Royal Ascot Memories

A Molly´s bar girl hard at work

I spent a week drinking my Grand National winnings staring at a wall and wondering why God decided to create cockroaches. Your average Spanish barman wasn’t a particularly brilliant creation either.

Quote from Jeffrey Bernard’s spectator column 25/4/1987 whilst on holiday in Spain

I live above an Irish bar that only employ Spanish staff and on Monday I waited 15 minutes to get served, a new record even for these most laid back of waiting staff. I would complain but they only employ eye candy who can’t utter a word of English (and I doubt they can speak Irish either) so I put up with the view and could barely speak when they eventually got round to serving me as I was spitting feathers at this stage.

They do make me laugh normally, they potter around, smoking and strenuously try to ignore thirsty customers whilst doing their hair in the mirrors, such a simple job really; I may apply if a vacancy comes up.
Still my moan was nothing compared to the English couple I had the misfortune to be stood next to at the bar last night. After getting their 2 vodka and tonics (containing the normal Spanish measure which is approximately 15 times larger than the UK equivalent) for under a fiver; they had the audacity to complain that there was no change. It ended with the husband shouting ´come on Luv; we won’t get any bloody change over here´ whilst barely managing to carry the 2 pint size glasses of vodka, what a pair of cretins, at least they got bloody served.

And so Beckham finally won a medal with Madrid and fair play to him, he deserved it in my opinion. That view was shared with just about everybody else who lives here in La Linea where I reside. The celebrations at the final whistle were impressive at the Bernabeu but were equally as ferverent some 670 km from Madrid, here, the place went bonkers.
Fireworks, claxons, mega phones flares, drums, the hooting of car horns and some good old fashioned chanting and singing were all seen or heard for about 3 hours after the match and caused total gridlock in the town centre, marvellous stuff. I had a wander about and was amazed at the sheer scale of numbers; imagine a town 670km form Manchester going as potty, impossible.

Also a sad farewell to the best striker the premiership has ever seen, even if he was a gooner, Barcelona’s gain. Hopefully I will land this job I have been waiting for ages for and if I do it will mean spending a decent amount of time in Barcelona, I think I will treat myself to a few matches if I get it.


Goon but not forgotten

As previously mentioned I had to go to Madrid myself for a meeting a few days after the match and what a long day that was. PF, my old Guv from SJ met me at 5.30 AM (yes I spelt the ´AM` part correctly) where we headed off to Malaga for the hour flight to Madrid.
At the airport we began our normal practise of a little heads up poker for 5 euros a game which we continued on the plane, then at Madrid airport, then before the meeting, after the meeting, back at Madrid airport, on the plane on the way back and in the bar we went to once we had got back. Of course I won but only because I know his tell, whenever he bluffs he makes a fiendish smile, when he has a big hand his smile is like one a child would beam on Christmas day having just been given a wonderfully expensive gift, simple really.

As PF is the governor I followed his example in the ´how to dress for a very important meeting stakes`, so it should have been no surprise to his colleagues to see us both turn up in jeans, (mine far scruffier than his), un-ironed tee-shirts and trainers. Meanwhile they were dressed in immaculate suits, 500 euro shirts and silk ties, the look of horror given us before the meeting shall stay with me for some time. All went well but the final decision as to if I get the post I am seeking rests with the lawyers, if it’s a no-no it’s under the arches for me.

I had the pleasure of taking part in some organised loafing this week, otherwise known as the game of cricket. It’s been a while since the whites went on which may help explain why I didn’t bat bowl or field very well but I wasn’t there for the glory. The team for whom I played for where a man short and agreed to my match fee demand of 4 pints, I think I deserved them.
Other than that not much has been going on really, I’m dividing my time between the beach, the internet café and watching Big Brother. I can’t afford to play golf presently but I did watch most of Royal Ascot without punting and what happy memories that particular race meeting hold for me.


Happy Day´s

The Patarchi´s were a couple of twin brothers, Michael and Christopher whom I used to play poker against and are without doubt the most insane gamblers I have ever come across. In fact once they went back to Greece for a two week holiday and one of the local bookmakers had to shut down.
The Camel told me a story about the twins once which should sum them up. It was Royal Ascot and the Camel bumped into not only Michael and Chris but their older brother Harry who was clutching a betting voucher in his hand and was looking extremely pleased with himself by all accounts. The Camel asked for a look and was proudly shown a betting slip that was a 3 horse tri-cast for one hundred pounds; the prices of the horses were 66-1, 80-1 and 50-1.
The Camel worked out there wasn’t enough money in the county of Berkshire to pay him had this bet copped but instead of a look of embarrassment from the twins they gleamed at the Camel and told him in unison as proud as punch, ´now that’s a real Patarchi´s bet´, you couldn’t make it up.

I also enjoyed working at Royal Ascot for 3 or 4 years in the company of Badbeat back in the heady days when he owned a few pitches and a pair of bollocks the size of 2 coconuts.

Barry Dennis is a famous bookmaker who appears in the Sun and Channel 4 and is of course, a total wanker.
He used to enjoy Badbeat´s occasional disasters more than most whilst we all eyed him up as a nasty spiv who was playing with someone else’s money.

They famously locked horns one Tuesday afternoon when Badbeat shouted out to the crowd he was going evens on the O’Brien favourite in the 1st race. We soon fought back from being knocked over in the rush and the satchel was bulging as much as Dawn French’s knickers when Dennis shouted out he wanted an even 5 grand on the horse, of course he shouted it so loudly that the Queen could have heard what was going on. Quick as a flash Badbeat confirmed he was on, and then a millisecond later screamed out 11-10 the field! Dennis’s embarrassment was a moment to behold though he did get a Nelson Munz ´ha-ha´ moment when the horse won by a nose.


I´m not a fan

Another marvellous Royal Ascot story revolves around getting the best of it with a bookie; in this case I believe it was Paddy Power on the wrong end of business.

He who is blessed and Badbeat used to work at a spread firm years ago which was very much a case of the `haves´ and the ´have nots´. Due to the firms recruiting policy it was time to recruit another ´haves´ and so one Jake Astor was employed for a summer.
The Astor’s used to own Manhattan and are related to Royalty somewhere along the line. It was Royal Ascot time and Paddy Power had priced up the colour of the Queen Mothers dress on the first day. Of course it didn’t take long for one of the ´have nots´ to ask Jake to use his connections to find out what colour it would be. One call to Prince Harry later and the answer was orange. The chaps lumped on and celebrated in fine style as the carriage container the Queen Mum was a sea of orange. There was a minor stand off when Paddy Power tried to use the ´It’s not orange but Tangerine card´ but they coughed up in the end to avoid a right royal scandal, salad days indeed.


One for the ´have nots´

Talking of He who is blessed he informed me recently he has purchased a racehorse called ´myface´. Apparently its not much good but he is looking forward to the ladies encouraging it home in a close finish. He also took my sister to Wimbledon, centre court, lunch, free bar, the works, I hope he realises she got married last year.

A Barrymore joke arrived in the inbox recently which tickled me, it is as follows

Michael Barrymore was asked by a reporter yesterday if he would be appearingin panto this year?
"No chance" snapped Barrymore, "I did Aladdin 6 years ago and I'venever heard the end of it".

Lastly some very disappointing news reached me last week. Gambling legend Tony Bloom held his stag do in Stringfellows a couple of weeks ago and if I had known I could have easily ligged my way in. Albi, The Camel and He who is blessed were all in attendance and reported back that not only was it a free bar all night but that everyone was given 200 quid of funny money to spend on lap dances, I now know what my friend Bobby meant know when he tried to explain to me the definition of a `cry wank`.

A cry wank, not just for Valentines day

Stan James and Germans

It´s good to be back

Back in Spain for a couple of weeks now and it’s great to be back. Of course one of the 1st things I did upon my return was to get smashed with my old work colleagues at Stan James and what fun that was. Keenlan, a new employee hit the nail on the head when we were discussing why it was and is such a great place to work, his view, “Anywhere where 80% of the staff still think their on holidays is a great place to work”, wise words from one so young.

I have not been wasting my time either; I have been watching plenty of big brother and sunbathing. I had forgotten that most of the beaches here are populated by Spanish minxtresses who sunbath topless and wear what can only be described as a piece of tooth floss for a bikini bottom no matter what size they are, it’s been emotional.

I also had the chance to watch an England legends team play Gibraltar but opted to watch Stan James footy team play in the semi final of the cup and see if Eddie could match my unsurpassed achievement of winning silverware as manager.
The chaps won a decent game on penalties and were through to the final which some bright spark decided would be held straight after the semis. Fortune though smiled on me when a load of Stan’s supporters turned up after watching the legends game which also coincided with the opening of a free bar.
The free bar distracted a few of us for most of the first half but put us in very good voice for the second. A J, a relic from our old team showed up and it took him all of 1 minute to start berating the opposition in a way only he can. He was a decent centre half but his real skill lay in winding up opposition players to the point where they swung for him and would be duly red carded though his tackling often meant his red card evened the sides up.
AJ needs little encouragement to take the piss but when he had a bet on Stan’s at 7-2 at 1-0 down combined with a free bar things were bound to get a little out of hand. Sadly his mickey taking wasn’t enough to pull the boys through but he gave us all a decent laugh. Eddie did a great job but one thing saddened me greatly. Stan’s only managed two red cards and 4 bookings, in my day we would only have been left with 4 penalty takers at the final whistle.


Some of SJ´s finest cope with pre shift nerves


The 3 way ´employee of the month award´ was celebrated in fine style, to win you need to get the highest rating on the inhouse breathalyser.

The job opportunity that took me to Barcelona last week now takes me for another meeting this time in Madrid where I hope to learn my fate, one can only survive on sympathy drinks and charity for so long, luckily two of my best mates have joined me and James (another top mate) over here for a weeks fun, life could be tougher I guess but I do need to find a job soon, so far the most serious offers of work i have been offered are as a smuggler or drug dealer, neither of which I think have great prospects.

As regular readers of the blog will know whilst on my travels in Australia I made it part of my mission to physiologically damage any Australian children i chanced upon with regards to sport. I once reduced a bunch of 4 year olds to tears in Perth with a magnificent century I made batting against them. It may have been the heat or the fact that my innings took about 4 hours before I declared but sadly I never got the chance to put into practise one of the finest wind ups committed against children I have ever heard (I think I heard it on Danny Bakers 606 show eons ago).
What happened was Danny asked people to phone in and relate bad things they had done concerning football but not to include, violence, abuse etc. One memorable phone call was from a chap who lived in Manchester and being a good Mancunian he was a Manchester City fan.
He reported that he and his mate were walking across his local park one Sunday where about 10 games of kiddie football were all going on when they came up with a plan so bold I never forgot it and was desperate to plagiarize it and use it in Australia.
Basically they stood on the sidelines of a game and whenever they spotted a really arrogant little fucker they whipped out there notepad and pen and wrote down the shirt number of the child in question. After doing this they would move onto the next pitch. Of course kid’s being kid’s curiosity got the better of them and the pair began getting pestered with questions like “What Ya doing mister?”
The punch line was they told these young arrogant’s that they were scouts for Manchester United and could the following players please turn up at Old Trafford tomorrow at 4pm. There then followed a roll call of every little git who never passed the ball to the crap kids or was berating team-mates for not being as good as them. Imagine their horror when turning up at Old Trafford, they must have been greeted by a confused security guard who wouldn’t have allowed them access.
I don’t have children so maybe it wouldn’t be as funny if I did but I thought the plan genius. In today’s England as soon as they had started taking kids names they would have been castrated by the parents but then again I suppose greed might override the initial emotion.
I think we should send an army of fake scouts over to Australia and ensure in twenty years time the Ashes never leaves England as the Australian youth would have become so despondent with cricket after having their hopes dashed by some strange sounding man who asked them to fly to the other side of Australia to attend some cricketing academy only to find out it never existed.

The chaps from Stan’s have been up to their usual tricks and a tale or 2 need writing down in case I ever forget them, one old one for now.
First up the tale of the telephonist Vinny, (he is so twisted he could hide behind a corkscrew), who also happens to be a handy darts player, so handy in fact he managed to qualify for a darts tournament which was being held in Gibraltar that featured all the worlds top players bar Phil Taylor. Stan’s priced the event up and Vinny was priced at 2500-1.
All bookmakers have big staking mugs who bet on everything and anything so it was no surprise for Vinny to receive a call one Saturday afternoon from one of the higher staking customers who wanted some prices on the darts event.
After betting a few thousand on 4 or 5 of the better known names our intrepid punter asked for 500 pounds on one Vinny R at 2500-1, a bet which would have paid out 1,250000 pounds and one Vinny needed to confirm with the darts trader.
The trader quizzically looked at Vinny when he was told about the request but told him to take it but also warned him he would be required to break his fingers if he somehow managed to reach the final. He still hadn’t twigged and it was only when he got back to his desk and picked up the phone to be greeted by hoots of laughter did he realise the call was made by the bloke sat behind him.


The World Series of Poker is upon us once again; I have many friends going over there to play so fingers crossed for them, if someone like the Camel, Badbeat or Dalzini wins an event I may be able to pay next months rent.



Tom the legend.

I have written many poker stories in the past but how I forgot to write the following before is beyond me. Trust me, it contains very little poker content at all and is more an anecdote from one of the players I used to play against regularly and hopefully goes some way to explaining that amongst all the bullshit most poker players speak, one or two have something to say which we can all learn from, this tale also makes one think about taking gambles when you don’t really need to.
Tom was (and hopefully still is) a large fellow who loved playing poker almost every night in Luton’s Grovesnor casino (AKA the shit hole). He wasn’t fussy what was being offered, tournament or cash game, limit, pot limit, no limit; stud Omaha or hold-em, why? Because Tom was a gambler. Now this story has nothing to do with a hand of poker he played more a gamble he took in a previous life, one in which he was married.
Tom and Mrs Tom owned and ran a little BnB which by accounts did a nice little trade especially with foreign visitors. On one joyous occasion the Toms had a German couple and their two young children staying with them for a long weekend and all was going swimmingly. Tom was a chatterbox and this couple seemed genuinely disappointed to be leaving after such a lovely stay in which apparently everyone had got on marvellously. In fact such was the camaraderie between the Germans and Tom that as they were packed and just getting into their car to leave he thought he would have a little crack at German to express his sorrow at their departure. “Itch mochte deine lecken” or something very similar he announced proudly, glad that his grasp of German hasn’t quite deserted him.
Apparently his fond farewell didn’t cause quite the reaction he had hoped for; rather he was left looking at 4 Germans who stood open mouthed silent having all gone quite pale. They drove off not saying another word and not even having the decency to wave goodbye. No Tom’s no fool and wondered if perhaps his German had not quite come out the right way so he actually took the trouble to contact Luton University and got put through to a German speaking student who agreed to translate his words for him. I for one would have loved to have been a fly on the wall when the student’s interpretation to Tom was along the lines of “I want to lick your pussey”.
After the initial shock Tom suddenly realised he spoke no German at all and that it was a sentence uttered in his favourite scene from some filthy German porn film he had owned as a youth. Many people might interpret the morale of the story to be, don’t gamble unnecessarily but I think it’s simply a case of never try and be nice to Germans.


a scene from Tom´s favourite film

Nuts n Bolts

I don't know who she is, but she's probably right


I am currently residing in Ireland at Her Majesty’s pleasure (My Mother) and amazingly just when I thought my number was up and I was on the scrap heap of life I managed to get myself a bird and two excellent offers of easy money; could things be going any better? I’m over the initial lull one falls into after a great holiday and now, like Jodie Marsh I’m ready to get my head down wherever possible to earn a few quid.

Upon my return I thought money was going to be a problem and I had investigated how much I could sell one of my kidneys for (apparently my kidneys combined are worth less than the kidneys you get in a pie at your local chippy), I needn’t have worried.
First off an email was received from a bloke called Igor who apparently needs my help to get 25 million dollars out of his country and if I play my cards right I’m in for a right chunk of it, get in yeah!
Just when I thought things couldn’t be going better financially I only go and get another offer, this time from a solicitors office in Nigeria who are having trouble locating some chap who has copped a decent inheritance, again all I need to do is assist them and I will be taken care of, see, karma works.

The bird thing is a little different, her name is Boris. Now ‘Boris’ is not to be confused with a ‘Geoff’. A ‘Geoff’ as we know has a meat n two veg where there should only be smooth lawn; Boris on the other hand is a racing pigeon who has been either
Blown of course.
Got herself injured.
Is a slack arse that decided to stop in Ireland to be fed and watered before finding pastures new, we already have much in common.


Boris is not wating her time whilst staying here

Last week in London I caught up with many friends who responded most heroically to my current financial status by buying me drinks and the odd meal. My mate Steve even had the courage to put a roof over my head for a week as well as let me abuse his travel card, cheers fella.

I also had the joy of attending the christening of one of my cousins new born. Little Emma was the star of the show and even her uncle dropping on her head couldn’t stop her from smiling away to all and sundry.
The funniest tale of the day involved my cousins husband Steve, my cousin Danny and my good self. Discussing many matters over a few ales Danny informed us that he had recently had 6 bolts inserted into the base of his penis, I kid you not.
You can probably imagine the scepticism with which Steve and I greeted this remark and after a bit of to and thro we agreed to inspect the recently impaled member. We convened at the gents and Danny proceeded to get out his tackle and show us the much discussed metalwork.
Had Steve and I given it much thought we may have realised that have such a number of bolts inserted you need a rather big todger (I for instance could barley fit a pin head through mine) so we were as shocked as much by the size of the thing not just the boltage. One can only imagine what the bloke who entered the toilet from the public bar thought (we were in a private function room), when he was greeted by the sight of Danny waving his pierced member around like a light sabre whilst Steve and I both had our chins buried into the palms of our hands inspecting the show.
All four of us immediately proceeded to use the urinals in utter silence. In fact had one of Danny’s bolts fallen out it would have deafened us.



Obviously not Danny's but you get the idea

Sadly I missed one of the great nights on the drinker’s social calendar, Brigadier General Night at Sandown racecourse. Anyone who’s anyone that’s involved in gambling is there, normally as a guest of Betfair (or like me on the coat tails of someone who is invited by Betfair).
‘He who is blessed’ made the mistake of inviting a few of us a couple of years ago to the VIP box courtesy of Betfair, in fact when he found out all of us he had invited were going to turn up he didn’t arrive until the last race, which was a wise move, we were hammered beyond belief, luckily so were the other 20 odd thousand race goers that night. I spoke to him about this years event and it was the same as ever, 20,000 drunk race goers whilst he’s picking 25-1 winners every other race.

The reason I couldn’t make it was I flew, like Boris, to my parents house here in Ireland for some much needed love and attention, I got the love but cunningly my folks had booked to be away for most of most visit so the attention was less than I’m used to.
Now I have a great relationship with my Mum but I feel my blog may have opened her eyes to the fact that sometimes I can be, err a little irresponsible.
They went away for two days leaving Boris and I here to fend for ourselves. She left a list of instructions that if I had actually read would have taken me until the time they got back to finish.
Reminders such as ‘Paul, lock the doors’, ‘Paul don’t leave the oven on’, ‘Paul make sure the washing machine door is closed if you use it’, ‘Paul remember to get dressed when you get up’. I knew she was worried when she left a note for Boris saying ‘Boris, please look after my son’.
Still before she left she cooked me my favourite meal of chops and roast potatoes, there’s nothing in the world tastier than your Mum’s cooking. My sister and brother in law came to visit me on Saturday and we had a great night, in fact to quote Ailish “Dude our parents have deserted us, we have to raid their wine cellar”,
I got the looks, she got the brains.

Possible more good news on the horizon, I fly off to Barcelona this week for a meeting that could, if I’m lucky, lead to a little work during the summer, but like a one legged high jumper, lets aim the bar low.
If that does not work out I will be stuck in Spain with the beach a 5 minute walk away and a little borrowed money from my parents in my pocket, every cloud etc. I wonder if I can sign on?
Well I’m off to feed Boris some salted cashews and top up her drink, I hope she’s not one of these fussy birds who insist on ice in their Magners.

Here are some holiday snaps from the last 6 months for your amusement.



PERTH


'Tighter than a submarines door' was how one of his friends described the ever cheerful Scott. Here he is wearing the latest WBA top not realising that green and gold are Australia's colours which led him to being called 'Ladyboy' by one Aussie wag

Myself, Thommo, Flip and a more appropriately dressed Scott, get in yeah!!! Great chaps to watch the 3rd test with were we handed back the urn (on loan!)

MELBOURNE

Superlise ploughing through the Champers on her Birthday (22 i think)

Flinders Street Station just around the corner from our flat

'He who is blessed', Superlise and Action Dave on Australia day (guess who that is passed out on the deck behind them)

Great Teeshirt

Playing Chinese poker with the chaps in our apartment

Myself and Action Dave on our way to work (playing poker at the casino)

The sweet sight of Melbourne

My Bono look

My getting pissed look

My 'get your beady eyes of my cake' look

Superlise and I got on rather well

But sometimes i had to have her head on a plate

SYDNEY

View from our Sydney apartment

QE2 in town

Our private beach in Manly

Opera house innit!

The daily walk over the bridge

Job done, time for a beer

My tee-shirtgives away my views on 'drugs in sport' outside the Olympic stadium (click on the pic for a closer inspection

THAILAND

Say Cheese!

My problems whilst getting a massage never stopped

Thai Yoga

My Yoga

IRELAND

Old man doing the cleaning (not really)