Last night, or rather early this morning, I got bored writing and logged back into Full Tilt. I couldn't be bothered to play any $1 sit'n'gos, I needed real action. A few hours later and I'd busted my roll playing a fixed-limit cash game.
JR has taken this to mean he's won the challenge, but I don't really think that even a shameless guy like him would want to win under these circumstances. After all, as far as the poker between the two of us went, I was beating him. Surely he has some pride inside that says he'll want to beat me properly and not by me self-destructing while he's safely tucked up in bed.
So, no JR, you haven't yet won the challenge, unless you want to accept your win knowing that I beat you in a poker-sense. I'm happy enough to leave it at that if that's what he wants, I'll always have the knowledge that he couldn't match me in the poker games.
Or.. there's another option.
Last week I transferred $5.50 to the fish that he went to build his mini-roll from. $5.50 is 5 entries to the $1 games and I'm more than confident that after 5 games I can have some roll back and be even further ahead of JR in the money-making challenge. The ball is now in his court.
Away from poker, I've got a lot of writing done lately and thought I'd share with you a bit I've just finished writing about the time I blagged my way through the doors of Barcelona Foootball Club.
And just in case some of it sounds a bit far-fetched, there are pictures at the bottom that I took on that interesting night.
My brush with Barcelona.As I stood and watched the groups of foreigners gathering at the meeting point to start their guided tour of the stadium an idea entered my brain. These people had paid money and were going to get a diluted experience of the Camp Nou. I, on the other hand, had no money at all but was going to get the proper treatment. I was going to meet the players.
“But how on earth was that going to be possible?” I hear you cry. Patience, little one, patience.
Actually, at that point I didn’t know the answer to that question, myself. But where there’s a will there’s a way.
Then it struck me like a Zinedine Zidane head-butt. My God, just how blind had I been? I’m almost embarrassed to even admit to you that until that point, even during my lap of the stadium, not once had it entered my mind. I know you know what I’m talking about now.
The newspaper! Now it all appeared so simple.
Once again, the now well-travelled Evening Argus was dragged from my bag, looking decidedly the worse for wear. Ripped, crumpled, and with pages falling out all over the place she looked up at me with an expression of extreme sadness. For all she’d done for me on the trip so far I felt terrible for neglecting her the way that I had, but it hadn’t been easy finding comfortable places for myself to lay my head, let alone even think of trying to find somewhere agreeable for her.
I gave her a little stroke and told her that I was proud of her and always would be, and that one day, long after she’d gone to that big paper recycling centre in the sky, people would recount stories of how and when they were graced by her presence. And I’m sure they do.
Together, we strolled up to the members’ office where I asked the olive-skinned, brown-eyed young beauty behind the desk if she spoke any English. She did. Well, a little.
“OK, Well, I’m actually here in Barcelona because I’m currently in the middle of a project that I’m working on for the BBC.”
Her ears pricked up and her interest level rose from ‘vaguely bothered’ to ‘Did he just say the BBC?’
Those three letters are more powerful than they look on paper, you know? I continued, showing her the spread in the Argus as I did.
“Basically, I’m trying to get to every capital city in the EU without so much as a penny in my pocket. Predominantly it’s to raise money for charity (I don’t know why I used the word ‘predominantly’, I’ve already told you that her grasp of the English language was minimal), but it’s also because at the BBC we’re making a programme about the kindness of people in different countries. If I could get a few pictures of myself inside the stadium, possibly even with some of the players, it would really help with publicity at home and would be great later on for the TV.”
Now, bear in mind that for someone making a programme for the Beeb, I was quite conspicuously lacking one tiny ingredient.
A camera crew.
But this minor detail didn’t seem to arouse any suspicion in my cute little Catalan friend as she bought my story 100%.
“I’m really sorry that I can’t help you because I don’t have the, how you say in English? The power. Yes, the power! But if you go to the Press Office, somebody will definitely talk to you. They will be happy to meet the BBC.”
Will they? Why? I didn’t bother asking. I wish I had, now. I also wish I’d asked her for her telephone number, but what can you do?
I made my way across to the press office and was asked by security if I was a member of the foreign press.
“Of course I am. Why else would I be here?” Surely it wasn’t going to be as simple as a quick Yes/No question, was it? Not exactly.
“Come back in 45 minutes, at 6 o’clock. Press cards will be issued then.” I was told.
“Oh, but...”
“Not now. Come back at 6.” I was told again, a little bit more strongly this time.
I did as I was told and buggered off, spending the time sitting on a bench and watching the mass of fans from all over the planet coming and going with their cameras, cheesy grins and plastic shopping bags from the Barcelona Megastore.
I returned to the Press Office dead on 6 and put myself in the middle of the throng of reporters. All seemed to be on first name terms with the business suit-clad woman handing out the passes and after a minute or two all those who had stood around me had now disappeared into the stadium, leaving me standing there like the puppy in the rescue centre that nobody wants to take home. I looked at the woman and put my hand out hopefully.
“My press pass, please.”
She said nothing.
“BBC.” I heard myself saying in a deep, upper-middle class voice.
She looked at me with a mixture of distrust and ridicule before smiling and turning to walk away into the stadium.
“Wait!” I had just one shot and I had to make it count. “Do you speak English?”
“No.”
That wasn’t the answer I’d hoped for, as I speak slightly less Spanish than Basil Fawlty. Then I remembered something I’d read a long time ago about the Catalan language being relatively similar to Italian and that to most Catalan natives, Italian was understood even if not actually spoken.
“Capisce Italiano?” I looked at her expectantly.
“Si. Capisco.”
I explained that I was working for the BBC and had only just arrived in the city – hence the luggage – and that I’d been told by my employers to seek out the club’s Press Officer on arrival to arrange with him the details of my stay at the club.
Amazingly, her previously skeptical eyes now turned to something more closely resembling credence. Just like the girl in the Members’ Office she was convinced by my story. How was nobody finding it strange that the BBC, quite possibly the most reputable media corporation on the planet, would send a scruffy young bloke wearing a tracksuit and carrying all his worldly belongings in a combination that consisted of a rucksack and some brown paper shopping bags, to meet the Press Officer of one of the most prestigious football clubs in the world to talk to him about the television programme he was filming, amazingly without the technology of even a Camcorder? I mean, really, you have to question the unquestioning nature of the employees of FC Barcelona.
The woman asked if I would mind waiting for a couple of minutes while she went to find the Press Officer.
“Not at all. And thank you for your help.” I smiled.
As I stood outside the main doors I became aware of a lot of movement behind me. I turned around to see all the Japanese running to the car-park entrance taking photos through vehicle windows and screaming excitedly. The players were arriving.
The woman in the suit returned a few minutes later accompanied by a smartly-dressed, smooth looking guy in his thirties. He greeted me in English and shook my hand strongly, introducing himself as Fernando. I quickly put the copy of the Argus in his hands and began once again my BBC story. I finished with a little touch of brilliance, even if I do say so myself.
“In every big city I’ve been to so far on this journey, I’ve visited the main football club and they’ve got involved in my project. It really helps with picking up sponsors back in England, as everybody at home loves football. I know that Barcelona FC is world-renowned for their charitable work and I hoped that you could help me with publicity.”
“Really? Which other clubs have you visited?” He wasn’t buying my story as quickly as the others.
“Both Milan clubs, Marseille, Hertha Berlin were really helpful, Roma and now here.”
“I see. I really wish that I’d known in advance that you were coming, I could’ve arranged something special for you. You know, tonight the players are training in the stadium for tomorrow’s cup match against Villareal. It will be difficult to persuade any of them to meet with you this evening.”
What was going on here? I hadn’t even mentioned to him anything about meeting the players, but he’d just come out with it as if it was normal protocol. Now I’d come this far there was no way I couldn’t see it through.
“Yea, I understand that.” I said. “But they’re all good guys. I’m sure they’d be happy to help, if you just explained the situation to them.”
“Why don’t you come inside with me now. I can take you up into the stands and you can have your photo taken inside the stadium.”
Before I had time to realise what was going on, I’d been led through some doors, up some stairs and out into the Press Box and was looking down onto the pitch and around at the huge stands. I have to tell you, I’m a regular at White Hart Lane and I’ve been to the new Wembley, but nothing I’d ever seen before came close to the sheer impressiveness of what I now looked at. There isn’t a word that does the size of the place justice. Huge. Gigantic. Enormous. The Camp Nou looks down on and laughs at all three of those words. It was truly awesome and I recommend every lover of sport to visit this stadium at least once.
After taking a couple of photos I turned round to see Fernando was keen to escort me back out of the stadium but I wasn’t going to go without putting up a fight first. A psychological fight.
“So, shall I wait around until after training’s finished for you to have a word with the players about meeting me?”
“Um, look, the light isn’t so good, you probably didn’t get a very good photo of the stadium. Come back tomorrow at about midday and I can promise you a better picture.” He led the way out of the press box as he spoke.
“OK, thanks. And what about a player tonight?”
“I can’t say for sure. They’ll be in the dressing-room getting ready soon, I’ll go and speak to them and show them the newspaper story. Maybe one of the English-speaking players will meet you. It’s not a promise, it’s just a ‘maybe’. Come back in an hour and a half and ask for me.”
It was 6.20pm and I knew that if I was to meet any famous footballers then I wouldn’t make it to the Picasso museum for 8 o’clock as arranged. I took my phone from my pocket and was about to start writing a text explaining my situation to my unknown host for the night, when I had to literally jump out of the way of a speeding car. I just caught sight of the driver as I did so. It was the arrogant car-salesman, Thierry Henry.
Before my brain had had time to process me almost being killed by an ex-Arsenal dirtbag, I was looking into the eyes of the world’s best player, Lionel Messi. He waved at the gathered fans as he struggled to manouvre his car down the tunnel into the players’ car-park. My eyes followed his motor down the tunnel where I saw that Thierry was having a bit of difficulty at the bottom getting his car round the tight corner. I know it’s often said that footballers aren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer, but Henry had been a Barcelona player for 7 months already. How was it possible that he still seemed surprised to see the tight bend at the end of the tunnel? Almost as if he was driving into it for the very first time. I had a little chuckle as I could see Messi getting visibly irritated by having to wait for the car in front to get out of the way, and I was tempted to shout out some words of encouragement to the French forward.
“You’re an Arsenal twat and always will be.” Was the phrase that seemed most appropriate. I then remembered that some time within the next few minutes the club’s Press Officer would be having a word with the team’s English-speaking players and asking them if they’d meet me. It probably wouldn’t do my case any favours if Henry picked up the copy of the Argus, saw the photo of me and then told his team-mates that the guy in the paper had just called him a twat outside the stadium. I bit my tongue.
I stood and watched as a few more of the players – Thuram, Deco, Xavi – arrived in their flashy big motors and struggled down into the car-park. I then killed time until 7.50pm when I went again to the main entrance and asked for Fernando. The security guard spoke to someone on the radio and then told me to follow him. He took my bags from me and put them behind a desk in the main hall and then led me down a flight of stairs and along a corridor to a room that looked familiar. Where had I seen this room before? I put the pieces together in my head (the journalists and microphones were a bit of a clue) and realised that I was stood in the press-conference room where they interviewed the players and manager before and after the big games.
There was obviously a press-conference about to start pretty soon and the journalists seemed impatient and bored. At the front of the room, a woman was recording a live-feed for Barcelona TV. I went and stood behind her for a few seconds, making sure to get my bright, beaming face in shot. What would the watching fans at home think when they saw a lost-looking man wearing the tracksuit top of a football team that wasn’t their own?
All of a sudden the place became silent and every photographer and journalist in the room took their seats. Something was about to start. I looked around, saw that I was the only person standing, and so took a seat in the front row as I wondered which star was about to come out to meet the press.
Just then there was a tap on my shoulder. I looked around to see Fernando staring down at me.
“I’ve spoken to the players and Eidur Gudjohnsen has agreed to come and meet you and have his photo taken. The players are showering at the moment, so he’ll come out when he’s ready. But you’ll have to come with me because you’re not allowed to be in here for the press conference.”
My immediate reaction was one of disappointment. Not because I was going to meet the former Chelsea man – I was actually quite pleased about that – but because I wasn’t going to get to blend into the crowd of journalists and experience a press conference.
Fernando led me out the door at the side and to a big room that also looked familiar. I was in the post-match interview room. You know, the big wall with all the advertisements printed on to it that the players stand in front of and say things like; “Well, at the end of the day, winning the match was the most important thing and it doesn’t matter who scores the goals, but it’s always nice to score a hat-trick like I did.” (Players always say that after scoring important goals. It’s an unwritten rule.) And “I saw it, the other players saw it, everyone in the crowd saw it and you guys at home all saw it. The only person who didn’t see it was the referee.” You know the room I’m talking about now, right?
“OK, wait here and Eidur will be out to meet you shortly. I have to go and sort some things out. Don’t go back into the press conference room.”
As he walked away I played back in my head what he’d just said and it came out as; “I have to go and sort some things out. Definitely go back into the press conference room. I won’t be here to stop you. Do it. Do it now!”
And so as soon as he disappeared up the stairs I nipped back into the interview room, just in time to see the team’s manager, Frank Rijkaard, taking his seat at the front. I stood at the back and quickly took a couple of pictures as I tried to understand bits of what he was saying. Then he looked at me. He looked at me, then he looked around in confusion as if he was searching for something or someone. He made eye-contact with a heavily-built guy in the other corner of the room and then quickly glanced back at me.
And before you could say “Frank, do you always seem so stoned?” I was being escorted back out through the door by the heavily-built man from the corner of the room. Frank had stitched me up but at least I’d got a photo.
“You stay here!”
“OK.” I wasn’t going to argue with a man who looked like he could eat me whole.
Just to make sure that I didn’t go back on my word, he went to the trouble of shutting both doors to the press conference.
I spent the next 20 minutes or so just standing in front of the interview wall, conducting imaginary interviews with myself.
“So, Kris, signed from a Sunday league team from the Brighton league after being spotted by a scout who’d got lost and found his way to the wrong pitch, you’ve just made your debut against Real Madrid as an 85th minute substitute and scored twice in the final couple of minutes to turn an almost certain 1-0 defeat into a 2-1 victory. How do you feel right now?”
“Well, you know, at the end of the day winning is the most important thing and it really doesn’t matter who scores the goals. By the way, how did Spurs get on today? I haven’t been able to check the internet yet.”
My fantasy interview was cut short, however, by someone entering the room talking on a mobile phone. I turned to see who it was and couldn’t believe my eyes. Xavi, all 5’7” of him (he’s a little’un) was standing beside me having a chat to someone, probably his girlfriend, telling her he’d be home for dinner soon and could she make sure there were a few San Miguels in the fridge.
He glanced at me with a look that said “Who the fuck are you?” and I nodded a greeting his way. He then looked down at the Cockeril on my chest and sighed the kind of sigh that I knew meant “If only they’d put in a bid for me. I’d love to play for Spurs one day.”
He finished his conversation and left me alone once again.
After another 20 minutes, Gudjohnsen still hadn’t turned up to meet me. I wished I’d interrupted Xavi and told him to tell Eidur that I was waiting.
The press-conference room soon emptied and the journalists all disappeared apart from a couple that stayed behind to type up their reports. Nobody was watching me, so I quietly opened the door through which Xavi had disappeared and saw in front of me the door to the Barcelona dressing-room. The air smelt of shower gel and deoderant. It made me remember that no matter how big and famous these footballers are, they’re not really different from me and my mates. Whether you’re playing in front of 100,000 people and the watching world on the telly or on a rain-soaked mud-bath in front of one man and his dog, the post-match ritual is still pretty much the same. These guys are just the ones who were the best player in the school team and the under 10’s team who then progressed. There’s nothing super-human about these players, they’re just very good at what they do and they’re fortunate enough to get paid for doing something they’d do for free. I no longer felt overawed by being so close to these world-famous names.
I closed the door and went back to where I’d been told to wait. And I waited. And I waited some more. And then I carried on waiting for a bit longer.
Soon it was 9 o’clock and nobody had come to fetch me. The journalists had all gone home and I was starting to get angry at Eidur Gudjohnsen.
“Who does he think he is?” I muttered. “Keeping me waiting like this. Me!”
Not only was it my pride that was hurt by being kept waiting but I also had a host waiting for me. A host that I hadn’t yet met and who was probably growing just as impatient if not more so than I was.
I sent a text to him or her saying that I’d been held up and wouldn’t make it to the Picasso Museum until at least 10.
He or she then replied angrily, saying that he or she had to be up for work early in the morning and didn’t like being messed around, especially by a stranger.
“I’m going to turn off my phone at 11.30 when I go to bed. If you’re not here by then, you’ll just have to find somewhere else to sleep.”
Our relationship hadn’t got off to the best of starts and I blamed Eidur Gudjohnsen.
More time passed and even the stragglers finished up what they were doing and left. I’d clearly been forgotten.
I popped my head back into the Press Conference room just to confirm that I was definitely the last man standing and then went back to the door to the players area and quietly opened it and peered down the corridor. The smell of shower gel had cleared and all sounds of life had been silenced.
“Eidur Gudjohnsen, you bastard!” I shouted (mumbled, really).
“Right, I wanted an experience that I wouldn’t get under normal circumstances and after having it promised to me it’s now been taken away. But there’s much more to Barcelona FC than just the over-paid players who leave you waiting and then don’t bother turning up to meet you. I’m not leaving here until I’ve seen or done something special.” I know, the first sign of going mad is talking to yourself. Ah well, just paint me bright orange and call me Jennifer the Barbarian.
The corridor that I’d been led down earlier in the evening was beckoning me. Half-way along it were the stairs that led back up to the main reception area, but beyond the stairs there was a mystery that needed exploring.
So, past the stairs I crept, all the time looking around for authority figures.
“No way! Fuck me, it isn’t? Is it? It is!” I was standing in the players tunnel looking out onto the pitch. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be real. I walked down the tunnel as I hummed the Champions’ League music. I strolled past the subs bench and out into the centre circle. I knew that I only had a minimal amount of time before I was discovered and ejected from the stadium, so I bent down and grabbed a piece of turf, putting it into my pocket as a souvenir.
I ran up to the goal and curled and imaginary ball into the top corner from just outside the box, before jumping up and swinging on the cross-bar in celebration. I sat on every single seat on both benches, home and away. The pitch was like a bowls lawn; absolute perfection.
I was on borrowed time now and I wanted as much of the behind-the-scenes experience as I could get. I needed to get into the players’ dressing-room, relieve myself in their toilet, lie on the massage table and maybe even pinch a player’s shirt off of the wall. OK, I wouldn’t really have the plums to nick a shirt, but put one of them on for a couple of minutes, yea I could do that.
I walked back down the tunnel and took a right turn at the end as the players would have done after the match. I could see the dressing-room in the distance, the door was open.
“Hey!” A loud, deep voice broke the silence.
A big, black man in a security uniform stepped in front of me with an angry look on his face. He grabbed me by the collar and started dragging me up a flight of stairs.
“Wait! You don’t understand. I was told to wait here by Fernando, I’m supposed to be interviewing Gudjohnsen.”
“No. Nobody should be here. Come on!” At the top of the stairs we pushed through a fire-exit and out into the open.
“My bags are still inside. Fernando put them behind the desk. Will you listen to me?” I protested.
The guard took me over to a hut full of other security guards and let me explain to them why I was in the stadium. I told them the whole story and that as I’d got bored waiting I thought it would be cool to see the pitch. The boss of this small group made a phonecall and then told his boys that I was indeed telling the truth.
“You know, all the players went home a long time ago. There’s no Gudjohnsen here now. I’ll take you to get your bags and you should come back tomorrow afternoon to speak to Fernando.”
“Oh great.” I was taken to collect my stuff and then escorted out the main gates and dumped onto the street.
The picture I took from up in the press box
The subs bench at night
Frank Rijkaard being interviewed in the press-conference
The post-match interview area where I stood and waited for Gudjohnsen for too long
The press-conference room before Frank came in and the photographers and journalists had taken the seats
