Voy Por Ustedes

I played at being a grumpy old man this afternoon by confiscating a football launched into my garden by one of the local urchins. I did it properly too by retrieving it wearing a dressing gown and slippers.

As the nation remembered and honoured it's war dead today I couldn't help feeling that one or two guests at the Cenotaph kind of looked out of place. Royal family, fair enough; Prime Minister, fair do's; David Cameron? Not sure why he needs to be there anymore than anyone else, but ok leader of the opposition and all; Tony Blair?? Not entirely sure that was the most appropriate name on the guest list, what with his illegal war and the 100 or so dead British troops as a consequence. Perhaps his invite might have got lost in the mail strike out of respect for all those we're supposed to be remembering today who died in just causes. Finally, Ian fucking Paisley. Ian Paisley, a religious bigoted lunatic who took every opportunity possible to pour petrol on the flames of sectarian hatred in Northern Ireland and god only knows how many soldiers were killed over those decades. Was Jerry Adams there? I couldn't see.

I've just taken some pain killers cause I'm a circumspect kind of chap and I want to hit the ground running if any pain is coming my way...er..so anyway, this unlike my other blog entries, may not really make much sense and may leave you with a sense of nervousness and apprehension should you have an appointment with my company any time soon.

I do have a cold approaching from the south though I think. I've got that vague cacky feeling developing in my throat and I had a Mars bar just now that didn't taste quite right. No doubt the source of my fever is the high November winds which buffeted me and the various meanderers along Marble Arch tonight when I was waiting for my bus home from the Vic. Gotta get the red bus next time...always the red bus.

Couple of things of note occurred. Firstly, I didn't win a seat in the Manchester APAT thingy. I did get a nice Grosvenor Casino key chain though and I had some lovely lamb curry. Didn't spot Vicky Coren, but I did see one young lady who had ass that forgot to quit. Huge it was. By contrast I also saw an ass you could have bounced a ten pence piece off.

As you can tell, my poker playing this evening was so unspectacular there's really nothing to tell. I was dealt Aces first hand and a fortunate misdeal a few hours later allowed to me to remain in the tournament a few hours longer when the chap to my right was dealt aces, I was dealt ace-queen and the chap to my left was dealt Ace-king, but unfortunately for the dude to my right, another chap was also dealt a hand despite his exiting the tournament some twenty minutes previous. Phew!

Moving on from poker, I don't wish to sound anti-semetic, but have a look...no wait, I do wish to sound anti-semetic, I am anti-semetic. I'm anti all monotheistic religions. Not in a blow you up if you come near our children kind of way, but I do think they're silly. In fact I'm anti-all super-natural beliefs, except Santa. Is he super-natural? Of course he is. I digress, look at this picture. It's a bit fuzzy but it's two Jewish dudes playing No-limit Texas Hold 'em earlier tonight.

You know how you sometimes have to look at something twice before you realise that something is seriously wrong. Like when you come home and your wife is in bed with loads of blokes or something. Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't gambling expressly forbidden in the Torah? I'm quite sure gamblers are not welcome in the rabbihood or rabbidom or rabbi-ing as it's considered on a par with thieving and aaaaaand, it's the fucking sabbath anyway.

These people should be at home sat in a chair not moving a muscle shouldn't they? I know you people change the sabbath depending on what's on TV in a given season, but I checked and it's Saturday at the moment. Jesus fucking Christ chaps (see what I did there, blasphemy and so what)...if you're gonna sport those daft curls and yarmulkes cause you don't want to make the little baby jesus cry, then the least you can do surely is not go in a fucking casino on the sabbath.

Even if you are allowed to gamble, even if you're allowed to go to a casino on the sabbath you definitely are still not allowed to steal and no bearing false witness against your neighbour, so that's bluffing and stealing the blinds out the window, and these things are an integral part of Hold 'em. You're gonna fry boys, fry in hell. Do you people have hell? Or is that just the Christians these days? You're in trouble anyway, with someone. And if you're not, you've wasted your life on a daft religion so either way, have a word with yourselves. Grow up.

So anyway, I can't remember the rest of what I wanted to say. I need a lemsip.

In truth dear reader, of all the Victorias I could enter on a lazy Saturday afternoon, Grosvenor's Victoria Casino comes someway down the list; ahead of Victoria Wood, but way below Victoria Beckham (come on you would too, get off your high horse).

This is a casino I have been meaning to visit for some time. The APAT regional series of tournaments allows me to kill two birds with one stone. Firstly, to have a look at the place and secondly to atone for my performance in the first regional event in Brizzle where I was out before my buttocks had had time to make an impression on my seat.

In real terms and under normal circumstances, since this is only a £20 game I would struggle to find the patience to take it seriously enough to make any real progress, but on this occasion I have additional motivations other than the money and those medals they give out for the top three spots.

It occurred to me a few weeks ago epiphanic stylee, that if I looked deep deep deep within myself, I'd have to accept that I'm a better writer than I ever will be a poker player. I'm still a fucking good player, just I'm an even more awesomer writer. Now then, the book sto's are full of poker manuals and essential reading they are too, but there are relatively few poker novels and since the demographics of your average casino full of poker players is wide and diverse, this is somewhat surprising to me.

Sooooo, from this moment hence, I shall begin collecting my experiences of players and games in my thinking head, and eventually I shall morph them all into a booker prize winning poker novel to be found in the hand luggage of every player from here to Vegas.

AhahahahahahahahaHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

So this is a bit rude and I advise those easily offended to move along, and to relax a bit too. Anyway..so a friend of mine, let’s call him Peter, no Walter, he was alone last night and stuck for something to do, nothing on telly and so on, so like any normal chap he took the decision to have a wank. Why not, that’s what I always say, or rather, that’s what Walter always says.

Now then, it seems Walter had his iTunes playing in the background and within a short time had settled into a decent enough rhythm. Well now, after a thoroughly delicious and filthy series of thoughts involving Felicity Kendall and her muddy wellies had taken effect, his rhythm had reached a fair clip and tissue at the ready, he prepared to receive his dishonourable discharge. At this point “Run to the Hills” by Iron Maiden kicked in rather loudly and the drum solo caused a frantic surge of self aggression that almost caused some irreparable damage.