Oh What A Night

Wow.

I bought my train ticket to go home to my parents in Rock n Roll Bognor Regis on Thursday lunchtime, to save time and any need to get involved in the ticket hall bundle at Clapham Junction in the evening. I had planned to get the 6.38pm, which would get me into Barnham for around 8pm, where I could get a cab to my parents and await their arrival from Gatwick, where they were due to land around midnight.
At 5.50pm an email popped up at the bottom right of my screen.
'Leigh' (my other half)
"Am not going home until tomorrow now. Am meeting Taylor (former colleague and fellow casino repribate) for a beer in Farringdon, if you fancy it? x'
I knew immediately i) I was not going to be on the 6.38pm train and ii) we would have a few and end up in the Empire or The Vic.
'Ok, plan B', I thought to myself and logged onto the Southern Railway website to check my options for trains from Victoria around 10-10.45pm to Barnham or, worst case scenario, around 11-11.45pm to Gatwick airport, where I could meet my parents (probably a little the worse for wear) and get a lift with them. So I txtd Dad to say I was going for a couple of beers and would see them later, one way or another.
Around 9pm, we were toddling down from Edgware road tube towards the Vic, me dragging my suitcase behind me. Josie, another former collleague (and Blackjack junkie) suggested to Leigh the chivalrous thing would be to help me with my bag. "It's ok", said Leigh, totally genuinely, "It's on wheels".
Now, I'd like to think I am not overly high maintenance, but the look on his face as he said it told me he knew that comment was going straight in the same vault as when, on one of our early 'dates', he replied to the lady in Cineworld Hammersmith that we'd be paying separately, when she asked him.

I nearly didn't get into the Vic. I am used to the bouncers at the Empire joke ID-ing me so they can have a chat, but this guy was serious. I thought my suitcase could be an issue, so I was ready with my doe-eyes and charm anyway, but he had a problem with my (I think rather nice River Island) jeans, which have a tiny bit of (intentional) fraying at the knee.
"Now, I'm going to let you in tonight, but you shouldn't come in here looking like that", he hissed. "Your friend's been warned about this before. There's a note on his file".
Really??! Good lord. Ok, if you try to pull a fast one on them, or get into an altercation with a dealer/croupier/another punter, fine, but they have notes on your fashion sense?! Hitlers.

Anyway, feeling like a schoolkid, I deposited my bag and grey Fitch hoodie (also banned) in the cloakroom and proceeded to register myself for the 1-1 and 1-2 table(s). 2-5 was way too scary to even contemplate. I grabbed my 4th sauvignon blanc of the evening and went to watch the guys piss some money away on roulette.
Such a silly game, roulette. I hate it. I can't even put someone else's money down. The ONLY way I could see it being anything close to fun is if they let you set the wheel and the ball off yourself. There is something so deliciously fluid about it, I get mesmerised, like babies and cats do with the washing machine. One goes one way, one the other, like the wheel is made of silk; 2 inanimate objects about to bankrupt or rescue the poor saps sat around the table.

Back upstairs, I was seated at a 1-1 game. I was given table 11 originally but another person who was waiting took that seat, so the nice lady plonked me down on table 9, seat 6, with a lovely view of the Benfica-Liverpool game and, later, Premier League Darts.
It seemed like a friendly enough table; all men, unsurprisingly, probably aged between 25-40 when I got there.
I folded a lot of hands early on, mainly as the majority of my cards were proper cack, but also deliberately to make sure I had a feel for the temperature of the table; do they play lots of big pots, multi-handed, just 2 or 3 of them, who raises, what they raise. I had never played 1-1 before, so without a proper, big(ger) blind, I wasn't 100% sure what was appropriate. It seemed to be anywhere between 7 and 12, but there was also quite a bit of straddling - which I categorically DO NOT GET. Quite why you'd want to put any more money in when you don't have to and haven't even seen a card yet is beyond me. I think it must be my Yorkshire roots.

They all clearly had more than an idea what they were doing (it was probably too early for the tourists/work colleagues out on a piss up to be in yet), but they all seemed pretty well-behaved and reasonable too. I sat down with £150, which was more than plenty to be able to compete; I think only 1 or 2 of them had much more than that when I got there, so I felt comfortable and unlikely to be bullied out of too much, just on bankroll alone.
I won the first pot that I played, around 10-15 minutes in. My A hit on the flop and I bet it (slightly overbet it, actaully, just in case anyone still in the hand was thinking about trying to chase me - and to let the rest of them know that I was serious and had come to play). Fold, fold, fold. Thank you very much, gentlemen.
By 11pm, it was obvious that, even if I wanted to leave, I wasn't going to make it over to Victoria in good time, so I txtd Dad to say I was going to stay in town and would come down in the morning.
By this time, a older guy with white fluffy hair and a 2-tone brown cardigan had sat down in seat 9. He had seemingly taken a bit of shine to me, nothing sexual, I don't think, just in a (grand-)paternal kind of way; Could tell from the way he talked and played that he probably played quite a bit, and it was maybe just a nice change to have some female company and chat - although, when I found out he was from Essex, the chat generally centred around the current travails of Colchester United.
He was raising alot, had plenty behind, and was winning most pots - and, in fairness, when he needed to show (and sometimes when he didn't), he'd flip over the goods. That said, he was re-popped a couple of times and laid then down and there was a couple of (I thought) quite fishy-looking steals, so I kept my guard up when I was in a hand against him, but also had some pinches of salt handy in case I needed them.
There was another memorable chap in seat 1, think he'd been there a while before I arrived. Young, confident lad, but not cocky at all, he'd smile at you if you were looking for a read, he was polite, I warmed to him and I think him me, I sensed by the end a level of genuine mutual respect. He clearly knew what he was doing; yeah, he got lucky on occasions, but also got himself into bother unneceesarily once or twice with a loose call too.
I tangled with him first with my Jacks. I hate Jacks. They always ruin someone's night. And that someone is usually me. I raised them, of course, pre-flop. To £10, I think,. 1 caller. The flop was a pleasing bunch of undercards, so I bet out. He called. Hmmm. Interesting. Not overly worried though. Another random-looking blank on the turn. Bet again. This time with meaning. £15, from memory. I picked up the red chips and chucked them in with as much distain and non-chalence as I could muster. He calls. 'Will you bugger off!' I think to myself. A rag on the end I bet 20, or maybe just over. He calls and flips over 6s. Thanks for coming, sweetheart.

Was into it now, 2nd chipleader on the table, knocking back the white wine (the Essex grandad had offered to buy me one but I politely declined), chatting away to Taylor who was sat on the table behind, shouting across to my boss, who was, unsuprisingly, also in there, playing 2-5 with the big boys. I felt totally at home.
With my new-found wealth and confidence, I raised with AJ pre flop and got 2 callers. Bet the flop, having missed. Called by the Essex grandad only. Turn was a Q. Hmmm. Check, check. Then he bets 40 quid into 45 on the river, with the Q probably the only really scary card out there.
I just got this sense, straight away, that he was at it. It was like a poker fairy had come and sat on my shoulder and whispered 'Bluff' in my ear.
I thought. I thought a bit more, I looked him up and down. I went back through the bets, calls and checks. I was so desparate to call a hand that 3 months ago I'd have folded before you could say 'daylight robbery'.
So I decided to ask him (knowing full well the answer), "What was the bet?". Annoyingly the dealer answered for him, so I pretended I hadn't heard and said again, looking right at him, "40 quid, yeah?". He mumbled an 'uhum' and shuffled in his chair.
Got you, you little sod! It was just like when Jennifer Harman sees the guy's eye twitch in the Full Tilt advert. Ok, similar.
About half an hour before, a huge older blonde woman with really dry hair, bad mascara, a green jumper and blue nails had sat next to me. Superior little witch, she was. As she sat down, she made a point of telling everyone loudly and in one of those annoying (probably put on) posh voices, she had been playing in the £100 'comp'. Comp???! You mean tournament, surely? I couldn't help myself - I asked her how many had started (40) and then turned to the blinds clock to find out there were still 2 tables going, so asked her 'how many are going to get paid? 5-6?' (ie not you, love). Anyway, possibly understandably, she had clearly taken a disliking to me and she actually called for the clock, while I was deliberating this pot size bet for the best part of 100 quid. I had never heard this before. Sure if someone's taking an age in a tournament, of course you have to move it along, but I am sure I had only been thinking for no more than 60 seconds. My blood was boiling. I made some snide remark back to her along the lines of 'It's alright for you, I have to work for my money, so I like to take care of it'.
Anyway, I call and the grandad tells me, 'That was a very brave call, young lady'. He picks up his cards, I think for a minute he was going to muck them anyway, so I eagerly flipped my AJ over with a rush of confidence. Indeed, he had K9. I'm good. There was an audible intake of collective breath on the table and the "Nice hand"s and "Nice call"s start.
"Thank you, thank you", I say.
"You won't try that against me again in a hurry, will you?", I think.

There was one other hand against the young, good player that will stand out for me for a while. I check my option in the 'big' blind with K-9 spades. Think there was 4 of us. Pretty impotent-looking flop. A 2nd spade on the board comes on the turn. I bet £15, hoping to not have to see the river. Only the young lad calls.
No aces out there, in fact no picture cards. Pocket pair? Paired the board? Not sure. Another spade on the river. Wonderful. I can only be losing to A-something spades. He'd have raised with an A, at some point, surely. Wouldn't he? I bet £25, hoping more for a call by now. He raises to £90.
Gulp.
Does he think I'M at it??!? Does he want a call? Maybe he's missed that last spade and thinks his pair/2 pair is winning? Shit. Does he have A-2 of spades? ...Oh God. That would be hideous.
Then the poker fairy's back. "You're good", she whispers.
"65 more?" I ask, just in case he has miraculously changed his mind, miscounted, anything to make it a bit cheaper.
"Yes, 65 to call" replies the dealer.
"Ok, I call". He seems not happy but not unhappy either. I think I might just be good. He flips over 6-7 spades. I show off my K-9 and exhale deeply.
Am pretty sure I heard applause somewhere. Our table is really animated. Taylor, who has seen the hand, stood behind me, and is more oiled than me, clearly, starts playfully tugging on my ponytail, "Hawkins!!! Yes, Hawkins!! Yes!!"
Dennis, my boss, has worked out what's going on and starts shouting "Ship it, Hawkins, Ship it!" acrosos the room.
I am on top of the world.
"Nice hand", the young man says, genuinely, but a bit sheepishly.
"I just didn't think she'd bet a flush draw", he says to the guy next to him.
"Why not?" I enquire. And then realise. "Oh, it's a compliment. Sorry"
"Yes, well played"
I am £230 up.
It's late. Or early - depending which way you look at it. Everyone's getting on well, 4 or 5 of us are all really chatty. I'm only staying at the table for the social aspect now, if I'm honest - unless I see a monster hand. I am getting tired, but want to enjoy it a bit longer. But equally not blow it.
I have one last bluff though, just for giggles, and to prove to myself I've still got it. Small-ish raise with AJ from the small blind. 3 callers. Flop comes 8, K, 5. Check behind me. I bet £10. Fold, fold, fold. The intelligent Asian chap in seat 4 is trying to get me to show. I give him the obligatory, "you've got to pay to see them". He tells me had A-5. I tell him he was miles behind. He actually followed me a couple of paces when I finally retired and went to cash out. "That hand with the King on the flop, what did you have??"
"Queens", I lie, and go and get my money, wondering what I am going to buy myself with it.

I got the train home at 2pm on Good Friday and scribbled the notes for this on the way, with my expensive Thorntons Easter Eggs for Mum and Dad, purchased at Victoria, next to me, and my wallet bursting with big, red notes.

I am a very happy bunny.