Voy Por Ustedes

It's been raining a lot recently. I don't like the rain. It brings me down man. I experience a sort of climatic ennui during extended periods of rain that renders me opinionless. What's the point of having a blog if you have nothing to say, that's what I always say.


I had some stuff I had occasion to opine about regarding Gordon Brown earlier in the week and David Miliband. People of this ilk usually angry up my blood something fierce and I must necessarily suppress my rage through uncompromising blogging and the eating of raw meats. Not this week though. Two paragraphs in, I decided that I could not be arsed and could only find energy enough to have a lie down instead.

I can't afford such lethargy this weekend however. Not with the Pigeon's game only 48 hours away. With about 100 Pigeon's games under my belt I have yet to unlock its secrets, but I have identified a few areas which need addressing.

I have come to accept after much soul searching, that is to say the searching of my soul not yet destroyed by unpredictable re-raises and re-buy period miscalculations, that aside from a lack of patience and focus, entering into the game with an impending sense of misfortune and inevitable doom is the primary source of my vulnerability. Psychological impotence. An Achilles heel if you will, only higher up.

In order to work my pessimism and sense of hopeless futility out of my system I shall spend Saturday and Sunday watching a selection of war films. I will begin with some American films presenting the same symptoms as my Pigeons' failures in order to meet and accept my own deficiencies and resolve my inner conflicts; Platoon, Full Metal Jacket and the catastrophic miscalculations and complacency of Black Hawk Down.


I will then progress to some more successful British campaigns - as we are of course world champions of war - specifically where we prevailed despite the overwhelming odds and adversity; Zulu, Lawrence of Arabia and finishing with possibly the finest victory of them all - The Battle of Britain - won with a little luck, a little cunning and some good old fashioned British spunk.

Can it purge my demons? Will my catharsis allow me to dream or will I still cry myself to sleep on Sunday night? Will I tear through the field like Peter O'Toole's "Aurens" thrashing his way through the Turkish army with the manic cackle of blood lust fever or will it be a bridge too far?