March 29, 2012 GPS leg 2 FOX

The Hendon Mob Forum (THMF) poster who is most kindly persistent for a pre-tournament meet up is Stowjon.  He is Mr. 'I'm not f*~!?! short' but still undeniably ginger.  According to texting arrangements, I arrive outside the Fox just before 12:30pm - tournament start time is 1:00pm.  In fact, I arrive quite a bit earlier, thinking to get a meal in, but food service doesn't start in the poker room until 12:30pm so I grab a ready-made egg mayonaise sandwich from the caf down the road.  I eat half of it at their tables outside, basking in the glorious sunny day (it IS the end of March so warmth and sunshine really do qualify as glorious).

Minutes later, I stand at the bottom of the Fox steps (yes, again- I now regard this as part of my comfort zone).  I know Jon is delayed having received f!*%g traffic texts etc.  A few minutes later I identify him immediately as he walks down Shaftsbury Avenue toward the club.  My first thought is: he really isn't that f!*?/g short.  This whole time I've been picturing your man the dwarf from Lord of the Rings and Jon clearly doesn't have to strain to reach up and shake my hand.  In reality, he's quite the gent in a chatban trenchcoat.

We proceed upstairs and order coffee.  Jon graciously takes the host role and all joking aside about him buying our free coffees, solely because of Jon I feel that bit more grounded.  Though I must admit the timeline gets a bit blurry for me from this point.  I know he introduces me to other THMFrs and I remember who I meet that first day, but I'm really unclear in which order and when.  SeanFoley (Gary), X (Leon) and AKhater (Danny) are among the first.  Then it is finally table draw time and all the fellas are so kind to pretend they don't feel the drag on their coat-tails as I struggle to understand the screen.

I go searching for my table and find it.  I want to cry.  I'm on the 'TV' table to start the day.  No chatban way!  This is not on!  I can't do this!  This is my first big live tournament and the fecking poker god clowns have put me on the live-stream table?!  In middle position where I can't be free of public scrutiny ever?!!?

As I'm trying to pretend that I'm not a pinball machine run over by a soul-taken bulldozer driven by Stephen King, the player to my direct left arrives to take his seat.  Oh.  Excellent.  Jac Arama.  Genuine broadcast television's Late Night Poker funny glasses madmeister.  No time to adjust to that as the dealer tells us the special TV table rules.  Cue grey cloud descending over my brain.  I think in literature they call it a 'fug'.  I think in this instance they left out the CKIN and also the HELL on the end.

I have no plan for this.