Lap Dancing Cock-Up

So how does this work then luv?

Ok, sounds like fun

Its been a little since an update so lets get right into it with a tale that occurred some weeks ago and may help to explain the delay in my posting, I have been in a state of shock.

A few of us from work had to make an expedition to London for various meetings which also coincided with an industry jolly up. These industry do’s invariably end up with people drinking the recommended weekly allowance in alcohol units within the first 10 minutes and things go down hill fast from there.

One evening I ended up in the hippodrome in the VIP section quaffing champagne with my old mucker Bad Beat Channing reminiscing about the good ole days when the mood took a few of us to pop down to an old haunt, one Spearmint Rhino. After a few drinks I thought it a good idea to take one of the lovely ladies up on her offer of a private dance and off to the back room we went.

Things were going swimmingly. A curvaceous blonde lady was draping herself all over me telling me how wonderful I was when in a quite surreal moment I heard my Mother shout ‘Paul, what’s going on?’ Seeing as it was about 4.30am and I was in the private room of a lap dancing bar in Tottenham court road, the likelihood of my Mother being present was very small.

Things continued but I couldn’t shrug off my Mothers voice which did slightly kind of kill the mood. Luckily the Blonde appeared not bothered in the slightest and continued to behave as if she was a hungry boa constrictor whilst I was her little bunny rabbit covered in tomato sauce.
Things heated up considerably at this point as the blonde began gyrating on me giving full meaning to the term ‘knee trembler’ when again my mothers voice 'Paul? where are you? What are you doing Paul?’

It was at this point I realized that all the gyrating had led to my blackberry phoning random numbers, one of which was my mothers who was woken by the sound of Margin Gaye’s sexual healing and her first born whooping like an insane drunken cowboy.

Morale of the story, next time I tell a lap dancer that the bulge in my pocket is my phone, I better check to make sure it actually is my phone. Life’s been like that a lot for me recently, one minute I’m licking Foie Gras off Angelina Jolie’s naked body the next I’m being served a deep fried mars bar on Pat Butchers backside.


I have been over to London quite a bit recently meeting up with family old friends and acquaintances. Last weekend I went over solely to celebrate the online victory of an old pal ‘Miros’ who copped a decent 6 figure sum on pokerstars.

Honestly this was the least smug looking picture of Miros I could find, luckily he was caught at breakfast.

Many moons ago a tradition was started by yours truly way back in the day when I was part of the not so well known Cricklewood crew. The tradition has been that of paying for a slap up meal with your friends after winning a significant touch through gambling.
The Cricklewood crew consisted of Latebet, The Camel, Albi Amos, Clint Eastwood and I. We all shared a 7 bedroom house (you’ll never guess where) whilst we were all earning our living through the wonderful world of gambling (with a little assistance for one or two from the DHSS).

Years earlier I had magnificently bluffed The Camel into paying for a wonderful dinner by pulling on his somewhat often hidden heartstrings and suggesting that his paying for my meal in a 5 star restaurant would ease his conscience after winning a huge amount of easily earned cash in a poker tournament. As I was digesting my final truffle riddled after eight I clearly remember thinking “I would like to do this more often”.

I suggested that in future, anytime one of the afore mentioned housemates landed a result, they should celebrate by buying the others a dinner worthy of the occasion.
It didn’t take long for yours truly to fluke a result and do the honorable thing by picking up the tab in the oh so fashionable but oh so local (and most importantly oh so very competitively priced so relatively cheap) Islington.

A fine meal was assisted admirably by bucket loads of beer and wine. No sooner had the ink dried on the credit card receipt that the Camel then struck a big result, followed in by Latebet and finally Albi himself surprised us all by backing his way into the winner’s enclosure. Cricklewood for us during one notable month December was awash with Chianti sponsored steak dinners and Singha supported curry surprises.

We had our spice girl moment and split in an acrimonious battle over money, love, alcohol and ego but still when one of us a decent win we always dip into the pocket and treat those less fortunate. Of course I haven’t had a result for about 5 years whilst all my mates regularly win 6 figure sums, happy days. Not only that but also my list of good friends in poker has grown considerably, most being very accomplished players, no wonder I’m fat.

Dinner was at Smiths of Smithfield’s, the restaurant owned by the bloke from Masterchef so not only was it a tasty dinner with plenty of fine wine, it also made the credit card of Miros squeal, a job well done.

Well John, i started with Foie Gras followed by Roasted Halibut with Lobster Mash, ended with a chocolate tart and a severe fucking hangover.

I have actually won a couple of poker tourneys myself recently, one ended with me winning an ipod and itouch (or a japsitouch as it has been renamed after the uses I have been putting it to). I asked around at work and one of my younger colleagues said he would put some songs on it for me. I was delighted, I have a wide range and varying taste in music so I was looking forward to sampling some of today’s talent. Imagine my horror when the first album I randomly selected was Neil fucking diamond, followed by Dolly Parton with Sounds from musicals of the 70’s being next. Ok I know I’m not in the flush of youth but Neil fucking Diamond? Come on.

Just had a perusal through my blog, this time last year I was about to embark on mind blowing trips to New Zealand and Thailand. This weekend the highlight was going to the car wash followed by a visit to Burtons to buy some shoes for work, how times change.

Today is my 15,203 day on planet earth and with good behavior I might manage another 10,000 or so. I bring this up as its not often I mentioned death but one was reminded recently about how short life is with the news of the passing of one Monsignor John McGrane.

The Monsignor was our local priest (I had heard, I never go) and is remembered fondly by me for the few occasions I did meet him. He was up at our place for dinner just before my sisters wedding and I enjoyed his company greatly. We drank a fair bit, chatted about gambling and shared a few tales from our travels.

Into his 80’s he still appeared to have all his faculties working for him and was a tremendously successful fundraiser for all sorts of things other than Churches in the local community. I am a long way from being convinced by religion, as a mate of correctly explains on his facebook page when asked religious preferences he answered 'life’s complicated enough’, but meeting people like the monsignor remind you that not all religious people are self promoting, genocidal or patronizing. RIP Monsignor.


I wish I could write more about my work but I simply cannot at the moment. We have an awful lot going on and a few surprises up ones sleeve which I should be able to write about next time. Needless to say it will involve alcohol and promotions girls.

Due to work I have been reimmersing into the poker world and catching up with a lot of old friends, two of which Joe O’Neil and Owen Mullen have bought a casino about 20 miles from where I work.
This of course has led to various discussions about future deals and if there is any way I can help them out. I have a lot of stories and anecdotes that explains a lot about my friends but this one nails them perfectly.

A few years back Joe and Owen where in a fine Dublin hostelry when they noticed a young man getting a bit of stick from a rather tired and emotional big fella; to compound matters the young lad was in a wheelchair.
The chaps stepped in, prevented the young lad from taking a smack and bought him a beer. One beer led to many and the young lad’s tragic tale began to unfurl.

Years before the young lad had been immobilized from the neck down in a tragic medical procedure that had gone wrong, the only upside being he was due to be receiving millions from an insurance claim. Joe’s ears apparently pricked up at this point and more beers were purchased.
After a night on the ale they became best of mates, so much so that Joe was now going to be handling the young mans financial affairs. Joe got another friend of his involved, a solicitor who advised using a bank in Monte Carlo. Being the generous types that decided to treat the young fella to a week long stay in a 5 star hotel in Dublin, as luck would have it though he was immobilized from the neck down one vital organ still worked and the guys generously found the lad a young lady to keep him company for the week.

Joe ONeil Irish Poker legend and friend to paraplegics everywhere

Joe arranged transport to court on the big day but it had to be cancelled when the case was adjourned for a week or so. More lavish gifts were dispatched upon the young man who must have been delighted to meet such a generous pair of charmers.

Unbeknownst to Joe one of his friends decided checked out the young mans story and went to court himself to find out the date of the claim being settled. Strangely he found no mention of any case and passed the bad news onto Joe who arranged to meet the young man at another fine Dublin hostelry.

Upon arrival the young lad must have known he was rumbled and did what any self respecting scam artist would do, he went to help from the bouncers pleading to them to ‘Keep him away from me’. Of course it all became clear to Joe what had happened but rather than mope about it he just moved on and now like the rest of us works for a living.

The next few weeks would be a test for any man, let alone me. Cheltenham, St Patrick’s Day, Ireland v England in the 6 nations and the Paddy Power Irish Open at the end of the month where I will be meeting up with the great n good; then retiring to the bar to meet my real friends, the not so great or good. If I make it out of these encounters in one piece you will next hear from me then, if not it was nice knowing you all, I guess 15,227 days is the spread.

Happy St. Patricks Day.