Tough times for the cat

At the risk of sounding like one of the whining kippers i mock, i have to take issue with the poker gods. Put bluntly, they are being w****rs!

Having played poker pretty much for a living for getting on for 2 years now, i have experienced bad runs of luck on many occasions. I have always managed to deal with these periods, accepting the slings and arrows of misfortune and I've always prided myself on my psychological fortitude.


At the moment though i am mired in a swamp of outdraws and i am struggling to cope with them. I can't get a hand to hold up and it's beginning to affect my game. It's kind of tough timing because i feel like i should probably take a break to freshen up which always helps btu i'm under pressure to earn some $s coming up to christmas.

It might, and I know this is drastic, but it might mean I have to .....wait for it.....get a PROPER JOB(spit spit). There I said it, hang on a moment while i just swill some mouthwash. Yes the dirty word, the dirty deed, the dirtiest of dirties, a job ugg.

I still earn the odd bit here and there for articles i write on sport and music, but its not enough to live on. The thought of putting a suit and tie back on is sooo repulsive to me though. I spent 6 years working in various office jobs from credit control to contract negotiation.

The final straw and the single most important event that propelled me into a poker career came during my Air France days. I made my usual weekly trip to the palatial environs of the Pakistan International Airlines offices, ready to do battle with their resident gladiator, Mr Stinkitup(pseudonym willl be explained shortly) , over the minutiae of their contract held with "us".

I made my way to their office and rapped the door with my knuckle to announce my presence. As usual there was a kerfuffle heard from inside, followed by several urgent whispers in some incomprehensible language, before the door was opened and i was ushered in by a subserviant employee.

"Come in Mr Rod"(forenames replaced surnames in their address etiquette for unfathomable(to me at least) reasons)" come in. Would you like some tea or coffee? Becky"(the secretary) " fetch Rod something to eat."

I knew i was in for a long meeting with mr Stinku, so i requested some tea. In case it wasn't clear earlier, the "palatial" description of the PIA offices was intended as sarcasm. No lavish gold flecked couches, glittering chandeliers and silver baths full of ass' milk here(do they have these in palaces?). In their place were wonky plastic chairs, flickering single light bulbs and tables whose every square inch was covered with a disarray of paperwork.

Yes the office decor was one whose theme was mayhem. In fact, had you not been aware that this was its usual state, you would have beleived they had just suffered a pretty exhaustive burglary and been dialling 999.

I was beckoned into Mr Stinku's private office and Becky brought through my tea and a plateful of highly sticky pieces of dough. I recognised these evil items masquerading as doughnuts from my previous trip, where i had tried one out of politeness and foolhardiness. They are difficult to describe. Imagine a doughnut. Now imagine you condense 10 doughnuts into one. Now imagine you pour a gallon of oil and four bags of silver spoon sugar on top of these and further condense this into a single doughnut shape. By now the oil and sugar content has produced a foodstuff of similar density to a blackhole to the extent that it even begins to exert a gravitational pull. This is most noticeable as you take a bite and your teeth have trouble remaining in your head.

The last time i began to eat one of these, i only managed to eat a few mouthfuls before realising that it would be the last time i ever let one of these come anywhere near my mouth. In fact, having discarded the greater part of the hell-doughnut on my saucer, Mr Stinku had made several insistent exhortations that i finish this delicacy and only a piece of clever palming sleight of hand and suffering a sticky oily pocket, saved the day. (Later on taking the slimy thing out of my pocket and lobbing it across the departure lounge of terminal 2 and watching it hit, and stick, to a wall was the highlight of the day)

No, after last time's bitter experience, I refused their kind offer and presented the idea that perhaps we should get down to business. The next two hours involved an incredibly dull debate as myself and Mr stinku argued over points in the contract and areas where he felt Air France had been negligent, whilst I did my best, despite being thoroughly unmotivated by my job, to defend the company and secure as small a rebate as possible.

The meeting was punctuated by a key moment though. Before i explain this, i have to draw your attention to the climate control exercised by PIA. This was summer where the ambient outside temperature was roughly 20-25 degrees centrigrade, a fine pleasant english summer day. In their wisdom however Mr Stinku and his associates thought it prudent to ensure that the ambient temperature within the PIA offices was 45-50 degrees centrigrade. 3 or 4 minutes into entering into the PIA offices sweat was leaking out of my pores. As a consequence of this preposterous swelter, the body odour of each and every one of the male members crammed into this tiny, un air-conditioned office was magnified and the effect was nauseating.

This is what made the following behaviour of Mr stinku so reprehensible. As we began the latest bickering on whether Air France had handled fliught 789 on tuesday the 27th with aplomb or incompetence, I watched on in horror as Mr Stinku leant down, untied his shoes and removed them along with his socks and an almost visible cloud of foot-related fragrance.

This pungent gas reached my nostrils shortly afterwards, causing me to gag and reach out for something to remove the taste, before i chundered dramatically. Sadly a combination of my watering eyes and my instinct to avoid danger failing me caused me to happen upon one of the hell-dougnnuts.

As the lesser of two evils I now had to eat this thing and its malevolence breached the defences of my mouth once more and battle took place between my teeth and Newton's universal law of gravitational attraction. I managed to survive the ordeal with hte help of some of my tea, but it was no pleasant experience.

Naturally, I wrapped up proceedings shortly afterwards and made a quick getaway to the safer confines of the Air France checkout desk where I related the tale to Cindy one of the lovely air stewardesses who worked there. It was this event, above anything else, that motivated me to dump this job and move into the realm of poker.

Surely i won't have to return to this! Save me! PLEASE!!!!!!!!!!