...fighting to the death. Yeeeaaaaaaaaaa!!!
Be warned, if you're offended by any of the following then this video isn't for you;
1. A seemingly retarded midget walking into face shot after face shot
2. Midget's doing handstand kicks
3. Midgets
4. Fighting
5. Midget's fighting
6. Midget's being exploited
7. Cheap-shots long after the bell has signalled the end of the round
8. Knock-outs
9. Midget's stamping on midgets after they've been knocked out
If you're not offended by any of the above, I think you might just enjoy this.
Let's get it on! Round 1, ding ding.
Thursday, 9 July 2009
Wednesday, 8 July 2009
Another chapter of the book
It's been a long time since I did any writing of my book, but last night I was chatting online and on the phone to the girl that I'm quickly falling for, and the topic of my Euro charity trip came up as she'd come across a couple of the Romanian newspaper articles about me. After telling her the story, she asked how much of the book I'd got written and it made me realise that all this time I've been wasting on poker and degeneracy could've been spent so much more productively. I also want to get it out of the way so that if I do happen to die young, for whatever reason, I will at least have finished the book and it'll be something that my parents can be proud of.
So I sat down tonight and knocked out another chapter, this one about my short time in Hamburg and the following attempt at getting to Berlin without any money.
Here's the finished article;
Hamburg.
Taking the local Metro to Berliner Tor without a ticket was as easy to me as scoring a penalty in a World Cup knock-out match is to a German. Once there, I walked out on to the street to find it was grey and raining, a common experience so far on this trip. I had Ollie’s number but didn’t have any credit on my phone so the first thing I needed to do was find somewhere to make a free call from.
An apartment rentals agency seemed like a good enough place to start asking so I walked in and asked the middle-aged lady if she spoke English. She shook her head and look extremely flustered. It was the time of evening when local businesses were starting to lock up for the night and just as she was thinking about the Sauerkraut dinner awaiting her at home, stood in front of her was a tired-looking young man speaking English to her. I tried to explain in German that I needed to make a call, but as soon as I started speaking I remembered something fairly important – I don’t speak German. I’ll give the woman credit where it’s due, she didn’t panic for too long. She got her head together, gestured with her hand for me to wait, said something in German, and called out something rather loudly. A couple of seconds later another middle-aged woman appeared on the scene. The cavalry had arrived.
“I speak ein bissien English.” She told me.
I explained that I was to be picked up by a friend but didn’t have credit on my phone so couldn’t call him to let him know I’d arrived. She asked for the number, I assume to make sure it was a German number I was going to call and that I wasn’t trying to con them into letting me have a long-distance chat at their expense. She dialled the number and spoke German to someone on the other end before handing the receiver to me. Ollie spoke perfect English with only a small hint of a German accent. He told me to wait outside the bank on the other side of the road, he’d be along to meet me in twenty minutes. I thanked the two women and went to wait for my host.
He turned up, we shook hands, and he started to lead me to his block. Instantly, I knew he was someone I was going to get on very well with. The reason for his perfect grasp of the English language, and also his surname of Evans, was that his dad wasn’t German but Welsh. He’d moved here in the 80s as a construction worker – think Auf Wiedersehen Pet – and had met his future wife, learned perfect German, had a couple of sons, and stayed for good.
We got to his student block and as we trekked up the stairs we were already talking like we’d been mates for a long time. I was starving, so when he asked me if I’d like a sandwich I almost bit his hand off. Then I watched him take the food from the cupboard and realised that the sandwich was to be made with black bread. If you’re not familiar with this thing that some people in Europe call food, it’s not to be confused with brown bread. Brown bread is lovely, soft, and bready. Black bread is none of the above. That’s right, it’s not even bready. Would I get away with using the word ‘bready’ if we were playing Scrabble? Probably not, but you know I’d try.
Into the sandwich went some cheese and lettuce, before it was handed to me on a plate. That sounds like a metaphor, but it isn’t. It was literally handed to me on a plate. What to do? I couldn’t eat it, I knew that as soon as I took my first bite. Black bread is like dog poo that’s hardened in the cold. You chew and chew and chew but you just can’t swallow. Not that I've ever tried dog poo, you understand.
By now, Ollie was watching me as we chatted. I needed to either spit it out discreetly, or spit it out not so discreetly. Those were my only two options. I pointed to something out the window and said “what’s that?” and as he looked around I spat it in the bin. Not really, but that would’ve been a funny story if I had. In reality what I did was swallow it. I retched a little bit but I don’t think he noticed.
I put the plate down on the kitchen’s work-surface and lied, saying that I had a stomach ache.
“That’s fine, mate.” Ollie said. “You can eat it later when you’re feeling a bit better.”
He showed me to his bedroom where I’d be sleeping that night on a matress on the floor, he also showed me his computer and said I could update the blog, check my emails, and search for a place to stay in my upcoming cities. Then we went out into the living area and knocked on another bedroom door so that I could be introduced to his Italian flatmate, Allesandra.
I was told that a little bit later in the evening we were going to be joined by his brother’s girlfriend, Kimia, for a dinner of pancakes and Nutella. Apparently, this was Ollie’s specialty, or rather the only thing he knew how to make. Before anything else, we had to pay a visit to the supermarket to get the provisions.
I put my coat on and followed Ollie out the door. Waiting for us at the bottom of the stairs was Kimia. She was dark-featured and very pretty. She introduced herself to me but as we walked to the shop I could sense that she didn’t particularly like me being around. It was fair enough, I was a stranger. Never one to give up easily, I asked her where her origins were, as she was clearly not German. She was from Iran. I told her that I’d once tried to teach myself the Persian language of Farsi, and just like that she took to me. I think she was pleasantly surprised that an Englishman even knew what the language of Iran was. The three of us then talked like good friends as we pushed a trolley down the aisles of the shop, Ollie trying to decide what to buy. On the way back he told me to explain my journey to Kimia, so I did. She took to me even more and we were getting on like the proverbial house that’s been visited by an arsonist.
Kimia lived in a similar student block just around the corner from Ollie’s. Her boyfriend was living and studying in Berlin, but having Ollie living locally kept up the family feeling. You could feel the good feeling between the two and I imagined that Ollie’s brother was very similar, another person that I’d most likely get on very well with.
Alessandra joined us for dinner and we all sat around the table laughing at Ollie’s attempt at pancakes. To be fair, they were pretty good, but we didn’t let him know that. After all the plates had been cleared, Alessandra offered to do the washing-up while the remaing three of us walked around to Kimia’s flat to pick up an inflatable matress that she was going to lend me for the night. In her kitchen she took the time to fill up a brown paper bag with all sorts of biscuits, crackers and some tinned fruit. I was touched by her gesture. We said goodbye and headed back to Ollie’s without her. On the way, Ollie mentioned that she’s usually impossible to impress and she never likes any of the couchsurfers he has staying at his flat. He said that I must really be something special to have made such a positive impression on her. He couldn’t believe that she’d given me food, either. He said that it had shocked him to the core. I smiled.
Back in the lobby of his block, we stopped to buy a few beers from the vending machine. When I say ‘we’ I mean ‘he’, in case you’ve forgotten, I was travelling without money. It was kind of the point of the journey and the main theme to this book as well. I can’t believe you’d forget such an important piece of information. Shame on you.
One of the many benefits of being a student in Germany is the price of beer from these specially designated vending machines. A 1-litre bottle costs a mere 90 cents, 15 of which can be claimed back when you take the bottle to the supermarket. Other than the cheapness of the beer, I was also quite amazed at the availability of it to minors. I mean, this vending machine was hardly sectioned off and protected by a watching guard. Any kid could walk into the block with a few Euros in his pocket before spending the rest of the evening in the local park, kissing girls in between vomitting on the flowers. At least, that’s what I used to do as a young teenager, and we had to go through all the hard work first of actually getting our hands on some booze. The next time some scruffy little 14-year old in a hoodie approaches me outside my local Alldays and asks me to purchase some Cider for him and his mates, I shall say “No. Fuck off and live in Germany if you want it that badly, you scruffy little urchin.” I advise you to do the same.
We took the beers straight into Ollie’s room where we started drinking as I simultaneously tried to find somewhere to lay my hat in Berlin. I was browsing through the list of potential hosts in Germany's capital when Ollie aired an idea he’d had a little bit earlier.
“My brother’s in Berlin and usually he hates the idea of having any guests, he doesn’t agree with the whole Couch-surfing thing, but I think he might host you, especially if he’s spoken to Kimia already and she’s told him what a cool guy you are. Let me call Kimia first, run the idea by her, then we’ll see what we can do.”
I liked the fact that he called me a cool guy. I am kinda cool, you know. I also liked the idea of going to sleep that evening already knowing I had a place to crash the following night.
“I like it!” I said, dramatically giving the thumbs up at the same time. Whether or not I actually did that, I don’t recall.
Kimia’s response to Ollie’s suggestion was a German translation of “Oh my god! I can’t believe you called me to suggest that, I was literally just about to phone you because I’d had the same idea!”
So, Ollie phoned his brother, Julian, who had already been briefed on the idea by his girlfriend and was willing to trust his better half’s and his brother’s instincts and give me a shot. I felt a big responsibility, like I’d been vouched for by someone in an important position and their job was now dependent on me being on my best behaviour. I knew the challenge was big, but if anyone could pull it off succesfully then it was somebody more responsible than me. But, seeing as there was no one else around, I was going to have to do it anyway.
The rest of the evening turned into a heavy-duty drinking session as we discussed Ollie’s two biggest passions in life; hitch-hiking and Borussia Dortmund football club.
Ollie hitch-hiked everywhere. If he was travelling to his hometown of Dortmund to visit family, he hitch-hiked. If he was going to another part of Germany to see friends, he hitch-hiked. If he was going to a Couchsurfing camp somewhere in Eastern Europe, he hitch-hiked. If he was going to the shop to buy a pint of milk, he, well he walked there. The shop was just around the corner. Anywhere else, though, he hitch-hiked.
At the time of my visit he was even in the early stages of planning a road trip to Egypt, trying to find keen travel companions willing to brave the unpredictable elements of hitch-hiking. He showed me a girl that had shown some interest and told me that he hoped she came along just because she was a sexy girl and it would make it a lot easier to get picked up by motorists along the way. He also said it would be nice if she came because he reckoned he could get her naked, but I thought I’d tell you the other bit first, so as not to make him out as someone purely in it for the sex.
As well as the hitch-hiking he was also well into the whole Couchsurfing culture, regularly going to meetings in Hamburg and nearly always having a guest or two spending the night at his place. He loved the togetherness of it all, the culture sharing, the friendships that were forged, the free lodgings. He told me that it was one thing that he and his brother had never agreed on. Julian thought the whole idea was stupid. I really looked forward to arriving to stay at his place now. I think not.
“No, don’t worry! He’s like that, yea, but it’s different this time. You’re not arriving as a stranger, you’re someone who’s been recommend as a friend by us. He’s not anti-social or anything like that. You’ll get on well.” He reassured me.
I took the subject back in the direction of women and probed my host on the question of whether or not he’d slept with any of the girls that he’d had staying at his place. He said he had a couple, but that he’d never pushed. I believed him. You could see that he wasn’t hopeless with the ladies from the way he interracted with Kimia and Alessandra. He then told me that there was something going on between him and his Italian flat-mate but he wasn’t quite sure what. They’d kissed, but since then it had been a bit funny between them. I probed no further.
Ollie was doing his best to convince me that the best way of getting to Berlin would be to hitch-hike, but as much as he tried I couldn’t be swayed from wanting to blag the train. On a train I could catch up with writing the diary, I could walk to the toilet if I needed to pee, and best of all; I wasn’t going to get drugged and raped by a bearded man in a dress on a train. Well, never say never, but the chances were certainly a lot slimmer.
After we’d emptied all of the beer bottles into our stomachs it was time to get some sleep. Ollie warned me in advance that he had to get up at 8.30 to get to university on time but then said that the occasions that he actually made it on time were few and far between. He gave me his bed for the night as he spread himself out on the inflatable mattress on the floor. I tried protesting his generous offer but he was having none of it.
“Mate, with all the tough times you’re going to go through on this trip, the least I can offer you is a comfortable place to sleep.” He told me.
I woke up the next morning after sleeping like a log the whole night through. I looked at my phone and saw that it was 10.00, I then looked over and saw that Ollie was still asleep.
“Ollie, it’s 10 o’clock.” I told him, expecting a little anxiety in his response.
“Oh well. I’ll miss the morning lectures.” He said, before closing his eyes.
I got up and had a quick shower before leaving with my host for the main train station. It was pissing down with rain which served to dissuade me even more from thinking about hitch-hiking my way across the country.
The train from Hamburg to Berlin departed every hour, so I made my way to the platform after bidding Ollie farewell.
I tried my by now usual technique of politely asking the guard if I could ride for free. I whipped out the newspaper, smiled in a friendly manner and explained that I had to get to Berlin as I had someone waiting for me. He wasn’t interested, though, and told me that I had another thing coming if I expected to ride for free.
The doors then closed and the train pulled away without me on it, leaving me to sit on the platform wondering if all German railway employees would be so strict. I waited an hour for the next train to come in and I tried again. Same story. Away the train pulled without me.
An hour later and the same scenario played out in front of my eyes.
I was now completely demoralised as I realised that certain stereotypes regarding the German race were true. What was I going to do? I started thinking.
My first plan was to walk up to the Station Services centre and see if I could get a free ticket. I explained my situation and tried to look as desperate as possible. The woman behind the desk told me that she didn’t think there was anything she could do for me but that she’d make a few phonecalls just to find out. I stood and waited, only to be told that she had bad news. She then suggested that I go out on to the street and find a place called the Bahnhoffs Mission. She didn’t think to tell me what the Bahnhoffs Mission was, just that I should go there. I didn’t even think to ask, come to think of it. I just did as I was told.
The place turned out to be similar to a Salvation Army building. It’s a non-profit organisation there to help the tramps that live around the station. They provide food and coffee and a place to go. They also provide train tickets to Germans who haven’t got any money on them for whatever reason, but only on the condition that the person pays back what they’ve borrowed later on. I asked if they could provide me with a ticket but was told that it was only available to people that had a German address. The male worker then told me that he’d like to give me some money from his own pocket to go towards the ticket, but I had to decline the offer so as not to break the rule of handling any money.
I asked him what the most likely punishment would be if I just got on the train without a ticket and got caught half-way through the journey. He said they’d probably detain me at Berlin’s main station and put me in a police cell while they figured out a way to fine me.
“So they won’t just kick me off the train somewhere?” I asked.
“No, they’ll take you to Berlin.” He said.
Great! I was going to Berlin. On the down side I was probably going to get arrested, but at least I was going to get to Germany’s capital. I could worry about the consequences later.
The next train to Berlin left at 1.47pm and I was on it. I sat myself down on the floor in between carriages and awaited my fate.
After about half an hour a guard finally approached me. He spoke no English and looked more than a little confused that I wasn’t showing him my ‘fahrkarte’ but was instead rambling away at him in English so he disappeared, returning a couple of minutes later with an English-speaking colleague who was equally perplexed by my ticketless situation.
He told me that he’d have to write me out a fine that I could pay at a later date and handed me a piece of paper on which I was told to write my address.
The great thing about British passports, of course, is that they don’t have your home address printed inside of them like so many others do. So, my super quick-thinking brain came up with a plan and I put it into action. I wrote down my name and underneath it I wrote the address of Tottenham Hotspur Football Club, just changing the number of the street. I handed it to the guard, along with my passport, and off he went to his compartment with my details.
I sat and waited, worrying that he’d come back and tell me I’m in big trouble for lying to him, but when he did finally return there was no look of anger in his eyes. He handed me a copy of my bill and then asked me if I was a Spurs fan, seeing as how I lived in Tottenham. I showed him my tattoo and he smiled and said that he was a big Hertha Berlin fan. OK.
I relaxed for the rest of the journey and got into Berlin at 3.15pm. I’d made it and I hadn’t even been arrested.
So I sat down tonight and knocked out another chapter, this one about my short time in Hamburg and the following attempt at getting to Berlin without any money.
Here's the finished article;
Hamburg.
Taking the local Metro to Berliner Tor without a ticket was as easy to me as scoring a penalty in a World Cup knock-out match is to a German. Once there, I walked out on to the street to find it was grey and raining, a common experience so far on this trip. I had Ollie’s number but didn’t have any credit on my phone so the first thing I needed to do was find somewhere to make a free call from.
An apartment rentals agency seemed like a good enough place to start asking so I walked in and asked the middle-aged lady if she spoke English. She shook her head and look extremely flustered. It was the time of evening when local businesses were starting to lock up for the night and just as she was thinking about the Sauerkraut dinner awaiting her at home, stood in front of her was a tired-looking young man speaking English to her. I tried to explain in German that I needed to make a call, but as soon as I started speaking I remembered something fairly important – I don’t speak German. I’ll give the woman credit where it’s due, she didn’t panic for too long. She got her head together, gestured with her hand for me to wait, said something in German, and called out something rather loudly. A couple of seconds later another middle-aged woman appeared on the scene. The cavalry had arrived.
“I speak ein bissien English.” She told me.
I explained that I was to be picked up by a friend but didn’t have credit on my phone so couldn’t call him to let him know I’d arrived. She asked for the number, I assume to make sure it was a German number I was going to call and that I wasn’t trying to con them into letting me have a long-distance chat at their expense. She dialled the number and spoke German to someone on the other end before handing the receiver to me. Ollie spoke perfect English with only a small hint of a German accent. He told me to wait outside the bank on the other side of the road, he’d be along to meet me in twenty minutes. I thanked the two women and went to wait for my host.
He turned up, we shook hands, and he started to lead me to his block. Instantly, I knew he was someone I was going to get on very well with. The reason for his perfect grasp of the English language, and also his surname of Evans, was that his dad wasn’t German but Welsh. He’d moved here in the 80s as a construction worker – think Auf Wiedersehen Pet – and had met his future wife, learned perfect German, had a couple of sons, and stayed for good.
We got to his student block and as we trekked up the stairs we were already talking like we’d been mates for a long time. I was starving, so when he asked me if I’d like a sandwich I almost bit his hand off. Then I watched him take the food from the cupboard and realised that the sandwich was to be made with black bread. If you’re not familiar with this thing that some people in Europe call food, it’s not to be confused with brown bread. Brown bread is lovely, soft, and bready. Black bread is none of the above. That’s right, it’s not even bready. Would I get away with using the word ‘bready’ if we were playing Scrabble? Probably not, but you know I’d try.
Into the sandwich went some cheese and lettuce, before it was handed to me on a plate. That sounds like a metaphor, but it isn’t. It was literally handed to me on a plate. What to do? I couldn’t eat it, I knew that as soon as I took my first bite. Black bread is like dog poo that’s hardened in the cold. You chew and chew and chew but you just can’t swallow. Not that I've ever tried dog poo, you understand.
By now, Ollie was watching me as we chatted. I needed to either spit it out discreetly, or spit it out not so discreetly. Those were my only two options. I pointed to something out the window and said “what’s that?” and as he looked around I spat it in the bin. Not really, but that would’ve been a funny story if I had. In reality what I did was swallow it. I retched a little bit but I don’t think he noticed.
I put the plate down on the kitchen’s work-surface and lied, saying that I had a stomach ache.
“That’s fine, mate.” Ollie said. “You can eat it later when you’re feeling a bit better.”
He showed me to his bedroom where I’d be sleeping that night on a matress on the floor, he also showed me his computer and said I could update the blog, check my emails, and search for a place to stay in my upcoming cities. Then we went out into the living area and knocked on another bedroom door so that I could be introduced to his Italian flatmate, Allesandra.
I was told that a little bit later in the evening we were going to be joined by his brother’s girlfriend, Kimia, for a dinner of pancakes and Nutella. Apparently, this was Ollie’s specialty, or rather the only thing he knew how to make. Before anything else, we had to pay a visit to the supermarket to get the provisions.
I put my coat on and followed Ollie out the door. Waiting for us at the bottom of the stairs was Kimia. She was dark-featured and very pretty. She introduced herself to me but as we walked to the shop I could sense that she didn’t particularly like me being around. It was fair enough, I was a stranger. Never one to give up easily, I asked her where her origins were, as she was clearly not German. She was from Iran. I told her that I’d once tried to teach myself the Persian language of Farsi, and just like that she took to me. I think she was pleasantly surprised that an Englishman even knew what the language of Iran was. The three of us then talked like good friends as we pushed a trolley down the aisles of the shop, Ollie trying to decide what to buy. On the way back he told me to explain my journey to Kimia, so I did. She took to me even more and we were getting on like the proverbial house that’s been visited by an arsonist.
Kimia lived in a similar student block just around the corner from Ollie’s. Her boyfriend was living and studying in Berlin, but having Ollie living locally kept up the family feeling. You could feel the good feeling between the two and I imagined that Ollie’s brother was very similar, another person that I’d most likely get on very well with.
Alessandra joined us for dinner and we all sat around the table laughing at Ollie’s attempt at pancakes. To be fair, they were pretty good, but we didn’t let him know that. After all the plates had been cleared, Alessandra offered to do the washing-up while the remaing three of us walked around to Kimia’s flat to pick up an inflatable matress that she was going to lend me for the night. In her kitchen she took the time to fill up a brown paper bag with all sorts of biscuits, crackers and some tinned fruit. I was touched by her gesture. We said goodbye and headed back to Ollie’s without her. On the way, Ollie mentioned that she’s usually impossible to impress and she never likes any of the couchsurfers he has staying at his flat. He said that I must really be something special to have made such a positive impression on her. He couldn’t believe that she’d given me food, either. He said that it had shocked him to the core. I smiled.
Back in the lobby of his block, we stopped to buy a few beers from the vending machine. When I say ‘we’ I mean ‘he’, in case you’ve forgotten, I was travelling without money. It was kind of the point of the journey and the main theme to this book as well. I can’t believe you’d forget such an important piece of information. Shame on you.
One of the many benefits of being a student in Germany is the price of beer from these specially designated vending machines. A 1-litre bottle costs a mere 90 cents, 15 of which can be claimed back when you take the bottle to the supermarket. Other than the cheapness of the beer, I was also quite amazed at the availability of it to minors. I mean, this vending machine was hardly sectioned off and protected by a watching guard. Any kid could walk into the block with a few Euros in his pocket before spending the rest of the evening in the local park, kissing girls in between vomitting on the flowers. At least, that’s what I used to do as a young teenager, and we had to go through all the hard work first of actually getting our hands on some booze. The next time some scruffy little 14-year old in a hoodie approaches me outside my local Alldays and asks me to purchase some Cider for him and his mates, I shall say “No. Fuck off and live in Germany if you want it that badly, you scruffy little urchin.” I advise you to do the same.
We took the beers straight into Ollie’s room where we started drinking as I simultaneously tried to find somewhere to lay my hat in Berlin. I was browsing through the list of potential hosts in Germany's capital when Ollie aired an idea he’d had a little bit earlier.
“My brother’s in Berlin and usually he hates the idea of having any guests, he doesn’t agree with the whole Couch-surfing thing, but I think he might host you, especially if he’s spoken to Kimia already and she’s told him what a cool guy you are. Let me call Kimia first, run the idea by her, then we’ll see what we can do.”
I liked the fact that he called me a cool guy. I am kinda cool, you know. I also liked the idea of going to sleep that evening already knowing I had a place to crash the following night.
“I like it!” I said, dramatically giving the thumbs up at the same time. Whether or not I actually did that, I don’t recall.
Kimia’s response to Ollie’s suggestion was a German translation of “Oh my god! I can’t believe you called me to suggest that, I was literally just about to phone you because I’d had the same idea!”
So, Ollie phoned his brother, Julian, who had already been briefed on the idea by his girlfriend and was willing to trust his better half’s and his brother’s instincts and give me a shot. I felt a big responsibility, like I’d been vouched for by someone in an important position and their job was now dependent on me being on my best behaviour. I knew the challenge was big, but if anyone could pull it off succesfully then it was somebody more responsible than me. But, seeing as there was no one else around, I was going to have to do it anyway.
The rest of the evening turned into a heavy-duty drinking session as we discussed Ollie’s two biggest passions in life; hitch-hiking and Borussia Dortmund football club.
Ollie hitch-hiked everywhere. If he was travelling to his hometown of Dortmund to visit family, he hitch-hiked. If he was going to another part of Germany to see friends, he hitch-hiked. If he was going to a Couchsurfing camp somewhere in Eastern Europe, he hitch-hiked. If he was going to the shop to buy a pint of milk, he, well he walked there. The shop was just around the corner. Anywhere else, though, he hitch-hiked.
At the time of my visit he was even in the early stages of planning a road trip to Egypt, trying to find keen travel companions willing to brave the unpredictable elements of hitch-hiking. He showed me a girl that had shown some interest and told me that he hoped she came along just because she was a sexy girl and it would make it a lot easier to get picked up by motorists along the way. He also said it would be nice if she came because he reckoned he could get her naked, but I thought I’d tell you the other bit first, so as not to make him out as someone purely in it for the sex.
As well as the hitch-hiking he was also well into the whole Couchsurfing culture, regularly going to meetings in Hamburg and nearly always having a guest or two spending the night at his place. He loved the togetherness of it all, the culture sharing, the friendships that were forged, the free lodgings. He told me that it was one thing that he and his brother had never agreed on. Julian thought the whole idea was stupid. I really looked forward to arriving to stay at his place now. I think not.
“No, don’t worry! He’s like that, yea, but it’s different this time. You’re not arriving as a stranger, you’re someone who’s been recommend as a friend by us. He’s not anti-social or anything like that. You’ll get on well.” He reassured me.
I took the subject back in the direction of women and probed my host on the question of whether or not he’d slept with any of the girls that he’d had staying at his place. He said he had a couple, but that he’d never pushed. I believed him. You could see that he wasn’t hopeless with the ladies from the way he interracted with Kimia and Alessandra. He then told me that there was something going on between him and his Italian flat-mate but he wasn’t quite sure what. They’d kissed, but since then it had been a bit funny between them. I probed no further.
Ollie was doing his best to convince me that the best way of getting to Berlin would be to hitch-hike, but as much as he tried I couldn’t be swayed from wanting to blag the train. On a train I could catch up with writing the diary, I could walk to the toilet if I needed to pee, and best of all; I wasn’t going to get drugged and raped by a bearded man in a dress on a train. Well, never say never, but the chances were certainly a lot slimmer.
After we’d emptied all of the beer bottles into our stomachs it was time to get some sleep. Ollie warned me in advance that he had to get up at 8.30 to get to university on time but then said that the occasions that he actually made it on time were few and far between. He gave me his bed for the night as he spread himself out on the inflatable mattress on the floor. I tried protesting his generous offer but he was having none of it.
“Mate, with all the tough times you’re going to go through on this trip, the least I can offer you is a comfortable place to sleep.” He told me.
I woke up the next morning after sleeping like a log the whole night through. I looked at my phone and saw that it was 10.00, I then looked over and saw that Ollie was still asleep.
“Ollie, it’s 10 o’clock.” I told him, expecting a little anxiety in his response.
“Oh well. I’ll miss the morning lectures.” He said, before closing his eyes.
I got up and had a quick shower before leaving with my host for the main train station. It was pissing down with rain which served to dissuade me even more from thinking about hitch-hiking my way across the country.
The train from Hamburg to Berlin departed every hour, so I made my way to the platform after bidding Ollie farewell.
I tried my by now usual technique of politely asking the guard if I could ride for free. I whipped out the newspaper, smiled in a friendly manner and explained that I had to get to Berlin as I had someone waiting for me. He wasn’t interested, though, and told me that I had another thing coming if I expected to ride for free.
The doors then closed and the train pulled away without me on it, leaving me to sit on the platform wondering if all German railway employees would be so strict. I waited an hour for the next train to come in and I tried again. Same story. Away the train pulled without me.
An hour later and the same scenario played out in front of my eyes.
I was now completely demoralised as I realised that certain stereotypes regarding the German race were true. What was I going to do? I started thinking.
My first plan was to walk up to the Station Services centre and see if I could get a free ticket. I explained my situation and tried to look as desperate as possible. The woman behind the desk told me that she didn’t think there was anything she could do for me but that she’d make a few phonecalls just to find out. I stood and waited, only to be told that she had bad news. She then suggested that I go out on to the street and find a place called the Bahnhoffs Mission. She didn’t think to tell me what the Bahnhoffs Mission was, just that I should go there. I didn’t even think to ask, come to think of it. I just did as I was told.
The place turned out to be similar to a Salvation Army building. It’s a non-profit organisation there to help the tramps that live around the station. They provide food and coffee and a place to go. They also provide train tickets to Germans who haven’t got any money on them for whatever reason, but only on the condition that the person pays back what they’ve borrowed later on. I asked if they could provide me with a ticket but was told that it was only available to people that had a German address. The male worker then told me that he’d like to give me some money from his own pocket to go towards the ticket, but I had to decline the offer so as not to break the rule of handling any money.
I asked him what the most likely punishment would be if I just got on the train without a ticket and got caught half-way through the journey. He said they’d probably detain me at Berlin’s main station and put me in a police cell while they figured out a way to fine me.
“So they won’t just kick me off the train somewhere?” I asked.
“No, they’ll take you to Berlin.” He said.
Great! I was going to Berlin. On the down side I was probably going to get arrested, but at least I was going to get to Germany’s capital. I could worry about the consequences later.
The next train to Berlin left at 1.47pm and I was on it. I sat myself down on the floor in between carriages and awaited my fate.
After about half an hour a guard finally approached me. He spoke no English and looked more than a little confused that I wasn’t showing him my ‘fahrkarte’ but was instead rambling away at him in English so he disappeared, returning a couple of minutes later with an English-speaking colleague who was equally perplexed by my ticketless situation.
He told me that he’d have to write me out a fine that I could pay at a later date and handed me a piece of paper on which I was told to write my address.
The great thing about British passports, of course, is that they don’t have your home address printed inside of them like so many others do. So, my super quick-thinking brain came up with a plan and I put it into action. I wrote down my name and underneath it I wrote the address of Tottenham Hotspur Football Club, just changing the number of the street. I handed it to the guard, along with my passport, and off he went to his compartment with my details.
I sat and waited, worrying that he’d come back and tell me I’m in big trouble for lying to him, but when he did finally return there was no look of anger in his eyes. He handed me a copy of my bill and then asked me if I was a Spurs fan, seeing as how I lived in Tottenham. I showed him my tattoo and he smiled and said that he was a big Hertha Berlin fan. OK.
I relaxed for the rest of the journey and got into Berlin at 3.15pm. I’d made it and I hadn’t even been arrested.
Who is the more violent?
Barrack Obama or Iran's president, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad?
I think the best way to get the answer to the above-mentioned quesstion is to put them in a similar test situation and see how they react.
The test I've chosen is 'How do they deal with a bothersome intruder? (in this case, a fly)'
Let's look at the results....
First up, Ahmadinejad.
Neither aggressive nor violent. Good effort. Now let's see how Barack Obama handles the same situation...
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
I think the best way to get the answer to the above-mentioned quesstion is to put them in a similar test situation and see how they react.
The test I've chosen is 'How do they deal with a bothersome intruder? (in this case, a fly)'
Let's look at the results....
First up, Ahmadinejad.
Neither aggressive nor violent. Good effort. Now let's see how Barack Obama handles the same situation...
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
No way
I will never ever in my life listen to anyone that argues that Ladbrokes isn't a set-up and that the players aren't bots put there by Ladbrokes.
Not after this just happened.
I know people get bored looking at beats, but this isn't a beat but more of a WHAT THE FUCK?
Please have a look at it and tell me I'm being irrational. It takes a little while to load, so wait for it. It's the sickest one I've seen in a long time.
Not after this just happened.
I know people get bored looking at beats, but this isn't a beat but more of a WHAT THE FUCK?
Please have a look at it and tell me I'm being irrational. It takes a little while to load, so wait for it. It's the sickest one I've seen in a long time.
Tuesday, 7 July 2009
What if I don't like you...
...wearing that suit of your old man's?
Had to post this vid as it has given me the biggest laugh I've ever had at something poker-related. The insult at the end is so random, so tilt-induced, and so perfect. It's the kind of thing I'd say to someone in that situation. Just blurt it out and then laugh to myself later on when I played it back in my head.
Had to post this vid as it has given me the biggest laugh I've ever had at something poker-related. The insult at the end is so random, so tilt-induced, and so perfect. It's the kind of thing I'd say to someone in that situation. Just blurt it out and then laugh to myself later on when I played it back in my head.
pubeless wonder
I got down to the Grosvenor last night at about midnight and found the cash table empty and the re-buy tournament down to the final 10 players.
I picked up a copy of Poker Pro magazine from the rack and sat down for a little read whilst waiting to see if any of the tourney donks wanted to play cash after busting out. Each time one got knocked out I'd ask him if he fancied it, and each time I'd be told no.
At about 1 o'clock I heard "alright mate" and looked up to see a guy that I'd met the other night at the game and who had given me a lift home at the end of the session as he just lives round the corner from me. I'd sent him a message asking if he fancied a game tonight and he replied that he'd love to but that he'd done his bollocks the previous night on something or other. So I was pretty surprised to see him now. He'd borrowed 40 quid off his mum.
I told him that it wasn't looking promising for a game but that we might have more chance of attracting players if we sat down at the table. By 1.30 we were playing 5-handed with 2 players from the tournament plus a girl down from London who deals in the Empire.
I soon busted one of the tournament guys when my pocket kings flopped a set, I checked the flop, called his bet on the turn, raised his bet on the river and called his re-raise all-in. He didn't show, but I suspect he'd rivered two pair.
The game went on 4-handed until 4am, I cashed out for a pointless profit of about 12 quid. My mate was up about 50.
Neither of us were tired and both were feeling the gamble, so when he suggested that we drive down to the Rendez-Vu to see if they still had a game going I said "good idea."
As we drove I listened to this guy's stories and realised he was a younger version of me. Just 18 years old, he's lost thousands through gambling, mostly on in-shop Roulette in Laddies. He's regularly spent 10 hours in the shop and has been known to do £800 worth of wages in a single session.
He's a decent-looking bloke, not stupid, and still only 18, ffs! He could be doing so much more with his life, but the truth is he's going to get to 25 and be a degen like me, then he'll get to 50 and be a degen like Joppa. Well, hopefully now that JR's self-excluded himself from all betting shops he won't still be a degen at 51. He's not already 51 is he?
It's so sick listening to others' stories of degeneracy, it makes you realise that you're neither special nor unique. We all think the same, lie the same, and live the same.
We got into the Rendez-Vu at about 4.15 and went straight to the card room where we found a 3-handed Dealer's Choice game going on. We asked the dealer if we could get in but she said that she was doing the last three hands.
"Let's have a look at the blackjack." Said my mate.
"Dangerous." I told him.
"I'm not gonna lose my winnings from tonight, I'll just play a couple of games." He said.
I had £130 in my pocket so pulled out a twenty and got four £5 chips. It went up to £35 and then down to zero. I bought in for another £30. This time I got it up to £80 and said that I was going to cash out.
"Ah, come on. just play until I lose this last 20." He said.
A few minutes later and I was broke again and handing over my remaining 80 quid. So fucking sick, a few minutes later I was completely skint. Why the fuck couldn't I just walk away while I was up? Why did I even get into the game in the first place?
We drove home and I felt sick. I went to bed and I felt sick. I couldn't even have a wank. Nothing was functioning.
There's a £5 rebuy at the Grosvenor tonight that I was planning on playing, as well as the cash game that follows, but now the only chance I have of that happening is if I turn the £20 in my Ladbrokes account into something a lot bigger this afternoon. The plan is to hit the double-ups, get the balance up to 50, then sit down to a cash game and try to treble it up. Then and only then will I be in the game tonight.
How the fuck am I supposed to take that girl out now? I'm such a fucking donk. Blackjack, ffs. 2 nights ago I made the sensible decision to escape from the casino before the BJ table lured me in. Last night I got lured in. I'm a ball-bag.
Just bought into the $10 rebuy on Laddies using tournament points. Played proper solid poker and made it past the close of the re-buy period and into the part of the game where the proper poker is supposed to be played. Then this bullshit. I fucking give up. Seriously, I've had enough of the set-ups and the rigged bull-shit. How the fuck can they continuously get away with this bollocks?
Remember the days when pocket aces was a serious hand?
I'm going to finish this post completely off-topic.
At some point in the past I've obviously accepted a Facebook add from some chav slag I went to school with and then completely forgotten about it. I remember now that the only reason I accepted her was because she was working in Ladbrokes for a while (I think she got sacked recently. Either that or she just didn't turn up to work.) and I didn't want to have to explain to her why I'd rejected her add so I'd just taken the easy option and clicked 'accept.'
A couple of minutes ago I was going through my Facebook homepage and found the following Status and then comments. The classiness of this girl is second to none. Enjoy;
"Stacey is loving grant but just wants to die right now."
Mark says: "do it quietly"
Stacey says "cheeky fucking shit"
Mark says "allways" (yep, he spelt 'always' wrong)
Stacey says "yer, innit"
Mark says "u talk like a black man, u weirdo"
Stacey says "yea i'm weird. always have bin. thats why i stopped hanging round the pub. lol. your all weird." (again, please note that the grammatical errors aren't mine.)
Mark says "i got told it was because arron gave you crabs and thats why u dont come in any more"
Stacey says "i've never had pubic hair"
Tasha says "that's very true, even i know that." (wtf?!)
Stacey says "Ain't had any since i was 13 so your all full of shit make's me laugh!" (omg, what sort of slag do you have to be to start giving yourself a Hollywood shave at the age of 13?)
How funny is this tattoo?
I picked up a copy of Poker Pro magazine from the rack and sat down for a little read whilst waiting to see if any of the tourney donks wanted to play cash after busting out. Each time one got knocked out I'd ask him if he fancied it, and each time I'd be told no.
At about 1 o'clock I heard "alright mate" and looked up to see a guy that I'd met the other night at the game and who had given me a lift home at the end of the session as he just lives round the corner from me. I'd sent him a message asking if he fancied a game tonight and he replied that he'd love to but that he'd done his bollocks the previous night on something or other. So I was pretty surprised to see him now. He'd borrowed 40 quid off his mum.
I told him that it wasn't looking promising for a game but that we might have more chance of attracting players if we sat down at the table. By 1.30 we were playing 5-handed with 2 players from the tournament plus a girl down from London who deals in the Empire.
I soon busted one of the tournament guys when my pocket kings flopped a set, I checked the flop, called his bet on the turn, raised his bet on the river and called his re-raise all-in. He didn't show, but I suspect he'd rivered two pair.
The game went on 4-handed until 4am, I cashed out for a pointless profit of about 12 quid. My mate was up about 50.
Neither of us were tired and both were feeling the gamble, so when he suggested that we drive down to the Rendez-Vu to see if they still had a game going I said "good idea."
As we drove I listened to this guy's stories and realised he was a younger version of me. Just 18 years old, he's lost thousands through gambling, mostly on in-shop Roulette in Laddies. He's regularly spent 10 hours in the shop and has been known to do £800 worth of wages in a single session.
He's a decent-looking bloke, not stupid, and still only 18, ffs! He could be doing so much more with his life, but the truth is he's going to get to 25 and be a degen like me, then he'll get to 50 and be a degen like Joppa. Well, hopefully now that JR's self-excluded himself from all betting shops he won't still be a degen at 51. He's not already 51 is he?
It's so sick listening to others' stories of degeneracy, it makes you realise that you're neither special nor unique. We all think the same, lie the same, and live the same.
We got into the Rendez-Vu at about 4.15 and went straight to the card room where we found a 3-handed Dealer's Choice game going on. We asked the dealer if we could get in but she said that she was doing the last three hands.
"Let's have a look at the blackjack." Said my mate.
"Dangerous." I told him.
"I'm not gonna lose my winnings from tonight, I'll just play a couple of games." He said.
I had £130 in my pocket so pulled out a twenty and got four £5 chips. It went up to £35 and then down to zero. I bought in for another £30. This time I got it up to £80 and said that I was going to cash out.
"Ah, come on. just play until I lose this last 20." He said.
A few minutes later and I was broke again and handing over my remaining 80 quid. So fucking sick, a few minutes later I was completely skint. Why the fuck couldn't I just walk away while I was up? Why did I even get into the game in the first place?
We drove home and I felt sick. I went to bed and I felt sick. I couldn't even have a wank. Nothing was functioning.
There's a £5 rebuy at the Grosvenor tonight that I was planning on playing, as well as the cash game that follows, but now the only chance I have of that happening is if I turn the £20 in my Ladbrokes account into something a lot bigger this afternoon. The plan is to hit the double-ups, get the balance up to 50, then sit down to a cash game and try to treble it up. Then and only then will I be in the game tonight.
How the fuck am I supposed to take that girl out now? I'm such a fucking donk. Blackjack, ffs. 2 nights ago I made the sensible decision to escape from the casino before the BJ table lured me in. Last night I got lured in. I'm a ball-bag.
Just bought into the $10 rebuy on Laddies using tournament points. Played proper solid poker and made it past the close of the re-buy period and into the part of the game where the proper poker is supposed to be played. Then this bullshit. I fucking give up. Seriously, I've had enough of the set-ups and the rigged bull-shit. How the fuck can they continuously get away with this bollocks?
Remember the days when pocket aces was a serious hand?
I'm going to finish this post completely off-topic.
At some point in the past I've obviously accepted a Facebook add from some chav slag I went to school with and then completely forgotten about it. I remember now that the only reason I accepted her was because she was working in Ladbrokes for a while (I think she got sacked recently. Either that or she just didn't turn up to work.) and I didn't want to have to explain to her why I'd rejected her add so I'd just taken the easy option and clicked 'accept.'
A couple of minutes ago I was going through my Facebook homepage and found the following Status and then comments. The classiness of this girl is second to none. Enjoy;
"Stacey is loving grant but just wants to die right now."
Mark says: "do it quietly"
Stacey says "cheeky fucking shit"
Mark says "allways" (yep, he spelt 'always' wrong)
Stacey says "yer, innit"
Mark says "u talk like a black man, u weirdo"
Stacey says "yea i'm weird. always have bin. thats why i stopped hanging round the pub. lol. your all weird." (again, please note that the grammatical errors aren't mine.)
Mark says "i got told it was because arron gave you crabs and thats why u dont come in any more"
Stacey says "i've never had pubic hair"
Tasha says "that's very true, even i know that." (wtf?!)
Stacey says "Ain't had any since i was 13 so your all full of shit make's me laugh!" (omg, what sort of slag do you have to be to start giving yourself a Hollywood shave at the age of 13?)
How funny is this tattoo?
Monday, 6 July 2009
Let's try again
Last night turned out to be a complete non-event. Got to the casino at about midnight and found it almost empty apart from the same degenerate faces that I'd seen the night before, mostly elderly Asians, walking around in a zombified trance holding a cup full of coins and chips, walking from slot machine to slot machine to roulette wheel to blackjack table and then back to the trusty slot machine.
I asked one of the croupiers what time the poker was going to start and he said "when enough players turn up."
An hour later and I'd had more than enough of sitting sipping a Coke and watching the sad life of the degens and I also started having a panic attack as I feared I couldn't fight the calling of the blackjack any longer. I had £230 in my pocket and knew that the chances of me leaving there completely skint were getting higher with every passing minute.
part of me was saying "look at these sad wasters, they don't even know what day it is." The other part was saying "look at these sad wasters getting action. mmmmm, action. Beautiful, sexy, degenerate action."
I stood up and ran out the door and over the road to the beach where I walked up and down a bit, smoking and keeping my eyes open for any girls that might have lost their friends and were feeling a bit chatty and frisky.
There were none. It was Sunday night, after all.
I was feeling bored and desperate for some kind of fix, any fix, so when I heard some loud, fast hard-house bass coming from one of the clubs on the seafront I started making my way to the small queue with the plan being to get inside and score a couple of pills.
I used to be really into that sort of music in my late teenage years when a few of us would spend the whole day mixing tunes up on the decks round one of our houses before heading into town, finding some little club off the beaten track, popping a few disco biscuits (as we used to call them back then. How young and clever we thought we were) and then walking home at around 6 in the morning with pupils like saucers.
I have no idea why I wanted a bit of that again last night, especially as I was on my own, but something about being alone and getting off of my face seemed exciting. So, I was all set to go in until I caught a view of the outdoor smoking area. Where were the girls? Why was every man wearing a vest and a cowboy hat?
I made my way to the bus-stop to see if there were any night buses going my way and I was home by 2.
I then sat down to a cash table on Ladbrokes and lost 120 quid in about an hour. The majority of which went when I re-raised a maniac's button raise from the big blind with AK suited. He'd raised to 6, I re-raised to 15, he then pushed all-in. I insta-called, knowing full well that he was the worst player on the table and was also a complete aggressive fish. He was Italian. Says it all. They're almost as bad as the French.
The flop bought the ace and I felt confident of seeing the pot moved my way. The river meant there were no straight or flush possibilities either. I sighed as the pot was pushed over to his seat. What had he played for over £100? Pocket fucking fives. The turn had given him a set. JR had even folded a five pre-flop, so he hit his one outer. Ladbrokes. Bull shit. Get used to it.
Before going out last night I'd spent a few hours chatting online to that girl and I'd more than cemented myself in her mind. She's as quick a girl as I've known mentally, and I don't have to worry about toning down my sense of humour or cleaning it up, she gets me perfectly.
Just before going out I told her that I was taking her out for dinner next week and that I wouldn't accept any excuses, to which she replied "I wouldn't offer any. It's a deal."
When I got in last night I was pleasantly surprised to find that my name even appeared in her Facebook status as she'd quoted me on something funny/stupid I'd said in our earlier chat. There was also a nice message waiting for me in the inbox and I then got another one at 3am just telling me that she was bored in bed watching Karate Kid 3 and was wondering if I'd had a good night. I always hate it when girls start doing this, sending random messages and making it clear that they're thinking of me at random times, but there's something brilliant about seeing it happen to a girl that I really like and really want to get with.
I even went out today and spent 50 quid on a new phone just to make communication between the two of us even easier.
I'm back to the casino tonight as they have a £10 re-buy tourney that started at 8 this evening, meaning that there should be a juicy cash game on later once the fish start busting out. I've only got £150 to my name and I feel slightly apprehensive turning up with so little, but as long as I can play solid poker from the off, I should be OK. I'll just do my best to keep the pots small, not got involved chasing hands unless it makes sense to do so, and most importantly of all, not make ridiculous bluffs on the river early on, no matter how weak I believe my opponent is. I'll let you know how it goes. I can't afford to lose, I need restaurant money for next week. I know, I know.. Any idiot knows that if you can't afford to lose then you shouldn't play, but hey, I'm a degenerate.
Does anyone else get scared when they hear this song? Or is it just me? It sends a shiver down my spine and makes me wanna run away.
I asked one of the croupiers what time the poker was going to start and he said "when enough players turn up."
An hour later and I'd had more than enough of sitting sipping a Coke and watching the sad life of the degens and I also started having a panic attack as I feared I couldn't fight the calling of the blackjack any longer. I had £230 in my pocket and knew that the chances of me leaving there completely skint were getting higher with every passing minute.
part of me was saying "look at these sad wasters, they don't even know what day it is." The other part was saying "look at these sad wasters getting action. mmmmm, action. Beautiful, sexy, degenerate action."
I stood up and ran out the door and over the road to the beach where I walked up and down a bit, smoking and keeping my eyes open for any girls that might have lost their friends and were feeling a bit chatty and frisky.
There were none. It was Sunday night, after all.
I was feeling bored and desperate for some kind of fix, any fix, so when I heard some loud, fast hard-house bass coming from one of the clubs on the seafront I started making my way to the small queue with the plan being to get inside and score a couple of pills.
I used to be really into that sort of music in my late teenage years when a few of us would spend the whole day mixing tunes up on the decks round one of our houses before heading into town, finding some little club off the beaten track, popping a few disco biscuits (as we used to call them back then. How young and clever we thought we were) and then walking home at around 6 in the morning with pupils like saucers.
I have no idea why I wanted a bit of that again last night, especially as I was on my own, but something about being alone and getting off of my face seemed exciting. So, I was all set to go in until I caught a view of the outdoor smoking area. Where were the girls? Why was every man wearing a vest and a cowboy hat?
I made my way to the bus-stop to see if there were any night buses going my way and I was home by 2.
I then sat down to a cash table on Ladbrokes and lost 120 quid in about an hour. The majority of which went when I re-raised a maniac's button raise from the big blind with AK suited. He'd raised to 6, I re-raised to 15, he then pushed all-in. I insta-called, knowing full well that he was the worst player on the table and was also a complete aggressive fish. He was Italian. Says it all. They're almost as bad as the French.
The flop bought the ace and I felt confident of seeing the pot moved my way. The river meant there were no straight or flush possibilities either. I sighed as the pot was pushed over to his seat. What had he played for over £100? Pocket fucking fives. The turn had given him a set. JR had even folded a five pre-flop, so he hit his one outer. Ladbrokes. Bull shit. Get used to it.
Before going out last night I'd spent a few hours chatting online to that girl and I'd more than cemented myself in her mind. She's as quick a girl as I've known mentally, and I don't have to worry about toning down my sense of humour or cleaning it up, she gets me perfectly.
Just before going out I told her that I was taking her out for dinner next week and that I wouldn't accept any excuses, to which she replied "I wouldn't offer any. It's a deal."
When I got in last night I was pleasantly surprised to find that my name even appeared in her Facebook status as she'd quoted me on something funny/stupid I'd said in our earlier chat. There was also a nice message waiting for me in the inbox and I then got another one at 3am just telling me that she was bored in bed watching Karate Kid 3 and was wondering if I'd had a good night. I always hate it when girls start doing this, sending random messages and making it clear that they're thinking of me at random times, but there's something brilliant about seeing it happen to a girl that I really like and really want to get with.
I even went out today and spent 50 quid on a new phone just to make communication between the two of us even easier.
I'm back to the casino tonight as they have a £10 re-buy tourney that started at 8 this evening, meaning that there should be a juicy cash game on later once the fish start busting out. I've only got £150 to my name and I feel slightly apprehensive turning up with so little, but as long as I can play solid poker from the off, I should be OK. I'll just do my best to keep the pots small, not got involved chasing hands unless it makes sense to do so, and most importantly of all, not make ridiculous bluffs on the river early on, no matter how weak I believe my opponent is. I'll let you know how it goes. I can't afford to lose, I need restaurant money for next week. I know, I know.. Any idiot knows that if you can't afford to lose then you shouldn't play, but hey, I'm a degenerate.
Does anyone else get scared when they hear this song? Or is it just me? It sends a shiver down my spine and makes me wanna run away.
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