World Series of Poker Baby

I've cut and pasted a series of emails I wrote to friends during the WSOP last year. I used these trip reports as the basis of an article I sent to pokernetwork.com (at about 1/5th the length of the original). It was nice to have it published and all that; but also good to have the whole lot put up here.

There is heartbreak in these posts. I won't spoil it for you, but that's something you're guaranteed to find within. But I guess you can't have Vegas without heartbreak, and I'm happy to oblige.

Day 1:

I just want to say one thing about the Virgin Air flight i took to the US. Or V Australia, as the hip new branding has it. I guess I'm not hip, but when i'm offered a selection of movies by an airline, and one of the sub-headings is 'classics', I think Casablanca. I think Citizen Kane. I think Annie Hall. Richard Bransen, apparently, thinks that 'X-Men, 'What Happens in Vegas' and 'Caddyshack' should be considered classics (although he has a point with the latter). 'What happens in Vegas' is about 2 years old and went straight to video. I guess I'm Old School about these things. So much so I still use the term 'video'. But to my mind, a 'Classic' at the least needs a few good years behind it, a couple of Oscars, and critical acclaim.

Real Day 1

Most striking about Vegas is, as you would imgaine, the size. Everything is huge. The people, the drinks, the buildings, the buffets, the shows, the breasts, the tournament sizes, the prizes.

I've heard Australians are meant to have overtaken Americans in terms of girth. Apparently we have more overweight as a percentage of the population. Being here I just don't find this statistic credible. Perhaps all the skinny tree-huggers live in Seattle or Vermont or something, but the people in Vegas are fucking fat. Fat like I have never seen. Loud and fat with deep-fried southern accents. Fatties everywhere - walking down the strip drinking cocktails out of flurescent yard glasses; fatties piling pounds of shrimp on double-plates at the buffet; fatties getting oxygen treatment in the middle of Fremont boulevard on a clear day.

A town with big people and big buildings. Apparently the Eiffel tower and Statue of Liberty replicas in Vegas are to-scale - if true they are dwarfed by the Bellagio, the Wynn, Caeser's Palace and most of the casino car parks. And the shows - where else would you find Bette Midler, Seinfeld and Cher all playing at the same venue? The 7th level of hell, I Guess. But other than that, only Vegas baby.

The tournaments are big, as one would expect. I played in a 200 buy-in Pot Limit Omaha tournament at Binion's Casino (old home of the World Series). 206 entrants. Unheard of for a PLO8 tournament. I felt I played reasonably well. I never got any huge hands. I bluff-raised a guy on the river in one pot when i read him to be weak. It was a confidence-booster when he folded (he was really fat too, which made it more satisfying). I had 7750 at the first break, which was a little under average. Unfortunately, I didn't win a single pot after the break (nearly 1.5 hours). You can bluff a bit in PLO8, but you need to hit some hands. However, unlike hold 'em, you can expect to hit a few hands in this particular game. Anyway, I eventually I made a stand with A297 and ran into AAJ5 (held by the same old fat guy i'd bluffed previously). I'm still about 40 + per cent in that spot, but he hit a full house and that was that.

I sat down later in the day at a 120 buy-in NL Holdem tournament at the Venetian. It's a classy hotel. Fine furnishings; soft lighting, comfortable chairs; excellent dealers and cocktail waitresses sporting only the best nose jobs. They run a good poker tournament. The guy next to me - from Nashville - asked me if this was a single-table satellite. I told him there was over 300 entrants. He said he didn't care so long as he didn't go out first. I think he when out about 5 or 6 hands in. He'd bet 2000 into a 300 pot and then fold to a re-raise. He was nice enough to do so for me.

I'd chipped up from 7000 to 12000 when i lost a huge hand with QQ against AK (all-in pre-flop). I was down to about 4000 after that and really struggled. It was an active table - players going all-in blind and calling all-in with gut-shots. I saw one guy call two all-ins on the flop with Ace high (and win). I never really picked up a hand. I guess i don't know how to play Ace high properly. I was down as low as 2800 with the blinds at 600/1200 with a 100 ante before a tripled up then doubled up to 15000. However, the blinds had got to 800/1600 with a 200 ante, which still made made me a short stack.

We went to a break and another guy at the table said i was playing great poker. I proved him wrong by a having brain spasm soon after and bluffing a guy all-in with 4 high. He had top pair. I didn't hit my gutshot. It was a hand where i should have either raised or folded pre-flop (it was blind versus blind). I instead did a weird small raise with 24o that let him into the pot with K9. Duh.

Anyway, that was day 1. A lot to compute. 6.5 hours of play for nada. Might play a deep-stack event tomorrow at Caesar's Palace then head over to the Rio to check out the action at the WSOP.

Tune in for Day 2 when I get Aces cracked by a guy who played on a TV final table.

Day 2: I Want to Throw Up

Day 2 started with a 'Deep Stack' 330 buy in tournament at Caesar's Palace.

The starting stack was 15 000 in chips and the blind levels were 50 minutes long. It's a two day tournament. I must admit I haven't played many 'deep stacked' tournaments as such - just a couple of the bigger buy in tournaments online have had similar structures. But it was fine with me, much more play and therefore more opportunity to recover from bad beats.

All the serious poker kids take themselves over the the Venetian to the deep stack tournament they are running, so I figured to go to Caesar's to play against crappier players: the old predictable rocks, the gamblers and the morbidly obese (who would find it difficult concentrating on anything other than the next chuckie cheese burger for any extended period of time) (Caesar's is considered 'less hip' for the refined poker player (the waitresses there don't have nose jobs), so I'm happy to go there and play big stack, big field tournaments against poorer players).

My starting table was ok. Two or three middle-aged calling stations (who nonetheless managed to grow their chip stack throughout the day), a lovely old dearie who subjected me to probably the most tedious conversation I have ever heard; an internet kid who re-raised every pot; a really, really fat dude: I mean, this guy was huge. I seriously doubt he could wipe his own arse. I mean, if you can't touch your hands around your stomach, how can you touch your butt? Oh no - I'm pretty sure a Nurse Mildred is required to clean up the business downtown whenever fatboy gets through the double-combo-super-sized chuckie triple cheese meal (we will call him double chair for the purposes of this email). There was an amiable dude who was quite open about saying all he really wanted to do was go play craps. Um - who else? Oh, a skinny, intense guy who claimed to have been on a TV final table with his 'friends' Phil Ivey and a whole bunch of other big name pros. I'd never seen him in my life. And I'm pretty sure I've watched every poker TV show known to man. In any case, this dude did a Phil Hellmuth and didn't show up for the first two hours.

Anyway, i chipped up to about 18325 by the first break (two hours in). I don't recall getting any huge hands. At that time there were 241 people left out of 263 entrants. I didn't feel particularly troubled by anyway at the table, except the re-raising internet kid.

So I was feeling positive when I came back from the first break. So it served me right when disaster struck soon after. I think it started when I re-raised double-chair with KK and he thought for ages before folding JJ face up. Fuck. I was a bit peeved that he made a good fold and was right, so I decided to vary my play and raise in early position with 67 suited (I do this play a bit online). A ginger who looked like a college gridiron player called. Flop comes out A6T. I continuation bet to see where i was. He calls. I shouldn't have been surprised - he had one move at the table all day: call. I decided i wanted nothing more to do with the hand. Until a 7 comes on the turn. I bet out big with my two pair. He calls again. River is an Ace. Vomit. he checks, I check, he has AJ. Puke.

Then craps player proceeded to beat me up with KQ against my KA, hit a higher flush to my flush, and wake up with JJ against TT. So i'm down to 4800. Worse still, nanna wouldn't shut the fuck up. First she told every one she had four sons, and her middle name was Jeanie, and that she hadn't had a hand all day (she'd played one hand in three hours - pocket kings. And she didn't raise with it). Unfortunately, Craps doubled her up that hand so she wasn't going anywhere. Then she gave relationship advice to the skinny aggressive TV superstar when he finally turned up (when he arrived he just sat there arguing with his girlfriend on the phone for some time). She told him gems like "women are just more emotional", and "we women just don't know what we want", and "if you want a woman to make sense, just slap her around a little". Ok. Maybe not the last one. But she was certainly headed in that direction. Then she ran out of things to say and started spelling out things people at the table said. That is, if someone said call, she'd say "c", "a", "l", "l". I wanted to fly-kick her so badly it made my teeth hurt.

Then I doubled with QQ v 66 (against craps) and things were looking better. Then i went on a little rush. I flopped a BB special and won a few thousand. Then the next hand raised some limpers with KJs on the button (blinds were 200 / 400 with a 50 ante so a lot in the middle) and won another pot. I was actually feeling comfortable. Back to about 17000. Internet kid had been busted so there was no one who seemed to be that good at the table. And then - I pick up AA. Ahh, aces, so beautiful. And as with anything so beautiful, they just break your fucking heart. So I raise it up to 2200, a new internet kid at the table calls, then TV superstar goes alllllllllliiiiiiinnnn from the big blind. I think really, really hard about it so that the internet kid may call, but he folds anyway when I reluctantly go allin. TV superstar sees my hand - he has TT - and starts whining that i've raised three hand in a row and how can I have Aces and his girlfriend smells like cabbage and boohoohooo and woe is me and so the fucking poker gods give him a set on the flop. And instead of 37000 in chips i'm walking out the door trying to control my urge to hit skinny superstar with a tire iron.

So that's that. After that a played a late night tournament and got busted when my KK got beaten by a super aggressive European douche with QJ. Flop 2J5. He raises my raise and instacalls my allin. Turn a J. Puke.

Day 3

Day three really fucking sucked.

Um, I played a single table Pot Limit Omaha 8 or better (PLO8) tournament. First prize was 1500 so i was going to parlay that into the PLO8 tournament on Day 4 (either that or some smack). I was going well - down to 6 people and I was chip leader. Then I proceeded to get a suited A2xx or A23x five times and either split the pot or be scooped every single time. This is a hard thing to achieve.

The most infuriating pot was when I had AA2T against KK45. I raised pre-flop and two people called. Flop comes down 34T. The 34 was suited to my A2 so I had the nut wheel draw and a straight flush wheel draw (and a pair). I made a huge all-in bet and KK45 - the only other big stack at the table - calls it. Now, I should be happy to get that call. I want doubebags to make calls like that and give me a freeroll (for the uninitiated, freerolling in PLO8 means when you can't lose half of the pot). So yes - I want those calls, but I want to win some when they make those calls as well. Especially when I'm in Vegas playing at the WSOP. Anyway, we fucking split the biggest pot of the night and it went down hill after that.

I proceed to get three quartered and then lose the next four pots - and be busted. I had the best hand every single time. It was infuriating. Two Germans down the end were joking and trying to lighten the mood - commenting how unbelievable it was that I lost so many pots in a row. I appreciated the good-will from the Kraut bastards but i still can't forgive them for invading Poland.

Um, so I was busted in that.

Then I decided to play a PLO8 cash game. I sat down with 4 hundred and played a few hands. I was up about 70, but had decided to leave as another guy told me that everyone at the table was an internet pro (he laughingly assumed I was also). So I was just waiting for the blinds to arrive so I could leave when this ugly ginger in a wife beater sat down. He is a semi-famous poker player who featured at last year's WSOP coverage for two reasons: 1) hitting a Royal Flush over Quad Aces, 2) Being a loud, obnoxious ginger who wears a tanktop.

Anyway, I raised it up with AA28. Ginger and internet pro#3 call. Flop is 34Q with two spades (I have A2 spades). So I have an overpair, a wheel draw, nut low draw and nut flush draw. For those not in the know, this is a killer hand in PLO8. I bet pot (65 i think). Ginger calls. Turn is a T. I think a bit - I was sure ginger didn't have a set (which I am ahead of anyway), so I bet pot (160 or something). Ginger raises all-in for another 130 so i call.

He gets up and says "you want to turn it over like on TV". I say sure. He turns over KK45 (that hand again). So he has two pair and no low draw and no re-draws. Even though he has two pair I'm still favourite in the hand (he was 14 per cent to scoop on the flop and 24 per cent on the turn). I need any spade, any ace, queen, ten or three to scoop and any 8,7,6 or deuce to split. River is a 4. He has a full house. Puke. The other dudes at the table immediately start berating him for being such a spastic. I grab my last 65 bucks, walk out of the room and start thinking about stabbing one of those fat people who require those little electric carts to get anywhere.

Um, so a played another PLO8 single table and got busted on a KQ2 flop when my set of Queens was busted by a set of Kings. Sigh. Vomit.

Ahhh. A bad day indeed. Let me tell you something - Vegas is a sad, lonely, desolate place for a poker chump with a dislike for fat people and gingers.

Tune in for Day 4 when my WSOP dreams are crushed by a gutshot on the river. And no. i'm not making this stuff up.

Day 4: The World Series

So, Thursday was the day. World Series day.

I had a good night's sleep. I exercised when i woke up. I ate a hearty breakfast. Strains of the Rocky theme song were going off in my head. I did a bit of shadow boxing. It's well known that any competitive pursuit is aided by Rocky music and a snort of meth. But I'd left my meth in the strip joint from the night before so i had to settle for pretending to punch donkeys right in the mouth.

I was pumped and ready.


I made my way over to what has become the poker Mecca - the Rio Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas. Rio is a Latin-American themed resort that is home to some of the most scantily clad waitresses, the raunchiest near-nude bathing pool in Vegas, the Chippendales, and the WSOP. I am eternally grateful that the apparent baring-of-flesh theme of the Rio did not extend to the almost all-male mass of sweating, stinking, overweight, mouth-breathing poker players that swarmed in maddening clumps through the halls of the Rio.

The Rio is huge. Part of the casino is a convention centre, and this is where they hold the World Series. And it isn't just one convention-sized hall - there's about 4 massive halls - and each of them are packed with hundreds of poker tables. Everywhere you look is a famous player - Marcel Luske, Barry Greenstein, Daniel Negreanu, Minh the Master, Doyle Brunsen - either playing or walking through the halls. Alongside the pros, the rooms are packed with the hordes of hopefuls, those foolish enough to take a shot at a bracelet and a championship. Most of these dreams end the same way - outside the poker room you'll see a distraught player walking along narrating into his mobile phone: "and so he calls, and the flop comes jack, seven deuce, and then..." And then, of course, comes the inevitable bad beat story. Or they huddle in small groups, speaking in hushed tones as in a wake, around a friend recently departed from the last tournament.

The 'televised' final table is set up in the convention centre, so you can watch the action as events get played down to the bracelet. I watched Aussie Jeff Lisando win his a record-tying third bracelet for the Summer. Lucky bastard. The played the Australian national anthem after his victory. I proudly mumbled the lyrics to myself while the other players stood around chatting and waiting for the victory ceremony to finish.

There's also a tonne of cash game tables. In US casinos, cash plays, so you'll see people with a big stack of chips and thick wads of hundred dollar notes bound with rubber bands. I saw one Omaha game where each player had between 50 - 100 grand in front of them - a lot of it in these big bundles of cash; these guys were trading pots worth over a hundred grand.

So anyway, I enter the hall a half hour before the tournament is scheduled to begin. I mill around the tournament room, listlessly watching the big cash games, wandering aimlessly through the myriad poker tables, wondering what I had got myself in for. I wondered about my starting table and whether I'd make it to the dinner break, or perhaps even day two. I pondered the 200 000 dollar first prize and the bracelet. I guess I was doing what the vast majority of other entrants were doing in the minutes leading up to the start.

It turned out that my starting table was a good one. Everyone was playing pretty passive. One guy to by immediate right was a young internet pro who had played several events at the World Series, but he seemed to be the only one who new what he was doing. There was one girl at the table who introduced herself as 'Molice'. Yes, her name was Molice. She said her brother had come 13th at the World Series last year for like 500 000 USD. She had bleached hair and her mascara was running and she probably talked to much about her waitressing job in Cornhole Mississippi or wherever it was, but she seemed nice enough.

In the first level (each level was 1 hour long) I got caught up in a big pot with Molice and Internet Pro.

I can't remember all the action, but by the turn the board read KT36 with two spades. I have a nut low draw, a straight draw and the nut flush draw so I bet the pot. Molice calls and the internet pro thinks for ages and then folded. River was another ten. I miss everything. Molice checked. I was positive she was chasing a low and had missed, so I put in a big bet (I only had Ace high and this was the only way i was going to win), and she started thinking and thinking. I realised that she must have trip tens to go with the busted low draw. She was umming and ahhing and said something like "that was a good card"; I figured she needed encouragement to fold so I said ,"yeah, that was a very good card"; "for you?" she asks, "for me" I confirm, giving her a genuine, sorry-I-hit-the-nuts on you smile. She deliberates for what seems like forever. My heart is pounding in my ears. I stare at the green felt in front of me, trying not to writhe in agony. Then she folds. I throw my ace high into the muck and rake the pot.

Internet pro says - "I think I made a good fold. I folded KT". I say "I had pocket kings". Molice confirm she had a ten. Internet pro says "phew - good fold". Everyone is happy about making such great folds.

About a minute later, someone else at the table pipes up and says, "but I had a King". Clearly there were 5 Kings in the deck.

Internet Pro looks at me and says: "damn - that was a bad fold, a bad fold".

Leaning back in my chair, I think about how cool I am while taking sips of tap water from my Star Trek drinking container.

So that was my one moment of glory.

At the first break i had 5525 (starting stack 4500). So that was a good beginning. The bluff gave me confidence. I also hadn't hit a real hand in two hours, so increasing my stack I felt was a good thing.

Then after the break I don't know what happened. Things started to fall apart. An old guy flopped quads on me and slowplayed it until i hit the nut flush, so I lost a few chips there (old guys always slow play - you can take that to the bank). But that wasn't it. I folded when he bet out and lost the minimum. I think the problem was for half an hour or so I got a bit timid. I wanted to be there so bad and I didn't want to take any risks. Calculated risks - and heart - are, of course, essential to being a winning poker player, so I didn't do myself any favours. I didn't make any huge mistakes, and I certainly didn't get any cards, but I let myself leak some chips without much of a fight. As I said - this was only for half an hour, but half an hour was enough. My stack had somehow gone down to 2500 by the next break and the blinds were getting higher.

I walked outside when the level ended and gave myself an uppercut and told myself I was never going to fucking win this thing without heart.

So i sit back down after the break and first hand I pick up A2KQ double suited. A very strong starting hand for PLO8. I raise it from under the gun and only the big blind calls (a young guy new to the table).

The flop was J85. Not the best in the world, but I had the nut low draw. He checked. PLO8 is a game where it is correct - most of the time - to lead at the pot when you hit, so I didn't believe he'd hit a set or a decent hand. I went all in. He called fairly quickly with AQT2. I was in great shape - all he really had was a low draw - with the only cards he could hit to win being the 9 for a gutshot or T for a pair of tens. Every other card either gave me three-quarters of the pot or the whole pot. I'd gotten all my chips in as a prohibitive favourite and it given myself a real chance to get back into the tournament. The turn paired the board with a 5. My chances of scooping shot up even higher.

It's hard to explain what it feels like when you're knocked out of you're first (and likely only) WSOP event. There was an onrush of white noise. I couldn't really hear what anyone else was saying or take in what was happening around me. I just sat there staring at the 9 on the river. Molice was helpfully pointing it out to me, her finger resting on the card. I didn't sit for long or say anything. I found myself standing, then staggering out; out of the convention centre, into the glaring desert sunlight.

I walked around in the concrete carpark for awhile in the forty degree heat, trying to compute what had happened. But what happened I guess is what happens to nearly everyone that goes to the world series looking for a championship bracelet. They end up with nothing but a bad beat story to tell their friends.

A Half-Hearted Return

Only about three years since I posted last. Probably about the frequency this blog deserves.

I've started writing for pokernetwork.com and for Pokernews Magazine Australia. I'm going to start posting the articles I have published here. Not particular reason as far as I can tell, just a small vanity project really. Really small, if you think about it - given this blog has been dead for three years and I've yet to be swamped by demands for its return.

Anyway - I have about half a dozen articles I'll put up here, the first of which is below.

Spitting, Screaming, Spewing: Poker in Macau

I was certain she was dead; this ancient Chinese woman in the aisle across from me. Cadaver-like, easily over a hundred years old, hands bent into gnarled claws. She was shrunk back deep, deep into the seat, glazed eyes staring blankly ahead. In Papua New Guinea, some remote tribes keep the bodies of dead ancestors in their dwelling. The shriveled corpse of grandma, tied to a chair, sitting in the middle of the hut.

I had assumed this is what was happening here; that her family, with great deference, had loaded her corpse into the exit row of the AirAsia flight to Macau. That assumption held until it began; until the dead ancestor began extravagantly clearing her throat, hawking up massive lugies and spitting them into a sick bag clutched in one of her shriveled hands. And it went on like this, every few minutes, for the entire three hour flight.

As the flight came to a close and I gagged in revulsion as corpse-nan worked up another uber-lugie, I looked down at the glittering lights of Macau and wondered what the poker Gods had in store for me.

Macau isn't just any part of China. It's the gambling capital, the cosmopolitan ex-Portuguese colony, the great cross-roads of Asia. Oh yes, and one of the spitting capitals of the world. Macau has grown in recent years. Grown so much it has even outstripped the mighty Vegas in terms of gambling revenue. And like Vegas, Macau is an artificial construct, a dream bought to life through the raw power of human will, ingenuity and greed. Parts of Macau rise up from the ocean on reclaimed land, much like Vegas has risen from the inhospitable sands of the desert.

But the real question is, will Asia ever compare to the US in terms of poker? Only a couple of casinos in Macau currently spread poker, and it's not clear yet whether the local players are willing to pull themselves away from the Baccarat tables long enough to play a real game. As a poker market, Asia is still untapped, and this is what the Asia Poker Tour and Asia Pacific Poker Tour were here to test - two competing tours, occurring at the same time, taking a gamble on the gamble of Asia.

That’s why I’m here - to play in both the APT and APPT, and throw myself against the worst Asia had to offer. I hope I’d find in Macau something akin to the Moneymaker boom of 2003/04: an ocean of drooling, grinning hee-haws throwing chips away like they were part of a government stimulus package and handing unimaginative TAGs like me undeserved riches. Ah, the glory days.

Shift forward two days and Matt Savage is narrating the final table of the APT with JC Tran, David Steicke and some French luckbox who looks about 13-years old, won a five dollar satellite to get into the event, and ended up winning the whole fucking thing. I'm not at the final table. I'm sitting out in the floor of the poker room playing a side event; a few feet away from me Chino Rheem, Johnny-fucking-Chan, Amnon Filippi, and a bunch of members of the so called 'Poker Pack' are engaged in a high stakes private game. But I'm not thinking about them. Scantily clad 'final-table-money-delivery-girls' with napkin sized crop tops and Vegas sized breasts saunter back and forth in the poker room provocatively; but I’ve barely even glanced in their direction.

My thoughts were on one thing and one thing only - the two hole cards appearing on the one square foot of green felt in front of me. I was on the bubble of the six-handed event, desperately short stacked, wanting only the table to fold to me so I could shove with any two and take down the sky-high blinds and antes. After an agonisingly long wait, I found A9 – which at that stage looked like pocket quads. AQ called my push in the big blind and I didn’t get lucky. Stupid game. I tell you, there are not many other competitive pursuits that can emulate the exquisite pain of the poker bubble.

I seemed to be running a lot better the next day in the US$1,300 buy-in tournament on the other ‘tour’, the APPT. I'd just busted Jonathan 'xMONSTERxDONGx' Karamalikis. He min-three-bet me with 37s preflop and put it all in on the flop with a flush draw. I called with two pair and it held up.

So I was riding high with a big stack early when the following hand went down. An Asian gentleman in early position raised it up. He was the only other big stack at the table and played a lot of hands, but I had him pegged - his opening bet was 2x the blind with a weak hand, 3x the blind with a medium strength hand and 3x the blind accompanied by a clear verbalised "raise" with a strong hand. So he opened in early position with the ‘strong’ version. I looked down at TT on the button, and really felt I was behind. But I didn't travel all the way to Macau to fold tens on the button, so I called and took a flop.

And the flop was beautiful - QT2 rainbow. The Asian guy did a weird ‘thoughtful’ check. I bet -I'm not going to be clever and slow play here when I'm sure he's strong and not folding the flop. He calls. Turn is an A. I guess KJ can beat me here, but I know he doesn’t have that given his early show of strength. After I bet again and he calls I’m almost certain he has AK. The river is a brick and I bet again for value. The pot has over 20,000 in it now and I’m salivating, willing the gentleman to call with TPTK. Blinds are only 100 – 200 and I’m a few seconds away from a 30,000 chip stack the chip lead for the tournament.

The Asian guy shakes his head ruefully, looks at me with a pained expression, looks back at his cards and shakes his head one more time before reluctantly throwing the call into the pot.

I triumphantly turn over my pocket tens. He looks at my hand for a second, blinking, slowly starts to smile, then turns over his hand quickly. Pocket queens.

Oh – a set. Is that all? A fucking set you weak, timid, head shaking, slow playing, nurf herder. But suddenly, before I can mouth any of this disdain for what has just occurred, an old Greek guy next to me – who has thus far remained silent for most of the day, explodes, “A set - I thought this was Texas hold‘em. You don’t like this man’s chips? A SET!” He starts jabbing his finger in the direction of the Asian gentleman, his voice getting louder and louder, “Give the man the nuts and he'll be brave next time. I THOUGHT THIS WAS TEXAS HOLD‘EM!”

I really don’t know why he was so offended, but I was silently egging him on, willing the diatribe to escalate...yes yes – now call him a donkey, throw your coffee at him, punch him in the mouth – punch him in the mouth!

Alas, no punches were thrown, and as I was short stacked I went out soon after. My usual post-knock out ritual in Macau is to go the bar on the same floor as the poker room, buy a beer and a packet of cigarettes (I quit smoking some time back, but often relapse after a bad beat or tough knock out). I did the same here, chain smoking and watching soundless car racing on the screen behind the bar. After an hour or so I slouched out of the casino, past the degenerates and the show girls, past the pallid Internet kids who looked like they had just risen from the crypt to play some ’live’ poker, and out to the taxi line.

Funny thing about chain smoking after you’ve quit – the body doesn’t react so well. I found myself increasingly nauseous during the 15-minute cab ride back to the Venetian. No lunch, two pints of beer and half a pack of durries were catching up with me. It had to be the longest cab ride of my life. Macau was swirling by me faster and faster, but we didn’t seem to be getting any closer to the destination. I felt like death, silently begging for the ride to end, gripping the seat in from of me, breathing in and out heavily, trying not to hurl on the unsuspecting cab driver. And I nearly made it. And unlike the cadaver I accompanied over in the plane, I didn't have a sick bag.