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For the British at the WSOP, yesterday was definitely a case of so near but so far. It appears undeniable that the UK players punch above their weight in Pot Limit Omaha, and Ross Boatman came fourth in the latest PLO World Series tournament. Conor Tate seems to focus on PLO and I recall Ben Grundy posting figures that showed he was barely more than break-even online at high-level No Limit Hold'em. His profit comes from short-handed PLO.
Once could ascribe this British excellence to the period at the Vic when PLO was just about the only decent game in town (this was before NLH had superseded Pot Limit Hold'em) -- partly because there were some whale Arabs feeding off the oil boom who loved to play it. That might explain a "traditional" feel for the game in the UK. Then there's the fact that it's pot limit, a game significantly different from No Limit. I don't think that the British are distinctly better at the two formats (four cards, pot limit) -- more that the Americans do not adapt to it sufficiently well.
More galling was John Duthie's silver medal in the heads-up $10K tournament, most definitely not a donkament, but equally definitely a marathon. I really thought that John was going to take this down, and I would have liked him to have so done, because he has given a lot to poker in Europe, pushing the EPT into the American consciousness to the extent that most of the forward-looking US players are happy to come over the Atlantic for at least the larger of the tournaments.
Speaking of silver medals, has Harrah's thought of giving golds, silvers and bronzes in these tournaments? I mean, second out of 2,000 in a donkathon and all you get is "just missed out on a bracelet" (plus a few hundred grand, admittedly).
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Jeez, I bought some Kenco coffee instead of Blend 37 because the largest jar of the latter was the size of a teaspoon (I think Tesco stopped stocking the larger jars because the price of coffee has gone up -- go figure). And it's shit. Kenco, I mean. Really shit. It tastes like real coffee would taste like if made with evaporated milk. I shall give it away and buy some proper Blend 37, small jar or not.
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I've been in that "heading towards mid-life crisis" mindset for a while now. Part of this has probably been brought on by my failure to save any money in the past year. That in turn brings on a "is this all worth it" feeling and a "I might as well enjoy myself now rather than wait for six years when, if current trends are anything to go by, I won't be able to afford to stop working anyway".
But I'm a hesitant, risk-averse kind of chap, so my own version of a mid-life crisis is hardly likely to shake the world. I'm definitely dissatisfied with my life at the moment. Koyaaniqatsi, as the Hopi Indians would term it. Perhaps I'll start dating 29-year-olds. After all, how hard can it be? I'd end up getting hurt, of course, but, well, fuck it, that's what happens no matter what age they are. So I might as well have a good time on the road towards it.
And if I ask, well, I can only get turned down. So what? No-one dies as a result.
__________
Yesterday was one of those odd moments when I came across not one, but two good radio shows. And both were repeats. I'd heard the Mark Watson stuff before, but he never fails to entertain. I particularly liked his campaign against the overuse of the word "hell" by lazy journalists ("hell" qualifying on two grounds for shit sub-editors, being both emotionally charged and short). He cited the Evening Standard headline of "Commuter Hell as Oyster Card system fails", noting that, if you were condemned to eternal damnation, it would be something of a relief to find that the major punishment would be your season ticket not working in a machine.
The second radio programme was new to me, surprisingly. "Secret World" was kind of a Radio Stella Street that worked (mainly because the players were rather better than Phil Cornwell and John Sessions at taking on the characters depicted). "Bruce Forsyth" as one half of a protection gang duo was excellent, while "Peter Mandelson" as someone quite clearly just this side of Barking was a masterpiece.
__________
Poker looks fairly crap this evening. I might finish off watching Mad Men and reading Oracle Night. I was a bit surprised on Friday night to discover that, in a random survey of five journalists, only one (Sarah, my replacement as editor on IIN24 when I am on holiday) had heard of Paul Auster. I have to assume that Auster, like Richard Brautigan, is one of those forgotten authors of the 1980s. As I wildly enthuse to these innocents that Auster is probably one of the finest writers of English in the past 40 years (he is, to be honest, one of the few writers of novels that, after I have read them, I wish I had written), I can see the eyes begin to glaze over as they always do when confronted by some evangelist of something quite clearly a fraction eccentric. So it goes.
___________
Once could ascribe this British excellence to the period at the Vic when PLO was just about the only decent game in town (this was before NLH had superseded Pot Limit Hold'em) -- partly because there were some whale Arabs feeding off the oil boom who loved to play it. That might explain a "traditional" feel for the game in the UK. Then there's the fact that it's pot limit, a game significantly different from No Limit. I don't think that the British are distinctly better at the two formats (four cards, pot limit) -- more that the Americans do not adapt to it sufficiently well.
More galling was John Duthie's silver medal in the heads-up $10K tournament, most definitely not a donkament, but equally definitely a marathon. I really thought that John was going to take this down, and I would have liked him to have so done, because he has given a lot to poker in Europe, pushing the EPT into the American consciousness to the extent that most of the forward-looking US players are happy to come over the Atlantic for at least the larger of the tournaments.
Speaking of silver medals, has Harrah's thought of giving golds, silvers and bronzes in these tournaments? I mean, second out of 2,000 in a donkathon and all you get is "just missed out on a bracelet" (plus a few hundred grand, admittedly).
________
Jeez, I bought some Kenco coffee instead of Blend 37 because the largest jar of the latter was the size of a teaspoon (I think Tesco stopped stocking the larger jars because the price of coffee has gone up -- go figure). And it's shit. Kenco, I mean. Really shit. It tastes like real coffee would taste like if made with evaporated milk. I shall give it away and buy some proper Blend 37, small jar or not.
__________
I've been in that "heading towards mid-life crisis" mindset for a while now. Part of this has probably been brought on by my failure to save any money in the past year. That in turn brings on a "is this all worth it" feeling and a "I might as well enjoy myself now rather than wait for six years when, if current trends are anything to go by, I won't be able to afford to stop working anyway".
But I'm a hesitant, risk-averse kind of chap, so my own version of a mid-life crisis is hardly likely to shake the world. I'm definitely dissatisfied with my life at the moment. Koyaaniqatsi, as the Hopi Indians would term it. Perhaps I'll start dating 29-year-olds. After all, how hard can it be? I'd end up getting hurt, of course, but, well, fuck it, that's what happens no matter what age they are. So I might as well have a good time on the road towards it.
And if I ask, well, I can only get turned down. So what? No-one dies as a result.
__________
Yesterday was one of those odd moments when I came across not one, but two good radio shows. And both were repeats. I'd heard the Mark Watson stuff before, but he never fails to entertain. I particularly liked his campaign against the overuse of the word "hell" by lazy journalists ("hell" qualifying on two grounds for shit sub-editors, being both emotionally charged and short). He cited the Evening Standard headline of "Commuter Hell as Oyster Card system fails", noting that, if you were condemned to eternal damnation, it would be something of a relief to find that the major punishment would be your season ticket not working in a machine.
The second radio programme was new to me, surprisingly. "Secret World" was kind of a Radio Stella Street that worked (mainly because the players were rather better than Phil Cornwell and John Sessions at taking on the characters depicted). "Bruce Forsyth" as one half of a protection gang duo was excellent, while "Peter Mandelson" as someone quite clearly just this side of Barking was a masterpiece.
__________
Poker looks fairly crap this evening. I might finish off watching Mad Men and reading Oracle Night. I was a bit surprised on Friday night to discover that, in a random survey of five journalists, only one (Sarah, my replacement as editor on IIN24 when I am on holiday) had heard of Paul Auster. I have to assume that Auster, like Richard Brautigan, is one of those forgotten authors of the 1980s. As I wildly enthuse to these innocents that Auster is probably one of the finest writers of English in the past 40 years (he is, to be honest, one of the few writers of novels that, after I have read them, I wish I had written), I can see the eyes begin to glaze over as they always do when confronted by some evangelist of something quite clearly a fraction eccentric. So it goes.
___________
