![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
To the Victoria on Edgware Road yesterday, which becomes more like Beirut-by-the-A40 every year. Chaps sipping their coffee outside cafes with signs only in Arabic, Lebanese restaurants, burkhas and head coverings almost mandatory. A weird land for south Londoners more used to the sound of Nigerians negotiating with the local halal butcher over the price of cows' feet.
Met up with Mr Ward and Mr Young (who was waiting for a cash game seat). Mr Thew came over to speak to Andy. Mr Channing and Mr Hawkins (whose days as flatmates were rumoured to be the inspiration for the TV series "Bottom") were in attendance in the £300 "crapshoot" upstairs, which was capped at 100 runners.
Attending the Vic reminds me why playing live in the UK doesn't really appeal. It's a sad fact of life that most of the people who attend poker tournaments and casinos in London are, in the long run, losers, and there is always an undercurrent of quiet desperation to win. It's not a place where you could expect to drop a tenner and have someone tap you on the shoulder to tell you.
After a delayed train home from Victoria, stuck for 20 minutes within 100 yards of Lewisham station, I fired up Full Tilt and saw just one 2-4 game going. No 3-6 ring game at all. I played 15 minutes of 5-10, but was tired, so I flicked out and ran through half an hour each on Party and Stars. Back to Full Tilt. Still no games running. How was I meant to get my 100 points a day if the bloody site didn't offer me my games?
So, it was by now 8pm, and I did the unthinkable. I took a nap. Normally if I am knackered by 8pm, I'll just call it a night and sleep through to 4am or so, but I was determined to get these FTP points. So I woke up at 10.30pm, got up, and at last found some games running, although their rock-like nature meant that it took longer than expected to get to my estimated 100 points.
Since the FTP "status" page on the web was proving woefully slow in updating (normally it's every 15 minutes), I still don't know for sure whether I got there.
+++++++
I keep meaning to mention a surreal radio show at 11pm Tuesday or thereabouts on Radio 4. It's 15 minutes long and is called Concrete Poetry, or some such similar, and I think that it's presented by a guy called Julian Fox. The best way that I can describe this is as a radio blog by a younger version of John Shuttleworth, including the silly songs thrown in the mix. Latest news is that Julian's flatmate has moved out, but the landlord is letting Julian stay in the flat at half-price until a replacement is found. So Julian has moved his futon from what was the bedroom (but is now the work space) into the other bedroom.
"I've slept in the same room for eight years", he said. "It looks a bit empty now".
Wonderful.
++++++++++++
Met up with Mr Ward and Mr Young (who was waiting for a cash game seat). Mr Thew came over to speak to Andy. Mr Channing and Mr Hawkins (whose days as flatmates were rumoured to be the inspiration for the TV series "Bottom") were in attendance in the £300 "crapshoot" upstairs, which was capped at 100 runners.
Attending the Vic reminds me why playing live in the UK doesn't really appeal. It's a sad fact of life that most of the people who attend poker tournaments and casinos in London are, in the long run, losers, and there is always an undercurrent of quiet desperation to win. It's not a place where you could expect to drop a tenner and have someone tap you on the shoulder to tell you.
After a delayed train home from Victoria, stuck for 20 minutes within 100 yards of Lewisham station, I fired up Full Tilt and saw just one 2-4 game going. No 3-6 ring game at all. I played 15 minutes of 5-10, but was tired, so I flicked out and ran through half an hour each on Party and Stars. Back to Full Tilt. Still no games running. How was I meant to get my 100 points a day if the bloody site didn't offer me my games?
So, it was by now 8pm, and I did the unthinkable. I took a nap. Normally if I am knackered by 8pm, I'll just call it a night and sleep through to 4am or so, but I was determined to get these FTP points. So I woke up at 10.30pm, got up, and at last found some games running, although their rock-like nature meant that it took longer than expected to get to my estimated 100 points.
Since the FTP "status" page on the web was proving woefully slow in updating (normally it's every 15 minutes), I still don't know for sure whether I got there.
+++++++
I keep meaning to mention a surreal radio show at 11pm Tuesday or thereabouts on Radio 4. It's 15 minutes long and is called Concrete Poetry, or some such similar, and I think that it's presented by a guy called Julian Fox. The best way that I can describe this is as a radio blog by a younger version of John Shuttleworth, including the silly songs thrown in the mix. Latest news is that Julian's flatmate has moved out, but the landlord is letting Julian stay in the flat at half-price until a replacement is found. So Julian has moved his futon from what was the bedroom (but is now the work space) into the other bedroom.
"I've slept in the same room for eight years", he said. "It looks a bit empty now".
Wonderful.
++++++++++++
