Ever had that feeling that you haven’t quite managed to change the course of the world in your working life? That all your unrelenting effort hasn’t had any purpose? Well before you get all depressed that your existence is pointless, spare a thought for Gordon Taylor OBE.
His job as the chief executive of the Players Football Association is to look after the interests of Wayne Rooney, among others. Strictly speaking, his organisation’s mission statement is: “to protect, improve and negotiate the conditions, rights and status of all professional players by collective bargaining agreements”
This week he criticised the FA’s decision to charge Wayne Rooney for swearing into a TV camera. That’s him criticising the decision to charge Rooney, not the decision to actually ban him.
“It becomes an issue when directed towards match officials” he said. “However, when used in a spontaneous way in celebration or frustration then it is not normally expected to merit a sanction”
Now ’m not going to drone on about on the responsibilities of role models or say what a good example he should be setting to the kids. I couldn’t care much for bad language either and on paper I wouldn’t ordinarily be offended by that sort of thing. But come to think, I think I was offended by the sight of a stupid, snarling, bald headed cave man swearing at the camera. If not offended, it certainly registered on my rage dial.
This was after he scored a hat-trick! What’s his problem? Perhaps he was angry at the cameraman for having the audacity to do his job and er, film him? Maybe it was just a message to the wider world to convey to us how much he hates us? Well wouldn’t you be bitter if you were that ugly?
So, this week, when you do something good at work, if you get a pat on your back for doing a job well done, or if you get a bonus, go up to the window of your boss’s office, do a big fist pump and once you have his attention, tell him to F**^%K OFF!!!!!!
If you have those glass meeting rooms at work, like those big goldfish bowls, even better. Sprint up, do a knee slide and squash your face against the glass whilst bellowing profanities at your managers. Unzip your trousers and press your scrotum up against the glass all the time screaming at them to F%^&*K OFF, then spread your arse cheeks against the window and defecate all over the glass, frantically smearing your turds across the glass with your hands and then wiping them across your face. Should this raise an eyebrow or the odd quizzical look just screw up your face and say “what”
with hate in your eyes and molten shit dribbling down your cheeks. Because you’re worth it.
And should they invite you to a disciplinary hearing to discuss this unfortunate turn of events, get your union boss to kick off that is outrageous of them and they are setting a dangerous precedent. It’s a step too far and how DARE they?
OK I might have gone a bit far with the comparison, but is defending Rooney the “services to sport” which earned Gordon Taylor his OBE? Apparently Gordon Taylor is the highest paid union official in the world. He doesn’t even need the £700k that the Murdoch empire paid him for hacking his phone.
Anyway enough of Rooney and Gordon Taylor. There’s quite enough aggravation going on in my own life. Isn’t it a funny old world? I spend an entire year abroad in Brazil and see hardly any aggro yet when I get back to the suburbs, within a week my mate gets mugged and has three vertebrae cracked in the scuffle. Then, the other night when I was walking home late at night I heard the unmistakable sound of glass being broken as a bloke was putting through the front door of my neighbour’s house while his mate waited in a motor outside with the engine running. This was 1.30am and it looked ominous so I hung around long enough to see the shape of a woman at the door and hear her voice. She said:
“Get aaht o’ mai faacking aaahhhce”
Sounded real classy, a veritable Waynetta Rooney. This put me at ease a bit – she wasn’t your average damsel in distress. I reasoned that the hideous wretch could probably handle herself. It was probably some sort of domestic because she seemed to know him but then again he had turned up at 1.30am and broken in. What if he started beating her up? I couldn’t just leave. As much as I have no appetite for have-a-go-heroism at that time of night I might have to try to assist if he gets really out of line. (But if I’m her only hope against two blokes that’s a pretty shabby situation for her to be in!)
I didn’t want to hang about too long – they hadn’t clocked me yet but the bloke in the car had. I suppose it’s good that he knew there was a witness to this kerfuffle but he was hardly going to congratulate me for my neighbourhood watch skills. Eurgh what a situation. I didn’t want to hang around and have to explain myself should he confront me, but I had to really, at least until I knew he wasn’t going to start going all Rambo in there. He stomped around the front room a bit, curtains open so I could see him. He was looking for something. I figured he was just going to get something and go.
She wasn’t screaming out for help so I went into my house after a minute but then I did some proper nosy neighbour surveillance tactics from my window until they left. The driver flashed the full beam at my windows as they left as a little thank you. I’m such a dozy pratt I didn’t even get the car registration so if a dead body had shown up the next day I would not be able to describe them (too dark) nor provide a reg (too stupid).
I didn’t know the woman personally but my mate, who is a good judge of character, used to be her next door neighbour and he confirmed that she is a) a total nightmare and b) probably deserved a slap in fact. “She’s so atrocious I’d think twice before hitting something that poisonous”.
So apart from muggings and late night domestics with skanky neighbours, what’s new?
Well I have discovered the Fox Poker Club and I’ve been there twice to catch up on some much needed live poker. The club opened in September 2010 and a former colleague of mine has really got the poker bug and goes there all the time. He has been asking me to go down with him since I got back from Brazil so last week I did. The Fox is decent and I’ll tell you more about it in a later blog. I’m planning to do a 40 hour week down there in the near future playing the cash tables (as if I was getting up to do a nine to five day job, only it will probably be more like 3pm-11pm). So I’ll tell you a lot more about the place then.
We played a “variable stack” tournament, which I’d never played before, where £20 gets you 4000 chips £40 gets you 8000 chips and £55 gets you 12000 chips. Blinds started at 25-50.
Obviously I got the maximum possible chips. I say “obviously” but maybe it isn’t obvious to everyone. You might reason that a more skilful player shouldn’t need as many chips but trust me, it is the correct strategy, just as rebuying and adding on is the correct strategy in a rebuy tournament. If you think you have more skill than your opponents then that’s even more of a reason to get the maximum chips. The reasoning behind this is very clearly laid out in the book “Poker Tournament Formula” by Arnold Snyder and I was about to repeat it here, but (ha ha) it’s such a good explanation I can’t actually recount it in my own words, and, scouring my room for the book I realise I’ve lent it out. So you’ll just have to wait another time for that brilliant explanation.
But playing live again reminded me of one of the major disadvantages to playing live as opposed to online….
On my first table, to immediate right there was this really aloof Russian lad. I guess he was Russian but he could have been from anywhere in Eastern Europe and I wasn’t making conversation with him to find out.
Every pot he went steaming in like Mr-I’m-really-hard-captain-mc-aggression. He would raise before the flop and if it was raised in front of him he would reraise. If someone called him preflop he would bet the flop and if someone bet on the flop he would raise them. This was virtually every single hand. A real Bertie big bollocks.
On another day and with a bigger stack I imagine he would be a real handful but this was not his day. Every time he ended up getting re-raised all in and folding preflop, or folding to a massive bet on the flop, turn, or river and spewing away his chips. Every time he larged it he was sent packing with his tail between his legs. But before folding he’d give a really arrogant look toward his opponent as if the opponent was just so damn inferior, then muck his cards out the back of his hand all casually, something which in itself was managing to annoy me. He was so thoroughly dislikeable.
He’d bought in the maximum number of chips and the structure was good so there was just no need for it. Clearly he was running into big hands, but just as clearly he shouldn’t have been giving it the big one against straightforward players that blatantly had the goods. But he never thought of slowing down because….well because he was Bertie big bollocks I suppose.
I nearly said something on one hand. In a 3 bet pot the flop was 972 with two diamonds. There was 2400 in the pot and when it was checked to him he bet 2175, taking ages to count the chips and using as many as possible to make the bet look big. It was a bet that said to me “let me take it down with no more betting”. But yet again the fellow check-raised him to 6600 and he folded.
“Show me pocket sevens” he said, in a voice that sounded like Teddy KGB, just before he folded. “Show me the seven of clubs”
His opponent didn’t show, which seemed to wind Teddy up.
“If you didn’t have pocket sevens…then you are such a terrible player” he declared. His opponent was totally non-plussed at this nonsensical comment as was I.
“He ain’t the one who’s pissed away all his chips on the first level you mug”
Well that’s what I wanted to say but I didn’t. After all, there’s no need to kick a man when he’s down. But I almost wish I had. Get this. When he was totally crippled, down to about 900, he started folding hands – playing sensibly! Then he started limping into pots all the time. Weird! Maybe I ought to have asked him “is this what they mean by ‘changing gears’?” He lasted about another hour and I was worried he’d make a comeback. When a player irritates me this much I tend to focus just on that player, which is bad, so I wanted him out of there pronto.
I put in a stiff raise against a load of limpers with AQo and he decided to make his stand with 98o getting decent odds. He turned a straight and then he gave me this sarcastic look like I was some sort of idiot for getting it in against him with a much better hand. Not a word, just a sneering look! Thankfully he busted soon after and pitched his losing hand at the dealer really aggressively so the cards went face up. What a charmer. GG mate, WP, see you around yeah?
There was a funny thing. This black guy opposite had this tell. When he had a big hand he would pretend he hadn’t realised it was his turn.
“Oh was it my go?” he asked, before raising. When he got re-raised he shoved all in preflop. So that had to be a big hand although I didn’t see it. Later on he did the same thing “Oh is it my turn?” before raising and he ended up showing QQ at the showdown. Funny how he thought that we might perceive weakness from the fact he didn’t know it was his go. And the second time it sounded so wooden. I recommend he doesn’t go into the acting game (or the poker game for that matter).
Anyway, there were 52 entrants and only 6 got paid. This meant I was a huge favourite to come 7th, and indeed I made the final table and came 7th. And of course, making the final table means the trains have stopped running so it’s a £30 taxi home. RESULT! So it was lucky for me that we negotiated a deal with £50 going to 7th so I wasn’t a total loser on the night.
Of course, had I won first place I would have sprinted towards the TV cameras and had an apoplectic shit-fit. But unfortunately I didn’t come first. And there weren’t any cameras. Never mind, maybe next time…..