Poker School 101

Words slightly fail me regarding last night's Poker School but “challenging” is the one I’ve come up with. It took quite a while to even start the class because this involved breaking up a heated debate regarding the best way to deal with tennis elbow.

What tennis elbow looks like

After two hours or so, it appeared no solid conclusions had been reached however and I was then able to start teaching the fundamentals of Texas Hold’em.

Almost immediately my students decided to multi-task - combining this week’s Poker School with NEXT week’s Cinnamon course on wine tasting. Almost everyone was conscientiously and bravely working their way through Cinnamon's range of Riojas while simultaneously trying to master the four key words of poker terminology (bet, fold, check and raise). Congrats to James for being the ONLY player who ever actually used the correct word at the correct time.

Sally came up with so many different ways to say "I fold" (without actually saying "I fold") that I thought she was using a Thesaurus. (“I’m out”, “I quit”, “I bail” and “no” all came up – well done Sally!!!).

Tim’s tragedian responses (nearly every hand) to finding out that his totally crap hole cards WOULD have given him full house if only he had stayed in were Oscar-worthy. First would come the raised eyebrows and early look of horror (the flop). The turn card would have him on his feet, pointing furiously at the table and looking around for someone to blame. And by the river, he’d be throwing his arms in the air, groaning and gesticulating wildly. Even Othello would have been pushed to make more fuss.

Tim after every hand

Jane was a shoe-in for the “Mathematically Precise Dealing Award”, laying down such neat and tidy flops, I thought she must be using a T-Square. She dealt one hand so slowly I thought it WAS next week and almost had a glass of Rioja. I was very worried she would start labeling things.

Rick appeared to be paying attention and was very busy taking notes. At the time I assumed these were aides-de-memoire for his next game of poker, but I now realize they were notes for his next script.

Peter gets the “Swedish Internet Pro Award” for raising absolutely every hand without the slightly regard to the cards he’d actually been dealt. This gave him a lovely pot on one occasion when he accidentally hit two pair, but most of the time this proved an unsuccessful strategy.

I looked up “Top 5 Worst Starting Hands for Texas Hold 'Em” this morning and I strongly believe Peter managed to play them all. (FYI, they are 2-7 (offsuit), 2-8 (offsuit), 3-8 (offsuit), 2-9 (offsuit) and 2-6 (offsuit) The notes for 2-7 offsuit read: “This is the worst hand to start with in Texas Hold 'Em because there are so few good options: you have no straight draw, no flush draw, and even if you wind up with a pair of 7s or a pair of 2s, you're very unlikely to have the best hand. Of course, you'll see some crazy flops every now and then. But just because you might see a rare 7-7-2 flop once in a blue moon doesn't make this a good hand to play.” To Peter, these are all excellent starting hands and require a strong raise.

"RAISE!!"

Once the class finally broke up, with Tim mysteriously having made a profit on the poker, but a record-breaking loss on the Rioja, the debate on tennis elbow fired up again with the conclusion that Jane would be mad to play tennis tonight, but probably will.

All students (apart from James and Dave) will be required to retake the class.

Prosopagnosia – a beginner’s guide

Foreword: As I have no idea whether I can be funny in print anymore and I made two people laugh in the bar last night, I’m going to have another bash at writing my blog. As will become clear, I have absolutely no idea who those two people were and that’s not because I was drunk, or because I don’t know those people, it’s because I have PROSOPAGNOSIA.

According to Wikipedia, Prosopagnosia is a disorder where the ability to recognize faces is impaired. Apparently it’s inherited and about 2.5% of the population suffer from it. I first heard about it when I read Oliver Sack’s book The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat”.

“Ha ha”, I thought, “Man can’t recognize his wife. Ha ha ha”. The reason I thought “Ha ha ha” was because this was back in 1988 and “lol” hadn’t been invented yet. And also because I didn’t realize that I had it myself.

Thus far I have managed to avoid thinking people are hats (apart from during Carnival) but almost daily I have incidents where I meet people and totally fail to recognize them. Being a Prosopagnostic is particularly hard living in a small town as you are constantly bumping into people you know, or are supposed to know. My advice to Prosopagnostics is to either wear a t-shirt saying “I am Prosopagnostic. This is why I don’t recognize you” or move to a large city, or just keep moving. Avoid building up any friendships, and don’t use the same shops or services more than once.

My favourite ever case of Prosopagnosia happened to my best friend Rachel. She was walking down the Kings Road one day and bumped into her mother who totally blanked her. “Mum”, she said, “it’s me.” “Oh sorry, darling, I didn’t recognize you out of context”. I actually always recognize my mother but that’s because she is always in the same place.

The weird thing about my Prosopagnosia is that the number of people that I CAN recognize is astonisingly high. I can see a poker player for the first time in five years and not only recognize them, but also spell their name correctly, complete with any umlauts or circumflexes they are using as affectation. Sometimes I can even tell them interesting facts such as the fact that they used to be the Idaho Risk Champion or were born north of the Arctic Circle.

But I can’t recognize Aaron Gustavson or Harrison Gimbel and it doesn’t matter how many times I meet them. It’s particularly embarrassing because both have won major tournaments and been interviewed by me at some length. Aaron won EPT London in 2009 for £850,000. That’s a lot of money and you would think it would be in anyone’s interest to remember what Aaron looks like especially if you’re in a bar ... which is where I always am when I fail to recognize him. Again, despite the bar reference, I need to stress: I am not drunk, I have Prosopagnosia.

Aaron is a good-natured lad so he never minds reminding me that yes, we have met before, and why. The last time we met (the day after we had spent an entire evening sitting next to each other) was in a bar in San Remo and at that point I took a picture of him and put it next to his name in my phone. We haven’t met since – or at least I don’t think so.

Aaron Gustavson (possibly)

Harrison Gimbel won the PCA in 2010 for $2.2 million, even more reason to remember him than Aaron really. I interviewed Harrison several times during that event but every time I’ve seen him since, he’s had to tell me who he is.

Harrison Gimbel (definitely)

The third player I can’t recognize is Kent Lundmark who won EPT Barcelona but as no one can remember Kent unless he is wearing his blue-and-white striped hoodie, this does not count as Prosopagnosia. And in Kent’s case, he almost always IS wearing his blue-and-white striped hoodie so that’s OK. The fourth unrecognizable player is Carlos Mortensen. I have no idea what Carlos wears because I’ve never seen him, although I notice from my player lists that he’s often there. Carlos Mortensen was World Champion in 2001 but absolutely no one can recognize him, even if he is sitting under a giant poster of himself (like he was at EPT Barcelona one year).

With Joserafa, I have double Prosopagnosia. Joserafa is two people called Jose and Rafa. I have known Joserafa really well for about six years. They are our Spanish PR guys and great friends of mine. One is very tall and the other is shorter (very short actually but I’m worried he’ll read this so let’s just say shorter). The first time I ever met Joserafa, I got their names the wrong way round. Jose is the tall one, Rafa is the other one but I got it wrong and now, no matter how hard I try, I can’t remember which is which. I now call both of them Joserafa. They call me Mad.

Joserafa and me in Joserafa's favourite city (Malaga)

Apologies also to Gugga and Aisling (who, in my head, are now known as Aislinggugga).

Prosopagnosia is also tricky if you’re on an internet dating site and send a message to someone you know, but don’t recognize. That happened to me two weeks ago. I play tennis with the guy every Friday night.

The other problem with my Prosopagnosia is that it is segueing straight into my perfectly normal age-related memory loss. Luckily I hang out with lots of people who are 35 and it’s afflicting all of us. We are so hopeless at remembering the score in tennis, that it often takes us five minutes of backtracking to work it out. Last night it was so bad that a guy playing on the adjacent court asked if he could keep the score on our behalf. I have no idea who he was.

This is a poem.. I didn't write it but I love it

Let Me Explain

Spring, and the tulips urged me
stick to schedule, flower furiously.
I asked for mountains but settled
for some flood-buckled linoleum.
Air was the only sure thing
and even she put up a fight.
I called my eyes near-sighted,
my hands near misses, my arms
close calls, my face old hat,
my head a bluff and raised
my body, a wishing machine.
Stars, thanked. Days, numbered.
I wore a coat because you can’t trust
weather and I looked like rain.

Dora Malech

OUT OF IT.. my field report on www.pokerstarsblog.com today

FIELD REPORT OF THE HOUR

By Mad Harper

How do people react when they bust out of something like Main Event? Happy, sad? Gutted, in despair, disappointed - or utterly jubilant for having made it so far??

Anyone who is knocked out at this stage of the main event - the start of Day 6, 185 players left from a starting field of 6,494 - takes home more than $36,000. OK, it might not be life-changing but it's still not a sum to be sniffed at and would represent an annual salary - or more - for the vast majority of those that avidly follow the progress of their friends, the top pros or myriad celebrities taking part via the PokerStars and other blogs.

I've now been to four World Series - and more than 40 major PokerStars live events around the world - and have seen every single possible emotion on display as people find themselves knocked out. Utter dismay or disbelief at the impossible, odds-defying one-outer, a wry shrug or semi-embarrassed grin when a bluff is caught well and truly out, laughter, tears, open sobbing.

If you're an unknown player - as most are - your departure from the Amazon Room can take place in relative anonymity. The only "public" announcement that your dreams and hopes are over comes as the dealer shouts out "Seat Open" to the floor manager. Some would say those two words are the cruelest ones you will ever here - spearing your disappointment and turning it into a crushing reality. If you are on one of the two televised feature tables, it's even worse. You can't just slink away - you have to hang around while a technician comes to strip you of your microphone. Everyone knows you've bust. Everyone knows it's all over.

Last year I happened to be watching as Daniel Negreanu was knocked out on Day 1. KidPoker was on the secondary feature table and being railed by a crowd of fans four-deep. Like almost all players who are all-in, he was on his feet - ready to walk away if the board failed to bring him a miracle. Now Daniel is one of the most charming and popular players in the game - I have seen him happily greet fans when I know that he's hungry, exhausted or disappointed. What would he be like at the exact moment when he bust out of the main event? I studied him closely. As the river card came down, he was already turning round towards his fans with a big smile on his face. "Can you sign this for me?", said a hundred railbirds at once. Daniel obliged for the next ten minutes - still beside the feature table - cracking jokes, asking names, shaking hands. It wasn't fake, it wasn't "professionalism", it's just the way Daniel is.

At the other end of the scale was a scene I witnessed in 2005, a display of grief which would have put a Greek tragedian to shame. The player was a PokerStars qualifier who had moved to Vegas and grinded the low-stakes cash games for a living. I had had several chats with him during the first few days of the tournament and he had repeatedly told me he was going to win the main event. The whole shebang. He was sure of it; he just absolutely knew it. Not a shadow of a doubt. I was there when he bust and will never forget it. The player fell slowly to his knees and started sobbing, loudly. It was deep, heart-wrenching despair. He remained there, his face buried in his hands and wailing, for what seemed like a lifetime. A crowd gathered and we all continued to watch. It was car-crash ghastly but we couldn't tear ourselves away. In the end, a tournament organizer came and gently led the him away. He continued sobbing in the Rio hall, more quietly though, for many minutes more.

That was the worst reaction I have seen but most players are up that end of the scale to a greater or lesser degree. Most are not happy; the $36,000 cheque that they're about to pick up from the Payouts room across the way is not a consolation. Yes, they have won thousands of dollars but almost all had their sights on a lot more. Yesterday however I bumped into Dutch PokerStars qualifier Rolf Slotboom in the Rio hall, recently busted. I expressed my sympathy. Rolf Slotboom is a well-known figure in the European poker community, a long-time writer and now a professional player. I had no idea what his reaction would be and was amazed by what he said. "I feel great," he said. "I'm really pleased with how I played - and how it went. It was a great tournament. Thanks so much for asking."

I admire Rolf immensely for that response. It showed he is a true gentleman, but if there is one thing that poker tournaments teach you, it's that even gentlemen can behave like toddlers when their shot at $8 million has been snatched away.

Boggle

Last night I dreamed that I was sitting with one of my former bosses and a bunch of other colleagues round a big table. My former boss was passing a gift-wrapped present across the table to me and everyone was smiling.

In my dream, I suddenly realised they were giving me a retirement present.

"No", I started protesting "no, I don't want to retire. I'm fine. I like my job. I'm not retiring."

But no one said anything, and they all kept smiling so I opened the present.

It was a game of Boggle.



I was quite pleased because I actually like Boggle.

But I did wonder why they hadn't spent more money on me.

My toe, mad Mad Tony and the Veterans Football Club

Today my toe went into rehab. I was rather surprised by this as I had never imagined, in my wildest dreams, that the first part of my body that medical science would deem in need of rehabilitation would be my toe... but there you have it. The medical world has ignored my vices, by-passed my main organs and headed straight to my foot. Of course some of my vices have been contributory factors but I'm glad it's my toe in the spotlight.

As regular readers will know, I broke my toe (or it got broken) back in January when I was pissing about on The Rapids at Atlantis Casino. Ignoring advice from my then medical advisor (Benjo) I did not immediately go to hospital in Nassau and get it sorted. Instead I carried on working, getting drunk, dancing and generally ignoring it (aside from exaggerated limping every time I saw the toe-breaker). The toe got better for a while but then, after an ill-advised dancing spree in Deauville (the pain dulled with oysters, red wine and mojitos), it got worse again. It is now enormous, grossly swollen, like a fat carrot lying in a bed of pale but perfectly-formed asparagus.




Once back in the land of terribly small people, I went to the medical clinic. My doctor did an X-ray and we stared at the results. She professed herself non-plussed and referred me to a Traumatologist.

I was ecstatic. Trauma!!!! Great!!!!! What a fabulous development. The traumatologist said I had incurred a "fractura grande" but, because I had done absolutely nothing about it , my toe was now in massive trouble. Rehab, he said, was the only hope of saving it.

----
The rehab clinic was round the corner (everything is round the corner in Lilliput) so I hopped round and booked myself in for an appointment. Then mad Mad Tony came in and everything went a bit David Lynch.

I have known Mad Tony since I first moved to Sitges. His brother Ricky runs the eponymous town disco, a total dive that you only go to if you are horribly, horribly drunk. Ricky's has not been re-decorated, or in fact cleaned, since the mid-1970s but for some reason Ricky considers this such a marketing plus that even his flyers say "Untouched since 1973". The only saving grace of Ricky's is that if you do bump into someone you know, which you will, absolutely none of you will remember it the next day.

Mad Tony is the antithesis to Ricky but not in a good way. Mad Tony is a fitness fanatic who also runs Sitges Veterans Football Club. Mad Tony is about 45 but his modus viviendi is running and he runs everywhere, all the time. For a while, Tony was trying to woo my former flatmate - a courtship which took the form of running into our flat with a giant pizza, jogging on the spot while eating it, then running out again. It was my idea that my mate Ben - who likes a game of footer at the weekends - sign up for Tony's Veterans Football Club. Both Ben and I assumed veteran meant something between old and past-it but in his first and only match, Ben found himself marking an athlete who had just left Real Madrid and flanked by two Brazilians trying out for Barcelona. Six years later, Ben is only just recovering from the ordeal.

---

So I'm standing in the rehab place when in runs Tony. Tony had told me he was a physiotherapist but I had always assumed his credentials were utterly bogus. "Hi", he said, gripping my arm so hard I incurred two further fractures, "what you done?" "I broke my toe", I said. "Ha ha, playing football?", he asked, and then laughed hysterically at his own joke for four minutes.

Tony disappeared behind a screen and I waited while reception filled out my paperwork. "How did you break your toe?" said the receptionist. "Playing football", I said. She led me to a small cell, right past Tony's treatment room. Tony was on a running machine and talking to a patient.

The physio came in and inspected my toe. She was so incredibly beautiful that I knew if I told my friends, they would all happily break their toes and most of their fingers just to get her attention. She looked like Julianna Margulies from ER.

With my fat carrot cooking under a sun-ray lamp, I lay on my back staring at the florescent lighting. Tony was still with his patient but now seemed to have set his running machine to "uphill" and was having to shout to make himself heard. He and his patient were discussing a rather complicated recipe for calcots. "YOU HAVE TO MAKE SURE THE GRILL IS REALLY HOT", he yelled. A small dwarf came in and spoke to me backwards. I could see light at the end of a long tunnel.

Then Julianna Margulies returned and switched off the sunray lamp. Life slowly subsided back to normal. Tony was standing in reception in his running shorts. See you tomorrow, he said.

D-Day: Operation Overlord

On Sunday – and completing a lifetime ambition – Neil and I took part in the D-Day landings and Battle of Normandy.

We were operating with drastically reduced troops as most of the airborne division had fucked off to Amsterdam to liberate their minds. We were also operating with drastically-reduced energy levels having spent the night before getting trashed in the casino bar, rather than going to bed ready for a crack-of-dawn start.

So, unlike the Canadian, British and US forces of 65 years ago, we did not land with precision timing between 6.30am and 7.30am, but instead sauntered out at around half past ten. Although under-equipped in terms of braincells, we were both armed with concierge copies of the D-Day tourist guide. This interesting and informative little leaflet not only sorts the route out for you, but also corresponds to actual road signs making Operation Overlord pretty easy to follow even if you’re hung-over. See map below.

Neil and my route as we try to find a petrol station open on Sundays

There were other factors against us though … weather conditions were unfavourable for any kind of seaside activity (sub-zero wind chill and driving rain) – and almost every single musem on the route is closed until February 1.

Nevertheless, we got in the hire car and headed east along the coast, quickly realizing that the Operation Overlord D-Day route seamlessly segues with another major interest of ours: mini-golf.

The tourism office leaflet inexplicably and massively downplays the mini-golf aspect of the Normandy Landings but it’s totally obvious that mini-golf must have played an important role. Almost every Overlord landmark has a mini-golf right next to it – some with very tricky holes. Hole #7 at the St Aubin-sur-Mer course has a shockingly difficult fortification that must have taken the troops hours to conquer.



We motored on until we got to Pegasus Bridge. “This is Pegasus Bridge” I said as we drove across what looked like an M1 footbridge. “I’m underwhelmed”, said Neil.

Moments later we spot and cross, with no real resistance, the real Pegasus Bridge. This is where, on the night of 5/6 June 1944, a force of 181 men, led by Major John Howard, landed in gliders and took the bridge in ten minutes.



On the western side of the bridge is a house owned by the Gondree family – it was the first building to be liberated during D-Day. It’s now a café and mini-museum, closed until February 1. The Longest Day, starring Richard Todd, tells the Pegasus story or you have a go at liberating the bridge yourself in the board wargame Advanced Squad Leader. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pegasus_Bridge)

Next we headed for Juno Beach. This was where the Canadians landed. It was the most successful of all the D-Day landings with all objectives met. We didn’t have time to visit the Centre Juno Beach museum. This was a shame as the leaflet promised the Centre would not only explain Canada’s role in the Second World War but also give an insight into Canadian culture. As far as I know, Canadian culture primarily involves slagging off European poker players but that would hardly explain why thousands of Canadians were prepared to attack a heavily-defended beach to save us. Canadians suffered 50 per cent casualty rates at Juno but nevertheless, by noon, all survivors were ashore and leading elements had pushed several kilometres inland.



By 6:00pm they had captured the town of Saint-Aubin-sur-Mer and set up a mini-golf course.

Although we didn’t have time to visit the Juno Beach museum (open all year) we did havetime to visit Bar de la Mer, the first fast food place to be liberated by the Allies. The waiter gave us two Croque Monsieur cheese toasties and some paper placemats showing pictures of troops wading through the water. He neglected to give us any crayons.



Next on Op. Overlord itinerary was Gold Beach - a very beautiful stretch of coastline lined with farmland at the western end of which is Arromanches. This is where the Mulberry Harbour was set up – a temporary harbour towed over from the UK and constructed out of 600,000 tons of concrete. In the 10 months after D-Day, it was used to land over 2.5 million men, 500,000 vehicles, and 4 million tonnes of supplies providing much needed reinforcements in France.

I’ve read quite a lot about the Mulberry Harbour and always been staggered by the sheer scale, ingenuity and audacity of the idea – bringing an entire harbour across the Channel in bits and then putting it together. Seeing it for real was amazing; many remnant are still there - enormous hunks of steel lying out to sea and marking out a perimeter many miles long.

Neil and I got back in the car and, with time running out, decided to miss out the British military cemetery at Bayeux and head for Omaha Beach.

Omaha Beach is at Colleville-sur-Mer and is sobering in every way. No more mini-golf jokes for us. The beach itself is beautiful, but this just makes it even more shocking.

We stood in the rain and looked down from the high bluffs to the beach way below. It was easy to see what a horrendous task the Americans had faced, struggling to land on a beach, with no cover, and facing an onslaught of fire from the heavily-defended slopes above. It was chaos. Carnage. Thousands died. Mown down. Drowned.

Set back from the cliff edge is the American Cemetery. Rows and rows of white crosses, an occasional headstone in the shape of a Star of David. You can glimpse the sea far below between the yew trees. It’s sombre and the acres of headstones mark an unimaginable loss of life but it is also beautiful. There are two high flagpoles - Stars and Stripes flags flying… I thought about Barack Obama.



We left Omaha and headed back to Deauville. France seemed empty and abandoned. Virtually nothing was open. We now know there are also no petrol stations in the whole of Normandy. Neil had to head back to Paris. I am another night in Deauville. I wouldn’t have missed today for anything – we are all indebted, incalculably and forever, to those that took part in the Normandy Landings.

PS Owen – I have brought you back some pebbles from Juno Beach.