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She’s a cruel mistress, poker. When it’s not your night it’s not your night. I don’t think I really made a mistake this evening yet not even Jo Brand could make 5,000 chips disappear faster. Let me talk you through my hell as I need some closure.

Hand number one, the first nail in my coffin.













A nice enough hand and worth a pre-flop raise. Called by a farmer known to be a little loose with his calls. We head to the flop two handed.










Ooooh my. This gives me trips and I feel cheeky enough to slow play after Farmer Pickles checks before me. We head to the turn.








Farmer Pickles checks. I’m cautious now. I had him on a smaller ace, but with his check he may be drawing. I cannot now bet as he will come with me and if he hits his draw I shall lose more chips than I really need to thank you very much indeed. I check too and we go to the river.







Farmer Pickles goes all in for 1,800. Arses! I have to call, but I know I’m beat. Pickles turns over Jack Queen for a straight beating my trip aces. He also laughs, right in my face. I call him a cunt and the whole table laughs. I wasn’t joking though.

Hand number two and nail number two in my coffin.












A Psireeen of a poker hand if ever there was one. So seductive, yet so dangerous. I’m under the gun and I make a standard raise. Budha in middle position goes all in for about 6,000. Eeeek! Farmer Pickles also goes all-in for his remaining stack of about 2,500. Eeeeeek!! Damn you Psireeens, the temptation to call is great, but I’m stronger than that. I can fold. I have to fold. I fold. And it’s a good fold as Budha turns over pocket kings and Farmer Pickles shows Ace Ten. A good fold until the board shows…








Oh you heartless wench. A Jack on the turn would have given me trip Jacks and a huge pot. I’ve gone all wobbly. My focus has deserted me. I’m on my knees. War misery pain and desperation, please lord why have you forsaken me.

Hand number three and the final nail in my coffin.











In the big blind, two callers. I ponder a raise, but check. The flop comes down…









Top pair, decent kicker, I launch my remaining chips into the pot with gusto and authority to scare off the drawing hands. I know I’m beat however as my bet is called instantly and sure enough matey fella turns over King Jack. I’m dominated and not in a good way. The turn and river are of no help to me and I’m back in my car and home just in time before I start crying. A dreadful evenings work, the last time I saw so many useless Johnnies they were in a condom machine in the Vatican etc.

Kenny Rogers once sang you’ve got to know when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em, well I do and I did, and I still lost, so fuck off you grey haired old bastard, what the hell do you know about cards anyway?

And while we’re on the subject of the “Gambler”, according to him, the best you can hope for is to die in your sleep. Well call me over-ambitious, but I’m hoping for a little than that out of my life. And anyway, if you’re such a successful f*cking gambler, why are you bumming cigarettes and whiskey off of strangers? Buy your own you cheap old bastard. Oh you can’t now can you, cause you died in your sleep.

Ha! That’s what I call closure.


"Gets down to what it's all about, doesn't it? Making the wrong move at the right time." -- Lancey Howard, The Cincinatti Kid

“No shit Lancey, I didn’t think of that” – Me, just now.