I ought to point out that certain sections of the following are not entirely true……
……oh and while I’m at it I should also point out that any similarities to persons (living or dead) are purely coincidental. Just so you know. Now let us begin….
As a lot of you will no doubt be aware by now, the World Series of poker is all over bar the shouting. The main event has seen 7319 players whittled down to nine, after a 5 hour bubble for tenth place. The following players will return on 6 November 2010 to do battle for the bracelet and the $8.9 million first prize (chips count in brackets).
Jason Senti (7,625,000 chips)
Joseph Cheong (23,525,000)
John Dolan (46,250,000)
Jonathan Duhamel (65,975,000)
Michael “The Grinder” Mizrachi (14,450,000)
Matthew Jarvis (16,700,000)
John Racener (19,050,000)
Filippo Candio (16,400,000)
Cuong “Soi” Nguyen (9,650,000)
There’s one Italian, one big name pro and an assortment of fairly unknown American and Canadian professionals. The oldest player is 37. All the above is true. I read it on the internet.
As is now tradition, these players have been ingeniously dubbed “The November Nine”. And so now the perennial debate returns: just why should we all have to wait 4 months for the final table? Doesn’t it disrupt the flow of the event now that players can take stock and analyse their opponents’ games to death? Etc etc etc etc etc.
Of course we all really know that it’s just a hype-fest and a money making exercise but to be honest I don’t particularly care for that debate any more. The only reason I mention it is because the name “November Nine” gave me inspiration for an equally ingenious alternative title this week: the July Nine (good eh?)
So instead of a nonet (yep, that’s nine people) of baseball cap wearing, sponsorship emblazoned American twenty-somethings, who are real people, I give you my alternative vision of how the 2010 WSOP main event final table might have looked if circumstances had been (very) different.
Now I know I say “you will need to bear with me here” almost every week but this week you really, really will need to bear with me. You see, recently I was speaking to someone who has been travelling round the world and he told me of a very abnormal experience he’d had. Have you ever done Ayahuasca?” he asked.
Done it? I’d never even heard of it
“What is it?” I asked
My friend explained Ayahuasca to me, in all its bizarre glory. Ayahuasca (pronounced Ya-Waska) comes from the bark of a tree and it is taken by indigenous Amazonians in a sort of “spiritual shamanistic healing ceremony”. To westerners and travellers (and cutting out the crap), it is basically a mind bending psychotropic substance, a sort of legal LSD (well it’s legal in the Amazon).
It does have medicinal properties apparently - it kills the nasty parasites that you can pick up in the jungle and rather charmingly, these are expelled by projectile vomiting (of which more later). This is all part of the “cleansing” you undergo in the “ritual”. David Icke has taken Ayahuasca apparently and, yeah he’s completely nuts. Sting has done it too and you don’t get any wilder than that, do you? But don’t let me put you off.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, my friend’s Ayahuasca trip, or should I say “ceremony”. He described to me the strangest night of his life where all his senses became warped and his mind started playing tricks on him. On top of this he was in the jungle, with all its animal noises and, as Donald Rumsfeld would say, all the “unknown unknowns”.
Soon his eyes started playing tricks on him as well. I’m not talking about “patterns-in-the-wallpaper” sort of hallucinations. This was more a case of “there’s a WITCH sitting next to me on a broomstick” visual. Or “I’m in a pub full of people and I’m socialising with them all, remembering their names and taking photos”. Only none of them were actually there and his camera remained in his bag all night. And this lasted for 8 hours!
By the way, just in case this account isn’t surreal enough, my friend’s jungle guide was called “Hitler” (this part is true). His parents had seen a picture of a greasy haired moustachioed European leader in a book once, and not having a clue that Hitler wasn’t really your regular guy, decided to name their little boy after him. Cheers Mum and Dad.
Then he described the sickness that came over him.
“I was vomiting so violently, like….like (he thought for a second), like in the Exorcist”.
I had to interject at this point. “The best puking scene has to be Team America”.
“Yes, yes like that, it was EXACTLY like that. I was puking like Gary from Team America”, he said. Man, I laughed at that. If you haven’t had the privilege of seeing that scene yet, here it is: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jU53OyRAdBU
(Can you imagine doing that while listening to the Verve’s “The Drugs Don’t Work”?)
As we spoke I took a swig from my drink. I don’t even remember what I was drinking. Then my eyelids became heavy so I closed my eyes. He carried on describing ayahuasca as we sat in the bar. Really intrigued by now, I was drinking his words……
…….a dense fog descended all around me for a moment. Gradually it started to clear and I opened my eyes. I was in the Penn and Teller Theatre in the Rio in Las Vegas and there was a big crowd around a poker table. In the crowd there were thousands of blue rats and they were smoking cigars and drinking whiskey. The fog cleared a bit more and I could make out a face on the stage. Above him and the poker table there was a banner that read “THE JULY NINE”. But there were only 6 players at the table. I squinted to make out the face of the man, who was holding a pack of cards. If I wasn’t mistaken it was…
…could it be?
….it couldn’t could it?
…it was you know….
On stage was Paul Gascoin with a deck of cards in his hand. The blue rats in the crowd all chanted “shuffle up and deal Gazza”. And so he did. The final table was underway.
Raul Moat was in seat 1, wearing jack boots and a flak jacket, his bald head gleaming in the bright Las Vegas lights. The action was on him.
“So Moaty, you’re UNDER THE GUN”, said Gazza, roaring at his own joke. The crowd of blue rats followed suit. After the high pitched cackling subsided, a hush fell over the auditorium. Three minutes passed and Raul still hadn’t taken his turn. He was scribbling furiously.
“Your go Moaty”, said Gazza. “You can finish your letter later. How long is it now anyway”?
“49 pages” came the sullen reply
“What is it anyhows? Is it a love letter?”
“Er sort of”
“Ah innit sweet, ya a looovleh man Moaty. Yez old romantic. A 49 page love letter. I tell you Moaty, my old mate, you’re a LOVELY MAN. And all in block capitals as well, just to show how strong your love is”.
“I check” Moaty said finally.
“You can’t do that darlin’. You’re under the gun”.
(More laughter)
“You want any extras Darlin?”
If I wasn’t mistaken, it was Auld Slapper, she of Wayne Rodney notoriety, the first prostitute grandmother to make the final table of the WSOP.
“Quiet mother”, said the dealer
“Am I?” asked Auld slapper, a look of surprise on her face.
Just then we cut to the TV where Sky Sports were covering the event:
Jamie Rednap was talking to Richard Keez. “I think she’s surprised there Richard I really do Richard I really do”. The last sentence repeated into an infinite loop of “I really do Richard I really do”, and just as this banal nonsense settled into a rhythm Richard Keez underwent a strange transformation. The hairs on his hands started to grow in front of my eyes. First growing by a centimetre and then a foot, his hand hairs began to wrap round Jamie’s face as he moronically uttered the phrase “I really do” in perpetuity. Jamie wasn’t the least bit fazed by this and the same look of vapidity as when he began speaking remained on his face. Soon he was completely cocooned by Keez’s hand hair and, thankfully, silenced. Richard Keez vanished in a puff of white smoke and play resumed….
An argument had broken out at the table. Frank Lumpard in seat 6 had been eliminated by Danny Dire (seat 9) and he was not happy. Action replays are shown on the huge screen in the theatre :
Lumpard: Does a straight beat a flush?
Danny Dire: (holding the nut flush and sniggering) yes Frank
Lumpard: then I’m all in
Danny Dire (laughing): I call
(Whole table erupts laughing at Lumpard)
Lumpard (raking in the pot): I’d like to dedicate this pot to my Mum
Danny Dire: (snatching his pot back) MUG ! See you around, yeah !
“Now Frankie, we did explain the rules to you at the start” says Gazza. “I’m afraid you have to go son”. Frank is whining but is soon ignored amongst the commotion that follows.
Stan Colymore and Phill Mitchell burst through the door. They are sweating profusely and they are alarmed.
“And here are seats 7 and 8”, booms the announcer. “Better late than never”.
The rats cheer…
By way of explanation, Phill Mitchell speaks:
“There we were, doing an innocent spot of dogging in Rothbury forest when all of a sudden 300 police with shooters turned up looking for some bloke called Moaty. I’d never seen anything like it”
Mitchell still hasn’t had time to take off his gimp mask. He takes it off. Auld Slapper sees a chance to drum up some business and pushes her knockers together:
“You want any extras darling”
“Shut it slaaaaaag” comes the reply. “Let’s play some poker.”
Danny Dire and Phill Mitchell strike up a friendship and begin playing a game of “Shut it - sorted” one repeating each phrase alternately until the other one blinks.
At that very second Ross Kamp also leaps heroically on stage dressed as Rambo but wearing skin tight PVC leggings. He turns to the crowd and says
“I was in Rothbury too filming for my new series Ross Kamp in Rothbury. It was getting a bit dangerous in there. So I decided to get out. FAST”.
He was holding an imitation shotgun, which he cocked, before bellowing LOCK AND LOAD MOATY and standing there expecting a round of applause. Instead he is roundly abused by the crowd. A cold look appears in Raul’s eyes. He is not happy with this man.
Shouts of “Muppet” and “Twat” are bellowed from the rats in the audience.
Raul Moat stares at him for a second. Ross Kamp sees Moaty’s hard glare. A loud farting noise is heard from Ross Kamp’s direction. Kamp sprints away, leaving a brown trail of bum drizzle behind him.
“Seat open!”, yells Gazza.
Moaty has become furious at the interloper’s presence and is now firing his shotgun indiscriminately at the place where Kamp was stood.
“Ah derrn’t care wha anybody sez”, Gazza announces. “Moaty’s a nice blerk. People have give ‘im drugs and med ‘im dangerous. But Moaty wouldn’t shot me”
Auld Slapper addresses Gazza: “Now you know what we said Paul – if you can’t conjugate the verb ‘to shoot’ that we’d be sending you back to school for English lessons with Ron Atkinson”
“Ooh no divven’t do that to us Mother. I don’t want to gan to Ron’s hoose and see his sheepskin and gold bracelet collection again”. He swigs on a bottle of vodka and necks a load of prescription drugs to ease his dread.
Danny and Phill are now playing a game of “Naughty-Geezer” and just at this point the biggest pot of the night is coming to head. It is between Raul Moat and the Auld Slapper.
“Let’s see these cards then boys. It’s showtime”, says Gazza.
The board reads QKAAK
Auld Slapper announces “I’ve got a full boat” and tables Ace-King. You cannae beat that Raul. D’you wannany extras Darlin’?
“I’m afraid I CAN beat that”, says Moaty.
“Wot’s goin’ on ‘ere then questions Dire”, the brain waves crashing against his head.
“I’ve got a full MOAT”
He flips up his two cards. He shows the case ace. The audience gasp. The second card is a JOKER. The camera closes in on that joker and it is beamed onto the big screen. Close up we see the joker and on it is a picture of a red faced Raul Moat, grinning from ear to ear and winking a cheeky wink.
Moaty rubs his hands and scoops the pot.
The rats go wild.
Moaty is the commanding chip leader.
“Waul Moat – ee’s a pwopah norty geezer nah what I’m saying?” declares Danny Dire. He’s so nutty he shot ‘is own boat off” he says in wonder at Raul’s winning smile.
“Well played Moaty, well done me old mate” says Gazza
“Who the f**k are you?” asks Moaty
“Whyaye man, I’m your old friend Paul”.
Moaty thinks for a minute “No, never heard of you”
“But MOATY IT’S ME GAZZA”
“Never seen you before in my life”
Gazza seems put out by this. The camera pans to the crowd. In the front row is none other than George Osborne and David Cameron, with Nick Cotton, blind drunk are mingling with the rats. They are wearing “JUSTICE FOR IAN TOMLINSON” T Shirts. David Cameron downs a pint in one and pukes on a nearby blue rat.
“I AM MOATACUS!!!!!” he roars at nobody in particular……….
I open my eyes. I’m back in the bar.
“I’m going to check my email” I tell my friend. When I’m online I check the poker news and I see a quote from Phil Hellmuth. He has enlisted the help of a “mind coach” and now he is telling the world he is confident that he can win 24 WSOP bracelets.
Phil Hellmuth to win 24 bracelets right?
He might as well be speaking to Moaty as that mind coach. Seriously, which event is more likely to occur - Hellmuth winning 24 bracelets or ALL OF THE ABOVE?
It’s close isn’t it?
