Voy Por Ustedes

As we speak Boston and Chicago are playing out the last twenty seconds of the third period of over-time in game 6 of their marathon seven game series. My last night in Vegas has just begun. The sun has gone down, the strip is a neon blur and I feel like I'm in over-time too.

Eleven days and eleven nights is too long. Fantasy has not become reality. My fantasies are pretty elaborate and mildly deviant, but they've never included mental and physical exhaustion, horribly chapped lips and swollen ankles and an unquenchable thirst for black current electrolyte powder and being pursued by a swarm of Chinesers.

I won't play poker tonight. I can't cope with any more bust-outs, slow-rolls, piss poor play and piss poor table manners - the poker playing equivalent of eating in a restaurant with Del Boy spilling his peas and gravy all over the table cloth. I'm going to eat in tonight.

I'm still glad I came of course even if it was just to confirm that I ought not to come back. Over the course of this eleven days it has become more apparent how dead the place is. I didn't notice at first, but I've learnt to see past the glitz and I've seen the wizard behind the curtain.

If I did ever come back I would need to have my mob members with me. I would rent a house, rent a car and bring more money and stay less days. I would not come in April again either. April is apparently as quiet a month as December. I want noise. Not the noise of construction workers and Chinesers babbling away - proper noise, fun noise, the kind of noise Vegas invented and can still only be found here.

For now I just want to get on the plane, sleep and wake up in England. Chicago have won!! The last twenty seconds of that game took about 5 minutes. I hope the last hours of my trip here don't take as long.

The casino crawl turned into a night at the Wynn instead. We all entered their $160 freeze-out. The field seemed populated by some extraordinarily sparkly dressed Italians who made an attempt to over power rest of the runners with aggressive after-shaves and hair balms.

Again it seemed the English only at the table rule didn't apply here, but unlike with the Chinesers I didn't mind. I love the Italian language. The Chinese dialect on the other hand makes me feel nervous and anxious and I'm sure is responsible for the rash on my legs, I'm still sleeping with the lights on because of my experiences with it earlier in the week. "PAIR OF FWEE WHITE EYE, WHAT YOU GOT."

I felt good about this event so thought I'd handicap myself by losing half my chips immediately chasing a Royal Flush draw. I then spent the rest of the time admiring all the hand gestures of the Italians while folding 9-3.

As I left Nick Dobson was the sole remaining Fox representative with Gino the eye-talian who busted me sat to his left as chip leader. I can only assume Nick was able to reverse that and win the tournament.

Later in the evening I decided to get in a van with the some people I didn't really know and ate shrimp cocktail at a 24 hour diner somewhere before heading back to the MGM where I unsuccessfully tried to drink some Baileys. My system won't accept alcohol still, but this is possibly for the best.

I have two days now. Without alcohol that leaves me with a clear head and solid bowels so I think I might abandon the tournaments and sit down for a long-ish cash session at the Venetian with my last $600.

As far as I'm aware Pete and Twizzle both made their flight home. Or at least to the airport on time. I'll still lay 3/1 Pete can start a fight with the INS guards though. I'm not sure if I'd have rather come home too today. I've started to see uncouth Mancunians in little packs, if I'm to avoid them I'll need to hang about in hotels that don't sell Stella Artois.

The Fox people have their last night this evening and will be attempting some sort of Casino crawl. I have no desire to see the inside of an Emergency Room so will not be participating. I will dip in and out of it throughout the night taking pictures and generally observing from afar.

Their flight is taking off at 4pm,..I predict Pete Spedding and Twizzle will not be on that flight. Incidentally, speaking of pictures, I apologise for the lack of visual aids. I've taken a few pictures but can't get them off my phone without my Mac. Will reveal all when I return this weekend.

After my awesome cash at the Gold Coast it was off to the Mirage. I'd never been in there before and it was very pleasant. I've not been in too many card rooms before which had a rain forest just down the corridor.

After a small mis-step early in the game when a man from California called my bet for his tournament life without looking at his cards - "Rich, I dont give a shit, take it, I call" - I wish he had have cared, I only bet to isolate this guy as I felt he'd looked like he couldn't give a shit and had mucked his hand so often. I was at it and when he flipped over a 7-8 for a hand of Queen high beating my 4-3. "You weren't supposed to call that," I concluded. - I rallied after this and went a little card dead being dealt a 3 at least 94.3% of the time and eventually busted on the final table bubble.

I thought I'd head over to Planet Hollywood to play some cash and generally be sociable. I bled away a few chips trying to see cheap flops. It was a weird game absolutely no pre-flop raising unless someone had Aces. Easy game to beat so when I was dealt J-8 and saw a flop of 9-10-Q for a straight I just had to use my thinking head to figure out how to extract the most monies from the six pre-flop limpers.

I didn't have to think long because the lady in the seat opposite me had J-K for a better straight and took my $150 stack off me and left me with that heavy arse feeling again. I didn't reload. There seemed to be little point.

I went back to my hotel and on the way to my room put $2 in the vending machine as I fancied some M&M's. As the machine whirred into action I thought about the beats I have taken and whether they were as bad as they seem or whether I'm just wallowing. The machine then stopped, but had failed to deliver my M&M's which lay dangling off the shelf - half on half off. Fuck my fucking life.

"God is taking the piss, I said to myself out loud probably. I didn't invest another $2 as it would have remained stuck and sent me over the edge.

On a more positive note, you may recall a few weeks ago some hockey prognostications I made about the play-offs. So far they have all been proven right, with the exception of the New York Rangers who play game 7 tonight.

If Boston take the Cup back to Beantown my hotel room is paid for. If Chicago can make the conference final I will have covered last nights bad beat and if the Rangers can get past the Capitals tonight I'll have recovered the loss from flopping the nut flush and losing to full house when a guy with pocket sevens hit 5-5 on the turn and river, putting three 5's on the board.

If my very specific calculations here seem like Bean counting, it's because it is. I'm now deep into damage limitation mode rather than a making a profit mentality. Ordinarily I wouldn't care about the money, I didn't make money last year but the experiences seemed so much better. I'm not sure I've had a good time this trip. The place seems noisy rather than loud with the sounds of people having fun. It seems more bad tempered and even though the neon is as bright it does not have the same shine.

I'm not sure I'll come back again. It's been a lot harder physically too. The walks seem longer and I'm having to sleep more. I better make the final days count, I don't want to come away from here with bad feelings. I shall see if Vegas and the Gods want to make up.

I never once cashed in the old Gold Coast game. I never even made it to the No Limit stage. It's a straight freeze-out game now, and at the first time of asking, I've fucking done it. I've cashed. I'm freeeeee. It's only a two table game and it's only $230 but it's a cash. The curse is lifted. I feel like crying. I don't really, but thank fuck for that. My heavy feet are lightened. I can now learn to fly.

As we speak I feel 75-80% human, which is good enough. I'm about ready some solids so will be heading down to the buffet in a wee bit. My feet no longer look like beach balls and my penis is huge again. Phew!

Today begins a new week. I have four days left to break this accursed lack of cashing. Two efforts today will be the $40 Gold Coast game which I haven't played yet and a $75 freeze-out at the Mirage. I'm convinced the small field games offer up my best chance of cashing.

I'm happy to accept a small return in exchange for lifting this curse rather than try for a big win which would put me in the black again. Nietzsche said before one learns to fly one must first learn to walk and run...which is nonsense really as humans can never learn to fly, but I know what he meant bless his bushy tash and it's a philosophy I'm adopting for this week.

The Fox people are attempting a casino crawl, but I have no desire to experience a Las Vegas emergency room, so I'll steer well clear of it. If it comes near the Mirage I'll hide in the toilets. It sounds from early reports that I am not the only one who slept through Sunday.

I better go. I need bacon. Good luck to the Fox people (I fear they will need it), and good luck with all my bets.

As we speak I have just surfaced from about 15 hours of sleep. More a coma than a sleep in fact. My head is still pounding, my feet are inexplicably swollen like a pregnant woman's, my saliva is as thick as golden syrup and my heart palpitations come surfing in on a wave of nausea every fifteen minutes or so.

After leaving the Fox people at about 8:30am yesterday(?) who were still recovering from a night at Spearmint Rhino by drinking through the pain barrier and drinking away the disappointment of Twizzle's horse not winning - I made an attempt to sleep off the affects of 12 hours of alcohol and a meeting with an English Australian who loved Rugby and fighting.

My attempt failed. I still feel shit. At least I haven't lost anything playing poker. I'm waiting for some water melon to arrive and some sandwiches. It's 1.15am so if I can keep this re-ast down I'll have a hot shower and make one more attempt to sleep myself back to normal.

Assuming this works - my plan tomorrow (today?) is to make an attempt at the Venetian $120 game which Martin Hogarty finished 5th in on Saturday while I was beginning the 14 hour poisoning of my blood stream. In 0ther news Pete Spedding chopped a game at the Wynn three ways while soon after almost receiving a life-time ban from the MGM for some what aggressive behaviour the details being a little sketchy at this time.

I had a heated argument with a dealer at Binions who tried to insist that Columbo was a better detective than Sherlock Holmes. "You Brits and your Sherlock Holmes," he said shaking his head. I hadn't even mentioned him. I tried to argue that Sherlock Holmes wasn't even a detective - he was just a dude who without years of police training had awsome powers of deduction and while Columbo was very astute his years of training would be largely responsible.

I like to think I won that argument. In retrospect I wonder if this debate is the reason the same dealer dealt me 9-3 so many times. Next time a dealer tells me Sherlock Holmes was a freakin bum, I will just agree.

I sought out the Fox people and we drank until 8:30am. Or that's when I finally fell into a cab and headed back to my hotel room. It's 9pm now and I have just woken up. I'm going back to bed now. My feet feel funny.

I have become masochistically attached to the limit cash game at the Gold Coast. My schooling at the PLO cash game at the Fox has allowed me to accept all but the most vicious out-draws. If one is disciplined and patient there is no reason to have a losing session at this game.

I learnt the hard way, but I'm doing OK now. I've learnt that even in a limit game with a minimum of seven players in the pot - half of whom will be Chinese gambling maniacs - most players here will refuse to let top pair hands go and will chase flushes to the end whether it's a nut flush draw or not.

Raises are not respected and the kill pots are played exactly the same way. I haven't played in the tournament they have here at noon every day as I haven't been up that early yet apart from my first full day. I will make an effort to give it a go tomorrow though as I need to play a no limit format with these chinesers and their clicky noises and baffling dialect.

In other news, I made it to the final table of the $75 freeze-out at Binions early this evening. They only paid four places though as we only had 25 runners - alas I was out in sixth place not long after I busted a small stack when he was unable to better my flopped quad sixes.

Vegas is very quiet. I noticed that on my two visits to Binions I had no seen a single cash game in progress. Our dealer said April and December are the slowest months. It was only after busting out of the tournament I happened to realise why there were no cash games played in the main poker room; they now have a separate room for cash games and what a lovely room it is too.

Nicer even than the Venetian poker room I thought I'd sit in for while at the 1-2 no limit game. Instead I sat in for only twenty minutes as a Finnish guy who had busted two other English guys that same night completed his hat-trick and sent me back to the Gold Coast in a sulk.

I have had no alcohol today so tomorrow I shall make up for it. I will watch hockey as my boys are playing, I shall seek out the Fox people and drink coors until my speach is as incomprehensible as the Chinesers and ensure Kathryn has a full glass of Rose at all times.

Let's take a short break from whinging like a girl about bad-beats. Let's whinge about the staggering levels of ignorance Americans can reach with regard to what's outside of their borders and their inability to identify sarcasm. I like chatting to Americans, I'm no "Detol" or anti-septic as they say, I'm here to keep up the Anglo-American special relationship, but it's so hard to find an intelligent one.

Around midnight I went over to Planet Hollywood last night and was chatting to a guy from New Mexico. A Caucasian 21 year old guy who was celebrating his birthday and was a pleasant enough chap. He was astonished I knew that Bill Richardson was the Governor of his state, it not occurring to him that American politics and American current affairs would be discussed in the UK.

There are extenuating circumstances here for the poor lad, he was only 21 and it was 3am, but when a shiny German with a fake tan joined our table, his cup of ignorance runeth over. "Careful" I said to New Mexico, "there's a German present, he's going to attempt to take over the table, its in their DNA."

German was involved in a hand and at showdown he slammed down a 4 which gave him trip fours. "Fantastischen vier" he declared with a big smile exposing impossibly white teeth. "Is he German really?" inquired New Mexico. "I thought he was Australian!"

I mean fuck me. You don't have to speak fluent German to spot a German accent when it's slamming cards down on the table with glee. And you don't need to be a language-smith to know that fantastischen vier means fantastic four in proper English speak. You can really work it out by the fact that he was happy and showing everyone a four and also by how it sounds like fantastic four.

There's a lot of Germans in Planet Hollywood. All of them prancing about like cocks (the birds). Chin up chest out, give them each a pair of Jack boots and a Luger they could be marching into Poland.

Let's rotate now back to the Gold Coast poker room. The scene of my horrific bad-beats relayed in a previous blog. It's 4.30am and I've dropped 20-30 IQ points myself. A player at the table happens to mention he's a dealer at Caesers Palace. "Oooh" says Dumb and Dumber in the 5 seat. "Do you know Brad then, he's a tall guy with a pony tail?"

"Yeah I know Brad" says CP dealer with a wink - "he's a tall guy with a pony tail right?" "Yeah that's him, you guys are friends?" asked Dumb and Dumber sincerely while the rest of the table frown and scratch heads at this man's gullibility.

"Sure we go fishing on weekends." Dumb and Dumber is pleased. "Ooh OK cool." "To be fair" says I. "There's about 2,000 people working at Caesers you're gonna need to be more specific don't you think?"

D and D frowns then smiles. He understands now CP dealer was being sarcastic. There's not much sarcasm over here and when it appears it generally passes unnoticed. A moment of silence now as everyone says a silent a prayer for Dumb and Dumber's sadly departed intelligence. Silence broken eventually by a sincere Will in the 3 seat who looks and sounds like TJ Cloutier..."I hunt myself..where do you guys go fishing?"

I'm loathe to litter my updates with tedious bad beat stories, but today was astonishing. I've seen some unbelievable out-draws this week, but was only on the receiving end of one them. Today however I was gang-raped by them.

I flop the nut-flush holding Ace-2 diamonds. The flop was 5-6-10 diamonds. I lost to a guy holding pocket sevens when the turn and the river were both 5s giving him a full-house. After I was lifted back onto my chair by the floorman I was dealt Jack-Queen of hearts. I saw a flop of 8-9-10 rainbow and end up chopping the pot with a lady holding 6-7 when the turn and river came Jack-Queen.

There were a few others but every time I try and recount them I can't hold back the tears so I will spare you my hell. I did actually win few dollars this afternoon at Planet Hollywood so in real terms those beats only cost me $40 but psychologically I may never be the same. I'm soiled. I have no idea how to revierate myself.

I've decided to come out swinging. I have not endured a ten hour flight to cower in my room like some sort of homosexual. Tomorrow me and Gus are going to get a little crazy. It could get messy. Nurse, the screens please.

Maintaining ones perspective in a place like Vegas is a difficult proposition and I am feeling gun shy. Driving through downtown Vegas past block after block of small houses with bars on the windows, bookended on each corner by small bars with no windows was a stark reminder that beneath the glossy veneer of Vegas life a far darker reality exists.

These streets seem as unforgiving as the betting streets in the poker games I have played in so far. There seems to be have been a disproportionate number of incredibly brutal bad-beats and some really shitty behaviour and it's the latter that has me sat in the Gold Coast sports book with my Asus instead of sat at a poker table somewhere.

Fortunately only one of these bad beats happened to me when I bet into two guys after seeing a flop of 2-5-4 rainbow and holding pocket 5's only to find my Teutonic nemesis in the 6 seat and a Canadian holding Ace-3 and 6-3 respectively...the board did not pair.

Slow-rolling is the thing that has dampened my enthusiasm for playing today though. It appears to be in-vogue here and I hate it. I must confess though that when a slow roll goes wrong it is very amusing. On one such occasion with pocket kings I saw a flop of K-5-4 with a man I nicknamed low-rolling slow-rolling Joe.

Checked to me and I bet, Joe calls. A turn card of 4s filled me up and checked to me again, I bet again, Joe called again. The river was a ten, it was checked a third time and I moved in for my remaining stack. Low-rolling slow-rolling Joe ummmed and aaaah and eventually called.

-“Full-house,” says I. “kings full.”
-“Goddamit, 10's full,” says Joe. “I thought I was trapping you man.”
-“You thought you had the best hand?” says I.
-“I had a boat, damn straight I thought I was winning.”
-“So you were slow-rolling me then”
-“It wasn't a slow roll”
-“You either weren't sure you were winning in which case you shouldn't have blasphemed in shock, or you thought you were winning and were slow rolling. If you're gonna do that, have the nuts mate.”
-“I'm done Carlos,” says Joe to the dealer. His remaining fifty dollars or so in chips were then scooped up quickly and off he went, disappearing into the casino like a disappearing slow-rolling cunt in a casino.
-“What an asshole.” Offered up the Morgan Freeman lookalike in the seat to my right.

On my way to the elevators from my room I past a couple of southerners. A fat man and a fat woman. I can only assume from their appearance and accents that they were Republicans. That awful breed of Americans who don't even know what Europe is let alone where it is.

“I gotta take a nap, I need a break” says Billy-Bob. “Yeah,” agreed Mary-Lou, “we gotta get reviberated.” Back in the darkest far reaching parts of this woman's brain, where she keeps her general knowledge and vocabulary, her subconscious had probably selected two words to articulate her intentions. Rejuvenated and vibrant I think. But both words probably arrived in the fore-front of her mind at the same time and morphed into a single word; reviberated.

So wrong, but it works. Once my hang-over has subsided and I no longer have to back swallow my vomit from listening to inarticulate yanks and poorly behaved poker players I will ante up and the games can begin again. For the moment though some reviberation.

The gambling Gods opened their arms in a warm embrace as I'd requested, pity I didn't notice they were carrying a dagger. It's not been the most promising beginning. If I mean to go on as I started I'll be home by the weekend.

After losing $150 betting on the Chicago Blackhawks who were subsequently soundly pumbled by the Flames, another $100 went up in flames soon after when I made the catastrophic error of sitting down at a poker table populated by 8 Chinesers.

If you're a regular reader of my blog you'll be aware of my almost phobic distrust of the Chinese. Call it prejudice, racism or species-ism - they terrify me and sitting down at that table in the Gold Coast poker room I felt like Winston Smith in 1984 in room 101 facing his most overwhelming nightmare which in his case was having his face gnawed off by rats.

Being consumed by a table of reptilian Chinesers is to me equally as horrific. I only sat in on that game as my feet and eye-lids had grown heavy and my losing hockey bet had made my fatigue from the trip far more apparent.

This was a limit game. As I sat down they were chuntering away to themselves. I considered asking the dealer if the English only at the table rule applied, but I just assumed it didn't and continued to listen to their absurd dialect in the hope that they weren't colluding on how to cook in a pot or even worse discussing how to cook me in a real pot with spices.

Either way my sense of paranoia was palpable and I couldn't help but....Shhhhh...wait...can you hear that? No it's OK, I thought, I heard something, jesus I'm a fucking wreck. Anyway..where was I? Oh yes..being cooked.

I was cooked in a pot as it turned out, not a cooking pot but it was still an experience that left me feeling like I'd be feasted on by them. From watching the Olympics I knew that 8 was a lucky number in China and they weren't kidding. One of the Chinesers, I have n0 idea of it's gender, caught an 8 on the river to fill a gut-shot beating my set of 7's to bust me.

I didn't win a single hand. I escaped with my life though and left them to it. Were they talking about me as I left? All I could hear were noises like a load of grasshoppers chirping in the night and some clicking noises like crabs opening and closing their claws, I'm sure amongst the chirping and clicking I heard the words nice hand white eye, but I can't be sure.

Back in my room I lay down and the fatigue from a long trip and half an hour of blind terror was a load too heavy to bear and with all that weight on my eye lids they slammed shut and I was out.

I regained consciousness about 8am and felt pretty good. I showered, scrubbing the awful stench of lizard breath off my skin and after breakfast the 10am $50 freeze-out at Binions seemed like a good idea.

It wasn't. I should have just sat back down with the lizards or better still eaten a $100 bill and shat it out down the toilet. I was out early in other words. Dealt K-9 spades I saw a flop with an UTG mayeyboy I had nicknamed "$100 Bill" as this was his standard bet. He was first to act on a flop of 2s-4s-9d. I had top pair with a king high flush draw. $100 Bill bet out $100 which I raised to $400.

$100 Bill called and checked the Qd turn card. I bet out $1000 leaving me only $1200 back. He shoved on me and I called reluctantly as I didn't want to leave half my stack out there. $100 Bill showed Ace-9 clubs. I missed and hit the road. "Nice hand, what's your name sir?" I asked politely. "Bill," he replied. Ha, no shit.

I was pissed off at losing but this made me laugh and I enjoyed a pleasant cup of coffee across the street at Starbucks despite my bloody awful start to the week. Also the floor guy at Binions, despite being bald and sporting a ginger beard, is in fact the best floorman of any poker room I've ever been in.

I remember him from last year. Very polite he is but with a no nonsense approach to his TD-ing. The rules are clear and if you mess about you can play somewhere else. When he tells you there's a ten minute for swearing he means it, but when he tells you that he's enjoyed having you in his card room and looks forward to seeing you again he also means it. If only the card rooms in the UK were run the same way.

In order to break even and continuing with the city of contradictions theme - since I'm in the red I've bet on Blue tonight to get myself out of this hole I've dug for myself. I've backed the Blue Jackets and the St Louis Blues in a double which was a difficult bet to place initially as they have different terminology here. It's called a parlay here I've learnt. A double seems more logical, but arguing logically with Americans is harder than betting a Chinese lizard off a gut-shot straight draw.

It's lunch time now and I'm heading off for a steak. Incidentally, for those arriving here later in the week it's 95 degrees. Which in celcius is fucking hot. Oooh wait, one more thing..on my way back from Binions my cab driver was a boxing nut. After identifying my accent correctly as being English and not Australian as the woman who drove me to Binions this morning had assumed, he went on to tell me enthusiastically that Hatton was a bum and so was Lennox Lewis, Joe Calzage and Prince Naseem Hamed. I found it hard to disagree.

This man had clearly forgotten more about boxing than I will ever know and so I think when I return I will be betting on his assertion that Hatton will lose on a TKO in 9 or 20 rounds.

That's about all I have to say at this time. My plans for later today are fluid as we speak. Which means they''re not confirmed and I'm going to drink heavy. Im having an hours councilling to help me over-come my experiences with the Chinesers, but should be free to play again by early evening. I think a trip to Planet Hollywood sounds good - $70 + $10 for an add-on at 7pm. They also appear to have a "ladies night" game on at 9pm.

Will be updating again sometime in the week. If you don't hear from me I've either continued losing or I'm the main course at the noodle bar. Let luck be a lady today. Or just a waitress with firm buttocks and a passion for Australians.

However excited and surreal Gulliver's experience must have been during his eponymous travels when he set down in the land of the giants it can't have been much m0re than is felt after touching down at McCarren airport and catching the first glimpse of the strip.

A four mile stretch of buildings that look like they were constructed by a 200ft toddler with his over sized lego set. Fucking brilliant. It's a city of contradictions really isn't it. It looks like it was built by a kid, but it's the ultimate adults playground. Where everyone dreams but n0 one sleeps. Of guilty pleasure and honest deviancy.

I'm here for something far more valuable than Gulliver's motives for weighing anchor at Brobdingnag...he was just after water, I'm after pleasure and money. Vegas has never failed to deliver the first of those ..but it's been a little reluctant to furnish my wallet with the second. I feel it'll be different this time.

It's approximately 6:30pm I think Vegas time. The sun is descending and my anticipation of what lies ahead is rising. My Asus Eeee runs hot and I've already spent too much time in my room. It's time Las Vegas' poker rooms and I were reacquainted, I will attempt regular updates, but for now let the games begin....come on now poker gods, put your loving hands 0ut

Let's see how deep Manchester United's squad really is shall we? If I'm right they'll lose today because their second eleven is in reality, utter tripe. I need Everton to win today. They're the final selection of a Yankee I placed on Toosday which has been ruined by Manchester City beating Hamburg and Porto losing to Machester United. If Everton can win at ridiculous odds of 4/1, I'll at least get half my stake back and I can re-invest it in some hockey wagers.

The 4/1 I was given is a nonsense price in my honest and humble opinion. Manchester United historically struggle in games immediately after they've played Champions League fixtures away and on a natural ground against a United team comprising of eleven fans who have won a competition to play for the team (I assume that's how United's team was put together?) Everton must surely be a 6/4 shot at worst?

Also, my first ever bet in a betting shop was in 1995 when Everton played United in the FA cup final and the Toffees won 1-0. Surely an omen? I've also had £10 on Tim Cahill to score first at 10.0 which is a great price considering Rio Ferdinand is playing and he's hopeless at defending set-pieces where you Timmy scores so many headed goals.

The end.

Today's "going on holiday tomorrow" of the week song is "Dreams' by Gabrielle. She may have tried hacking off an assailant's head once with a sword, but one can't deny she really can knock out a holiday tune.

This song reminds me of the height of my rascal years - 19 years old knocking about in Grand Canaria doing all sorts of things - stories I wouldn't tell my grandchildren about even if they sneakily tipped Brandy into my Horlicks while I was looking for my reading glasses.

The New York Rangers won again today. Taking a 2-0 lead in their series with one man team the Washington Capitals. They are now 20/1 in from 50s which my singing squirrel and I sagely suggested was worth investing in. I shall now look smug while I eat some cake. Good evening.

...I do think the Vegas Strip would look much more spectacular if they replaced that god awful Paris hotel with a London themed effort instead. Thusly..

I'm just a few decent sleeps away from Vegas now. If it weren't for the fact that I have to shop for pants tomorrow I'd just sleep the next 60 hours or so away. I've packed my little Asus Eee, or I'm going to when I do my packing and the plan is to update the blog with my comings and goings on a bi-daily basis.

My initial plan to head over to the Wynn on Monday evening has been canned due to the fact that the Blackhawks will be playing game 3 of their series with the Calgary Flames at 6.30pm Vegas time and I cannot miss this game, I very nearly love play-off hockey more than tits and definitely more than biscuits.

Incidentally...San Jose lost last night to Anaheim at home! Chokers. Boston won easily and are now 5.5 on Betfair.

So anyway, my rearranged plans are to watch the game at the Gold Coast - then head over to Binions to play some cash and discuss with old cowboy types why England is such a better country than America.

Twelve seconds into over-time, that's the way to finish off a game. Calgary some how scored two goals making this game on paper look quite close, but not so. Fifteen more wins for the cup. Oh and Boston won also. I feel dirty having bet on them, but one has to cover ones inevitable Vegas debts some how.

Just so we're clear, there's only six weeks left in this football season yet somehow Arsenal still have to play Manchester United three times (possibly four), Chelsea twice - possibly three times, Liverpool once and possibly Barcelona. Fortunately Arsenal have sufficient reserves of awesome to win every one of those games, but still..bit much innit.

I have just finished eating curry and watching the New York Rangers take a priceless lead on the road in their series with the Capitals. Shut down Ovechkin and you shut down the Capitals, that's what I said, didn't I say that? I did, it's here.

Some people find this sort of thing an abomination. An affront to the sanctity of marriage. I myself feel that having your matrimonial knot tied by an Elvis impersonator is about as much respect as marriage deserves. By the authority vested in me, I pronounce you man and wife...eeerrrrrrrr thank you very much.

With only five sleeps and forty snoozes until Vegas my nipples are tingling in anticipation. Thank the lord there's a veritable cornucopia of sporting wonderment on offer as a diversion to help the time pass.

As my singing squirrel predicted, Casey Stoner did indeed win the Qatar GP. Our 125/1 podium dark horse Colin Edwards eventually finished 4th which is an interesting result. He may represent some value in later races. It appears the fact that he hates his team mate James Toseland has motivated him somewhat.

They're off to Japan next. Valentino ought to start favourite again as he always does. He won the race last year, but ugly 80 year old Loris Capirossi may be the value bet as he has some how won three of the last four races. He had a pretty nasty crash yesterday, but he's a tough little fucker with a lovely looking wife and I'm sure once he's had his arse covered in cous-cous and had her eat it out, he'll feel right as rain.

He was riding for Ducati when he won those three races, but it just seems to be a track he likes rather than the bike winning it for him as young Stoner has yet to win there. I'll be in Vegas for this race, but will mooch about the sports books when they price this one up. My team of singing Squirrel are working on it as we speak. At the moment, laying Casey Stoner at something like 2.8 seems to be the bet. Possibly a place lay, but let's not get too excited.

Emmanuel Adabeyor

Jules Winnfield

So now I'm going to talk about motorbikes again so you can skip this if it's of no interest to you. I've been looking at the rule changes. I don't like them. Any rule changes designed to even races out are in my opinion not good.

Any rules in any sport which aim to level the playing field are not good. Professional sport by it's nature is a meritocracy - the best should win. MotoGP is not a one man show, and even when it was, Valentino Rossi was exciting enough that it didn't matter.

Tinkering with the rules to handicap the best is the kind of thinking that led to communism. MotoGP is not like Formula 1 used to be when Michael Schumacher was racing and the race outcomes were determined before the race in the pits by the engineers. Some teams have more money in MotoGP than others, but that hasn't led to success. Honda have cabillions and zillions and yet they haven't won since Hayden luck boxed his way to a title three years ago.

Apart from anything else these rule changes will ultimately give more of an advantage to Valentino Rossi and Casey Stoner as they're the best riders. When the other riders had a wider choice of tyres they had more scope to set their bikes up exactly to their liking, they can't do that now.

They're only allowed 20 tyres and two compounds which means the weaker riders will struggle if the conditions don't suit the tyres. It's also probably less safe as Nicky Hayden found out yesterday and the high-side that launched him in the air last night will happen more often, which makes for spectacular telly, but one would rather it didn't occur. They may have ruined Formula 1 by making it too safe, but motorbike racing will always be a dangerous sport and they don't need to make it worse.

Anyway..so the qualifying session saw a predictable front row: Casey Stoner, Valentino Rossi and Jorge Lorenzo. Colin Edwards is sixth, which is good enough. I accidentally backed Dovizioso last night so I think I've got all bases covered.

From a wagering point of view and a league point of view today has been perfect so far. All of our wagers are live, Arsenal won and Hull City lost. I shall make a point of watching Match of the Day tonight just to see the look on Phil Brown's silly fake tanned boat race.


In my dreams Cesc Fabregas wanders past Phil Brown whose face is engulfed in flames after some one has lit a match igniting the chemicals in his tan cream. With only Cesc's spit between him and an excruciating death he pleads with him to help in between his blood curdling screams. Obviously Cesc refuses because he cannot risk another FA charge and Brown is left to his ironic death with the stench of burning pork lingering heavily in the air. A-ha a-ha aaaaaarrghhahahahahahah AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

After the first free practice it's all looking rather good for our wagers. Casey Stoner was fastest, Vale second fastest only 0.30 behind and Colin Edwards third fastest!! Not sure he'll be 125/1 now. I shall now have a biscuit in celebration.

Happy death of Christ day everyone. I'm celebrating by eating bread and downing half a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and watching Ben-Hur - Hur being the Hebrew word for "dover" I assume? There's nothing like a thinly veiled gay squabble to kill four hours of a bank holiday, just ask Michael Barrymore.

I'm still not sure about this whole crucifixion business. I don't get the point of it. In real terms it breaks down like this: God had his kid tortured and mutilated to atone for us and out sinful ways right, but it's God's fault in the first place that we're all sinners. Why not just not make us sinners in the first place and therefore foregoing the necessity to nail his lad (who is himself) to some wood?

God made Adam out of some dirt and Adam was the original sinner from where we all get our innate wickedness, so why not just make Adam a nicer dude? And even if Adam somehow was able to do what he wanted, why not just forgive us anyway and not bother with all the sacrificing of the progeny?

What is it with the Bible and all the Dad's sacrificing their sons? Who are they trying to impress? And since Adam never actually existed anyway it's all even more weird. God makes up some bullshit rules, he then makes a dude break the rules and in the process condemns every man there after to an equally sinful standing, then manifests himself as his own son and has himself tortured to atone for the bullshit rules he made up himself which the people he made have now broken too!? Huh? A sphincter says what?

God: WHHHAAAAAAAAAAAT!????

Me: Sorry God just playing, but it is all bullshit isn't it, you must admit it is bullshit. You should just have made Adam a cool bloke even though he didn't exist, or just forgiven everyone without this weird PR stunt. Know what I'm sayin'?

Then I wouldn't have to watch Ben-Dover every Easter and I wouldn't have awful sinful images in my head of Charlton Heston rubbing oils all over Stephen Boyd. Eeek..sorry, couldn't help it..I feel queasy now and that's your fault, but according to your weird logic, it's my fault. Think you better send down another kid God have him toss a Bishop's salad or something.

I placed this wager on Monday evening. Had I waited until Tuesday morning I would have received something like 4/1 for Porter's War instead of the SP of 5/2. However, I would never have been up in time so have to be content with the smaller price. I'm quite confident that Manchester City will lose tomorrow as I feel that in real terms they are shit and Werder Bremen ought to have no problems dispatching Udinese for the same reasons.**

I have placed another Yankee just a few moments ago now that my elite team of singing squirrel have completed their dossier on the new MotoGP season which begins this weekend in Qatar. I do so love MototGP. I think tits, biscuits, ice hockey and MotoGP are my four favourite things in life, with blow-jobs and jelly making a valiant effort to break into the top four.

So anyway, MotoGP: Valentino Rossi is a sporting hero of mine and I fully expect him to win his ninth world championship this season. But the fact remains there are certain tracks he just can't get along with, but much like Tiger Woods, because of his legendary status he will start each race as favourite.

We can therefore find a teeny tiny bit of value in the price of young Casey Stoner (who is the second of this championship's two horse race) whenever the tour visits one of Rossi's bogey tracks. Qatar is one such track and Valentino has yet to finish on the podium. Stoner conversely has won the two races since this track in the desert was added to the calendar.

One simply cannot see past these two. Testing so far as produced similar time differences to last season; young Casey 0.60 of a second faster than number 46, which at 200mph is quite a lot. Not quite such an advantage over race distance, but I've taken the marginally better 11/8 for Stoner over the 6/5 being offered for Valentino Rossi simply because it is a track that suits the Ducati and Stoner has the wins in the bag. One might find place-laying Rossi a cheekier bet, but out of respect for the man I could never do such a thing.


For some each-way value one might have a few shillings on Colin Edwards to finish third. He seems to have renewed himself this year and at a price of 125/1 must be value for the little step on the podium given that poor little Danny Pedrosa has crashed again and the other Ducati rider is Nicky Hayden who I find incredibly over-rated. I still refuse to recognise his world championship winning season no matter how many times he emails me. I'm sorry Nicky, NO! You were a lucky bastard and that advert you've appeared in for those tyres is silly.

So anyway, there it is, selection one of my weekend Yankee; Casey Stoner to win the Qatar MotoGP at 11/8, I've had a bet on Tiger Woods to win too just cause someone said he would and 5/2 seemed reasonable for him; I also fancy Middlesbrough to beat Hull and arrest their recent funk (11/10) and finally I've backed Newcastle to somehow beat Stoke at 2/1.

Make of that what you will. Good evening.

** Woo hoo - Well played Werder Bremen and Hamburg. Monies for me.

There's an awful lot of nonsense being spoken by Liverpool and Manchester United fans (more so than usual) on the various football forums as we speak. There seems to be an implied assumption with all of these articulate discussions that the remaining trophies available this season will end up either on Merseyside or in Manchester. Personally, I don't think either of them will win anything, nothing, nowt, nada. In fact I'd like to wager a few shillings that they all end up in London (bet voided if a non-English team wins the Champions League mind).

"When it goes, it goes quickly, and there is nothing you can do about it." Do you know who said that and what he was referring to people? I'll tell you. It was Alex Ferguson in 1995, but he wasn't discussing his own sanity or the durability of his pelvic floor muscles, no, he was explaining why Blackburn Rovers were wobbling so badly in their attempts to wrest the Premier League trophy away from Manchester United.

Never a truer word spoken. Losing confidence and momentum suddenly and for no apparent reason as the finish line approaches happens a lot in sport. Like the knackered race horse with nothing left in the tank trying desperately to negotiate the final up hill furlong at Cheltenham, I declare that Manchester United have failed to make the trip.

They were never that good in the first place. If you remove fake Ronaldo and Wayne Rooney from the line up the myth that they have a deep squad is exposed. Dangerously exposed to the footballing elements. Much like Sir Ernest Shakleton during his attempts at the South Pole, Manchester United are wearing only a wooly jumper and have only a bag of pot noodles to fuel their campaign.

Shakleton failed, but lived to tell the tale. Manchester United are not made of the same stuff however. Not only will they fail on all fronts, but one has to fear the worst for their survival: Already millions of pounds out of pocket following the collapse of AIG; cabillions of pounds in debt thanks to the careless over-confidence of their American owner Malcolm Glazer in his investments; without a trophy this season other than the Pepsi-Cola Cup; one has to assume fake Ronaldo will leave in the summer which leaves Wayne Rooney alone to shoulder the burden of another greulling season which can only end in utter failure and a mid-table finish at best, possibly even a relegation battle.

With no Champions League football for the foreseeable future they will no longer attract star players to their fold and their prawn sammich munching crowds will start to diminish. A domino effect ensues collapsing the whole club.

As we have seen with the global economy, once this process is set in motion, it's progress is swift, devastating and it's momentum impossible to arrest. The stresses and strains of a collapsed empire must also manifest themselves in the shape of a massive heart attack for Ferguson and poo all down his leg, possibly during his berating of a fourth official for not adding on twenty minutes injury time at Old Trafford as United face a 3-0 drubbing by West Ham. The final nail in their respective coffins quite literally hammered home, if you'll excuse the pun.

Schadenfreude is not my thing people, I'm a sympathetic and benevolent chap by nature, except when it comes to football and Manchester United, Alex Ferguson, Liverpool and Tottenham in particular. At times like these I circle like a buzzard waiting to feast on their rotten carcasses. I may be wrong of course.

There will be people who disagree with me. It may be said their final chapter is not yet being written. But I feel it inappropriate to compare them to a book. A team comprising Ji Sung Park, Darren Fletcher, John O'Shea and Edwin Van der Sar has no spine for one thing. More a tragicomedy but where the comedy lies is in the tumultuous catastrophe at the end that is not averted and the end is nigh.

I must profit by this people, both hedonistically and financially. I must be ruthless. I shall therefore be taking the 6.6 offered up on Betfair for them to end the season potless save the 7-up League Cup. Gore Vidal once said it is not enough to succeed, everyone else must fail. On this occasion it is not enough Manchester United fail, I must succeed.

I'm about to eat a Heinz chicken and vegetable curry. They call it a 'Big Eat' and although it's only small I won't argue with them. Before I enjoy this microwavable repast though, I'd like to just discuss a few things.

I'd like to offer up my congratulations to Mr Twizzle for the first of many victories for Porter's War who won at Fontwell today thus allowing me to recover the monies I invested in various toxic poker hands last night. This will save me emailing Obama and claiming a slice of his tarp funds.

I'd also like to offer up a high five to myself for backing Birmingham to win each half last night against Wolves. Despite promising first halves of the season my team of singing squirrel had flagged up both Hull City and Wolverhampton Wanders as the Bismarks of their respective divisions.

I fully expect Hull to be relegated and Wolves to miss out on automatic promotion. Nature has shown us that anything sporting a combination of gold and black colouring is doomed to failure. This is why tigers are all but extinct.

I'm nervous about this evening's football. Arsenal could not really have hoped for a better draw, but my one reservation about playing Villareal is the ex-Arsenal factor. Players who have left Arsenal always tend to score against us when they return with their new team. Villareal have the legendary Bobby Pires and the legend in his own right Pascal Cygan. Not sure if both are playing tonight, but I fear the worst.


Pascal bless his bald pate was ridiculed by Arsenal fans for struggling to kick the ball in a straight line, but I loved him. In truth he was more French riot cop than centre back, but the one occasion when he caused little gob shite Alan Smith - then of Leeds United - to almost cack himself in the tunnel before a game just by staring at him was enough for me to forgive his many failings on the pitch.

Bobby Pires of course was the best number 7 ever to play in England. Better even than David Rocastle who was incomprehensibly awesome. Eric Cantona and that wife beating alcoholic from Norn Iron weren't fit to empty his wheelie bin and of course Kenny Dalglish was from Scotland.

We knew Robert woud be a legend the day he called turncoat David O'Leary, a whore. If Villareal must score, then I hope it is Pires, I shall cope if it is Pires. As long as we have scored three ourselves of course.

My curry grows tepid, I must go.