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.
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.
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