They have computers, and they may also have other weapons of mass destruction – Janet Reno

“Where have you been?” My Dad asks as I walk through the door.

“In the café with Graham and Arwyn.”  I reply.

These days every home has an X Box, Wii, Playstation or Personal Computer of one description or another. My Sister has two kids and bought a third X Box the other day just because she couldn’t handle anymore arguing between her husband and her two kids over who was going to play what on the X Box? Now they have one each!

You are not even restricted to the house anymore either. Virtually everyone has some type of personal mobile type device that you can play games on. I was in Les Croupiers in Cardiff the other night and there is a regular player who goes by the name “The Doctor”. I grin fondly every time I see him because he is the absolute spitting imagine of my own Grandad. My Grandad is 78 and I guess The Doctor is not much younger. Even The Doctor plays with his I Phone in between hands!

“What were you doing in the café?” Asks my Dad.

“Yeah what were you doing?” My Mum re-emphasises.

“Just messing about on the machines.” I reply.

When I was younger people’s priorities were different. Parents bought food with their wages and went down the pub with what was left. Games upwards of £200 were things of fantasy. Our parents couldn’t even say,

“Maybe if we win the lottery!”

We didn’t have one.

One Christmas my Mum and Dad asked me to write out my Christmas list as usual and this time I was a little bit more adventurous. All of my friends had either a Commodore 64 or a ZX Spectrum. I asked Santa for a Commodore 64.  As time got closer my mate Graham and I started to hunt for our Christmas presents.  We started in his house and it didn’t take long before we found a black bag underneath the stairs. Graham had the inspired idea to open them all and re-wrap them afterwards. He was pleased as punch when we found a Commodore 64. Next we raided my Mum and Dads bedroom to search for presents. This mission had to be carried out quite delicately. After all I didn’t want Graham to find my Mum and Dads secret stash of porn accessories. We quickly found the presents and to my horror I realised that my Mum and Dad had bought me the wrong computer, instead of a Commodore 64 they had bought the cheaper version. The version poor kids got battered for owning. The Commodore 16+4.!

“Nooooo! Look at this Graham.” I said.

“Look at this!” Said Graham holding a big white dildo in his hand.

When we were in Primary School Graham Dillon went by the nickname Dildo. One day the teachers pulled us all into the classroom and told us that we were not allowed to call Graham Dillon “Dildo” anymore. None of us could understand why? Life is not without a sense of irony.

“Where did you get the money from?” My Dad asked.

“Yeah where did you get the money from?” It was like an echo. It was my Mum.

The biggest addiction that year was the introduction of the Sega game “Wonder Boy”. Wonder Boy was an arcade game where you played the role of a Caveman trying to find his girlfriend who had been captured by a monster. Each and every day we could come home from school and pile into Sterlini’s Café to play this mesmerising game.  I used to dream about it. All I wanted to do was get my initials onto that Leaderboard (LMD). There were ten slots on that leaderboard and they all had the same initials (AJT) – Arwyn John Thomas.

Arwyn was a Wonderboy magician and there were times we would just stand around in awe. He was much older than the rest of us and had a job. He was also the biggest and hardest bloke in the Valley and it wasn’t easy to get him off the game. Luckily he had always taken a shine to me and I always managed to get my turn in between moments of Arwyn magic.

Not only did Arwyn teach me how to be a better video game player he also taught me about how fragile life can be when he tragically died of a heart attack in his mid twenties.

That game was so consuming that I didn’t eat school dinners for months. Each and every penny went into that machine. My bankroll management skills back then were quite similar to those I possess today – utter crap. I started to steal money to play Wonderboy.

My Dad used to come home from work and get undressed in his bedroom before getting into the bath. In true Mission Impossible style I would wait until I heard him get into the bath and I would go into his bedroom and steal a few quid from the loose change in his jeans. My Wonderboy money!

 “I used my dinner money.” I told my Mum and Dad.

“Don’t lie to me!” Shouted my Dad.

“Don’t lie to your Dad!” Shouted my Mum.

It appears that my Dad had been planning his own Mission Impossible style covert operations for some time now. He knew money was going missing from his pockets. Like I said money was tight back then and used for food, beer and fags. A few quid for Wonderboy was a packet of fags or two pints. But he had four kids. Which one was the culprit? How could he be sure who it was?

He decided to count the money that was in his pocket and then wait until one of us was upstairs on our own and when we came down he would check his trousers to see if any was missing.

Simplistic but effective

I take my son to swimming lessons every Sunday. It is always a royal pain in the arse getting him into the car. His first complaint is always that he is the only boy in the class. Little does he know he will be on his hands and knees praying to be the only boy in a swimming class full of girls when he is a few years older? His second complaint is that he has to shift his arse away from the Playstation for 45 minutes.

I watch from the balcony above the pool. I walked in and had to ask a little girl, aged no more than 9, to move so I could get a seat. She was playing on her Nintendo DS and barely recognised I was barging passed her. She did not flinch. Her gaze remained firmly on the screen.

As I sat there I looked across the balcony and saw four more kids. All sat next to their parents or guardians. The only difference between the four was the different colours of the Nintendo DS they held in the palm of their hands. There was no dialogue, no interaction no relationship. Each time a parent or guardian spoke they were met with silence.

The writer Aldous Huxley wrote about this in his novel “Brave New World” in 1932.

Science Fiction = Science Fact.

As I read that an eight year old from India has amassed $500k whilst playing online poker I wonder to myself. Are children more suited to winning online poker competitions than us regular folk? Isn’t it just another form of video game addiction? I see kids as young as six sat in pubs next to their parents clicking away at their videogames. Videogames far more advanced that anything I can remember playing on. Games that need children to think outside of the box and solve mathematical and societal problems. Longevity isn’t a problem. I cannot peel my son away from “Fallout 3” after 12 hours of solid play, an absolute pre-requisite for an online grinder.

If we spent the time to explain the rules and allowed them to play, play, play would they be more successful?

Would they?

“Video games?  Are you crazy?” Shouted my Dad

“Are you crazy?” Shouted my Mum

“But I can’t help myself. I think I am addicted?” I cried.

“Addicted? Addicted to a video game? That is your excuse for stealing from me. Get upstairs.” Shouted my Dad.

I flew up the stairs crying my eyes out. As I flew I heard my Mum say to my Dad.

“Alan we need to sort this boy out? Stealing money to play video games? He’ll be gambling next! And you can take that Commodore 64 back to the shop he aint having anything for Christmas!”

Every cloud!

www.leedavy.co.uk

http://twitter.com/chingster23

As well as interviewing the Devilfish I have also managed to persuade the gorgeous Liv Boerre to allow me to interview her.

If you have any questions you would like me to ask her then please leave a comment.

I am reviewing Dave "The Devilfish" Ulliot's new book The Devilfish - The Life and Times of a Poker Legend.

I have also managed to secure an interview with him.

If anyone has any particular question you would want me to consider asking then drop a note in the comments field.

Regards

Ching

What's been happening?

I have decided to join NANOWRIMO.  It is an annual novel writing project that runs from Nov 1st through to Nov 31st.  The plan is to write 1.6k words per day and at the end of the month have a novel of over 50k words.  I am really looking forward to it.

In preparation for NANOWRIMO I have started to write 1.6k words per day on my current book.  I already have a lot of the chapters completed in first draft mode so I am hoping to complete the first draft in its entirety by the end of August.

I continue to write for PPE magazine each month and have been recognised twice in local casino's in the past month which is nice but strange.  My articles posted on the Hendon Mob Website seem to be drawing a lot of attention, mostly good but some negative comments as well.  It was good to get some negativity to kee everything in perspective and help me understand how I would feel and manage it.  I even had a comment posted by Leatherass today!  I have been approached to provide material for another well known poker magazine and will write more about this if we agree on something.

I have written two book reviews recently.  Dusty Schmidt "Treat Your Poker Like a Buisness" and Paul Hoppe "The Way of the Poker Warrior".  I am also reviewing Dave "Devlfish" Ulliot autobiography at the moment.

On the poker front I am having a nicely timed hot streak on the live front.  Since Sep 09 last year I have been a pretty consistent winner live.  Online I continue to frustrate the hell out of my coach.  I am really disapointed that I have not progressed as well as I should have done by now.  I am simply not thinking about each and every decision I make when I play.  I am making too many decisions with no rhyme or reason.  I am a LAGfish!

I submitted my Voluntary Redundancy Request at work but no-one has made contact with me yet to discuss options.  I will write more when I no more about my future.

I am hopeful to have my own website up and running by the end of August 10.  I am really excited about having my own website. 

Ching

Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. The fearful are caught as often as the bold – Helen Keller

If you are a parent then you will remember fondly those “first” moments. 
When my son was born we even received a box as a present so we could collect all of his “first” moments, I assume to fondly reminisce when you are older and there is nothing to watch on the television.

I remember his first swear word.

I was watching Man Utd v Blackburn on the television.  Ole Gunnar Solskjaer had broken clear of the defence, I leapt from the settee in anticipation, can of cider in one hand and the remote control in the other.  He swung his right foot and hit the ball as sweet as he possibly could.  I jumped in the air and the ball struck the post and went wide.  I threw the remote control.

“Fucking Hell!” I screamed.

“Fucking Hell.” Said my son.

I started to laugh.  He laughed too.

“Fucking Hell.” He said again.

“Debbie come in here quick.” I shouted.

“What!” Said Debbie walking into the room.

“Fucking Hell.” Said Jude.

Debbie and I both laughed.

“Fucking Hell.  Fucking Hell.  Fucking Hell.” Said Jude laughing repeatedly.

He was about 2 years old and continued to say fucking hell for weeks.  One moment I fondly remember when there is nothing on the television is when my Mum took him into town and he wouldn’t stop saying it in the shop.
Another first I remember was when he first had nits.  Debbie was inconsolable.  She cried all night.  If he had nits then we were obviously running a dirty household.  To make matters worse everyone got nits.  Not just my mates kids but my mates and their wives as well.

When I was younger we used to have school visits from the nit nurse.  It was great.  You would sit on the chair and she would run her fingers through it giving me a little boner.  They no longer have the nit nurse because of the changes in society regarding people touching your children.  It is assumed all people are paedophiles until proved otherwise.

I was applying lotion to my Mums head.  She had caught nits from Jude so it was the least I could do.  Conversation turned to the nit nurse and the debate over whether or not they should be allowed back into schools.

“Its ridiculous.” My Mother said.

“How on earth can a nit nurse examining a childs head be construed as sexual?”

“I haven’t got a clue Mum.” I said fondly remembering the boner that the 20 stone lovely used to give me when trying to search for the little blighters.

These days the nits you get are armour plated.  Natural selection has made them almost immune to all types of lotions and potions that you apply to your childs head.  It is easier to kill the Wiley Coyote.  Even when you have killed them, they trot off to school and come back the next day with more.
Is your head itching yet?

I am waiting for a “first” moment of my own.  The moment when I have a big successful session online followed by another big successful session online.  I know they exist because I read about them all of the time.  I think they are called Heaters.

On Friday I won just under 6 buy ins.  I was better than Ivey.  I sent a joyous celebratory message on Twitter for my two followers to read and rang my two only friends to tell them how good I am.  By the end of the weekend I was down 15 buy ins.  I hadn’t lost so much in a long time.  I looked back through my HEM database and there was a pattern.  When I win big I lose big the following day. 
Maybe all the doubters are right.  By doubters I mean the so called friends who have no idea about the complications in the game of poker and instead believe it is purely a game of chance.  It is those doubters who sneer when you tell them you have won big because they say it means nothing because you will only lose it again in the near future.  They are spot on.  With me it is the day after.

I decided to go through my losing hands to see where I went wrong and there he was lurking in my database like those damn nits lurking in my sons hair.
A.Louse.

We all have A.Louse in our database. 

When you are playing online they are the ones you don’t notice.  They have a VPIP of 5 and PFR of 3.  Every time the action is on them they fold.  They fold more times that the Origami Champion of the World.  You laugh at them.  How idiotic can they be?  You are never going to pay them off?  When they raise you will just fold.  When you bluff they will fold.  So why oh why have I lost 3 buy ins KK v AA and AKs v AA against these blighters.  Should I be folding KK and AKS against A.Louse?

Just like my sons nits they are everywhere.  There are so many of them and they play so many tables.  I sit down and they are all staring at me with their little antennae rubbing together.  I win 98% of all hands for a profit of about $10 and then I lose 2% of them for my entire stack.  It is clear I need to develop my game in this department.  Where did that 20 stone lovely go?

The main reason I hate A.Louse is because we are complete mirror opposites.  I don’t understand what drives his behaviour.  It is alien to me. 

I bet my mate Skit £100 that I would beat him in the Fathers egg and spoon race at my sons Sports Day.  The only bet you will see A.Louse make is a 25p each way bet on the national each year.  In the film Pulp Fiction I am Butch Coolidge. A.Louse is the Gimp.

I have a friend who is an Irish nit.  His name is Steve “The Rock” John.  I say Irish because he does everything A.Louse does but he receives the reverse results.  I have not known Steve long but in the time that I have he has become one of my closest confidantes as I wade through rivers of treacle in my life.  He is an enigma.  The only nit I like and the only nit that only plays AA, KK, AKs and never wins an all in pot.

Steve first burst into the poker scene when Andrew “Too Nice” Bayliss brought him up to our Tuesday night home game.  His nickname at the time was Steve “Textbook” John.  The lad is a poker fanatic.  There isn’t a book or video that he hasn’t seen. Textbook was a suitable name for him.  I changed it because he reminds me of the wrestler The Rock.

He is the classic nit.  His HEM statistics would mirror A.Louse.  You wont find The Rock on the roulette table or the Craps table.  He is far too clever for that.  He has a very broad chest and big guns.  He always has an energy bar that tastes like shit stuffed in his pocket.  I am sure he drinks whey protein for breakfast, dinner and tea.  You can tell he takes a pride in his appearance.

The difference between A.Louse and The Rock is your starting hand selection when you play against each of them.  They differ quite slightly.  When you are playing A.Louse you can comfortably fold all hands except AA, KK and AK when he puts in a raise.  When you play against the Rock the lads play 100% of their range against him.  I think they do it for comedic value. 
The action generally goes something like this.

The Rock raises and the villain calls.  The flop is 729 and all the money goes in the middle.

“Have you got Aces Steve?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He says.

The villain takes down the pot with two pair 72o.

During a recent trip to DTD we decided to play one night in fancy dress.  None of us were allowed to tell each other what we were dressing up as. 
Yes you have guessed it.

Steve “The Rock” John was dressed as the Gimp.  I could only imagine where he put his energy bar!

You can follow Lee Davy on www.leedavy.co.uk or http://twitter.com/Chingster23




 

1.  Everytime I play on a table with a Nit.  I watch in amazement at him fold every hand.  I wonder why he plays?  Christ is must be so boring for him.  I then pick up KK and he beats me with his AA.  I pick up AQ and he beats me with his AK.  I know he is laughing at me.

2.  My biggest winning sessions are always followed by my biggest losing sessions.  I win for four days on the trot and think I have cracked it.  Then on the fifth day I lose all the money I won in the previous four days and have to start all over again begging the question, what is the point? 

3.  I hated maths is school.  I thought it was because my teacher "Marfingers" was insane.  Deep down I realise that I hated maths because I was pretty shit at it.  I am a feel player and I feel shit.

4.  Why is it when I isolate a calling station type fish I have him dominated each and everytime yet because he calls my every bet he always outdraws me?  Annoyed I decide to start raising him more to put him off.  I pick up AKs and I raise 5x and he calls.  The board comes down T32 and all the chips go in and he is holding T4 and I lose.  I then think "Hang on.  You are not thinking straight.  Play the law of averages."  Next hand I pick up a set on the flop and I fire my three barrells again and he hits a straight.  Remembering the law of averages I dont worry because I can get him next time.  He then fucks off.

5.  I follow a fish to a higher level, never end up getting in a hand with him but get hammered by all the other players.  The fish realises it is quite a bit more difficult at the level he has chosen and he leaves.  I am already down about 5 buy ins by this time.

6.  There are never any gay players.  If there were I think they would give their chips away a little bit more liberally and I could be better than someone.

7.  Everytime I have a fish on my table someone starts berating him for his bad play and he decides to fuck off.

8.  Whenever I play someone who I believe I am better at I start playing at the same level as them therefore removing my edge.

9.  I only know one position and that is Doggy style which means I am fucked when it comes to playing poker.

10.  It is the only sport/game in the world that you can actually learn more and improve your intellectual knowledge of the game but lose more money than when you didnt have a fucking clue what you were doing.

11.  I watch people playing poker with headphones on.  I think it is cool so I buy a pair.  I then cant hear someone saying all in and I call with my pocket 2's and get knocked out of the tournament.  I looked like a twat twice.  The first time wearing oversized cans and the second time when I lost all my money.

12.  All the best games are at time when you should be asleep meaning when you play you are tired as fuck.

13.  When I play when I am alert and wide awake the only other people playing are pros and they slice me apart.

14.  I laugh at the person playing ten tables thinking "How on earth can he concentrate on every move he makes?"  He then proceeds to rape me each and everytime I am in a pot with him. 

15. When I go to the casino to play poker they place the tables next to roullete wheels, blackjack tables and craps tables.  Not really a good environment for a recovering gambling addict.

16.  People put $10 into their account and run it into the millions without ever putting another cent in?  I have run out of credit cards.

17.  I stare at my computer screen for twenty minutes after I have been knocked out of a MTT after a deep run.

18.  People tell me not worry about losing AK all in to a fish who put his money in with AT.  If you keep making the right decisions you will win in the long run.  Really?  I have just been knocked out on 200th place in an MTT paying 201 which started with 3k players.  How exactly am I going to win that one in the long run.

19.  Next MTT I play in my AT cracks someones AK and I understand point 18.  They very next hand my AA is beaten by 22 and I am out!

20.  I know men dont wash their hands after they piss and shit meaning that I am handling peoples piss and shit all the time.

21.  We have avatars that are all the same?  What the fuck is the point?  I played on a table the other day with 6 penguins.

22.  You cant swear at foreign players in the chat box who cant speak English.

23.  Rush poker was invented just to wind me up.  This is a game that you regularly have to fold top set because you know you are going to beaten by quads.

24.  When I recognise the table is loose I tighten up.  The flop comes A23 and I get it all in with AK and I am beaten by a guy holding 23.

25.  When I recognise the table is tight I loosen up.  The flop comes A23 and I get it all in with 23 and I am beaten by a guy holding AA.

26.  I have to tell people on twitter my results meaning they get to hear me lose all the time.  Meaning they all know I am shit.

27.  There is never enough room for everyone to sit comfortably around the table.

28.  Whenever I am on a table with a really good looking woman she is shit and gets knocked out before I can focus on her large ones.

29.  Whenever I am on a table with a fat bird she plays like Phil Ivey and is never in the big blind when someone has to move tables.

30.  I am always seated next to the drunkest twat in the casino.

31.  When the drunkest twat in the casino gets knocked out he is replaced by the poker guy.  You know the one I am on about.  He always wants to keep his cards to show you what a good laydown it was or what he would have hit had he played it.  He talks incessant bollocks about shit you dont want to hear so I put my oversized cans on and lose more chips because I cant hear anything anymore.

32.  I hate short stackers so much that I actually lose to them deliberately just so they will fuck off and bother someone else.

33.  My draws never hit when I am angry or in a mood.

34.  I am shit at it.

The biggest disease today is not leprosy or tuberculosis, but rather the feeling of being unwanted – Mother Theresa

He had greasy blonde hair and it was fashioned in the style of a quiff.  He was always combing it as he walked down the street with a fag dropping from his lips.  He always wore a black leather jacket, tight jeans and a black pair of shoes. 

Those shoes were always so shiny I swear he used them to check his hair out as he swaggered down the street.  He looked as if he had just stepped out of the movie Grease but just cool enough to avoid being portrayed as corny.

We would play “Wallie” or “Kerbie” at the front of my house and whenever Tommy would walk past he would always say.

“Put them up Ching.  Put them up.”

He would pump his fists up and shadow box with me.  I would shadow box back.  After a short while he would ruffle my hair, pull out his comb and disappear up the street.

At the age of eighteen I moved home for the first time and then spent a number of years living wherever my career took me before moving back to the Valleys when my son was born.  One of my first duties back home was to go out and get pissed.  Wet the baby’s head.  I didn’t want to go too far so we settled for the local pub.  There were ten of us in a round and in addition to the ten pints I had to drink they were lining my table up with shots.  I was never very good at consuming pint after pint and I regularly had to make myself sick just so I could find room to drink more.

Just before my entire night was about to disappear into a forgotten memory I noticed a scuffle at the bar.  The landlord Big Mike had grabbed hold of a lad’s black leather jacket and was shoving him out of the door.

“Drunken Bastard.” Said Big Mike.

The lads told me that the black leather jacket belonged to Tommy.  In the years that I had been away from home Tommy had fallen from grace.  Tommy had turned into an alcoholic.

It was only 20:00 but that is the only memory I have of the night that I celebrated the birth of my son.  The next day, in between, visits to the toilet to throw up; I told my wife what a wonderful night it had been.  It must have been wonderful because I couldn’t remember anything and that is the gauge we use when determining the level of enjoyment we have had the night before - isn’t it?
I told her about the incident with Tommy.  My wife couldn’t believe it.

“He was a bit of alright him!” Said my wife.

“How on earth does someone like Tommy turn into an alcoholic?” My wife muttered.

“I know unthinkable.” I said before running upstairs to heave nothing but foul tasting bile and a little blood from the pit of my stomach.

A few months later and I am playing poker in our Tuesday night home game. It was about 01:00 and there was a knock on the back door.  We had never had a knock on any door before.  Rob the Scot said something in his Scottish drawl that sounded like who the fuck is that?  I couldn’t be sure.

We looked around the table and the only possible solution we could think of was someone had come to buy some green paint from Dai Williams.  For months people had been coming into the game to see Dai Williams to ask him for green paint.  On one particular night three people came in at different times to ask Dai for green paint.  Each time he stacked his cards and went outside before returning a short while after to continue his game.  During his last sortee I asked the lads why so many people were buying green paint and it was explained to me that it was the code name for weed.  A few hours later a bloke came in and asked Dai if he could help him with his radiator as it had come off his wall.  Dai duly disappeared.

“That must be the code name for crack cocaine or something!” I said to the lads.

Dai returned looking like a drowned rat.  Here was the school thinking a huge drug deal was going down and Dai really was helping a guy put a radiator back onto the wall at 01:30 on a Wednesday morning.

“I need some fucking green paint.” Said Dai.

So it could only be for Dai.  We told Rob the Scot to ignore it but the knocking persisted.  He finally opened the door and after a brief discussion with the stranger he let him in.

The stranger had a scruffy black leather jacket on and greasy yellow hair.  He was carrying an Asda plastic bag and he sat by the bar and Rob the Scot pulled him a pint.

“Do you take credit cards?” Slurred the stranger.

Rob muttered something incoherent in Scottish.  I assume he was telling him that people bought ale with good old fashioned cash.  The stranger picked up his free pint and headed towards the only activity in the pub – us. The mood changed in a heartbeat.  The natural flow of the discussion was replaced by complete silence.  Nobody wanted to make eye contact with the stranger.  At this moment everyone was cursing Rob the Scot for letting him in and spoiling our game.

He sat next to me. His face was unshaven but you had to look hard to tell because the strands were blonde and hardly discernable to the eye.  His eyes were not right. One of them appeared to be wonky and was pointing to the top of his skull.  His teeth were rotten and stained yellow and black with a few gaps thrown in for good measure.  He pulled out a black comb and arced his quiff over to one side.  He then knocked back half a pint and pulled out a bottle of vodka from his Asda bag and poured it into his pint glass.  When Rob the Scot noticed this he went mad and with a blink of an eye Tommy was gone quicker than he had arrived.

“A waste of a good life that one.” Said Rodney as he took a sip from his pint.

“Alcoholic.  Always has been since his father died.” Said Dai as he finished his bottle of Newcastle Brown ale.

Later as I walked home I noticed Tommy sleeping in the bus stop opposite my house.  I took a ten-pound note out of my pocket and slipped it into his jeans before going home to think.

I couldn’t help feel a sense of overwhelming contradiction.  People lined up in public houses drinking alcohol judging an alcoholic didn’t seem right.  After all if they just continued to drink then they too would turn into Tommy.  You need alcohol to pass your lips in order to become an alcoholic so why do it voluntarily?
On the night I was celebrating the birth of my son didn’t I act in the same way as Tommy?  I can’t remember but I would bet quite a lot of money that I was no different.  I was vomiting every few hours.  I was probably falling into people and drifting in and out of consciousness.  I was probably incapable of holding a discussion but would have tried anyway.  I was probably rude and looked like a general twat.  Sober people would have avoided me at all costs.  Poker games usually full of joy and discussion would have fallen as silent as a mute’s conference.  Why didn’t the landlord throw me out?  Why was I any different to Tommy?

I am allowed to drink a bottle of wine a night in the sanctity of my home then go out on the weekend drink ten pints of lager and act like a cock and it is acceptable.  Tommy chooses to do the same except he doesn’t choose to stop.  He just drinks and drinks.  He is ostracised.  He is treated like a leper.  But we are both doing the same thing only one consumes more than the other.

So if we know that drinking excessive and regular quantities of alcohol turns you into Tommy do we choose to continue?

What is our excuse?  We know when to stop?  We understand our limits?

I am sure the mighty Google would tell me how much rat poison or Dettol I could consume before being fatally affected as well.  But I am not going to give it a try.

I have an idea and it will help my mate out at the same time.  If you only drink alcohol because the slight drunkiness makes you feel good after a long hard weeks work, come to my Tuesday night home game and buy some green paint from Dai Williams.

It will get you there quicker and cost you half the price. 

http://www.leedavy.co.uk/

http://twitter.com/Chingster23


 

On the poker front I have been playing two tables of 100NL.

I have made an agreement with my wife and son that I will only play online poker on Saturday and Sunday morning.  I havent been spending enough time with them and I was lucky I got a second chance to sort his one out.

My coaching sessions with Xavier continue to contribute to improvements in my game.  I definately recommend having a coach as the number on priority for anyone trying to make a living out of grinding.  Xavier is excellent and if anyone wants to use him then let me know and I will have a word with him for you.

On the live poker front I am not running as hot as I once was.  I am playing far too loose and letting my ego get in the way of the right way to play.  I am also getting on the shit end of variance at the moment.  But it wont last and I hope to get back to earning a tidy sum of money through live play once again.

On the life front it is both exciting and terrifying at the moment. 

The company that I work for has displaced all of the white collar workforce and changed the structure.  The new structure will have fewer employees and I have decided to ask to leave under redundancy terms.  I should hear more in the next few weeks.

Making the decision to leave after 20 years service was the most difficult decision of my life to date.  It is during these times that you need your friendships the most.  I have had mixed responses.  I have those that have rallied around me to support my move towards achieving my dreams.  I have those who have told me that I am nuts and have tried to make me doubt my decision.  These people havent realised how I am feeling and are not as close to me as I once thought they were.  If they were true friends they wouldnt have behaved in the way they have.  I know they have not deliberately set out too hurt me.  I can only assume they are using shock tactics to try and keep me in the rat race. 

I continue to write for PPE and the Hendon Mob Website.  The articles on the Hendon Mob Website are causing quite a stir and there have been a lot of comments made in the forums about my writing.  It is quite intriguing and exciting. 

The Hendon Mob website has been a good outlet for me and I have today received a request to write articles for another top European poker magazine.  I will bring you more details when something more final has been agreed.

Hopefully, my new website will be up and running soon and I will be using the time free from work to ram it full of content for people.  This content will include my book that I am writing at the moment.  I book I could not find the time to write if I did not take redunancy.

Good night for now.

Ching

It’s a Job for Life! – Everybody working for British Rail pre-privatisation.

I had been standing outside the Boss’s office for at least 30 minutes. 

It was my first week on the job and the Foreman had sent me to there to ask for a long weight.  Eager to please I had followed through with my orders and now here I stood.

I remember wondering if he had forgotten me.  He was alone and each time I caught his eye he looked sharply away and shook his head, only slightly but enough to convince me that I had done something wrong.

45 minutes…..

The door opened.

“Son, you had better get yourself home.  Your Mum has had an accident. She has fallen down the stairs.”  The Boss said.

“What about the weight?” I asked.

He shut the door.

When I walked into my front room I could see my Mum sat in front of the TV, smoke curling into the air from the cigarette that hung from her lip.

“Are you OK?” I asked slightly confused.

“Go upstairs and put your suit on.  A girl from British Rail has rung.  They have a vacancy and need to interview you in Cardiff immediately.” My Mum said.

A few months earlier I was in school collecting my GCSE results when the Careers Officer collared me for a meeting.  I was earning £31 per week working in a factory making kitchens.  The Careers Officer asked me what I wanted to do with my life?  I didn’t have much of a clue back then.  I wouldn’t do for many years.  It was not a question I remember asking myself too often?  I thought about the factory.  How the dirty environment was making my spots flare up even worse than ever before.

“Got any office jobs?” I asked.

He told me about a job working as a Railway Trainee on British Rail.  The salary was £81 per week.

“It will be a job for life.” He told me.

I was short listed for interview.  Two people interviewed, the first was a very attractive young girl with a body that didn’t match and a skinny guy who looked like Mr Bean.  Mr Bean’s first comment was:

“This will be a job for life son.”

I was disappointed to receive a letter telling me that I was unsuccessful and that I had been put on a reserve list.  I assumed it was a standard letter and the reserve list didn’t exist.  I was wrong.

On my first day on the job I was introduced to a guy called Keith Dumelow and he was the Account Manager for the British Steel business.  My first job was to file a shit load of paper for him.  Each piece of paper had a filename written on it and I had to punch a hole in the top left hand corner and file it appropriately.  The whole punch was a big, heavy rectangular metal contraption with a long metal handle in the top left hand corner.  You would slam the metal handle down onto the paper to create the hole.  After a while the hole would fill up with circles of paper and get stuck.  I would drop the thing on the floor in order to empty it.  The thing was so heavy it would never break.  I remember wondering why we used such a large piece of metal to create such a small hole?

Keith called it “Big Bertha!”

As a Railway Trainee you were given various different placements in order to increase your Railway knowledge.  Every week the Mailman would circulate a vacancy list.  It was as thick as a small phonebook and full of vacant positions.  You had Clerical Officer grades (CO) and these ranged from level 1-5 then Management grades (MS) and these ranged from level 1-5 and then Executive grades (EG) also ranging 1-5.  These were just the office jobs.  There were a plethora of other positions of an operational, engineering and technical nature working in the field. 

It seemed there were a lot of jobs for life!

Suddenly I had aspirations.  If I were back with the Careers Officer now I would say:

“I want to be an EG5.”

At 18 years of age I moved home for the first time due to my career.  I had to catch a train to Hereford Station and needed to live in either Newport or Cardiff.  I moved in with the Mailman at work who had a spare bedroom in a house in Newport. 

Shortly afterwards the Railways were privatised.  The attractive young girl and Mr Bean went off to work for the passenger side of the business and I found myself in the freight sector.  The mailman found himself on the dole.  I guess his job wasn’t for life?

The mailman found himself a girlfriend and she moved in.  I knew then that the writing was on the wall and that I would have to find myself somewhere else to live.  The decision was made much simpler for me after a rather awkward moment.

I’m assuming you all have daydreams about sex?  When you were younger did you daydream about being caught masturbating by your Mum’s friend?  I did.  In my imagination my Mum’s friend would catch me in the act, get turned on and say something like:

“Let me help you with that big boy!”

Followed by the biggest shagging of my life.

I was home early one day and decided to knock one off.  I put the porn video on, closed the curtains and grabbed a pile of toilet paper and started hammering away.  Just at the point of climax I heard the front door open.  At this moment I really needed Hiro’s super powers.  I needed to stop time.  There were far too many things to do before the intruder walked in and caught me.  I had to stop the tape, switch the channel to something resembling a programme I would watch, open the curtains, pull up my pants, fasten the buttons and put my belt on and discard a pile of toilet tissues full of come and then behave as if all was normal.  I don’t have Hiro’s super powers and when the intruder turned out to be the Mailman’s girlfriend the TV was showing Laurel and Hardy, the curtains were closed, my jeans were up but my buttons and belt were not, come stained tissues were by my feet and I was acting like I had just been caught having a wank.

She did not say:

“Let me help you with that big boy!”

She looked at me calmly and said:

“Been having a wank have you?”

“Yes.” I sheepishly replied.

The biggest shagging of my life followed this.  Not by her but verbally from the Mailman when he got home later that evening.  I was out on my ear and back with Mum and Dad the day after.

Young, dumb and full of come I remember my Mum saying to me after I told her the truth.

In the years that followed, the vacancy list shrunk until it became one piece of paper.  The only jobs on the paper were based in the North East of England.

I moved home a total of five times including stints in Southampton, Bristol and Doncaster and undertook 14 different positions during my Railway career, yet I have been criticised for not moving home enough in order to advance further.  The defining moment for me came when I was given the opportunity to take a very senior position that would have required a sixth move of home to either the North East or East Midlands.  My wife did not want to go.  She told me that there was more to life than money.  If I forced her to move she would not be happy and happiness was more important to her.  I thought she was mad and we were passing up the opportunity of a lifetime. 

How immature and short-sighted I was.

20 years later I am back working in Newport and living in Ogmore Vale not far from my Mum’s house. 

Keith Dumelow has stood the test of time.  He retires after a lifetime working on the Railway.  His interviewee was right it was a job for life for him.

I am asked to take over Keith’s job until they find a suitable replacement.  The man I filed papers for 20 years ago.  I sit on his chair and grab hold of the underside of his desk and pull myself towards it.  As I do a piece of it breaks of in my hand.  I stand it up against the wall and I look around his office.  It is cluttered with columns of A4 files all punched cleanly in the top left hand corner and kept together with a large metal fixing.

I look on the desk and there is a piece of paper on it that says

Trostre file

The Trostre file is sat next to it.  I open the drawer to find a hole-punch and sat there staring right at me is Big Bertha!

I take it out of the drawer, laugh to myself, and then punch a hole in the piece of paper.  It is jammed stuck.  Remembering the old days I pick Big Bertha up and throw it to the ground.

Big Bertha splits in two.  Even Big Bertha did not get a job for life.

I go into my pocket and pull out the piece of paper that has been bothering me all day.  It is my voluntary redundancy form. 

I quickly sign it and fax it to my HR Manager.

I guess the pretty little girl and Mr Bean got me wrong.

www.leedavy.co.uk
http://twitter.com/chingster23







 

Let the world know you as you are, not as you think you should be, because sooner or later, if you are posing, you will forget the pose, and then where are you?” Fanny Brice

No matter how hard I try I cannot think of anything. My mind is empty. As if someone has stolen my thoughts. My whole body feels limp, lifeless and my eyes are sore as if I have been crying all day. I haven’t been crying all day but I know I could, if I wanted to. Like a dry piece of tinder in the desert it will only take a spark. I don’t know what that spark will be but it is coming, I can feel it.

Twenty-four hours earlier and I am buzzing with anticipation. It is Tuesday night. Poker night. There are ten of us tonight and we decide to play our rebuy tournament on one table. It is a very tight squeeze and there is the normal unspoken awkwardness that comes with being so close to each other. The classic awkward moments when you cannot sit without your legs touching the blokes legs next to you and the worry that the smell of your breath is being inhaled so you ask around the table for chewing gum, just in case. Legs touching apart, all ten are comfortable. They have all looked forward to these few hours all day long. Conversation flows as freely and naturally as water flows down the side of my valley.

Everyone has a story to tell and each story is interesting to everyone around the table. Poker has united these people. Is it a coincidence everyone has so much in common?

As the tournament draws to a close it is a familiar story. The loose aggressive players are all sat around a different table, eating Chinese take away and waiting for a cash game to start. The final three consist of three people who have played a total of six hands between them since the freezeout period began. It annoys me but I have to accept that they have a winning formula and it is I who has to change my approach if I want to win more Tuesday night tournaments. Luckily for me it is in the cash games that I earn my second wage in.

We settle down for a game of DC and agree to let Big Mike play “Shoot the Pool”. This turns out to be an unwise decision by me because two other regulars take a likening to the game and before you know it I have found myself in a gambling luck fest and I am quickly at the sharp end after my KKK gets cracked by the lowly two of clubs for £60. Three more attempts to “Shoot the Pool” end up in misery for me and I am very quickly stuck around £300.

The conversation continues to flow and it is strange that the humour is more present in the cash games when the money is higher, than the tournament when it is much lower. The three gamblers who were playing “Shoot the Pool” now start playing 3-card brag with wild cards and I start to lose money quicker than a virgin loses his load. There is a pattern forming. The weakest poker players are playing the gambling games and the strongest are playing the games requiring the most skill. The stacks in front of the weaker players are growing. I take a handful of £50 notes from my pocket and slide them underneath my stack and change gears. I stop gambling in “Shoot the Pool” and Brag and start cranking up the pressure in PLO, NLHE and Irish. I finish up £300.

It is 02:00 and someone mentions that it may be best if we go home. After all we all have a career to go to. Nobody wants to move.

“Just one more rotation.” Says Neil Farm.

At that moment I feel alive. My head is full of different playing cards, ranges, percentages, anecdotes, stories, images and memories. My body feels strong and my eyes are sharp and focussed. I have been crying all night. Crying with laughter.

I drop Terry Welsh off and before he leaves he turns around and says to me,

“I love these nights Ching, even if I lose all my money. I look forward to this night all day. See you next Tuesday.”

I go home and count my cash on the floor. I walk into the kitchen and there is a shopping list on the table. I take a piece of kitchen roll off the holder, slip £75 in between the folds and write,

“To the best wife in the world all my love your gambling addict of a husband.”

I smile to myself, go upstairs, kiss my son on the forehead and climb into my warm bed and put my arm around my wife and go to sleep.

I arrive at my meeting at 10:30 sharp. Raindrops slalom through the spikes in my hair and slowly trickle down the side of my face. I look around the steelworks and everything is grey. There are great bales of grey metal, grey walls, grey cars and grey clouds.

The meeting room is small and dirty. The paintwork is grey. Safety notices depicting statistics from 2006 and 2007 adorn the walls. The wooden floors are covered in dry dirt, the windows are steamed up and you can see the rain flowing down the glass.

In the middle of the meeting room is a very small table. It is a very tight squeeze and there is the normal unspoken awkwardness that comes with being so close to each other. Only this time nobody is comfortable. Conversation flows as freely as a woman’s first child during labour. People introduce themselves to each other and then immediately forget their names. They are so busy trying to think of a method of talking to each other without having to use the names that they have forgotten that they are not listening to anything that anyone is saying. I pick up on these moments quite naturally and I always deliberately break the ice. I make moments like this more comfortable for people. Not today. My mind is empty. I am numb. Careers that no-one cares about has united these people. Is it any coincidence no one has anything in common?

The monotony of discussions on the weather is broken by the delivery of coffee. No one likes it but everyone has some. It’s as if there is a sudden release for people to do something. You can pour your coffee, stir your coffee, and drink your coffee. No need to talk when you have so many interesting things to do with your coffee. I use my Blue Square Poker pen to stir my coffee. I pass it around and everyone accepts it and stirs his coffee before nonchalantly passing it back.

I write the date on the top of a piece of paper, coffee drips down the side of my pen and stains it. It looks like shitty toilet paper. As soon as we start one of the ghosts gives his apologies but he has to leave in one hour. Two more ghosts say the same. We are there because we have to be there. No one wants to be there. There is no value in this. I am wasting my time. Wasting my life.

I get into the car and start driving easterly. I have two more junctions before my first major decision of the day. Do I go back to the office or do I continue east and go home? I don’t even have the radio on. I am sat in complete silence. I am not even thinking. Before you know it I am home. I can’t even remember how I got here.

I walk in and put my laptop on the floor. My son shouts for me from upstairs and I amble up there like a zombie.

“Its Wednesday Dad. Reading time. Can we do it now so I can go down my friends house?” my son asks.

I sit down and he sits on my lap and starts reading. But I am not listening. I am not here. I am somewhere else.

But where am I?

I don’t know.

I don’t know who I am. What I am supposed to be? What I am supposed to do?

I am an imposter in a world I don’t recognise nor understand.

Pretending to be something I am not.

“Mrs.” I hear myself saying.

I quickly snap out of my trance.

“Miss.” Says my son.

“Mrs.” I say.

The word brings me back to life.

“There are three terms to use when referring to a woman.” I tell my son.

“Do you know what they are?” I ask

“I know two. Mrs and Miss.” He says.

“Mrs, Miss and Ms.” I continue.

“Do you know what they mean?” I ask him.

“Sure.” He says confidently.

“Mrs is the term you use when a woman is married.” He says.

“Miss is the term you use when a woman is not married.” He continues.

“What about Ms?” I ask.

He thinks for a while. Turns towards me with a confused look on his face. The confusion turns to delight as he proudly declares.

“I know is a Ms a lesbian?” He proudly asks.

A smile breaks out on my face for the first time today.

First Published in Poker Pro Europe Magazine

You can follow Lee Davy on www.leedavy.co.uk or www.twitter.com/chingster23

Everytime I think Twitter I think Twatter!

I never thought it would happen but I have a twitter account.

If anyone is interested in listening to my incessant bollocks about life and stuff then follow me on

http://twitter.com/chingster23

See ya

Twat Ching

So it is that time of my life again.  We are playing Ze Germans in a major tournament.  However, something is different this morning.  I cant quite put my finger on it?

I got it.

I am not full of optimism this time around.  I am so used to getting crushed by this team that I no longer believe that we are capable of beating them.

This is what worries me the most. 

I know that the players playing today didnt play in 1990 or 1996 so it is not the strength of the team but more the strength of the people. 

Simply put the Germans understand how to win, they have that winning mentality.  We dont.  If I feel this way wont some of the English players?  We are the same age. We have experienced the same heartbreak.  Will there be seeds of doubt?

Whatever happens it will be tight and I think it will go all the way again.  Extra Time and penalties. 

I don’t get that big black bloke – My Sister referring to Emile Heskey when he came on as a substitute England v Slovenia

Before poker came along and pokedme up the arse all I cared about was football. 

In the last 12 months though poker has taken over my life and the build up to this World Cup has passed me by. I tried and tried to get motivated for the first two games but couldn’t. Initially I put it down to it being the first World Cup since I became a teetotaller. Then my lack of interest was put down to the standard of the group games. In the end I couldn’t stop thinking about poker. It had become far more important to me than football.

Today was different. I couldn’t wait for the game to start. I was anxious, nervous but also full of optimism. Debbie got out the England flags and stuck them in the window and to be fair there wasn’t a single Welsh cake thrown at our windows.
We had a German referee and that frightened the shit out of me but to be fair he had a fantastic game. I didn’t like the Glen Johnston booking but that apart he was top notch. I have just read Niman’s blog and I know exactly how he feels. I had all of those emotions but for a different reason. Only one goal by Slovenia and all of our superiority would have been for nothing.

James Milner was fantastic and the only disappointment for me was the continuing poor form of Wayne Rooney.

As much as I love poker I don’t think it can generate the same sort of emotions I felt today. I imagine Niman will agree with my sentiment.

The only problem now is the 2nd round. I have just seen Ghana miss chance after chance after chance and the clinical Germans get one good chance and they hit the back of the net. Here is my prediction for the 2nd round.

We will batter them. We will have more chances than you miss flops. They will then score a lucky goal and we will equalise. Rooney will get sent off and we will hang on before losing to them on penalties again.

And Niman time to go through the ringer all over again on Sunday but I cant see you beating Ghana.

Ching
 

Brazil v Ivory Coast.

The fabulous Brazilians spend the entire 90 minutes rolling around on the floor trying to get people booked and sent off.

Kaka walks into the Ivory Coast player and the Ivory Coast player thinks

"I'll have a go at that!"

You reap what you sow!

No sympathy.

Ching

A cat has absolute emotional honesty: human beings, for one reason or another, may hide their feelings, but a cat does not. - Ernest Hemingway

The door creaks and I instantly wake up. My eyes are still closed but I am awake nonetheless. I am not sure if she knows I am awake so I gently and slowly move my arm from beneath the quilt, reach over to the side of the bed and grab my weapon. She is no fool though. She has noticed my motion and she is one step ahead of me. As soon as I grab hold of my weapon she is gone in an instant.  But she has served her purpose. I am awake. One hour earlier than planned.

I hate my cat. She was bought as a present for my wife 12 years ago when we bought our first home. It was a cat or rampant rabbit. Why o why did I choose the cat? She has never offered any value in my life at all. All she does is drive me mad and cost me money. And now we are at war.

She has tried to kill me several times. In a subtle way, but it is an assassination attempt nonetheless. Once she has woken me up, and she has various ways of doing this, she then criss-crosses in front of me on the stairs trying to kill me. She has nearly been successful on several occasions. She first started waking me up one hour earlier than planned by walking into the bedroom by pushing open my creaking door. She is so obese that she literally has to push the door open sufficiently enough to fit a person through it. This creaking noise wakes the whole house up.  She would then cry by the side of the bed until you got up. I sorted this out by shutting the door. She then woke me up one hour earlier than planned by scratching at the bedroom door until I was forced to leave it open. The door is back open and now she sits by the side of the bed grinding her teeth!

Each night before I go to bed I arrange three pillows neatly by the side of my bed in an almost ritualistic fashion. They are my weapons. My Bombs. Now when I hear her come in I bombard her with pillows and she scrams downstairs. Today she has changed tact and is prepared. I don’t even get to throw the pillow but she still wins because I am awake.

After surviving the minefield on the stairs I find myself like a zombie stood next to her food bowl. She is making a sound only beaten in terms of annoyance by a baby crying or the shrill of an alarm clock. The sound is a constant cry. I imagine soldiers use the sound in order to breakdown their enemies under interrogation. To make matters worse the bowl in full of food. She is crying for nothing. I then open the backdoor and she looks at me and shits in the litter tray.

Cat language for “Up yours you Chinky bastard.”

She even thinks the vacuum cleaner is a living being? And the ancient Egyptians used to idolise these creatures?

My cousin Craig loves cats. I remember him ringing me once to tell me he had killed his cat. He started crying on the phone and it was quite an uncomfortable moment for me. I couldn’t understand why killing a cat would cause him to be upset but he was my cousin and best friend so I did the honourable thing and comforted him.

“How did it happen?”

It was an obvious question. One where I was expecting a truly unremarkable response involving a car?

“I tumble dried it?”

I wasn’t expecting that! My urge to laugh was uncontrollable. He didn’t see the funny side. I did speak about the incident again in later years during my best mans speech and I am glad that he at last managed a little smirk. Or was it a grimace?

If only I owned a tumble drier.

In the past few days I have been that cat. Stuck in that barrel, spinning, spinning and spinning. I am not in control and I don’t know what to do to stop it.
Two days ago I was summoned to head office to be told the companies new plans for downsizing. I now have a dilemma, as I have said in a previous article - Should I Stay or Should I Go?

It is quite easy to say that you are going to leave an industry you have been working in since you left school, quite another to actually do it. Your balls start to shrink like a cold Sunday morning in December while playing football. I am ashamed to admit that I am starting to worry if I can practice what I preach.

The author Susan Jeffers said, “Feel the Fear and Do it Anyway”. I am certainly feeling the fear, but can I do it anyway?

To top things off I have just spent the past few hours having a difficult conversation with my wife. Since reading Dusty “Leatherass” Schmidt’s excellent new book I have had a new schedule. I have been playing 12 hours per week online, 7 hours live, 3 hours poker study and also writing. This is on top of the 35-50hrs per week that I waste in the career I do not want. If you add the World Cup into the schedule it doesn’t really give you much time to spend with your wife and kids.

I have been neglecting those closest to me and tonight I nearly lost them both.
For once I don’t have any answers. I am stumped. I have no outs.

I am in the barrel spinning, spinning, spinning and I am desperately waiting for someone to realise that I am in there. To stop it before it is too late.

Ching