This Bogus Poetry

It’s a Friday night in October and we are sitting in the corner of a very small bar just off the Reeperbahn in Hamburg’s red light district. The bar was chosen somewhat at random as a place to shelter from the rain. As we sip our delicious bottles of Astra, we survey the following scene: The bar is mainly wood panelled. Periodically the barmaid will stand up on top of the counter and pour everyone shots. It’s a little bit rough and ready, in fact probably as rough and ready as is possible these days in the tourist friendly Reeperbahn area. At the bar, a middle aged German man seduces his wife by dancing very, very badly. She feigns mock disgust, but the hint of a smile around the corners of her mouth betrays the fact that she LOVES his bad middle aged German man dancing ways. Now of course, I am someone who cannot talk about this subject with any type of lofty position, but from what I’ve seen, German people dance quite badly. German dancing 101 The German style of dancing is very over

I've spent the past few days on a golf course in southern Spain where I played a poker tournament sponsored by bookmaker Victor Chandler . I'd won free entry to the tournament back in the halcyon days of September when it seemed I could do no wrong at the poker table. On arrival I was picked up at Malaga airport by a driver with a card with my name written on it. This was perhaps the most awesome part of the whole trip! When I rolled up at the hotel after an hour of Spanish football chat, I was allocated a suite with champagne, chocolates, two showers and a bidet. After sampling all four, I went to dinner and met some of the fellow players. Almost all from the UK and Scandinavia, they seemed a little better than I hoped they might be, but I still fancied my chances. This was tempered somewhat after I saw the tournament structure sheet and realised the tournament would be something of a crapshoot. The next day after a visit to Gibraltar which I will write about in another post,

Recently I went to collect a parcel. In Germany, this is not so straightforward. After trekking across town, we locate the Berlin DHL delivery depot, nestled in between a dual carriageway and a quite frankly scary looking building complete with gargoyles and an ominous sense of authority (that now seems to have been turned into the HQ of a German Radio station). Upon entering the building we were greeted by a scene that looked like a doctor’s waiting room. All the classic signs were there. Chairs in rows of five or six with that little bit of extra space between them to stop the spread of disease. People sitting on their own, or occasionally in pairs, nervously flicking through several month old magazines whilst repeatedly glancing at the clock and eying the person who came in before them. The occasional cough or shuffle. All it needed was some posters about herpes and the picture would have been complete. My partner and crime and I join the queue for the counter and eventually get to

Sundays in Berlin have now settled into something of a routine. It is the big day for poker tournaments and generally I play around 15 of them in the evening, beginning at 6:45CET and often going on until four or five in the morning depending on how I do. There is generally a lot of money in play and it can be quite stressful. The day is usually one for a big win or a big loss, or most likely - scrambling to break even. In contrast, Sunday daytimes in Berlin are a very laid back affair. Many shops and business are in Germany are closed, so the city has quite a sleepy vibe. People go out to have a big Sunday breakfast, read the papers and wander around. I am currently living in the Prenzlauer Berg area of the city. It's a nice, if somewhat gentrified area - not as edgy and hip as Kreuzberg or Friedrichshain, but certainly a very interesting part of the city to live in. Our current apartment is on the fourth floor (no lift!) and is about 100 yards east from where the Berlin Wall use

Well I guess I'm officially a professional online poker player now. Things have been going really well and I've been grinding online tournaments 2-4 nights a week. At the time of writing, I'm up to #27 in the Pocket Fives UK rankings. I've won a few tournaments and a couple of weeks ago just missed out on a triple crown for winning three tournaments with a prize pool of over $10,000, on three different sites within a week. But one night recently things did not go to plan. A couple of hours into a session whilst playing around 7 or 8 tournaments and with around $1,000 in play, my apartment where I'm staying in Berlin had a power cut. It's pretty much a nightmare scenario and I knew that every minute that the power was out was costing me money, as my equity in each tournament slowly diminished. After lighting some candles and waiting for about five minutes, I decided I had to make a run for it. I quickly packed a bag and jogged 500 metres or so down darkened stre

"Send em all back, that's what I say" "Who?" I replied, somewhat taken aback. "The Muslims, all of them, send them back" Add caption This was my first verbal exchange at the 1/5 Spread Limit Seven Card Stud game at the Mirage in Las Vegas. As an opening salvo, this was somewhat of a statement of intent. "But send them back where?" I asked in response. "HOME" replied the elderly lady, now clearly getting agitated as she discarded her hand on fourth street. There was heavy action of a $2 bet from a man across the table, who from first glance, it was difficult to distinguish whether he was alive or dead. "But most Muslims in the UK were born there" I stated matter of factly, as I brought it in with my three up. "SEND EM' BACK" was the unequivocal response from the lady. Clearly we weren't getting anywhere fast in this debate. The elderly moustached man sitting next to me now chimed in,

All I'm saying is: I wrote this in April - http://thisboguspoetry.blogspot.com/2009/04/detailed-analysis-of-song-down-under-by.html The BBC published this a few days ago - http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/magazine/8178913.stm I will inform Tristan, my lawyer, when he gets back from his family break in Tuscany. IS THIS WHAT I PAY MY LICENCE FEE FOR??????

Willits, California is not somewhere I’d recommend to the casual tourist. But for the road tripper, I feel the experience was a vital rite of passage. My companion and I left Oakland late and drove for around three hours before hitting our destination. On the way we’d stopped for a classic roadtrip burger from In and Out, a place in America that is after my own heart by having only about five items on the menu. One thing that I’ve begun to hate in the US is choice for food and drink. Just give me a few options and I’ll decide, don’t give me infinite choice – my British brain just gets all confused and hurty. Arriving in Willits the action was slow. It seemed there wouldn’t be any tourist sights to view the next morning and we soon found a road with about ten motels on. With such a range of options some might decide to go for quality and which one looked the best, some might go for a chain that they’d heard of which would hopefully provide some kind of basic standards. We chose the one

*Warning if you don’t want to know what happens in toilets in Las Vegas at 4am then you better stop reading now. A lot of people have asked me if I am playing the World Series of Poker this year, as it is taking place whilst I am in America. My answer to this question is no. In truth I am a bit over Vegas right now and the thought of going there in the stifling temperatures of late may or early June is something that doesn’t excite me one bit. Though naturally, I would like to visit the pinball museum again. My epiphany, my Vegas nadir if you will, came one Friday last October, at around 4:30am, in the toilets of Harrah’s hotel and casino. I was playing in a pretty crazy poker game. There was a Frenchman who had all the money despite not knowing how to play. He had over $1500 on the table and he was willing to gamble and go all in on a whim. Two kids were randomly going in blind for $100 at a time and a couple of other players who weren’t too hot including one who’s catchphrase everyti

It's one of the finest songs of its generation, but one that has been sadly ignored by music historians and scholars. Until now... Traveling in a fried-out combie On a hippie trail, head full of zombie I met a strange lady, she made me nervous She took me in and gave me breakfast The opening to this strange tale. Our narrator it seems is backpacking around Europe in a camper van whilst listening to White Zombie. I would encourage any Australian backpackers not to hang out in red light districts, let alone have breakfast with European prostitutes, particularly if feeling uneasy and unsafe. It's certainly not a good way to spend a gap year and it won't impress on your CV when applying for jobs in the future. And she said, Do you come from a land down under? Where women glow and men plunder? Cant you hear, cant you hear the thunder? You better run, you better take cover. Clearly this makes no sense whatsoever. I can perhaps understand why European prostitutes think Australian

I notice snooker authorities recently announced plans to make the sport more exciting and try to replicate the success of Twenty20 cricket. It's an ambitious plan and it involves... *drumroll* Having less balls on the table As far as I can see - That's it. Is having less balls on the table going to make someone who has never watched snooker before suddenly decide to watch? "Oh wow I love snooker now, there's far less of those confusing red balls. What do you call them?" "Reds" "Yes far less reds, I like it much better now without those reds" It's just not going to happen. So therefore, I announce my five ways to make snooker sexier and more appealing to the general public. --- 1.Make drugs compulsory --- I've had enough of this campaign to get drugs out of sport. What we need is more players playing whilst high as a kite. What I suggest is this. One hour before the match in the dressing room, each player is required to take a mandatory

Oakland, California - 10:30AM *Knock at the door* I peer through the net curtain. It is an elderly black man. I do not know this man, so I am about to make the decision not to answer, when I notice his most excellent hat. I curse my love of hats. I notice I am wearing my pajamas inside out. I open the door. I smell religion. ME " Hey... " Elderly Black Man " Good morning sir, how are you today? " Me " Err yeah, alright thanks " (looks quizzically) EBM " I'm here to tell you about the lord " Me (actually groans) " OK, well what about him? " EBM " Would you be willing to let the lord into your life? " Me " Sir, you've knocked on the wrong door here, I don't want to waste your time. I'm a nihilist. I don't believe in anything " EBM (Visibly taken aback) " You believe in nothing at all? " Me " That's correct " EBM " Do you believe I'm real? " Me (narrowing eyes, t

"Mate, you swim like a dickhead..." I'm in a small swimming baths in the suburbs of a provincial English city. I like to keep fit, though I've never ever been to a gym in my life, therefore swimming is a good solution. When I was about fourteen, I swam a mile. I have no idea how I did that. I would describe my swimming style as unorthodox. I guess this stems from my only real fear or phobia. Going underwater. I can't explain this fear and it makes no sense. I have no idea where it came from but I've always had it. It must be something to do with not being able to breathe, but that is not everything. Any others I've had, heights, needles - I've conquered without a problem. This one sticks. I remember when I was at school, I think probably the only detention I ever had was when I got into an argument with the PE teacher after I refused to dive to the bottom of the pool and get the brick. I said no, then I ended up getting out of the pool and totally refu

5. New Order - World In Motion Remember when England were good at football? No I'm not talking about 2001 or even 1996 . It's time to go back to 1990. Gary Lineker banging in the goals. A svelte Gazza in his prime. Chris Waddle bounding down the wing, his mullet proudly trailing behind him. A beautiful sight for all Englishmen. In the video, witness Gillian Gilbert looking distinctly awkward, Keith Allen being a twat and Bernard Sumner driving across the pitch in a car, no doubt ruining the playing surface in the process. Perhaps this was the reason the team were unable to practice taking penalties? And of course, we have to mention the John Barnes rap at 2:30. For me, rather than Gazza's tears , this was the iconic image of the 1990 World Cup. Some say it was his best performance in an England shirt and I wouldn't disagree. The lyricism, the flow, the focus, the hip swivel - It's all there. In Stuart Maconie's excellent rock journalist biography Cider With Ro

For no apparent reason whatsoever, I wanted to tell you about some of my all time favourite music videos. As a child of the MTV generation, music videos have always been really important to me. Some remind me of certain points in my life, others of certain people. Mostly they are just three and a half minute distractions. I'm not saying these are the best music videos ever, but for a variety of reasons, they are some of my favourites. 10. Depeche Mode - Enjoy The Silence Here's my theory. Dave Gahan is on his way back from a monarchy themed fancy dress party. It's late/early, the sun is just coming up. He takes a wrong turn just outside Basildon and finds a deckchair in a skip... I have no idea what was on Anton Corbijn's mind when he came up with the concept for this video, but I'm mighty glad he made it. --- 9. Bronski Beat - Smalltown Boy Firstly, I genuinely and truly love this song. The crux of the video is that Jimmy Sommerville has a homoerotic encounter in a

On Sunday I finished 8th out of 4,394 players in the Sunday Warm-up on PokerStars for a cool $10,985. I don't play tourneys very often and it's my biggest ever tournament cash. It was nice to make it in probably the second most prestigious weekly online tournament. This was only the third time I've ever played the Million or the Warm-up and I enjoyed it a lot, though it was pretty nerve racking near the end. I managed to get hold of some chips early thanks to some kind donations and one or two suck outs and I was 10th in chips at the first break. From then on things got rolling and eventually some nine hours later we were at the final table. In the time in between I played on the same table as some great players (Kenny 'Kenny Rap' Weinstein, Anthony 'D1rtyR1v3r' Nardi and Kevin 'BeL0WaB0Ve' Saul ), as well of course as some complete donkeys. I felt like I learnt a lot from playing such a lengthy high profile tournament - The way things change at dif

I'm hibernating. It feels like a bit of an in between time at the moment. Before something starts. Before the cogs begin to whir and and wheels begin to turn. Before an event of significance happens. Somehow, I find myself in Leeds, in the north of England. Living in a residential area filled with chavs, small aggressive dogs and hyperactive children called Kane and Kyle. I feel like I'm preparing, getting ready for something important. Or maybe it is just nice to tell myself that, to justify this downtime, this isolation from seemingly normal everyday existence. I have spent some time thinking about Buddhism and I want to know more. I have spent some time pondering Polyamory and I would like to investigate further. And I suspect that I spend more time than most ruminating on the best way to play two overcards, in a shorthanded Limit Texas Hold'em game, when you've been just been check-raised by an aggressive opponent on the flop. Poker player Andy Black spent five year

I've never wanted to be famous. I think I would prefer to have a brush with fame, a glancing blow of notoriety, be a footnote in history. Perhaps I could have been the kitman for the 1966 England World Cup Squad. Making sure Geoff Hurst's shirt was clean for the final and perhaps subtlety influencing team selection by sitting behind Alf Ramsey in the dugout. I don't ever want to win the World Series of Poker, I'd prefer to come second. Take the pay day and slink into the sunset and never play poker again. Or how about an associate, a confidant of Bowie and Iggy Pop in West Berlin in the late 70s. A friend from down the bierkeller. Maybe I would go round to Bowie's and play scrabble, perhaps add handclaps and percussion to some of the album tracks on Lust For Life or Heroes. Maybe go and get some milk for Iggy's cornflakes after an all night recording session, as he was wrestling to finish the chorus to The Passenger. Bowie could put a subtle, obtuse hint in the