stupid boy

Last night $100 buy in FO on Ipoker, 300 runners, 2hrs in im sitting in 20th postion with 10k blinds at 200/400 UTG i pop it 3 times with 66. fold, fold, hijack calls, fold, fold, fold, fold. flop is 553 rainbow... i decide to go all in (hijack calls) - WHY? i am still asking myself WHY, last night at 3am while i pissed all over the toilet seat i had a flashback of my all in...stilll WHY.

what did the caller have?

Answers on a postcard

fughetttaboutiittt!

Wednesday night means I get a free pass from the girlfriend; that’s right I am allowed, unsupervised to roam the free world (well Swindon at least ). The possibilities are endless with a whole host of nightclubs and titty bars to quench my thirst for school night action.

Stuff that.. I decide to share my night of freedom surrounded by a crew of hairy guys around a make shift poker table. Yes it’s the weekly inaugural home poker night. Most of the group are of Italian descent, so in between the hand gestures and raised voices we manage to get whip up some tip top nosh.

The food situation is always a topic of mass debate, it’s like a scene from goodfella’s; remember the part where Henry and Paulie are cooking in Prison???:

James own’s a pizza takeaway, he has a special system where he prepares the dough so thin, it melts in your mouth. Tony the host, normally whips up a selection of snacks; he does a mean bacon buttie, but I feel he puts way to much daddies brown sauce on top…all the same it’s still a very good snack.

After a grand feast, we get down to business - no limit texas holdem is our game of choice. The game is varied in style and skill; Tony V is known as “to tight”, only raising with big hands, he’ll never raise with junk, although he does tend to open his mouth when he is bluffing. Vince “turbo” Fruci, ironically named for his slowness at the table. Vince is partial to high grade super skunk, which means he regularly misdeals and acts out of turn.

In keeping with Mafioso tradition, Little Stevie an Irish Italian doesn’t receive a regular invite. He is told week after week that the game is full, however we joke that he needs to be a “made man”e.g 100% Italian (pinkie ring, fila shell tracksuit top, ) Steve is one of those guys who can drive you insane with his incessant questioning, its probably similar to being on Columbo’s suspect list ; expect to get questioned about absolutely every detail, you will also need to verify everything 20 times before he feels comfortable; “where is the dealer button”, are the black ones hundreds or tens?..

Tommy “2 times” (a nickname from his ability to double up) is a capable, solid player. Tom stands at 6ft 5 and 17 stone, this means if he doesn’t win the hand, you can guarantee he’ll win the fight in car park ( I am still trying to convince him we can make serious money at a trailer park just off M4 ).

The king fish of the group is Pete “Vegas”; I grew up with Peter, so I know him very well, he’s a simple man, with simple taste. Pete absolutely hates being pushed around or dictated to. This usually spills out onto the poker table. I remember a particular hand where I had raised with 8 4, Pete smooth called me. I made a continuation bet of the pot , Pete called followed up on the turn. Even after I announced “all in” I couldn’t push him off his hand. Pete finally revealed his monster; he had sent me packing with jack high…..a fucking shitty jack high - Perhaps the “ I shagged your sister” joke had worn thin”?. If this was the mob, Pete would definitely be “sleeping with the fishes”, but then again I would probably get clipped/whacked/garrotted for playing 8-4….enough already!.

Whats happens in London stays in London....

You may recall I had a wish list of poker goals in issue 22. With the World Series of Poker at the exquisite Empire Casino, I was hell bent on ticking some of those boxes. Unfortunately my sponsor Betfred wouldn’t stump up the £10,000 entry fee (they took one look at the hand history for September), so it was down to plan B – the cash game. The terrace was attracting a small crowd of people, never one to shy away I notice Marcel Luske, Todd Brunson, Pam Brunson and Hoyt Corkins ready to play a cash table. “how much” I enquired to the dealer “one and two” obviously he meant hundred. “are there any smaller games?” the dealer was now looking at me as if I had just twisted his balls’ with a pair of pliers. “1 and 2 pound blinds are the entry level games here Sir, would you like a seat?”. I couldn’t say yes fast enough. The table had now become the casino ‘feature table’, attracting hordes of onlookers, ok it wasn’t TV but it was close enough for me. I was grinding it out for around seven hours with the best in the business and holding my own, so far so good. I must have been around £250 to the good, even though I had taken some nasty beats especially from Pam Brunson. She got all her money in the middle with 77 it folded round to me, I had QQ - it was a quick call. “damn you got anything” Pam asked, “yup” I replied, quietly confident. A high pitched scream confirmed Pam spiked a 7 for a set –ouch! I had lost a big chunk of my money, to the ‘not so good Brunson’. I was philosophical about it all – shit happens. With some tight play I managed to regain the losses and steadily build my stack back up. A gentleman by the name of Casey wondered over, who was quite cleared souzed for a better word. Casey, must have been part of Harrahs, every body knew him and he had a ton of cash which he proceeded to move in blind with every hand. The Casey show started when he attempted to play with American dollars. He was directed to the cage, however Marcel pulled out a wedge of cash to see our ‘Yank plank’ good. I could see the Vultures wetting their beaks, it was open season and for once I felt like the hunter. 10 hands later, Casey had seen off around £4,000. It couldn’t be any easier, get a hand and call. Again Casey goes all in blind. This time I decide to call him. The board was full of rags’; my pocket eights should be good. Casey slow rolls a 3 and a 4 for the full boat. The realisation that the worst player in the Casino had broken me sank in, and quietly move downstairs to the complimentary coffee and sandwiches.

Alas there was a saviour in town, in the unlikely form of Jamie Gold. I had the foresight to book guest list at a swanky soiree. A call from club ‘contact ‘ on the Saturday night they had informed me all tables were fully booked, but i am reassured the replacement is a VIP table overlooking the dance floor. As the caller exits he subtlety mentions something that sounded like “minimum £1000 spend”. As a true master of skulduggery and deception I had called up the club, stating that I would be at the £10,000 buy in event at the Empire Casino, London, so I would like to pass through. You will have noticed I had been economical with the truth; Just because I was ‘at’ the £10,000 tournament doesn’t actually mean I would be playing, however the guy at the club was eager to get some high rollers into the club ( my cheque account, currently stands at a debit of £123, how further from the truth could that be). Later in the evening I was mentioned to a fellow writer I was stuck with a guestlist I couldn’t afford, he informed me he maybe able to help: Jamie Gold and his buddy ‘Mitch’ were eager to sample London nightlife. A little while later Jamie me approached saying “you are the guy who can hook us up right?”, “sure” I replied…and the rest as they say is history as me, Jamie and Mitch strolled through Leicester Square in search of frivolity and debauchery. I know at this point you want me to fill you in on all the gory details of what we got up to?.

Well, What happens in London stays in London… thank you World series of poker 2007, see you next year.

Petty Poker

I recently hosted an 80-player tournament with the assistance of the lovely people at Betfred. It was a great success overall, but during the early stages I’d heard that one particular guy was constantly aggravating players. After spending 20 seconds at his table I was indeed able to confirm all reports: We had a Class A, bonafide tool in our midst. He’d only been playing poker for a year or two, but spoke like a grand master with benign poker wisdom. Naturally I was instantly desperate to knock him him, but couldn’t allow my feelings to cloud my judgement. I’m sure many readers can relate to early exits based solely on pure hatred – not a great science for winning tournaments!

Another player was wanted for crimes of constant name-dropping; an offence that carries a sentence of 25-to-life in poker solitary. The name-checking impressed a few of my table companions, but the pimp wasn’t buying. To me this is a cheap way of creating a table image with absolutely zero work. The fishes had taken the bait and were giving way too much respect. It was doubly-baffling to me because ‘Mouth Almighty’ actually had some skills, so why dish out so much BS?

Anyway, meanwhile the ‘Bonafide Tool’ was running annoyingly well; accumulating chips and looking to be on course to finish deep… damn. The tournament got to the business end, with only eight players remaining. Chip-wise, I was sitting comfortably in 4th position with no need to panic. However I was a little worried that it would be considered bad form to win my own tournament. As I saw it I had three options:

I could take the “fuck etiquette” approach; trash-talking my way to a glorious victory… holding aloft the trophy while swigging champagne and blowing fine Cuban cigar smoke in my opponents’ faces. You know – a low-key celebration.

I could see the game through to the end, taking down my opponents with class and dignity, ultimately donating all my prize money to cancer research.

Push all-in with my next hand and hope I get knocked out before it gets embarrassing.

Reluctantly I plumped for option three and promised myself I’d push all-in next hand. As it turned out it was AQ so I’m wasn’t too unhappy. However, poker stepped in and allowed someone with 6-6 to take the pot down. Before you knew it I was out.

Now you might be wondering why I didn’t at least wait for the opportunity to take down ‘Name-Dropper or ‘Tool’. Well I had a plan, and I even came up with a name for it: post-needling.

I waited for a few days before emailing the newsletter announcing the results of the tourney, and here was the opportunity to deliver my knock-out punch! I listed the final results, reported on all the final table players, document their great plays and strategy… but left out two small details. Any ideas? Yep – I blatantly snubbed our two poker plonkers!

Two weeks later my handy work appeared to have paid off as I noticed one of the usually talkative culprits acting rather frosty. As I sat down at his table it was plain to see he wasnted my head on a plate. This was great news for me as I just happened to be continually dealt monster after monster. After about 78 re-raises from me, he looked as though he could take no more and pushed all-in.

Like a scene from some spaghetti western, we stared each other down until I finally announced “call” in the manliest voice I could muster.

His face transformed into the most almighty smug face I have ever witnessed, as flipped over aces. Fuck. He looked around the table, nodding his head self-approvingly. “I was waiting for that” he said. My pocket 7s shrivelled up like an 11-year-old’s testicles in the sea.

Like a desperate Muppet I start to call out for another seven. The dealer turns out the flop… no seven. Shit. I so don’t want to lose to this dick – oh please lord no.

Sorry to report that the turn wasn’t a seven, and nor was the river. However… they were both spades, giving me an entirely fishy flush and dispatching my arch enemy.

Poker: juicy justice delivered in a lucky package.

Confession of Obsession

I’m Sick. Seriously sick. No matter what I do to control what’s happening to me, it’s taking over and I can’t stop it. No, I’m not The Incredible HULK… it’s something far more dangerous and sinister…I love poker.

Yes, the glorious game has become a permanent fixture in my once moribund life. Over the last two years I’ve become an all-singing all-dancing poker machine.

On my trusty laptop Youtube is continually scoured for classic poker nostalgia. Puggy Pearson and Amarillo Slim at the1973 world series… The Prince of Poker uttering the greatest poker one-liner ever: “You call, gonna be all over baby!”

A trip to the loo reveals a man-sized magazine rack stacked full of the latest poker magazines. Another favourite feature of my bathroom is the wireless broadband connection which allows me to ride upon my poker thrown, pushing all-in while busy pushing all-out.

My personal library is also bursting with poker literature; no longer chock with Jamie Oliver cookbooks or lonely planet guides - Harrington on Hold’em and Super System now take pride of place.

Living the poker dream does have its side effects though. I’ve become partially deaf and dumb, regularly struggling to recognise everyday conversation. Rachel asked me the date of Aunt Carole’s surprise 50th party and I answered ‘Trip nines’, busy mentally replaying last night’s key hand.

With that said, it’s not all bad news. I have made some massive strides in other key areas - chip shuffling for instance! I even recorded my personal best just last week with a total of 12 chips successfully stacked with no spillage. What a glorious day that was. Admittedly the shuffling and stacking of chips has alarming spread to non-poker-related items such as tea coasters, but that’s normal (I think?) while Americanisms like “Suck out” and “Sick” are thrown around at our home game like there’s no tomorrow. We sound like a bunch of yank nerds – but we don’t care – we love it!

My style and strategy have started to mature like a fine wine. I no longer playing 2-5 just because they’re suited and even fold Jacks pre-flop (well… sometimes). So where does it go from here? What do I want from poker? Well in the early days just being fifty quid up at the end of a month was a enough, but now I want more. I’ve even set myself some poker goals. In no particular order, they are:

1) Bust a major professional. No real preference who - although Doyle, Johnny or Phil (Ivey or Hellmuth) would be nice.
2) Cash in a major tournament. I don’t care which one - a cash is a cash.
3) Bluff a massive pot on the goggle box. Some TV time would elevate me to “instant legend” (well, at least down my local)
4) Be able to shuffle and deal like a pro. I’ve noticed some slick shuffling can gain you serious props at the table.
5) Make love on a poker table (not televised). No particular reason (well, apart from the smooth felt against my buttocks.)

So there you have it, five very real and important goals. I’ll keep you posted. Whether or not I still have a relationship by my next column remains to be seen, but there you go. (Hmm…I wonder what the reverse implied odds on that are?)

Pimpin Karma

Many players believe they can enhance their game by adopting certain practices within their lifestyle; take Cyndi Violette a seasoned professional, who attributes a lot of her success to a strict macrobiotic diet. Phil Hellmuth prays to the universe, leaving various notes on mirror’s with messages like “today is going to be a good day, great things will happen to me “. …if only it was that easy! Me, I am big fan of Karma, in essence the law of karma is simple, it declares all our actions reflect back upon us, either in this world or in the subsequent ones.

This brings me nicely onto a recent run in with karma. The day started off like any normal day for the pimp; shower, shit, shave, breakfast and the morning dog walk.

During the daily walk with Belle ( that’s my dog), I am already presented with my first Karma challenge. Belle has released a rather large chocolate hostage on the grass, the trouble is its pissing down with rain and I’m going to get my nice new sneakers covered in crap. The voices of good and evil toy with my mind “leave it there, no one will notice; it’s a shit hole anyway“. I weigh up my options and decide to do the right thing, hey at least it will warm my hands. The day passes by with not too much incident, until I am driving home. I spot an old chap flagging down cars from the pavement, car after car continue to pass by without stopping. Again, the karma gods talk to me convincing me to stop and help. I figure it’s not risky; for starters he is sporting a pair of suede velcro slippers...not the type of get up for your local car-jacker!. I pulled up to the curb to see what all the fuss was about, the old boy asks me if I can take him to the train station as he needs to go to Paddington pronto. It turns out our old friend is from Moscow a former soldier who settled in England in the 50’s, he tells me he has to see his son urgently in London. He had phoned for a taxi, but they couldn’t understand him, so he opted to walk; bad idea, as our fellow comrade is not too clever on his feet.

I decide to whisk “Ivan” to the station and hand him over to a member of staff. Ivan could not thank me enough repeatedly telling me “you are good person”( yes he did leave out the a’). As I leave the station I feel vindicated in my decision and depart with a bounce in my stride – another triumph for good karma!.

That day I was scheduled to a play the 250k GP on Betfred at 7pm, I login to find 500 players waiting to take chunks out of the Pimp. I start off fairly tight, there’s no real maniac play on my table; so betting was moderate and position dictated who would win the pot. After 3 levels I shift gears, playing very aggressively and following through with continuation bets and re-raising. It was working and my opponents appeared to respect my betting. With 250 of the original 500 left I was sitting pretty in 15th position. A few hands later, I catch Ah Th in 1st position, I make the standard raise 3 times the big blind… 2nd position re-raises all in and the player in the cut off calls…this is an easy decision - FOLD….but every fibre in my body told me to call!. screwing up my face I hit the mouse and call with one eye open... I am up against pocket kings and queens…The Flop comes down, I spike an Ace… PRAISE BE TO KARMA ..I’M CHIP LEADER!!

I reflect on the events of the day and start to truly believe I wouldn’t be in this position without the good Karma; this being nice business definitely has an up side. Obviously there is a limit and a point where even karma can not help you, in my dreamy state I failed to recognize this – that limit comes in the form of calling an all in pre flop with J 7, The rest is history.

I exit the tournament in 85th, raging like a rabid dog typing “you all suck”. in the chat box.

Back to the drawing board angry bloke.

Shut up and lose

The Poker Pimp’s guide to “When gob-shites attack!”

Freaks like us are not generally too fussy about where poker games occur. A game of poker is a game of poker as far as I’m concerned, which explains how I fi nd myself sitting in a charity match for some conglomerate monster that has very kindly decided to give 0.0000001% of its weekly profits to charity. Bless ‘em. The guy who runs the tourney is an old school friend of mine (and I’m using the term “old school” in the ‘street’ way here - we didn’t actually go to school together) and Brad does a great job for the charity; convincing around 100 players to donate half their winnings to Cancer Research. I’m surprised at the high standard of play, with some genuinely cool customers in attendance and - surprisingly - not one pair of Oakleys in sight. We all take our seats, and slowly but surely everyone begins to relax and exchange banter on a variety of subjects (favourite sites, casinos, Kylie/Danni, etc). Unfortunately, one player (sitting to my immediate left – lucky me) sees this as an invitation to talk shit for the next two hours, and so it is I meet the mathematical dynamo genius that is “Bob the Human Odds Calculator”. Necking a ‘mere’ fi ve pints of Magners in the fi rst hour appears to have only added fuel to Bob’s fi re, as he proceeds to continually work out the pot odds and percentages of every single hand played. But wait! There’s more. This old boy can... READ YOUR MIND! Yes, in true Derren Brown style, Bob (who is a postman, FFS!) can not only tell you what you’re thinking, but can see the cards you’re holding. The table politely puts up with him - smirking and smiling at each other all the while - but though ultimately harmless, the act is starting to wear a tad thin. As Postman Bob continues to sound off, one thought constantly rattles round my brain: If you’re so bloody brilliant, Bob, then why the fuck are you playing in a low-stake, deepstacked charity tournament held in a bowls club in Swindon? I mean, surely you should be in Monte Carlo. Or did you miss your flight and think, “Well there’s always the Swindon Bowls game”? The Bob Show continues unrelentingly for another hour, and I can simply take no more. I decide it’s time to take this self proclaimed expert down to China Town with a little speech of my own... I take a deep breath, mentally prepare myself... and then Bob goes all-in with A7, misses the fl op, turn and river, and is out. YES – BOB IS GONE! Of course he still managed to belch out an exit speech as he stands to leave – and it’s another mathematical masterpiece from Royal Mail’s answer to John McCririck, involving pot-odds, outs, and other poker-related bollocks. As he slowly shuffles off to the outer reaches of the room (searching for other ‘Bobs’ no doubt) he spews his post match analysis at anyone close enough to be a target. Even Janet the cleaner isn’t quite able to muster a face that shows any glimmer of interest, and she’ll talk to anyone. So what’s my point? Why the rant? Do I hate Bob and his type, found lurking in each and every poker room on the planet? Well let me surprise you with a “No!” Truth is I actually fi nd them quite entertaining. They’re generally jolly entities who mean no real harm. They can even be gracious, friendly creatures (Bob complimented me several times by touching fi sts as I claimed various pots). Poker would be extremely bland and monotonous activity without “Bobs”, so Bob - if you’re reading – you are the man! Let’s go out for a pint (or four) of Magners some time, and we can talk pot odds, percentages, outs and bad beats all night long. Well, maybe for half an hour anyway.