Must stop getting 'Phoenixed'

Downloaded the fuck out of Stand By Me (1986) the other night and watched it for the first ever time this morning. Really enjoyed it, despite having to wait until the end credits to hear the song! Was really impressed with one of the boy’s performance in particular and I privately tipped him to be a star of the future/present. I didn’t recognise him so I Wikipediaed the lad only to find that it was River Phoenix who died of an overdose five years later. Great tip, Nathan!

Was due in to work at the NEC at 5.30pm today but I waited for a bus for 45 minutes which then sat in the rush hour traffic for another 30 so, not atypically, I turned in late - got there some time after 6pm. By then they had someone else in to do the shift so the fuckers sent me packing.

It was only a four hour shift but it still pissed me off a little and I didn’t want the four-bus round trip to be a total waste of my time (unlike the 9k+ hands of 1c/2c Omaha I’ve played in the last four days!). So, with zero dosh in my pockets, I decided to use my charm and my agency ID card (preferably just the card) to find me some free fun at the NEC.

First stop, canteen. As I entered, the first thing that hit me was the noise. The place was full of the public, ‘Must be a concert on, I wonder which one...’ I looked around for clues. It was busy, full of smiley, laughy teenage girls most of whom were accompanied by, and were desperately trying the hide the embarrassment of, their doubly excited mothers. ‘… Ah, Westlife!’

As temporary staff working a full day at the NEC we sometimes get a hot meal for our troubles but we usually get pointed towards the huge pile of sandwiches labelled ‘dry’ which are lovingly tossed aside for us slaves. So for the short four hour shift I had been shipped in for today I wouldn’t have expected even a ten minute drinks break. So, literally five minutes after being effectively sacked before even starting a four hour shift, I naturally felt a little cheeky as I impatiently stood in line for a free public-worthy hot meal.

My conscience had its doubts as I stood in and amongst the honest, money-paying customers and considered backing out, but as I shuffled closer and closer to the food I could see it, I could smell it, I could almost taste it and then my brain finally understood what my stomach had been rumbling on about. The beauty of it was that I had no money on me and so there was zero danger of me crumbling to guilt at the tills and just handing out dosh to save any possible trouble. I literally had nothing to lose so marched on, tray in hand, towards what was quickly becoming dinner time.

I had fish and chips with peas, a side salad, two bread rolls with butter, a healthy (well, deadly…) slice of chocolate gateaux, a diet coke and a coffee. The animal rush of excitement that the sight of, and the smell of and the thought of eating this wonderfully overflowing tray of food had created, easily out powered the weak, human guilt and worriment of moments earlier. And so there was no holding back when it came to till-time and the much anticipated portrayal of a full-time hard-working NEC grafter taking a quick ‘fifteen minutes’ out of his long busy day to grobble down some grub before rushing back to the grind.

I finally reached a very miserable looking till-woman and decided to only show my agency card if I really needed to. My natural wit and charm will win her over, I thought. ‘So…, do you enjoy being a… till-woman here?’ Shit, I panicked. She looked up, bemused, ‘I’m a fucking cashier. And no.’ I quickly pulled out my card and she waved me along in silence. Always go for the card first for fuck’s sake. One must speak only as a last resort.

Finished the food which was amazing (usually is when it’s free - bargain). So, not a wasted trip after all, £11.50 worth of food for a £3 bus ticket. But then I got greedy...

People started heading towards the seating area. Clearly the show was about to start and now I wanted to see it. Well, the food was a piece of piss, how hard could it be to smuggle myself into a Westlife concert? I took a quick look and the security looked worryingly tight. And muscley. They were looking at everybody’s ticket on the way through but fuck it, I've got a magic agency card and not to mention my charm to fall back on…

I walked up to one of the giants guarding the entrance and proudly (and silently) whipped out my card. He looked at me and all I could nervously manage was ‘catering staff’. He laughed, ‘no mate!’, and went onto check the next ticket as I swiftly headed towards the bus station. And home.

So no Westlife for me then but I can’t really complain, I had a good run. And I’m back working there tomorrow as well so I'll have another go. Just hope that same ticket-checker isn’t there. Or the till-woman. Or Westlife.

So, to sum up, good day. No work but free grub. (Actually I could have just said that to start with and spared everyone the details, but oh well, if you've read it all, fair play).



Played another poor session last night which leaves me with the miserable figures of:

Hands… 9045
Profit… $115.43
WR… 64/100

Seem to have tailed off a bit in the last 5k hands but as always I have no idea what I’m doing differently. May actually plot a graph of my progress if I can remember how to use Excel (is that where graphs are made?). I know the general shape will be upwards but it’ll tail off miserably into the shape of a sideways frown towards the end instead of the planned and expected smile.

I need to win $84.57 in the remaining 955 hands at a rate of 9c per hand! It’s impossible but as a disappointed friend of mine told me on MSN, ‘impossibility is no excuse for failure’. He’s right and I’m ashamed.

I’ll do a rundown of every 100 hands from now until the end just in case I get anywhere near.

Not quite sure what to do once this experiment is over. Guess I should probably start living again at some point. Or maybe I could try the same thing with Hold’em and compare the profits made/losses lost and experiences had/hadn’t.

At current rate I’ll have made about $130 in a 10k hand week. Nothing to write home about (well, nothing to even blog about really) but if I could put in a couple of thousand hands a week every week just playing whenever I’ve got a spare minute it could soon add up at the end of the year. And if I did that every year until I’m eighty it could work out to be a nice little pension of a couple of hundred quid or so.

Anyway, can’t be arsed to write any more, I’ll let you know what happens (if anyone’s still reading).