other Arsenal fans in our cell with a football made of rolled up socks. I expect I lost that game too. Other memories are hazy, probably for the best. I do recall standing amongst a group of gendarmerie naked and I was being very very tough indeed and informed all of them how lucky they were I was hand cuffed or I'd jolly well be giving them all a bunch of fives.

I think it was at that point the female officer was brought in to laugh at 'Mr Kanish.' Cold bitch, she'll never fully understand that it's personality that counts. In fairness, I assumed they couldn't speak English and my threats might just be misinterpreted as a football song.

Of course, as unpleasant as that experience was, to this day I'm not certain whether I'd have preferred to stay there a few more hours than actually see the match considering how it would turn out.

We arrived at the stadium about half-time. No tickets of course so we asked a nice Parisian lad at one of the entrances if he'd mind if we just went in please and to our surprise he said oui! Just, it would cost a few francs cause his sister needed an eye operation or something. No worries though. Things were looking up! We even saw Jonny Hartson score. God bless that Welsh genius.


We'll win now we thought. It'll go to penalties and Dave Seaman will see us through to victory as he had done in the previous encounter with Sampdoria. Dave Seaman is the best we thought, no way will he ever let anyone down in a big game, not Dave - that Paul Gascoigne goal a few years ago was just a freak, there's very little chance that would be just one of a string of blunders that would plague his entire career we argued.

However wrong it's possible for one person to be on a trip, I reached maximum wrongage. I attained perfect wronging over those few days in judgement and decision making. Starting with going to Paris in the first place, the drinking with a couple of gay Frenchmen who owned a bar and were not in fact offering us money for food, eating runny horrible eggs after watching a poor chap from Sweden get stabbed in his stomach, the wheelie bin race which would ultimately see us arrested after bin number 3 piloted by me ploughed into a Renault 5 and finally deciding to go to the match instead of just going home.

It's fun knowing me. Alan and Paul have nothing to worry about this coming week. We ought to give cocktails at Paris a miss mind.

Only a week to go now. I've been researching Vegas and by my calculations, daily, there's a 100% chance of mischief occurring 84% of the time I'm over there. My calculations also calculate 26% of my time will be spent asleep, and for Vegas that's a lot of sleep.

It looks like it's getting hot out there by way of weather so I've bought some awesome sandals. They're brown and appear to be made of rope. I've also bought several new pairs of pants and I'm giving some serious thought to buying a chap stick.

I'm very excited about this trip. It's the first proper holiday I've had since I was about 26 really, but it also holds a degree of trepidation. This will be the first time I've been really tested. Slovenia I was able to hole up in the hotel as it was only a weekend trip. This is different animal.

In Vegas you can't run and you can't hide. Inner demons become outer demons. Guilty pleasures are pardoned. Can I, for a whole week, not go fucking mental? Have I matured enough in 7 years to not jump on a policeman's back at 3am and ask for a piggy back ride home? Will I be able to hold back the surging waves of desire and not offer up a frontal goosing to the waitressing staff?

With only sandals to protect me, who knows. God speed and bless me.

An intriguing night of US politics if you're into that sort of thing. More interesting from a punting standpoint than a political and ideological one but an intriguing night non the less.

I had many cups of tea while it all unfolded. I'm using unrefined Molasses cane sugar in my tea I don't mind telling you and unlike Chelsea Clinton it's very very tasty.

So here's the thing then. Hillary won a state - Indiana and Obamarama won a state - North Carolina. Stalemate? Not so. Barack was always meant to win North Carolina, but not by miles and he did win by miles - miles and miles.

In Indiana, even though I always sneakily felt Obama would win, he was never favourite and a decent sized winning margin for Medusa was predicted by all and sundry - especially those punting on Betfair who had Barack at 80/1 at one point early in the night. People laying these odds ought not to be allowed money for their own safety.

By about 5am he was down to 2.0 on the exchanges and Hillary's winning margin was 51%-49% down from about 67%-33% when the initial results started peculating into the various news networks election special headquarter's's's.

Silly silly people. She is of course, as she was even before yesterday, in an impossible position and I'm not talking about the obscene bedroom gymnastic sBill probably forces her into since he was weened off his intern addiction.

To use a footballing analogy, she has as much chance of winning this vote as Arsenal have of becoming champions this season. Now for the females and homosexuals amongst my readership let me just explain that Arsenal are 4 points behind Manchester United with only one game remaining in the season which offers only 3 points.

To continue the footballing analogy, and please bear with me girls and er..girls; her only chance of winning now despite being behind in delegates, popular votes, states won and everything else, is if she pulls a similar stunt to the one the Henry Norris masterminded for the Arsenal in 1913.

Arsenal having finished only fifth in division 2 were promoted to the first division at the expense of Tottenham who finished bottom of the first division, on the strength of a "special vote" agreed upon by Mr Norris and the Brian Berwick of the day in the gentleman's clubs of West London (they still haven't forgiven us for that you know)....so Hillary would have to meet the super super dooper delegates in a multi-story car park or something in the wee small hours of the night and thrash out a deal...i.e suck many many cocks.

This option is more realistic than her winning by accumulating more votes, but due to her being a lesbian and the fact that as nice as a blowie can be, her mouth just doesn't seem that inviting, I can't see it happening.

She's quite capable of dragging this thing out until August however, but I'm starting to wonder if she might now just give up. The money should dry up and the super dooper delegate dudes should abandon her now and with any luck, all sense of hope and desire to continue living as well.

boomp3.com

I forget why this popped into my head last night as the sand man drew back his arm and prepared to launch a fist full of sand into my eyeballs, but why do Northern Ireland's national football team play in green rather than orange?

Norn Iron controlled by Ulster no, for cabillions of years? Orangemen, bowler hats, flute playing, knee capping of catholics and so on..yet the football team play in green like the Republic of Ireland. Why so?

Just one last thing before I have a nice lemsip. I'm sick of fucking Dennis Taylor banging on and on about beating Steve Davis 23 years ago. Will Steve please put us all out of our misery and confess to Dennis that while 8-0 up he backed Dennis Taylor at odds of 1000/1 to win.

He tried so hard to let Dennis coast to victory once he had established the 8-0 lead, but Steve hadn't factored into his equations just how shit the blind spud faced chancer was. In the end at 17-17 Steve had to blouse an easy final black to give victory to Taylor.

They may not have had Betfair in those days, but it truly is remarkable that no one has even considered that wily old Stevo the Davo, who was bored of winning every year and pocketing a measly £100,000, had lumped on Dennis after building a seemingly insurmountable lead.














Taylor thinking he's great in 1985. Bless him.

I don't know much about snooker, but I've taken an instant dislike to Ali Carter. I haven't had the results back from the lab boys yet, but I'm pretty sure they'll confirm that Ali is in fact a girls name.

What a mincer. The way he punched the air and puffed his chest out and grimaced when he made his 147 was really quite embarrassing, speshly when Ronnie O'Sullivan used his cock for some of his shots I heard when he made his maximum the day before.

What's Ali short for anyway? Allister? Everyone knows you shouldn't abbreviate if the shortened version is a girls name. It's in all the books. People called Stephen don't call themselves Steph do they? No, it's Steve. He's shit as well. He looks terrified out there.

I loved his little jump shot in the first frame of the final. Tosser. I don't like Ronnie O'Sullivan either, but I hope he wins 20-0. If they don't play that many frames I hope he wins 20-0 anyway. Or 19-0 and Ronnie have one of his strops and walk off somewhere tranquil for a think and couple of packets of Nurofen and the game is declared null and void. Something like that or something.

Also, I don't care how many different frocks they put on Hazel or how much make-up they shovel onto her face, I still wouldn't and I don't think you would either. Am I right? High five!

"by showing people that

we have the vision of the future
that will carry this country
optimistically in my view into
its next phase."

Huh? What in the name of Jesus and all those he fucked, does that mean? This was Gordon Brown's plan of attack for assuaging the rage and raw hatred being directed at him and his Government by almost everyone now. It's not a very confident plan though is it people.

Let's ignore for a second that it's rhetorical political non-speak - only Americans can talk more than politicians without actually saying anything - let's focus on how he's actually phrased his strategy:

He reckons they have the vision of the future that will carry this country into it's next phase. But he thinks this is an optimistic vision? In other words, we reckon at a push we can make the progression into it's next phase, but we're odds against. Oh spiffing. Well, that'll stop my Dad rationing bread and petrol then.

And what in tarnation is "it's next phase.?" I hate hate hate hate this kind of language. It doesn't fucking mean anything. Aarrrggghhhh. This kind of horse hockey irritates me more than women who want to know where their relationships are "going." What do you fucking mean where's it going???

If Gordon Brown wanted to halt the growing number of people desperate to see him developing an aggressive form of bollock cancer then he ought to just stop being such a patronising wanker and stop speaking in clichés and sound bites.

All he's basically said here is he wants the future of Britain to be significantly better than it is now. He hasn't gone as far as to answer the question and let us know how he's going to go about it.

I could have the vision of the future to take this country into it's next phase (isn't that a tautology anyway) but if it's next phase is an economic depression where we all start eating each other because we can't afford to buy biscuits, it won't win me any elections.

Next time I'm asked where my relationship is going I shall reply that for any relationship to progress to the next phase it requires vision, a vision for the future that involves compromise and a consensus view and there have been 63% more compromises with me than with any of your previous partners. I am for listening and a brighter future, they were for silence and watching football.

I just hope the next phase of his career involves someone close to him taking him out to the barn with a shot gun and putting him out of his misery. If the gun happens to misfire once or twice all's the better, it's really the kindest thing to do.

My shot in the dark yesterday in the first classic of the year almost looked like being a respectable bet, so let's see if today's pin the tail on Asno approach fares any better.

So I've reading Gus Hansen's book about his victory in the Aussie Millions. He documents every hand he plays over the five days and it's all very interesting stuff. He's a very clever man is Gus and it's a very interesting read.

If you're wondering what goes through a profeshnial's head when they're playing in these tournaments, it's well worth a read. Of course now the problem for me, is that this was a deep stack slow structured five day tournament, but I'll end up playing this same way for a laugh at my next £50 freeze-out - 5,000 chips - 15 minute blinds and be out in the first hand. I shall shave my hair off too for method acting purposes.

The few hands I'll play will be exciting though. Wooooooo. For a laugh I'm gonna do a hand for hand in my next game in case any of you want to get inside my head. I don't think you do though do you? A ha ah ha ahahahahahahahahahaha

I'm seeing a pattern in some of the criticisms leveled at Boris Johnson and Barack Obama during their respective election campaigns. Generally by dirty thick people who don't know which fork to eat their starter with when they eat out - mainly because they don't give you cutlery at Denny's. You know what I'm talking about.. accusations of elitism and over privilege.

I think really this is the proles being skeered of clever, educated and articulate people who use long words all the time. The concerns are disproportionate and unwarranted. First of all proles, if being Mayor of London or Prez of Merca isn't elitist then I don't like strawberry cornetto's. Ken Livinsgtone and George Bush are two of the most elitist dudes in the western world.

Bush in particular comes from a family of oil baron cabillionaires, former Presidents, CEO's and various other gits. He's the very definition of over privileged elitism. It's only because he looks and sounds like the village idiot with his aw-shucks twang and blissful perpetually unaware yokel grin, that he's not considered elitist.

Don't you want someone in office with a better education than you and some one who is over-privileged? It's a good thing if you can't understand what they're talking about. Surely you need someone who will be capable of forming concordant relationships with all the other perceived elitist toffee-nosed world leader dudes?

You can't invite the various Arabic leaders to dinner for example and be spilling your peas all over the table cloth and disgusting them with talk of Pop Idol and the convenience of microwaved sausages. Dear lord, oil would be $200 a barrel before the after eights were served.

I'm very worried about the current trend amongst certain grubby and uneducated sections of society who look upon the educated and wealthy with suspicion. I must be public enemy number one two and three.

How can it be? Those who do get out of the bath when they need a piss are considered untrustworthy, yet those who don't even get of the bath when they need a shit are considered custodians of all that is good and decent?

I exclude the Mensa people from the trustworthy educated types of course. They're trying to con me you see. Con me with flattery. I took their home test and low and behold, they're telling me that my score was indeed in the top 2% of the country which if confirmed in a supervised test costing just £15, would warrant an invite into their wee society.

Call me cynical, but I'm wondering if either they're lying and didn't even look at my test, or the questions were just a smidgen easier than the pwoper test and they just want my £15. Not that I'm doubting my intellect of course, but I didn't find question 2 for example all that challenging:

If Jill has two sweets and James has four sweets how many sweets does Wazim have if he has four sweets?

Hmmmm, perhaps I'm under estimating myself, but as Elvis Presley once said, I'm a bit suspicious.

boomp3.com

The thing I hate about Eastern Europeans right, the thing I hate about them right, ..they come over here don't they, they come over here, they don't work, but get a free house with Sky TV and benefits that are more than my bloody wages I have to work ten hours a day for. Ten bloody hours. My Granddad fought Hitler for nothing, he might as well have stayed at home and claimed benefits that's what I always say.

And right, another thing I hate about the bloody Poles and the Czechs right, they come over here don' they, they work ten hours a day for fuck all wages so I can't get a job and so I have to claim benefits don't I cause I can't afford to feed my family on the wages they earn. Why don't they all fuck off home that's what I always say.

And the ones I really hate are the ones who come over here, work and then fuck off home with our money. It's no wonder our economy is on it's bloody knees, all our money is in the whore houses in Prague and the purses of all the old ladies in Warsaw. Why don't they all bloody well stay once they're here, that's what I always say.

Gertcha..

Urrgh, I feel horrible today. I'm been the picture of good health for weeks, I spend one morning in hospital and I'm fucked now. My throat feels like it's had a horses cock thrusting up and down it for a several hours.

They locked me in a box you know, a glass sound proof box to do some respiratory tests. They didn't explain why I needed to be in there. I think they wanted me to stop talking. It was kinda claustrophobic in there. I kept thinking about that Austrian woman. I bet her throat was quite sore too.

I've got a taste for strepsals now. The cherry ones. Just so you know.

Gordon Brown is so fundamentally unlikable. Who invited him to be Prime Minister? Even the Labour party didn't vote him in. Can we not all just tell him to fuck off? All of my equations so far have shown that no one is winning by having him as Prime Minister, except him.

I get that we elect parties instead of individual President type dudes. I get that we elect parties on the strength of their manifestos. But when Gordon Brown took over, he made promises that it would be all change policy wise. Huh?

If you want to change stuff you have to ask us first, no? We have General Elections for that don't we? We used to anyway. And surely even if we're not to be consulted, it should still be down to the party to elect the leader, no? For all intents and purposes Gordon Brown has become PM by bagsying the position. It's like having someone show up at your party without an invite and insisting the music be changed to the Glasgow Hammond Organ society's church hymns CD.

He's completely redundant. There's really no need for him to exist. There's a veritable cornucopia of reasons to dislike the guy. For me, initially it's because he's a Jock. I hate the fact that such a high percentage of our Government's cabinet comprises of Jocks. Miserable bastard Jocks at that.

English MP's cannot vote on Scottish Parliamentary issues, yet the Jock MP's can vote on English issues and this must surely be a huge wrong-un. We haven't had an English PM since 1997. How can this be so? How people, how?

Gordon Brown and his silly new teeth does not believe in a democratic political process, he believes every penny of wealth in the country should belong to the Government and he and only he should have the responsibility to distribute it to the people and he so gargantuanly arrogant about it.

Also, he doesn't have a single economics qualification. Chancellor for 10 years - spends money like one of Paul McCartney's wives - doesn't save anything, then blames the rest of the world now that we're economically fucked. How does that work?

Still he bangs on about how awesome he was as chancellor and in the same speech talks about how we're all fucked now, but it's not his fault. Has someone turned over two pages at once? How is that possible? How can you be chancellor of the exchequer for 10 years and not be responsible for the state of the economy?

No one likes him, no one is gaining anything from his Premiership, no one elected him and he's the only one who's benefiting from his tenure as PM. The difference between Gordon Brown and any random totalitarian regime is really rather unnervingly difficult to distinguish.

At least most dictators are colourful characters. Most of them wear funny hats or dress up like Elvis or have enormous pornography libraries. Gordon Brown collects coins and supports Raith Rovers.

There's nothing we can do about him either. Not until 2010. There must surely be some sort of lynching clause somewhere in British law to deal with Prime Ministers who won't fuck off on their own accord? Seriously, why can't we just tell him to sod off? Please, somebody call somebody.

People are twats aren't they. I'm on my way out to the sto' this afternoon for a sammich and I find this note on my car:

For those of you who can't speak scum, it says "Do not park hear it is not ur space." Ignoring the appalling grammar and spelling and hand writing just for a moment, am I asking too much for them to have spoken to me personally, or at least been more polite in their note?

I'm parked in what I assumed was a spot not reserved for any particular property, and even if it was, it was closer to my place than either of the two properties from which the note scribbler must reside, so it should be allocated to moi.

So anyway, I take the note and approach the front door of suspect number one from the east. In my most polite yet sinister tone I ask if he's left this note on my car, but instead of just denying any knowledge of it, he actually reads it! I found this odd. You either left it or you didn't, why read it?

Unless he's in the habit of leaving notes on cars and was checking to see if it was one of his, I have good reason here to suspect he is the guilty party oui? He then said, "where was you parked, round there?" I say yes (as if you didn't know you smelly cunt) and only then does he deny ownership.

This confirms his guilt in my eyes. He knew where I was parked, his van was parked right next to mine and the neighbour - suspect 2 - was not home.

Cowardly of him to not own up, but I now of course can park there whenever I choose if it was him as he can no longer object. But this sort of behaviour annoys me. I find it weasely and petty. Where's the neighbourhood spirit? The sense of community?

It goes without saying of course I shall urinate on his van at the next available opportunity. If they won't join you beat them, that's what I always say.