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.
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.
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