The Post Office

F**king Freedom Passes!

Now that might not mean a lot to you if you don’t often visit the Post Office, but as I am currently enjoying the life of a ‘home trader’ (i.e. I’m so skint I am having to sell most of my personal belongings to pay the mortgage) I spend a lot of time in the Post Office waiting to weigh and flog my old games, books, guitars, clothes, pride, etc.

Pretty much every day since the new year has been shite thanks to the oldies renewing their Freedom Passes (Just WALK or STAY INDOORS love!) but today was particularly crap for some reason, and I had a book AND an Evel Kneivel toy to sell (I shit you not).

Matt walks into the Post Office. It is VERY busy. After a 10 minute wait…

OLD INDIAN TELLER IN WINDOW 6: Anyone NOT renewing their Freedom Pass?
MATT: YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!

Matt approaches the counter and plops a heavy book on the scales.

MATT: I want to send this in the UK. Just the cheapest method please.
TELLER: It will be £4.41 or £4.45
MATT: What’s the difference?
TELLER: 4p
MATT: No, I meant the difference in the services?
TELLER: One is standard post, one is Parcel Force
MATT: Umm… Just which ever is the cheapest one then please
TELLER: Well I’m just worried that that might take a long time
MATT: Well that’s why I asked what the difference was
TELLER: It’s 4p
MATT: No, I understand the monatery difference, I meant the difference in the service – i.e. if one was faster than the other…
TELLER: Well if you want a faster service…
MATT: NO! The speed isn’t important to me, I’m just trying to explain why I asked!

Matt is clearly becoming somewhat flaberghasted and appears to be getting ’slightly’ louder. A nearby teller has twigged…

WINDOW #5 TELLER: Is there a problem?
MATT (through gritted teeth): NO! Just a misunderstanding. It’s fine now.

Matt’s teller passes him a postage sticker for the book. Matt now produces a HUGE box and places it on the scales.

MATT: Same again please.

The teller looks at Matt and opens his mouth to ask what service he wants. However, before he can say a word…

MATT (loudly): JUST THE SAME AS THE LAST ONE PLEASE!

Matt manages to pull a smile out of the bag so the authorities aren’t called for. The elderly teller passes another sticker to Matt. Matt applies the label, pays the man, thanks the man, walks to his car, turns the radio on VERY loud and BLOWS HIS BRAINS OUT WITH A SAWN-OFF SHOTGUN.

The last bit didn’t happen, but you can understand why people just turn up in Post Offices with guns sometimes.

I’m not saying I’d do it… but I understand.

That’s all.

Bruce Lee and the round table

“To become immortal, one must first live a life worth remembering.”

I think Bruce Lee said that, or at least stole it from someone more ‘wordy’ and brought it to the mainstream (and by mainstream I mean ‘anyone who saw the film DRAGON’). Anyway, it made me look to a more contemporary version, which is: “To blog, one must first have a life worth remarking upon”. And that’s my problem right now – I’m dull as dog dirt, bland as bat bilge, rank as rat’s rectum (you get the general idea). To blog at the moment would just be inflicting my own misery on a wider audience, and Phil Hellmuth appears to already have that market cornered with his own blog.

In the glory days of poker journalism I got to travel the world, interview people I’d never interviewed before, witness things I’d never witnessed before, play in games I’d never played in before, and so on… Now, sadly, I do best part of fek-all on a daily basis.

Trying to make an interesting and witty blog out of “woke up, read my three emails, wallowed in my friends’ successes via Facebook, refreshed my email inbox just in case, played SNGs until 5pm then played Call of Duty until it was time to make dinner”… well, you can see what I mean. It’s not quite at the dullard “woke up, brushed my teeth” level I attained in my acclaimed personal diary of 1981, but it’s pretty damn close.

In an attempt to do something with my life before my legs rot and they put me in a wheelchair, I decided to investigate the local Round Table. Having seen an advert in the local paper that described it as ‘A drinking club for blokes who occasionally have to do something for charity’ I thought I might fit in quite well.

I went along to the first meeting that, though not that Masonic, certainly had a few ‘funny handshake’ moments (without, I’m sad to report, any actual funny handshakes – although I like to think that once I left they shook the crap out of each other’s hands in a ‘funny’ way). There were people who were Chairmen of this and that, one chap who had to stand up and recite the ‘Aims and Objectives’ (a kind of boy scout pledge for children over the age of 25) and a Master at Arms (I shit you not) who reviews the meeting at the end and ‘fines’ people for lapses in behaviour and protocol. It’s only fair to say it was all done very much tongue-in-cheek and with a sense of fun, but it was certainly interesting to see grown men being told off and financially penalized for shouting “fuck!” at each other.

My next encounter with The Table (for ‘tis how it’s referred to once one is ‘in the know’) was the Santa sleigh, which grinds up and down the local streets behind a Range Rover playing loud Xmas music while Santa shouts “ho ho ho!” and waves at kids fizzing with excitement in the windows. Meanwhile a gang from The Table knocks on doors and collects money for the local charities and causes they support throughout the year. I wasn’t sure how I felt about joining in with this as I’m usually the one sitting watching telly in only my socks shouting “bah humbug” when charity collectors visit. However, upon seeing the sleigh I remembered how excited I used to get as a kid when the Upminster version came down our road, and once a few old folk had merrily bunged me a couple of quid with smiles on their faces and I’d witnessed the reaction of the kids down the first street I was well into it!

The activity was, however, not without its own perils. As well as smiling elderly folk and excited young-uns, my town is not without (how shall I put this)… mentals. I’d briefly enjoyed the fantasy of having the door answered by some MILF in a see-through gown who invited me in for more than a mince pie, but the closest I got was one old women who wanted me to feel how warm her hands were (seriously). I told her “I have two pairs of gloves on – I can’t feel anything” but she simply lurched out of her doorway with surprising speed and rubbed her moist, elderly hands up and down my semi-frozen cheeks (my face, MY FACE!) until I agreed that they were indeed very nice warm hands, and could I please go now.

Another door was opened by an enormous and entirely hairless man who stood in nothing but his boxer shorts, holding and eating a plate of baked beans. “Hello!” I merrily blarted despite immediately fearing for my life. “Round Table doing the Christmas collection”. He stared at me silently and scooped another two (yes, two) huge mouthfuls of beans into his bald hole while I stood like a tit in the doorway wondering how long I had to live. “No.” he finally grumbled, “You’re alright”. I screamed off up the road as if someone had set fire to my shins shouting “Merry Christmas!” over my shoulder in case he was chasing me.

Behind door number three was an old lady who I’d seen sitting (presumably dead) in her chair through the front window as I tried to get up the snow-covered ramp that lead to the door without sliding down it like some extra out of Indiana Jones. I now know access ramps are the 2-7 of charity collecting. Houses covered entirely in flashing Xmas decorations are trips, and any house with kids’ bikes and toys outside is the jackpot. I got to the top of the treacherous slope feeling like I’d just completed an ice level in Zelda, and reluctantly pressed the bell. The Tablers had told me to give ample time for old folks or people who lived in the back of their houses (why DO people do that?) to answer. However, after about three minutes I was starting to worry about the police finding her dead broken body clutching a 10p piece in the hallway ALL BECAUSE OF ME!

I could see her chair was empty, knew she must be on her way, and had to wait. After five more minutes she opened the door. “Round Table!” I beamed trying to make it worth the epic two-room trek she’d been on. “Oh,” she said, “I thought you were my carer. Have you got my dinner?” Oh. Fuck. “No, sorry – I’m collecting for the Round Table”. “Oh,” She said, “I thought you were my carer. Have you got my dinner?” Oh. Fuck. Again. What to do? I did have a Snickers bar in my pocket, but to be honest that was already earmarked as my 9pm treat. I opted for the only decent thing a modern chap could do; I ran away. Obviously I didn’t LOOK like I was running away (just in case someone saw me sliding back down the ramp and later shopped me to the body-collecting cops) but I certainly ‘left’ without collecting any money or resolving her problem. One can only hope her ‘carer’ was mere minutes behind and had more than one Snickers bar.

Staying on the ‘ruining old people’s evenings’ front, I also witnessed an old man break the world record for most time taken between opening a front door and opening a porch door. Having stared at me long enough to ascertain I wasn’t a mass murderer, I told him we were doing the Christmas collection, to which he said “you’re a bit late aren’t you?” He looked quite surprised when I told him it was only December 16^th, but he handed over £2 anyway. Exactly what month he thought it was (or indeed what year) I can only imagine, but I certainly didn’t wait to watch him drift back into his house; I was due down the Indian restaurant in two hours.

The avoiders were good. Some would simply stare at you from the comfort of their sofas as if deaf and blind (even thought they were watching telly) while others would dive out of the front room and lie prone on the carpet in the hallway with the lights out. I took to opening the letter box, making eye contact with their frozen bodies and whispering “have a nice Christmas”.

Others would say things like “No, you’re alright” or “don’t worry” before closing the door, while the more creative would say “I don’t have any change” and then pat their trouser pockets. I told one person that if he patted his pockets before saying he had no change it would be much more convincing. I thought he might be insulted, but he looked genuinely grateful for the tip. I’m sure next year will be even less expensive for him thanks to that nugget.

One of the last excuses of the night was particularly involved, with a women turning on all the lights in the house, pulling up her trouser leg, and showing me an ENORMOUS scar (that sadly was not visible to the human eye) that accompanied a story about being off work, hospital bills, £200 a month, etc etc. It was only when she patted her pockets and said she had no change I believed her.

Anyway, that’s my poker blog. Sorry there was no actual poker, but it’s the thought that counts eh! For the record we made just under £400 for 2.5 hours walking, and I had the Chicken Shashlik with pilau rice and sag aloo. The Snickers bar remains uneaten in my coat pocket, and I check the local papers every day to see if she’s dead yet.

Merry Christmas!

It’s a kind of tragic

“I should warn you,” said the woman taking her place in seat seven, “I’m a bit psychic”.

I looked at Nick who did that thing you do with mates where you roll your eyes at each other without actually moving your eyes just in case the subject of your rollage catches you (she was a big girl, and neither of us were brave enough to risk being seen disputing her magical powers – you know, just in case she put a voodoo hex on us or something).

“Oh. Really?” Nick ventured, “What star sign am I?”

Kim (for t’was her name) stared at Nick for several seconds (no doubt tuning into his aura, or some other bollocks) and then announced: “Cancer”

“Nope” Nick replied (probably as relieved as I was that she’d got it wrong) at which point Kim span round to me (almost catching me rolling my eyes – phew!) and asked, “Are you… a Gemini?” I stared at her blankly, accidentally encouraging another attempt: “Libra?”

“Sadly neither,” I told her, “But do keep trying. I’m sure you’ll get there eventually.”

Luckily Kim didn’t have time to magically guess her way around the rest of the zodiac as we were dealt the first hand of the charity tournament we were at The Empire to play. I was chuffed to see QQ but was in reasonably early position so made it 225 from the 25/50 blinds. I know it kinda gives away that I like my hand but not enough to go nine-ways to the flop, but considering I was sitting with a psychic and three people asking if a flush was better than a yahtzee I thought I’d give it a whirl.

Kim called, and then Nick went all-in. Now Nick is a far superior poker player to me, but even I knew immediately it was AA or KK. With a tear in my eye I released my queens back into the sea, but Kim (and let’s not forget she has ‘The Gift’) called, turning over that power-house of all-in calling hands: A-10o.

Nick looked absolutely chuffed to bits when the ace arrived on the board, and even happier when she pumped her fat little fist into his personal space with a massive “YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!”

Now I know that it’s EXACTLY this sort of over-celebration that gives Nick a warm feeling deep inside, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so happy to give all his chips to a mental woman after only one hand. Nick gave me a look similar in many ways to the rolling-your-eyes-without-rolling-your-eyes one, only this one said, ‘you get the spades, I’ll kill her’.

Nick immediately went for a re-buy (he is so generous when it comes to kids’ charities!) while Kim assured us all that she “knew” the A-10o would win. I wouldn’t say that Nick was steaming, but some local gypsies did hang their carpets over him to give them a good clean.

Pay-back was clearly quite high on Nick’s agenda (just under drinking the open bar dry and consuming his body weight in free deserts) and sure enough he somehow managed to side-step the mystical powers of Kim and get her to double him up with AJ against his AK. Even in defeat Kim couldn’t help herself. “I knew he had me beat”. Suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuure.

Strangely Kim didn’t manage to utilise her awesome powers to make a comeback, and shortly thereafter shuffled off no doubt to see if her ‘Gift’ stretched to guessing what numbers the roulette table would deliver. I managed to maintain the habit of a lifetime and bust out of the tourney with 88 like the clown I am, while Nick eventually fell foul to a bloke who constantly asked what the blinds were, how many chips did everyone have left, and “what is it to me?” Believe it or not, he was the gimp who won the bloody thing. God I hate poker.

Anyway, the evening got MUCH better for us as we headed off to a local ‘club’… but it’s not that kind of blog, so you’ll have to imagine the rest (and don’t forget to imagine LOTS of glitter and some really good high-heeled shoes while you’re at it).

Happy hunting

I’m rubbish, and I know it…

Hi folks. Ok – I know, I am rubbish. What? Oh no, not at poker! Don’t be silly (have you SEEN me rock the 1/2 Badugi tables on Stars!) No, I mean about blogging.

In the past I cheated: I had to write various columns for magazines (most obviously FLUSH, where I was once Editor and cheif contributor) which gave me a wealth of material to play with, and also meant I was always at my keyboard prattling away. However, in recent times my writing has decreased as I’ve focused on my broadcasting pursuits; namely Sky Poker’s THE CLUB and the new radio show – thepokershowlive.com

Anyway, I promised Nick I would actually do this properly. And here I am.

This weekend is the last three shows of our first 12-week season, then I take a week lying by a pool in the Canaries, and then I am back to attack you all with various letters arranged into sentences. Yes, I’m sick everyone got to go to Vegas while I sat on PokerNews like a twatt, but my time will come.

See you soon – you won’t believe the things I have to tell you.  HONEST!

On the air

It’s the 30^th of September 2008 and Jesse May – the voice of poker – has just asked me a question. It takes my brain about 20 seconds longer than normal to formulate an answer, but then again we are 22 hours into a marathon 36 hour commentary stint. I only entered the fray at about hour eight, but Jesse has been here from minute one of hour one, and will still be belting it out when we wrap things up in the 59^th minute of hour 35.

‘The Kids’ might think Red Bull is the only way to go, but Jesse reminds me why coffee remains the number one stimulant in the world as he asks/shouts his question at me with trademark enthusiasm: “Matt, what’s Feldman’s thinking!? Is it a complete steal or does he think he’s ahead!?”

I haven’t got the heart to tell Jesse I have absolutely no idea. The last time the camera was on Andrew Feldman was about ten minutes ago and the poor kid was face-down unconscious in a pile of chips with drool hanging out the side of his mouth. For all I know Andrew might think he’s at home asleep and is just dreaming about re-raising Juha Hellpi with 10-6 offsuit. I offer up a mostly-useless “Who knows Jesse, who knows…” and reach for another handful of Beechams capsules. Thanks to an untimely bout of man-flu I’m struggling to stay focused, and have to admit I’ve exceeded the recommended dose. What am I doing here…

It’s the 1^st of October 2008 and Jesse May – the voice of poker – has just asked me a question. We’re on a short break while some fresh players buy-in and some knackered players cash out. Outside the door I can hear Roland De Wolfe snoring, and can honestly say I’ve never been so jealous of a man lying on a concrete floor outside a toilet. “Matt,” Jesse asks, “what do you think to an old-school, American sports-style poker call-in Radio show?” I stare at him blankly while my brain attempts to have an opinion about anything. Jesse takes this as a sign of encouragement. “You know; talk to the biggest names in the world, take a bunch of calls from players grinding it out online, chew over the latest news, gossip, tourney results… it’d be amazing don’t ya think!?” Actually, it does sound pretty good…

It’s the 14^th April 2009 and Jesse May – the voice of poker – has just asked me a question. “Do you think the mics are plugged in properly?” Yes Jesse, I think the mics are plugged in properly. Sadly, the mics are the least of my worries. I’m slightly more concerned that I somehow seem to have become the ‘Exec Producer’ of “The Poker Show with Jesse May”, have a room full of Matchroom and Boyle Poker management staring at me expecting a fully-functioning radio station, and I have absolutely no idea why none of it’s working. “Maybe the mics aren’t plugged in properly?” suggest Jesse. Again. What am I doing here…

It’s the 5th of May 2009 and Jesse May – the voice of poker – has just asked me a question. “Matt, I think this is gonna work out pretty great. What d’ya say?” We’ve just completed our second week of broadcast; have had Phil Hellmuth, Tom ‘Durrrr’ Dwan, Mike Sexton, Luke ‘FullFlush’ Schwartz, Phil Laak, John Duthie, Barney Boatman, Roland De Wolfe, Vicky Coren and master of the bedtime story, Mad Marty Wilson on the show – to name but a few. Jesse is beaming at me as we prepare to turn the studio lights out for another week. I give him a big smile in return. “I think you might be right Jesse.”

See you next Sunday…

“NEWS”: An angry Jennifer Tilly has trouble storming out of a rotating restaurant

Poker isn’t just for life…

No one bothered to ask me for a review of 2008, which is a shame as I’m sure it would have been hilarious. I hope, however, that we’re not so far into 2009 that I can’t still talk about one of my favourite poker moments of 2008. I’m referring to the car-crash that was the ‘celebrity’ heat of the Party Poker Women’s World Open; featuring easily one of the best acts of poker numptitude since Jennifer Tilly checked her full house to Patrik Antonius ‘just in case he had quads’ (the twat).

My initial concern was that only one of the ‘celebrities’ was arguably an actual celebrity (and even that was just Cheryl Baker; ever-humoured on English telly because she took her skirt off in 1981 and her thighs won the UK a prize). Not to worry – I thought optimistically – maybe these well-known unknowns can play poker. And then the first hand arrived. Oh dear…

Three female ‘celebrities’ (who neither I nor the dog had ever heard of) folded their cards. The button (a ‘celebrity’) called; the small blind (a ‘celebrity’) called; and the big blind (Cheryl Baker who disappointingly had trousers on and not a scrap of Velcro in sight) took a deep breath and said “stick”. No, seriously… “stick”. Press record lads; I think we might have a poker genius in our midst.

The dealer dealt the flop (which no doubt confused the life out of at least half the women at the table) and the first player announced “check”. The second player now took a moment to consider her options… What to do, what to do? Perhaps check and go for a free card… Maybe take a stab at winning the pot with a well-sized bet, or perhaps… “fold”. What? That’s right: “fold”. Oh, brilliant (I swear the dealer nearly slapped herself on the forehead in response). Meanwhile Cheryl – clearly delighted that someone had accidentally reminded her what the correct term for ‘do nothing’ was – also announced “check”.

With the turn dealt the first player dug deep and placed some chips onto the table. Cheryl sat back, looked at the dealer and – rather than embarrass herself by saying ‘bust’ or ‘Jenga’ or something similarly stupid – said simply: “er… I wanna say the fing you say when you don’t want to go on any more.” (What, like ‘please kill me’?)

“Fold?” ventured the dealer tentatively. “Yes!” exclaimed Cheryl, “that’s the one.” And thus it was that the first hand somehow came to a conclusion without anyone knocking themselves out of the tournament or dieing. My god, this was going to be one hell of a game…

Or at least it would have been had not the wife – who endures more crap TV poker than any reasonable person should have to – chosen this moment to reach out and silently remove the Sky remote from my hand. Pressing ‘backup’ she exited the show, returning to the Sky Plus menu as I looked on quizzically. She then deftly hit the ‘delete’ button, saying “it’s probably for the best”. Now I remember why I married her. Smart girl.

Apart from watching televised poker approximately 365 days of the year (rough estimate. Source: Mrs Matt) then I’m generally playing poker or thinking about it. If I’m not writing about it, then I’m probably on telly blabbing about it, and if I’m not doing any of those things, well… let’s just say there better be a bloody good reason (i.e. family death, birth, marriage, or all three simultaneously). Don’t laugh – you don’t know my family.

Even the water closet – the last sanctuary of modern man – no longer offers safe haven thanks to a magazine rack chock-full of poker magazines, a pile of thicker-than-brick poker books on the end of the bath, and a word search book by the sink (don’t’ worry; the latter belongs to the missus – the dirty bitch.)

I decided that for the good of those unlucky enough to be around me on a regular basis I should perhaps take a break from poker as we entered the Xmas season (i.e. December, not back in late-September when Sainsburys put the tinsel out). Though the idea of not being in a cash game by 10:30am each morning was slightly freaking me out I decided to just try to let poker waft from my mind for a bit. I even went as far as agreeing to visit various naff pre-Xmas bazaars and gift fayres in local halls.

And it was there, dear friends, that I discovered that there really is no escaping poker. Next post I’ll explain how I turned three innocent Xmas activities into poker games.

Remind me again Cheryl: what do you say when you don’t want to go on any more?