So what do you do for a living?

I've come to loath the question. At parties or in the pub it heralds the start of a 30-minute conversation with friends of friends as they latch onto this interesting nugget, this cruton in the otherwise bland conversational soup. For them this is a welcome change from the interminable "oh yaw, I work in AYE-TEE".  Unfortunately its a conversation I've had a hundred times before. I know exactly how it will go and exactly the bon-mots I will use to deconstruct their prejudices, the misconceptions they will have and the sorts of things they will want to hear about as they avoid talking to the advertising executive to their left.
Sometimes I tell them I'm a dentist just to not have to go through it all one more time.

But other times I don't, othertimes their demeanour tells me that they will be appalled at the idea of doing what I do for a living. The reality is that I organise, play, referee, promote, consult, write about, eat, sleep and drink poker. Most people just want to hear about the play aspect and some are astonished and horrified in equal part. Sometimes, with those people, I avoid the topic. Other times, particularly with people I care little about I tell them the truth. I like to get right in their small conservative faces about it.

I sat with my bank manager and his boss recently. I was in to talk to them about my bank loan from when I was in business. As far as they know I'm a website entrepreneur. I got the usual bollocking for missed payments etc and then a vague threat about the Irish Credit Bureau.

Well I don't react too well to threats. I'd just recovered from a broken leg and having my company go spang. And I was trying hard to make ends meet to even pay them anything back at all, let alone missing a single payment! So I told them what I really did for a living. I told them that most weeks I staked a sizeable chunk of the loan amount I owed them through the night in quasi-legal poker games in those "clubs" they had heard of. That I hadn't seen AM for quite some time. That I have no car, no house, no wife and precious little keeping me in this country. That I travelled the world to attend the biggest games I could find (technically true, I didn't mention that I reported on them rather then played in them!) and that there was precious little they could take from me that I hadn't already sold for a buy-in (technically not true, I've never really owned anything of value in the first place!)

In the most wonderful Fight Club moment, and with my bank manager increasingly looking like he had invited a recently released paedo to be Bobo the Clown at his kid's birthday party, I explained that my office job and I had parted company on the grounds that it had become a case of it or poker, that since there was very little keeping me in the country I might soon relocate to somewhere else.... somewhere unspecific. I couldn't really make up my mind about my future and but that was ok since frankly I was living from day to day anyway.

Tyler's words coming out of my mouth.

I have never been a strong reader of people but it wasnt hard to read their appalled vista's. The horrified, open mouth of my bank manager said "oh my god... *this* is who we lent our money to!". His boss, who hadnt said a word to this point, stepped in and the entire tone of the conversation changed. Banks are funny like that, they make it YOUR problem that you owe them money. If you think about it clearly enough, its really THEIR problem! I left 5 minutes later with a repayment scheme that basically read "what I can, when I feel like it". Sometimes, just sometimes, prejudices are fun to screw with....

The Life Rake.

Talking to Marq O'Neill last night in the Fitz, Marq was decked out in the dealer uniform looking his usual hairy self. A lot of people would think "oops, Marq must have gone broke at the tables and is trying to get a bankroll together", I knew that wasn't it. I knew partly 'cos Marq is too good a player but then even the best can go broke, mostly I knew because when you turn pro or semi pro (as I'd class both of us) you discover a strange phenomenon I call "The Life Rake"

How many times have you heard someone say "I made as much playing poker last year as I did working. Next year I'm thinking of going pro!" Do me a favour, in fact do all of us a favour and *slap* the head off him. Most likely what he really means is "Last year if you add up all my big wins and ignore the small losing nights and all my ex's... I made a fair bit of cash". If physical violence towards your friends doesnt work for you, then ask him a few questions. Ask him if he had a good year last year. Invariably he will look at you, eyes wide, and say something "didn't you hear me? Dude I made about as much from playing as working! I had a great year. Next year I'm going pro!"

So he had a great year and only broke even. Broke even?? Yeah. Because of The Life Rake. See a funny thing happens when you go pro and no one expects it but we all should. You jack in the job, buy yourself a killer pair of Oakleys, and wait for the sponsorship offers to roll in. But all that arrives is the ESB bill. So you pay it. And the NTL bill. And the rent. But you doing well at the tables in your local club and you dip into your bourgeoning bankroll. You're up big this month and you can afford it. But then the lads are going to Cork to play the 500 freezeout or London to hit the Gutshot. So you go with them and get knocked out of the tournie by an A7 holding muppet. Time to hit the cash games and so you get your money back and maybe even cover some of your ex's.  You return home to find you're tired, sick of cards for a day or two and worse, you dropped a small bit  on the trip. Then comes The Life Rake and your bankroll is a bit raggy. How did that happen? Well, while you may have nearly broken even on the trip, you were away from your job for a week.

"Job? I jacked that in!"... No you switched jobs. Your job now is to crank out the hours at the card table. Or online. And you clock hours with an hourly expectation. And you took a holiday to have a crack at a big tournie.

The point here is expressed neatly when you asked your if he had a good year and he said he had a great year. He had a great year and only made the same as he currently makes. What happens when he only has a reasonable year? Or god help him, a bad one. Who pays the Life Rake then?

My advice to your friend is, stick with the day job and enjoy the fact that he now makes a bundle from his hobby!

Sure t'was a Grand Slam altogether...

Ego and pride drive the game of poker. Without them we wouldn’t have tournaments at all because what is a tournament but a bet that you are in the top 10% of the field. It requires 90% of the entrants to be wrong too!

Just as every poker player believes that his time will come when they will be seen for the brilliant player they are (just right after this cold run of cards ends...) every nation believes they are the best. And most are wrong.

Paddy Power Poker decided it might be fun to find out which country had the best poker team and so the idea for the Grand Slam was born! 7 countries, 6 players per team, one prize.

I arrived to cover the event along with most of the Irish Team (Donnacha O'Dea, Andy Black, Padraig Parkinson, Dave O'Callaghan and Domhnall Mac A Bhaird) and found the inside of the Star Casino to be as brightly coloured as Birmingham is drab. The city represents Margret Thatcher's wetdream.

The format was that there would be 6 tables of 7 and each country would have a representative on each table. After that it would play like a standard tournie but there would be some rules against chip passing.

The teams initially were friendly and there was a great sense of camaraderie throughout but as the tournie progressed, the rivalry, while still friendly, came to the fore! Every team there wanted to win, wanted to prove that their nation is the best in the world.

Rep. Of Ireland powered forward with Padraig and The Don amassing chips like there was no tomorrow! By the close of the first day both had nearly quintupled their starting stacks. Len and Dave were sitting comfortably on 150k and 220k respectively. Andy Black unfortunately exited in 15th place when he made a poor play, calling an all in with A6s. I can't explain why he did it, and neither could Andy!

Northern Ireland came out of the traps hard and fast but the Republic was the first to lose a man when Domhnall Mac A Bhaird exited during the first level with AKo. Ivan Donaghy was next when Dave O'C played a house so beautifully that it almost broke the Northern man. He exited soon after.

He wasn’t to be the lone northern voice at the bar either as Paul Lecky and much of the rest of the N.Irish team followed soon after, leaving only the unknown Mathew Bell alone in the fray. Seeing this, the English thought it might be a *race* to the bar and swiftly followed suit exiting with just 42 points.

At the end of the day, Dave O'C lost concentration for a moment and reraised Paul Testud all in. The Frenchman prevaricated but eventually called with AQ. Dave exited but scored 15 points for the team. We left to spend the night in the sumptuous Wyatt hotel with the Irish strongly in the lead chip-wise but trailing in points.

All the same both the Scots and the French (the only two teams who could win other then the Irish) agreed that the Irish were now the favourites. Mathew Bell had ~360 and was well chipped!

The second day restarted and immediately went bad for the Irish, Padraig ran AK into AA for almost all his chips, Len had JJ outdrawn by AJ and Donnacha moved in on an aggressive button only to find him playing AA! All three Irish exited in a row and that was the end of our chances! We joined the Welsh, English, N-Irish and Swedes at the bar.

Mathew Bell still hung on and suddenly what had been a joke (that he might out score the second-last-placed team England, all on his own) seemed to be becoming less and less funny to the English. Mathew crept up the leader board making some great plays and finally exited 10th, just short of the TV table and just shy of the 37 points he needed to push N.Ireland into second last place. At 20, he's certainly one to watch!

The Scots and the French battled down to the final table. 3 Scots, 2 French remained. The others played for the individual prize but the Scots and the French had only one thing on their mind. The way the points worked, if the French lost a player then the next three players out would have to be Scots and the remaining Frenchman would have to win it. Several nerve wracking all in's were survived by both teams before Paul Testud exited amid Scot's cheers. But wait... the next man out was a Scot and directly after that another ran AQ into KK .... but fluked his way out of it. The Scots stopped cheering until finally the other Frenchman exited and they were the Grandslam winners.

During all of this drama, Lars Kjestrop from Sweden simply hoovered up chips and ran over the table in an impressive display of poker play.

The Grand Slam was a great tournie and a great idea which I'm sure will grow year on year. Congrats to the Scots but I can't help feeling it was taken from the Irish by terrible luck and cards at the wrong time. So close, but we'll be back next year.

Always the bridesmaid....

I have been so incredibly busy lately that I havent had time to write for this blog. I run a charity at xmas and it takes up a lot of my spare time. Add to this the inordinate number of tournies to be played around xmas and the fact that I have to move house and I'm starting a business and you can imagine that for someone as lazy as I am, thats a lot of work!

Poker is being a bitch to me again. My tournament play is back and I'm playing "ok". Thats as far as it goes because I've made a few really poor calls that I shouldnt have to exit a few tournies.

On the plus side, I got heads up with Len for the ticket to the Grand Slam event in Jan. I powered through the tournie picking my points and finding slightly worse hands then mine. I made it to heads up and then made some bad blunders to lose the ticket to Len. I did secure 30% of the winners winnings in a deal we made but frankly nothing will erase the sting of not being there to represent my country on TV with the best. I thought I was gutted before but a few days later it really sank in that I blew it.

I organised a charity game in the Fitz recently too (for the charity I mentioned earlier). What a fantastic game and turnout, we raised nearly 1800 notes for the kids and what more I got heads up for the finale. My AJ got rivered by J7.

I take back everything I said about Mr Flood, he put on a dissertation on the correct way to play poker at the Paddy Power Xmas Cracker and even though I finally caught him on a draw, he hit it. :( To be fair, Mr Flood played the rest of us off the table and my hat is off to him. I played about as poorly as you can with a big tank.

Couple that with the close call on the MCM ticket and its just not my *life* really is it. Well I have 30% of Len and the Grand Slam Irish Team and a ticket to the 1000 Boyle Sports finals so I can't really complain, January could yet come good for me!

Liam Flood, Ace-Rag merchant extraordinaire.

You know what I realised last night? In all the years of playing poker and watching it on TV, I've never seen Liam Flood turn over a hand. Never! Can you recall a hand he's shown? I can't. All the way through Late Night Poker and beyond, he's never revealed a hand and we've always just presumed he knew what he was doing because he wears a sharp suit!!

Well I'm here today with a world exclusive to correct that notion! For years now we have been duped but finally I can reveal the shocking truth... Liam "The Gentlefish" Flood has been raising on muck, FOR YEARS!!

Last night at the Paddy Powers launch of their International Grand Slam event (see our front page for details). There was a game for journos and professionals. Falling into neither category, all the same I sat myself down at my seat and started to play. Badly. Or at least, I made good calls and got crap cards. Finally I had to take my second load of chips and proceeded to lose two thirds them on KK.

So with 550 in chips I find AKs and Ken Doherty raises it to 500 before me. That means little as he's raised every time he's come in but he isnt doing it on complete rags. All the same, I'm happy to take him on with big slick. I raise all in for 550. A mere 50 more which obviously indicates I'm going to be called and I know it. Mr Flood takes a long hard think about it and then puts his 400 chips on the line...

... with A7o.

Shocked? I know I was. A fallen hero. A myth destroyed. The God's have clay feet!! I was astounded, not you understand at the shockingly poor play but at the board when it came with not one but *two* sevens on it.

And did he apologise for the outdraw? Express a ficker of regret or remorse? No, he cackled, raked in the pot laughing and went back to slaggin' Nikki!

"Gentleman" me arse!

A night in November.

For a guy who seems so confident, or so I'm told, I'm racked with self doubt about my game. At the start of November I was reasonably happy with my play online (I had seemed to find some form at last) but in the back of my head, rolling around were the horrible beats I'd put on a few people. I know they say that poker players forget the bad beats they inflict and remember with amazing clarity the beats they take but I'm cursed in that I remember all of them and the former can gnaw at your confidence given time and space. "You're crap" says the little voice. "You don't deserve to be here" "You aren't fooling anyone" "Give me 50 bucks".
Ok that last one was Mike standing behind me.

But as I said, I entered November happy enough with my game on the surface but by the end of the first week I was immersed in a full blown crisis of confidence. I was headlining Doubtfest 05. I blew 300 online trying to win 300 for rebuys in the MCM qualifier. I blew about 400 offline in the most horrible way, I simply sat and called it all away on bad hands. I didnt reraise when my reads told me I was being thieved from or fold a hand where I was obviously beat. I don't suffer much from tilts but on a few occasions I've been known to blow a stack with the best of them and that was one week long tilt.

The MCM qualifier came around and I played the first night very well but I made some simple mistakes and exited one off the bubble. I was furious with myself because Peter Roche put his finger on the mistakes I made and he was right. Bang on the money. I really got angry with myself and I encouraged that because anger galvanises me and I pride myself on learning from my mistakes (thats why I beat myself up about them!).
The second night I came back and played better in the exact same situation (shortstacked near the bubble). I clamped down on my discipline and ramped up my aggression.

The final of the MCM Qualifier I felt great, comfortable and on form. The players were all of a high standard but that didnt bother me a great deal, I know I shouldn't but I like to play with good players as I can model their play in my head a bit more accurately. The finals turned out to be one of the best tournies I've played in a long time and certainly the best online tournie I've been in. I felt I didn't make one mistake all night and finished fourth. Despite getting so close to a 30K payday I left feeling cleansed and happy. There had been a sea change in my attitude and a radical restructuring of my tournament game back towards the winning ways of last year.

It was on this wave of change that I headed to Limerick. Now, Mike and I are on 50% of each other in these games. Dave O'C had already nailed Dublin. Mike had gone deep in Athlone and was only stopped when his Aces were cracked all in preflop. And me. What had I done lately? A few decent cash wins in the cash games. A few near misses in the Monday game in the Fitz. Sure I was busy writing and traveling but I had done my tank in Barcelona (along with the rest of the gang!) and blown all my winnings in Vegas, back before I left. Was I a flash in the pan last year? I certainly seemed to be more fearless. I certainly won more often.

The tournament started off badly and you can read my report on it here. I sudden got very very determined and focused and really analysed each hand rather then just sleep walking through it.
As the day progressed I tighten my resolve and my discipline and maintained my large chip stack until almost as a shock, we were done for the night with 20 places left. I could feel my grip on my focus slipping so when I went back to my lodgings I sat up and consciously went through what had happened and how I had gotten to be nearly chip leader. I returned the next day with a plan and executed that plan. For the first three levels I didnt play a hand, or should I say, I didnt get a hand in position that I wanted to play. So I didnt. The tournament director cheekily re-introduced me saying that the crowd might have forgotten I was in the tournie. But I was far from asleep. I used the time to get a good feel for the table. A few judicious hands made people pay for thinking that just because I was tight, I must also be passive and bullyable. It helped when I found queens to nail the first guy to reraise me!

I maintained or improved my stack but never got the head-staggers or paniced as I have before. I was calm and precise and clinical for most of the time. Even when they handed me a big pile of 50's (140 in total!) I wasn't really very exuberant. Kevin Fitz gave Oscar and I a ride back to Dublin (for which much thanks Kevin!) and slowly a great big self satisfied grin spread from ear to ear in the dark in the back seat. A chuckle escaped and Oscar looked back at me in pulsing orange motorway light. I allowed myself a little giggle and fingered the wodge of cash in my pocket.

110 players and one demon beaten.

Pokerstars made me put this here....

I have registered to play in the
Online Poker Blogger Championship!

This event is powered by PokerStars.

Registration code: 9082264

Barcelona Bound

Another airport, another game of high stakes poker, another fabulous destination: Barcelona, City of Culture. I should be capable of pulling off an affectation of ennui about the rich-and-famous lifestyle as I've led this summer but I just can't bring myself to fake boredom. I'm as infected with excitement as ever, even if it *is* 5:30am. (one of these days I'll book a flight that leaves at a civilised time of the morning, say... 4pm).

Booking into the flight was like a reunion. Standing in line I can hear a very soft "Tom. Tom!" emanating from somewhere. I look up and see Oscar and Marq checking in on the far side, they spot me and we exchange waves. "Tom!" There it is again, its like a very very loud whisper. I look behind me and spot Neil doing his level best to shout!

I managed to make it past security relatively unmolested this time despite their increasingly bizarre requirements. I fully expect the next time I travel by air, everyone will be required to strip to the buff and go arse first into that damned x-ray machine! I've taken to smuggling something past them each time, anything from their list that strikes me as ridiculous. This time I go for the classic nail-clippers and put it in with my laptop case. It amuses me to carry such innocuous items on board through millions of pounds of security equipment.

I buy a coffee and work out which gate I have to trudge to. The coffee is roughly the temperature of the sun. Its wrapped in deeply corrugated cardboard to protect the hard skin of my hands from being burned by coffee already separated from me by a cardboard cup. And I'm supposed to drink this?!

Laptop, various bits of reporting equipment, duty free, scalding hot coffee all hinder me getting to the gate which is inconveniently the furthest gate on the end of the furthest wing. As you'd expect.

Breakfast sees us run into Willow, Christie Smith and number of the Dublin poker community at the gate and we munch a poker player's breakfast, which is to say whatever pastry thing they've put nearest the cash register this week. Some twisted, flattened chocolate and custard thing (which looks like its run over by a fleet of steam rollers). Everyone looks shattered but we're buzzing about Barcelona, anticipating a week of poker and more importantly a license to have a bloody good time for 6 days! Its the last of the summer and everyone knows it!

After ten minutes I take a sip of the coffee and immediately burn my lip. I wonder if somehow the energy this liquid has been charged with wouldn't have been better used, oh I dunno, to power a small town perhaps? By the time we have queued to board, the coffee is just bearable to drink. Actually... its not, its an utterly foul concoction of Dantean proportions. Luckily for me and just as I think I'm about make one trip without something bizarre and moronic happening to me, the barmy army of airport rules lawyers fail me not. I'm stopped at the gate and told I can't take my coffee on board. I can't *begin* to imagine why this is? Perhaps they are concerned that I'll scald fellow travelers in the name of Allah or something. I dunno.... For once I don't argue and hand the irritatingly happy "air steward" my coffee. Oh, by the way, you're not fooling anyone mate, its a sissy's job and stop being so god damned happy at 7am. Got it?

Dave O'Callaghan and Dave Callaghan (we should really nick name the former DOC or something, for ease) group up with us on the plane. Marq and I reckon that this could be the Munich disaster for Irish poker in the making.

I'm fairly shattered as we board the plane, I've been up all night having played in the €100 freezeout last night. The best I can say for my night was that I outlasted Joe O'Neill with whom I have a running "last longest" bet. Every tournament we both play in automatically counts and when one gets 5 wins ahead the other owes him €100. After I took a swift lead last year Joe had pulled it back to level and then went 2 ahead. Now I've dragged it back to level again in the last two weeks. Rather meanly as I saw Joe taking the long walk I called to him and picked up about 400 of my 2500 chips, shrugged at him with a grin on my face pretending that that was all I had had left. Serves him right for all the times he's pushed me off pots!

So we're on the plane, we're in the air and another poker adventure is about to start! Whats the first thing the air hostess gives me? A coffee. Scaldingly hot.

Comments Here

I had a little drink 'bout an hour ago...

God my head hurts. I went to the Irish Poker Team thing (its been changing names a lot afaics) organised by Poker Events in The Merrion casino on Saturday. Boy it was hot and muggy but there was plenty of Champagne to hand and I made the most of that while the teams were having their last minute team huddles.

I've never been a huge fan of "team" poker, I will admit it was a lot of fun to play for the Fitz against Kingsway and The Gutshot but as a measure of poker skill.... I dunno. Still, its about *fun* in the end isnt it?

I snuck up behind a few teams to see if I could hear any team tactics being discussed but with the exception of the Leinster team's where Joe O'Neill was loudly declaring that he was playing for the money and Devil take the hindmost!

The players looked great in their regional colour-coded shirts as they sat down to play. The blinds were long and the stacks deep as befits a high level game. So this game was going to take a while and when I ran into Dara with a spare glass of Champagne, I figured out how I might pass the time!

Ken Powell was playing for Connaught and seemed to be doing well while Joe O'Neill's Poo-Protector made another appearance for Leinster. Eoin Connolly (playing for Munster) was spotted disappearing out the door and in no mood to talk so I moved onto the wine.

The meal rolled around (metaphorically you understand) and very pleasant it was too. A leason to the Rio perhaps that a half price voucher is a slap in the face and that a decent meal CAN be produced for a reasonable price. So while the players got some grub, the media were treated to a 1 hour, STT for two €1000 tickets. Which was nice! What wasnt nice was my attempt to take Paul Lecky off a hand preflop which turned out to be a monster. Ugh.

So, having spent about 10 minutes in the press game I joined the players in the pub and promptly got plastered. I had kinda been intending to get drunk all day and this seemed an ideal opportunity. So I did. Hammered in fact.

So, at this point I should be able to tell you all about the exciting finish with the three cork men takings first second and third with Willow representing the Dubs at the final table and Ken Powell showing again that he is a tournament master with another final table appearance. I just wish I could remember the hands! Of course to remember something you have to have *seen* it first and since I could barely see at all, I have little chance.

The night finished with the local guitar-n-mike ballad player in the pub doing a rendition of Kenny Rogers "The Gambler" to full voice from the assembled poker fraternity and I wandered, besotted into the night...

In paris its good to smell like you've been f*%^ed.

I'm sitting in an elegantly rundown Parisian hotel just off the Champs Elysee, sitting in front of a laptop so ancient and clunky  that it might as well be an old-style typewriter. I feel like I should be chain smoking cigarettes and manically penning The Tropic of Cancer while some brunette complains sleepily that I should return to bed.

I've had a wonderfully french week in Paris. That is to say I've been treated like scum, but with panache. It is the Parisian way to completely ignore your requests for service and then, when you eventually insist that you do corporeally exist , they look at you like you've requested permission to poo on their floor. The food on the other hand, is fantastic.

Why I'm here is simple. The WPT pulled into Paris on its world tour (actually, its the only European stop it makes). I have a funny feeling that it will also be the last time it will stop here too as only 160 players showed up and even at that it stretched the facilities of the Aviation Club De France so that they timetabled 2 "first days".

I've already reported on the tournament itself and since this is my blog, I want to describe the week I've had. It started with Peter Roche ringing me up and asking me what I was doing for the week. "Recovering from the WSOP" I replied. What else would I be doing after a grueling 4 week marathon? I mean, I'd a months washing to do, business to catch up with not to mention sleep to, um... sleep. One thing I like about Peter is that his enthusiasm for everything, the sheer volume that he lives his life at, sometimes obliterates the nuances of communication. "Great! Why don't you come to Paris with me and cover the WPT?!".

Now I'm a sick puppy at heart. I simply cannot say no to an adventure. "Want to come picking olives in Mexico Tom?!" "Sure" "I've a cousin who's living in a commune there, at least I think he's a cousin. Anyway, he's called Petro or something" "I'm already packed, lets go!". Add to that that I'm mad for cards and I knew already that the washing machine would have to be put on overdrive and a few swift phonecalls made to excuse myself for a week from some meetings. I'd already filed my writings for PPP.com for the week and quickly booked some flights. Peter was kind enough to cover my expenses in return for some assistance in technical matters while in the French capital.

The week passed in a blur of high rolling and cigarette smoke. Peter showed me the highlights of Parisian Poker and I showed him the delights of TCP-IP communications protocols. I think I definitely came out the better of that exchange! Now I'm no stranger to high level poker but the French do it with the flair they bring everything else. Pete introduced me as a friend of his and suddenly I had access to press passes (my requests for same had fallen on traditionally deaf ears) and the Salon Prive, the high rollers room where tips are in 100 euros. That explains why the rest of us could kiss off trying to find a waiter. (A record 8 requests for a Coke won me a wager when I bet it would take more then 7 attempts!).

Peter and I both went to our respective jobs. I reported on the WPT as best I could but unfortunately Irish interest imploded on day 3 and there was little to report on beyond Roland's inevitable grind towards victory (though Juha did all that he could to upset the applecart). Peter went to work relieving the Parisian upper class of their dosh and very successfully too! I wont go into details but suffice to say that at one point he picked up two chips and asked the concierge to keep me a seat in a one table satelite to the WPT! 1k a seat must have made it the largest sit and go I will ever play.

I wont recount the hands but two spring to mind. The very first hand was dealt and the guy to my immediate right who is first to act takes his whole stack and puts it in the middle. I mean, it goes 25 (sb), 50(bb), 1500 all in. I burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of the bet and muck. The guy to my immediate left looks shocked and shaking his head in disbelief calls. He has AA and the original raiser has AK. €1k = 1 hand as the aces stand up. And so we get down to 5 but I am not getting any decent cards. On the plus side, I'm able to steal the blinds with impunity as I have a granite image on the table. In the BB I find K5o. What treasure is this!? It is a veritable monster compared to my usual fare but I check my option. Slowplaying. The flop is a joyous 552. I check and a chinese lady who was first to act and had limped in raises it half my stack. Gotcha I think, she's been playing fast and loose and her initial limp actually worried me that she had found a big pair. Now I'm sure of it and I confidently reraise the other half of my stack. She thinks for a minute (yeah baby, you know your big pair is no good now, dontcha!) and then calls.

And turns over A5o. Stupid bint.

Peter, unneccessarily grateful for my assistance sponsored me to play a cash game with a decent tank. I select a 2/4 game that is nice and soft and proptly get hit in the face by the deck. In 20 hands I get 7 big pairs, I raise all of them stiffly (10 times the blinds here will get you 3 callers, easily) and 2 take the blinds while the other 5 lose to monsters like 67, q9 etc. All heads up. Horrifically AJ won when the villan bluffed into my QQ after a raggy flop for 100 Euro. Gotcha, I thought.... But running Aces blew another hole in my tank. Wow. Tony Kendall from BlondePoker looked at me shaking his head, neither of us could believe my run of good luck followed by awful luck.

Oh well, at least I can honestly say I've been screwed in Paris.

We'll always have Paris...

I've been hanging out in Paris with a lot of the big names in a very cool poker club called The Aviation Club De France. Peter Roche has been showing me the ropes over here and helping me with game. He has been cleaning up in the cash games, seemingly without trying. While I've been, well, not cleaning up. Lets just put it like that. I've also been having rows with the floor managers here as they seem to have a rule that if you are french, you win. That at least simplifies things for the rest of us.

Let me give you the example that made me get up and leave a game in disgust for the first time in my life. An annoying arsehole who has been extremely rude all night acts out of turn. He throws in 8 euro ahead of Tony Kendall from Blonde Poker. Theres a bit of awkwardness so I cut to the chase and ask the dealer if the money stays out (arsehole has reclaimed his chips at this stage). The dealer confirms that the bet stands. just as you would expect. Tony raises to 20 and arsehole mucks his cards. When we all point out that he owes 8 to the pot he point blank refuses. The dealer, who is his mate, also refuses to do anything about it and denies he ever said the bet stood. Much all our amazement. I ask for the floor and the dealer starts to shuffle. I ask again and then pointedly say "I want Bruno to come here and rule". Bruno is the head floor man and the chances of him coming to make a ruling on a 2-2 NLH game are zilch but they all know we're press and I'm name dropping to prove I'm serious. The floor manager on call arrives, has a swift conversation with arsehole and then, without really getting the other side of the story says "Jeuer!" I ask for an explanation in English and it perfectly good english he says "I'm sorry, I don't speak English". At this point I got up, patted him on the shoulder and left with my stack saying "I'll go play in Joe's".

Let me explain Joe's to you. Joe's is another smaller card club that has sprung up in Paris. Its the opposite of the Aviation club having only a few (huge) games of dealers choice going. Its smokey (you can smoke at the tables) and its up an unremarkable flight of stairs and behind a big thick steel door. It reminds me of nothing so much as Bugsy Malones speak easy. Here's the kicker... if you are found to be playing there, you are barred from playing in the Aviation Club. No, I'm not kidding.

Can you imagine? If Luke Ivory himself  came up and told me that I couldnt play in the Merrion or I'd be barred from the Fitz, I'd turn on my heel and leave and never return. Just think how laughable that scenario is! Its inconceivable isnt it! But its true here.

Sacré Bleu.... C'est incroyablé!!

Image Is Everything

I slept on Friday night. Saturday I spent up playing the Binions $200 tournie and then flew on Sunday morning, arriving on Monday in Ireland. Do I sleep? Do I do the sensible thing? No, I head to the Fitz for the 100 game of course. Someone slap me.

So I get there and the deck hits me in the face for the first level... and I play a rush and get myself up to 6.5k. Then the cards desert me but I keep at that level for a long while.

Then the table changes. Alan Gibbons has been on my table and I've been wary of him, there are much easier chips at this table, including the most unbelievable calling station I've ever seen! Q-high is worth 500 on the river to this guy. But now I have Vivion, Norman and Joan Vickers on the table. I'm not liking this.

I find A9o in the 400-Big-Blind with about 5K in my tank.Viv goes all in on the button for 1600 and I decide to drop it. I show it to earn a little respect but Viv shows 83o and the consensus is that I should have called with any two cards. I disagree but suddenly I dont feel happy about my table image. My small raises (which by and large were bluffs) arent being taken seriously and I'm getting big reraises of them when they should be striking fear into my opponents. I dont have what I'm representing but thats not why they are reraising. They think I'll drop it! Oh Oh... what have I done?!

But my time in vegas wasnt all just reporting, I learned a few new moves too. Time for what I refer to as Judo-Flipping. They think I'm a rock, ok, lets rock their worlds... I limp in first position with a pair of 8's. I know exactly what I'm doing with this hand. If I get through unraised I have a nice hand to see a flop with. If I get reraised, I'm going to blow them away.

Reraised it is, not only that but called in 3 spots. All the better for Judo-Flipping I think to myself! So, now where are we... They think I'm a rock. Ok, I'll use that against them. They think my game isnt very sophisticated. Ok, I'll use that too. I have two early position callers a medium position raiser and two late position callers. I'd have to be absolutely bonkers to push here. So thats what I do. I push all my stack in and sit back grinning like a fool. A self-satisfied fool. All Fold.

So, now I go on a run, I raise with 4,2. I reraise with 97o. The cards no long matter at all. I stop my rampage when one of the quieter players at the table says " we havent seen your cards in about 5 pushes...". I figure its time to leave Dodge!

But whats this? AQs. niiiiiiice..... Lets go trapping. I raise to 2000 in EP. Its about triple the blinds and previously these sort of bets have been snapped up by the table like succulent canape's at a cocktail party. I dangle my bait and wait for a "Reraise, 6000". Gotcha! I only have 6900 but the guy doesnt look too happy about it and clearly would like to fold for the extra 900 but doesnt and flips QJo to my AQ. Feeling terrific about my play, I walk out the door when a J-high board arrives.

Stupid game.

Home James!

Vegas. It's great and it grates....

I'm getting slightly sick of Vegas. Most of us are at this stage. But to be fair to the place, I'm getting sick of a convention room at the end of a long long walk that represents a place I work for up to 16 hours a day before getting drunk and sleeping for 5 hours before repeating the whole process. So I don't know if I'd be as ambivalent about Vegas if I was just holidaying here.

It’s definitely a city of contrasts and extremes. The lights and glamour are undeniable but it’s a chocolate coating on top of a darker centre. Hookers wander about in front of multi-million dollar displays. Three times this trip I've heard of people being robbed.

I fly in 4 hours so I'm sitting in a fairly run down hotel that has been home to me for 3 weeks now called The Gold Coast (or The Gold Kip as the Irish have named it) waiting for the time to pass. I've been sitting watching cigarette smoke twirl up from a butt drifting straight up for 6 inches before dancing and then dissipating. Part of my mind wonders what physics makes it do that in a perfectly still room. The other part of my mind yawns.

It strikes me that I've been waiting a lot this trip. Waiting for the WSOP to kick off in earnest. Waiting for the organisers to get their collective thumbs out. Waiting for the dealer to turn the river and for that sick feeling of losing to another 3-outer. Waiting for Godot it seems.

Mostly I've been waiting to go home. I miss home and the comfortable familiarity of things. I miss my pillow, can you believe that. A grown man missing his pillow. But it’s not like a comfort blankie, I just miss the fact that its mine and I am familiar with it! No one is going to knock on my door and ask if I’d like it changed…

Earlier tonight we played a 200 dollar tournament in Binions where I got to the final table, got the chip lead, threw it away and then got a huge stack again, only to get involved in a huge hand that I think I played badly. I've detailed it on our forums.

It was a rush playing on THE final table, I mean, this is Binions we're talking about... but did we bring a camera? With all the video, audio and digital gear we have with us, did we have so much as a camera phone? Did we fuck! :( I took 4th place in the end of the day for $500 profit but I could feel my fingers closing around 4 and a half large! And so it is that I leave the bright lights of Sin City. Rather fitting when I think about it, exciting yet somehow ultimately unsatisfying.

Despite the morose and introspective tone of most of my blogs I've enjoyed the whole experience from start to finish. I feel like I've witnessed something, that I have another story to tell from my life's adventures. It’s been a wild ride but now, now I'd like to get off please Mister Merry-go-round-man. I've had enough fun for one trip...

Irish Independence.

Jesse May and Padraig Parkinson threw a party for all the Irish players in Jesse May's rented house in the suburbs of Las Vegas. "Sumptuous" simply doesn't do it justice. It had a waterfall at the front door for God's sake!

An air-conditioned bus picked us up every hour on the hour from the Rio hotel and dropped us to the door. Someone suggested that Norman drive! Norman (who'd been helped to bed by a security guard the night before) was feeling a little too sensitive to accomodate us...

Beer and BBQ food flowed freely and everyone was very polite and cordial for a while. Jesse and Padraig shot footage for their show and everyone got merrily tanked while the americans launched fireworks to celebrate their independence day. The few english who had snuck along with us were of the opinion that they could keep it.

The night wore on and the drink continued to flow and the cameras came round to interview us. Oscar wasn't too keen on the idea so Dave O'C and I thought we should really highlight this up and coming young irish player. So we thrust him forward into the camera, I know, we're bad bad men!

The night wore on and the drink did it's work and everyone got plastered. In the intense desert heat, even at midnight, the swimming pool began to look very inviting! Paddy O'Connor and Mick Sullivan decided that it was time to strip off (and I do mean strip off) and dive in. Krusty The Clown from Cork ended up getting thrown in by the lads afterwards!

The night wore on and more drink was consumed until eventually Oscar talked Eoghan O'Dea into diving into the pool first in a swimming "time trial" competition. Eoghan obviously didn't know that Oscar can't swim a stroke and had no intention of swimming anywhere.

Time to go home so we called a cab and talked the taxi driver into taking 5 of us. Ken Powell refused to abandon his JD and Coke. Eoghan was convinced we are taking the mick when he had to sit on Ken's lap, sending the JD all over Ken and I in his drunken state!

The ride home was a mixture of side splitting hilarity and 100 MPH scary-death race as Dave O'C waved $20 notes at the driver telling him he would tip him them if he went faster and faster. I took out my video camera and captured a snippet of the sound. Close your eyes, imagine you are speeding down the Las Vegas boulevard, swerving to avoid cars that are only doing 60mph, soaked in coke and JD and with Eoghan on your lap. I have the sound track but I'm saving it for the next time I go all in against the lads...

Pictures from the party can be seen here.

Blurry...

My initial run of good cards and good play have both deserted me and my tank has dwindled back to its starting amount. I simply can't focus on the game at the moment, being too tired and to short of time during dinner breaks and after hours to get a good run at it. I'm going to take a break from it and come back with a fresh head on my shoulders if I can. I'm very dissappointed in my play but the fact that I've also had either dead cards or some fairly nasty outdraws hasn't helped. I can play a lot better then this and should be well up but part of the learning experience is to play through such events and right now I lack the experience to do so it seems. Time to clean house and come back firing on all cylinders...

Its Vegas Baby..... er, yeah.

Yesterday’s exuberances left me feeling a little tender for most of the day, which I slept off. Time is a malleable concept here as there are no windows or any natural light whatsoever. The casinos are typically pumped full of oxygen-rich air to keep punters awake and since the tournaments go on into the small (and sometimes big) hours of the morning, grabbing sleep when you can is a common tactic of the reporters here, myself included.

This morning I was up until 6am and watched the sun rise over the skyscraper hotels of Vegas. It’s a bizarre place but watching the sunrise was curiously fitting since Vegas imposes itself on nature rather then the other way around.

I've taken a week off from writing my blog as I not only had a metric fuckton of work to do and things to see but also I wanted to give Vegas a chance and not judge it on first impressions. I have to admit that I've seen less of it then I would like since my day consists of sleeping, reporting on poker or playing poker when I can. Vegas looks like one big cardroom to me!

I've had a week here now and observed it intently during that time. Its odd to watch it happen around you, its a slickly choreographed and marketed fun fair for adults. Have you ever been at a fair ground and wandered behind the Ferris wheel or big dipper and seen the oily machines that make it all go? Working here has been a little like that. The excess that is here is certainly abundant but not as overbearing as I had feared. The poker areas are generally pretty isolated from the numbing beeps of the slots and the occasional cheer from the craps tables. We have to walk through them to get to the card room and the striking thing is the age of the customers of such gambling. Almost exclusively they are 50 and over. I've seen several 70 or 80 year olds with oxygen masks. Many prefer to play alone and there seems little social interaction even when there are people playing together. Its a little depressing to experience it to be honest with you.

Vegas is far from a city of the dead. This place artificially pops with excitement but everything is powered by the gambling. Everything centres in one way or other around getting people to put their money down.

I'll blog my thoughts on the WSOP so far soon, for now I'm still soaking in whole experience, enjoying it thoroughly. And walking home through the first light to sleep until the next tournament.

Death Valley

Its name evokes barren scrub and desert, blistering hot sun and soaring temperatures and while the conversationalists here are at pains to point out the abundant life, that is pretty much what you can expect from one of the hottest places on earth. We've driven right into the heart of it as it stands between us and our next, final destination. Las Vegas.

When I was a kid I was told you could fry an egg on the bonnet of a car in Death Valley and it remains the singular fact I can recall from my Geography lessons. Well, we're in a car, in Death Valley and I've bought some eggs. I'll let you see the outcome for yourselves.

This is a harsh and inhospitable place. An alien landscape of bleached stone and searing sun. As I write this, looking out the window, I could easily imagine we were on the surface of Mars.

We're nearing Vegas and my thoughts are turning to matters poker. The World Series looms large now and I'm beginning to return from our self-enforced break from the game. We all feel eager to get to the tables and experience our passion, our addiction in its spiritual home. Dave has discovered he is playing on day one and Oscar is playing day two. We've dissected and mulled over the implications of that and come to the conclusion that day two is better then day one, which in turn is better then day three.

Niall is hoping to qualify here or he will have to return to his job on the 3rd of July. During the run up to the trip I had intended on playing some qualifiers but time never seemed on my side and there was always something to prevent me. To be honest I wasn’t too pushed about trying to qualify. Don't get me wrong, I'd casually glass you in the face, my dear reader, while nonchalantly smoking a cigarette and lift your ticket from your jacket pocket while you writhed and screamed on the floor. Not, you understand, I've thought about this. Much. Its just that before it wasn't much of a driving force, it seemed too fantastical to even try. Just being here to report on it seemed more then enough.

Now I feel like playing every satellite available for a ticket. I can't explain it but this journey seems incomplete to get this far and not be involved directly in its finale. I don't want to watch Dave and Oscar go on to play this trip out to its conclusion while I remain "behind" so to speak. While I am exceptionally fortunate to be getting a press pass and invites to behind the scenes parties. I just don't want to turn and hear a steward say to me:

"Non-players away from the table."

Yosemite National Park...

Yosemite or Yosi-Might as Oscar calls it, was just what the doctor ordered after the assault on the mind that was San Francisco. A simple, natural place but jaw dropping in its scale and grandeur. For the most part I'm going to let the pictures speak as nothing can describe the sheer size of the scenery. As we joked yesterday that even the landscape is super-sized here. This was a panacea for all ills and the nickname of God's Back Yard is well deserved. If I were a deity, this is what I would create.

We stood under waterfalls (Oscar got soaked) and witnessed vertigo inspiring drops (coincidentally we all suffer from it to a greater or lesser degree), hiked up a mountaintop (ok so we drove up as far as we could first but we still hiked the remaining bit) and threw snowballs. At me. Yes, in 28 degrees of heat we threw snowballs.

For lunch we decided to commune with nature and take a packed lunch and go picnic by a river. Now, remember that we are 4 pasty-faced poker players with overly large eyes from long periods spent in dim rooms, peering at cards. The great outdoors isn’t exactly our natural habit. The only river we generally see is after the turn.

However, we were intent on getting back to nature so we bravely trek down a beaten track following two other hikers along the river. Its quite marshy so we decide to jog along to avoid the mosquitoes. All of a sudden its very marshy, the hikers have disappeared and our attempts to take a short cut land us further in the marsh. The mosquitoes have called for backup and having launched a full-scale assault are crawling all over us. End result, 4 poker players comically sprinting, slapping and waving their way through the bog with all thought of decorum (not to mention any ideas of picnicing) firmly abandoned. I write this covered in Cortizone cream with over 25 bites. Oscar, has none. Swedes taste crap apparently. And the brand new runners I spoke of in my first entry, well, the less said the better. What’s worse is I don't have a spare pair.

So much for bloody nature. Bah humbug! But I wouldn’t have changed a minute of yesterday. Perhaps fewer bites.

Next stop, Breakfast in Death Valley.

Discombobulation

We leave tomorrow on the first leg of our journey towards Las Vegas. We've spent 48 hours in San Francisco and a very interesting 48 hours it has been too. Condensing it into ASCII to transmit it seems likely to do it an injustice. I doubt very much that I have the skill as a writer to convey the depth of the experience. I can but try.

The first person we really met on arrival was a bum. Oh, we met the taxi driver and the hostel reception guy. But the first person we honestly didn't have to interact with, but did, was a bum on the street. The four of us had been debating the merits of walking versus taking a taxi. Not that we really knew where we wanted to go but we figured that a taxi driver might be able to help us.

"hey man, you got a light?" "er, us?" "yeah you guys, you look cool, I like your t-shirt man, you got a light?" "er, yeah sure", "cool, so you got smokes then... can I have a smoke?" "er, yeah".

Now you might be picturing someone with 6 plastic bags, a beard and a funny smell. Please believe me when I say that nothing could be further from the truth. The truth would be that having travelled for nearly 24 hours straight (and I'll bitch about British Airways another time), you'd probably have picked me for the bum rather then him. I noticed he was wearing a watch nicer then just about any watch I've ever worn. The area is an assortment of porn video stores, dingy bars and massage parlours. A heady mix!

"what are you guys doin?" "Looking for a taxi." The argument has been settled as an incidental. Cue this guy leaping around the place to find us a cab, practically endangering himself in the process with 4 white Irishmen standing there both gobsmacked and mortified in equal measure. Inevitably he attracts a taxi and herds us across the road. "Hey man, hey I'm not a bum you know, look at my watch dude, I'm not a bum. You got a dollar?". We pile into the taxi and the hispanic cabbie looks at Niall O'C quixically... "Where to dude?"

"Elsewhere".

San Francisco is an open air asylum. A zoo. A celebration of the outlandish. A veritable Carnivalé of the Bizarre. Its really quite a sight during the day. Riotously coloured flags loudly proclaim gay-friendly establishments; rollerblading pizza delivery agents whizz past while transvestites play pool and quaff pints unselfconsciously. Punks share the BART trains with corporate America. There is something about the rich tapestry of diversity that appeals to my sense of joie de vive but while it is fun to watch it tick to its own unfathomable beat, it can be a test of endurance to interact with it on any level. We are strangers in a strange, strange land.

We've gone on a self-enforced poker fast, an abstinence made all the stranger since poker is the reason we are all travelling to Vegas, the reason we know each other in the first place. The psyche of the poker player is laid bare as we play pool, for money. We play Klagg (a trick based game), for money. We bet that Dave will lose Niall's baseball by the end of the day. 5 dollars. The strange thing is not that we are betting money, its that the money is irrelevant. Its pocket change really. A means of keeping score more then anything and scoring is what its all about. (If you are wondering, I'm ahead in the pool and lagging badly at Klagg.) We've come to the conclusion that we are basically incapable of enjoying a game for its own value without becoming competitive about it.

Food here is delicious and expensive. Most things here are expensive in fact. Extremely so. We remind ourselves that the portions are huge and already I feel for the first time in my life that maybe I should do some exercise once in a while.

Late on the last night of our stay I steel myself and go for a long walk around the neighbourhood. The city has changed into a darker ensemble, slipping on a sleazier little number to appeal to the creatures of the night. Its an uglier city but nonetheless a genuine side of San Francisco and if I wanted to experience life here I can't complain or look away now simply because its not all Beach Boys and surfing. Drink deeply or not at all.

The number of homeless here is phenomenal. They literally outnumber the remaining citizens and it occurs to me briefly that forming their own army of vagrancy and marching on the rich is a scarily possible proposition. The breadth of despair is not a pretty sight. Its contrast, so stark against the vibrance of the day is more shocking for all of that. Where do these people go during the day when we awaken? The answer is they blend in and become "us"...

Back in the hostel I meet a guy from Ireland, between Letterkenny and Derry. He and his friends are poker players. The world really IS too small. The jealousy is vibrant in their eyes as I explain my job and our plans. I have to admit that I must agree with them, sometimes this job can expose you to an ugly side of humanity but I'd be damned if I'd return to a desk job now. Its true what Oscar said in the interview, the best thing about poker is the experiences it leads you to off the table. The travel, the people, and breadth of life we are exposed to.  San Francisco has been amazing in many ways, good and bad. Its a phenomenal city of mixtures and contrasts but I'm looking forward to being on the road again...next stop, Yosemite.

People always say I should be locked up...

Alcatraz is a prison island in the middle of San Francisco bay. Surrounded by swift, cold currents, sharks and home to a high security prison, its not the most hospitable place I've ever been to. Its been the home to a number of notorious criminals including Al "Scarface" Capone and since what I do with an Omaha hand is crime against poker according to some, I felt a visit was a must.

The first thing that hits you, even while the boat is docking, is the smell. Its the smell of bird shit. Its acrid and sharp and unpleasant. The whole place is unpleasant in fact. Its been turned into a history lesson and is well worth the visit but its not Disneyland, its quite a bleak place and I can only imagine how bleak it must have been to be incarcerated there.

They've done a terrific job of the educational tours and recreating what life was like there, not only for the inmates but also for the prison warders and their families. You can even get locked in The Hole, the infamous isolation cells where they locked men up for 24 hours a day without light or sound or interaction.

I left Alcatraz with a profound feeling of something. I can't really put my finger on it but its a strange, unique place. Grim and a monument to how distorted life can get sometimes but brushing away the cheesy souvenirs and listening an ex-inmate talk about the routine of life there was a deep feeling that places like this shouldnt exist. Shouldn't *have* to exist.

Traveling without moving...

Its stupid'o'clock and I'm sitting in Dublin Airport typing this with long fingernails, this time apparently my brand new runners constituted a threat to the US National Security and I was forced to remove them and shuffle through the metal detector in my socks. Consider that I only paid 25 euro for them, and I think you'll agree it would represent damned good value for money were they capable of mass destruction.

There is a flight leaving for Lanzarote beside me, destined to be populated by young parents with far too many children for their age. I freely admit to wishing security had stopped them and let the terrorists through. At least hijackers wouldn't run up and down between seats shouting "mammy mammy, look how fast I can run mammy, maammmy yer not lookin' mammy!!"

I haven't slept in 30 hours hours so my thoughts are fractured, while the world has that fish-eyed appearance that comes only with sleep deprivation. I feel inexplicably happy though and finishing 9th in a Speed Rebuy tournament at 4am this morning hasnt damaged my mood much either. Indeed it would be hard to dampen my mood today as I tingle with the anticipation I always feel taking the first step of a long trip. A early morning taxi ride down streets I travel every day  seemed alien and fascinating, seen at a time rarely witnessed and while most slumbered deeply awaiting breakfast, a commute and then a 9'o'clock start in the same office as last week, last month, last year, I'm starting out on what many would considera trip into madness and yet others, Mecca.

I've tried to gather my thoughts about what I expect Vegas to be. Its hard to pin down and harder still to express. I've heard much about the place. I've lived and worked in the US before so America is no stranger to me nor I to her 24/7 bussle. I've had a friend's pet taxidermed (is that a verb?) at 3am in New York. Why it couldn't wait until the morning is a question only an Irishman could ask, in New York the question would be "why wait until morning?". I am mentally prepared for the relentless life in Vegas but I will confess to my apprehensions.

You may find this curiously anachronistic but I am quite a moralistic person. I'll spare you my treatise on morality except to say that in Ireland "morality" often translates to "I tell you how you should live your life". For me it translates to "I tell me how to live my life", which is a considerable enough task. I'm afraid you will just have to work an answer out for yourself.

One of the quirks of this fact is that I dislike excess and I am uncomfortable around hedonism. A little late in the day to admit this, you might chuckle, and I embarking on a flight to the capital of self indulgence. Or at least I will as soon as this four-year-old ceases to loudly inform me that he is, in fact, four-and-a-half. Excess and unrestraint do not sit well with me so I am steeling myself to find Vegas "a bit much" after a while. I also find prostitution and hardcore pornography degrading to the human spirit. I guess I'll just keep my eyes firmly shut between my suite and the card room for the next month huh?

But you didnt hit up our site to hear about my qualms of conscience. On to the poker. My erstwhile colleague and professional out-sucker has pinned some vibrant colours to his mast and I feel I would be remiss were I not to follow suit. So here's mine:

1. I will win a ticket to the main event in a satelite and go on to beat Oscar Fred heads up to claim the WSOP title.

2. At least one Irish player will make the final 3 tables. Most will make the second day of the competition, short of ugly suckouts. I'll go one further then Mike and say that I think at least one Irish player will make the last two tables.

3. Someone will actually follow through on the threat to shoot Eamonn O'Reilly when he flops a house having called a huge bet with 64o. With Eamonn's luck the bullet will bounce off a silver dollar in his shirt pocket and disarm the assailant.

4. Mark MacMahon and Oscar Fred among others will make the money.

5. At least 2 of these predictions will not come true. Possibly including this one.

6. The winner of the main event may well be an internet qualifier but will not be an internet-trained poker-newbie.

7. Phil Helmuth will whine like a little girl with a skinned knee when he gets knocked out. On his first day.

My flight is boarding, the journey begins and the game, my dear Watson, is afoot.

My Big Vegas Adventure

Shaver. Laptop. Sunscreen. Firewire Connector. Credit card PIN. The Website. Money. In dollars. Shorts. Flights. Jesus.. Flights!

I have 2.3 million things to remember and sort out before Monday. Haircut. On Monday I fly to San Fransisco to begin a month long adventure accross America and into the biggest gambling city in the world to cover the biggest single individual sporting competition on earth. Batteries.

No single event rewards its winner so grandiosely, so extravagantly. Only in America, playing the quintessential American game could you get a grand prize pool of 66 Million dollars with the individual winner taking roughly $12-15 Million of that. For perspective, Tiger Wood's (the best paid athlete in the world) won <b>three<b> major golf championships last year on the PGA tour, netting him prizes totalling $9 million.

An american power converter.

I've never been to Las Vegas before. I've traveled a lot in my life and seen some pretty fucked up stuff in my time but I'm steeling myself for a sensory overload. And some pretty crazy poker! Ah yes, the real reason I'm going. Poker. My dominatrix mistress. I love her but she hurts me sometimes. It’s not the money, I dont play at stakes that high but the psychological scars run deep. Oh Christ, Father's day.

From San Fransisco, Oscar Fred, Dave and Niall O'Callaghan and I will rent a car and drive accross the desert, through Death Valley, Fear-and-Loathing style before getting to Vegas on the 26th. USB Pen-Drive. Oscar already has his ticket and the rest of us are on the hunt to win them. I've already got a seat in the Media/Celebrity tournament where I'll be playing for Santa Strike Force (top prize is 10K!) but if I happen to win a satelite to the big one...

So, I'll be writing my personal blog here. My feelings on Vegas, the trip, my fortunes in poker and anything else that takes my fancy. I hope to entertain and amuse you so please feel free to feedback on the forum...

Tom "DeVore" Murphy.

(PCI Card... bollox! >.<)