Oh how I wish I could go back in time to the start of my musings. Back to to those warm summers evenings spent nursing a chilled glass of the finest wine, relaxing on the terrace of a pub on the Norfolk coast, looking to the breeze-dappled surface of the North Sea where dinghies and windsurfers and surfboards provided a palette of many hues. Those were more innocent times, when blog writing was little more than a never-ending stream of look-at-us-funny-backwards-yokel-types, aren"t-we-amusing inanities.
However, such halcyon days don"t last forever and I"m now at the point with my writing every parent will recognise from junior"s teenage years, where they demand to be taken seriously, "cos,I"m like, soooooooo, adult now". Despite my years, I"m not too proud to admit that sometimes I too behave like that sulky, underage youth, not listerning to a word of that telling off being administered for being caught swigging a can of Woodpecker. I perhaps should also remember the golden rule of poker writing that for every triumphant, smartyparts, look at ME ME ME,I"m making loads of dosh posting, there"s an equal and opposite, f***-up around the corner.
Those asterisks in the preceding paragraph give a strong indication of what"s to come, so if you"re of a delicate disposition, look away now. Maybe there"s a chapter of the bible you need to read, or now is the time that boxed-set of Songs of Praise needs to be watched. Do not, under any circumstances, read any further down the page.
Things went wrong when I decided to open 2 cash tables at 21.45. Up to that point, I had spent a relaxing evening reading "Swimming with the Devilish" whilst listening to Radio Norfolk"s commentary on Norwich City"s illustrious band of misfits, no-hopers and all round s**t-peddlers make a complete pig"s ear of a 2-0 lead against an equally inept Southampton side. For one moment, I seriously considered placing a posting on my Eastern Daily Press blog suggesting that it would be nice if we had a nucleus of players who were at least capable of passing wind, even if passing to a team-mate more than once a game was beyond them. Thankfully, I baulked at that, but went on to decide that the esteemed Messrs Ladbrokes and Betfair would help soothe my fevered brow.
Things started to go wrong on Betfair when my turn shove with Kings was called by Queens, which went on to become trips on the river. This has happened many times since my conversion to hold"em cash grinder and I normally laugh in the face of such reverses. At this point, I really should have taken heed of the warning signs. Rather than reload and resolve to teach that bally blighter a darned good lesson, I thought the sensible thing to do was to see how many times I could type " F*** " onto one line in the chat box. I believe the answer was four. Over on Ladbrokes, something was amiss. Seated to my left was the big stack, who, frankly, was playing me off the table. Every time I either limped or raised, he joined the pot and took my chips. The sensible thing to do would have been to have left the table resolving to try again another day. However, Mr Sensible-head was not at home tonight, so I decided to stick around to teach this b*****d a lesson. Needless to say that when I raised with pocket eights, fired and got called on every street, I didn"t consider the possibility that the river 9, the second on the table, had turned his 7/9 offsuit into trips. This meant another buy-in headed off into the wild blue yonder. I then typed something like "I"m playing like a c***, see ya". The villain responded with some, oh so jolly jest,which I cut to ribbons with my rapier-like wit by typing "You arrogant c***". I persisted with Betfair a little longer to see a raise and c-bet called by pocket threes which needless to say became trips.
At this stage I thought Ladbrokes were c***s, Betfair were c***s and if my neighbour had been playing his music too loud, I"d have knocked on his door and called him a c*** too.
I accept no criticism from anyone who has been shocked by the foul language contained without this post; you we"re warned. You may also attempt to point out that swearing is neither big nor clever. You would be so very wrong to do so. I once knew a professor at the University of East Anglia who was 6 foot 6 inches and swore like a trooper, so there, this proves my point. Funnily enough, he was a right c*** too.
