Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Bitch, bitch, bitch.

First of all that Southern Comfort ad. It's a mystery to me. Who are they trying to market it to and why is it so fucking annoying? It really pisses me off when things like this happen. It's like having a good friend seeing a really annoying/offensively ugly girl. You feel robbed. That things aren't the way they should be.

My other bitch today is my appalling form on PokerStars. I opened an account the other day and have so far only managed to cash once in a sit n go. Once in about a dozen games. It's fucking depressing. The one time I made it to heads up, the cheeky fucker I was playing against made the bold inquiry 'are you always this lucky?' and 'is this the last time you've made it to the final two?'. What cheek?! I mean, I made a few draws, but it must be that I've slipped in my play if he thinks I'm a total novice. I'm both shocked and disgusted. My distractions from work should be enjoyable, not offending and annoying. Perhaps I'll take up a new hobby.

And there goes another sit n go. I'd spend more time writing bollocks online, but my head is pretty fried from writing bollocks for my dissertation. Something is telling me to get a restraining order put on my laptop. All this staring at LCD displays can't be doing me any good. I wish I was in a position to do anything about it, but when you're four months from the end of a degree you don't get much wriggling space. And that's what is annoying me the most. In a few months I'll (hopefully) have a degree and nothing to do with it. Now I'm supposed to be working away at it and I don't want to. I guess I'll just have to bite my lip and put up with it, I seem to get by doing that with the rest of my life. A constant nagging of anxiety and boredom, borderline depression, you know the usual middle class student shit. I just get on with. I need to just get on with my work. Maybe I can convince myself that I'm really excited by the work. Just lie to myself, that'll be good for my soul. As opposed to feeling down and over thinking stuff. Wait a minute, that's an idea from Malcolm In The Middle. Malcolm became stupid like Reece to impress a girl. Perhaps I can just switch off my head and get on with it. But no, I need my head to do the work. Fuck this is complicated.

Monday, February 18, 2008

Bit of clarification (should anyone stumble upon this).

I've shipped some writings from another blog I started on to this one. They're a bit out of order but never mind. Spring cleaning isn't one of my strong points. Just be glad (that's me) that I haven't deleted the scriblings all together.
Tuesday, 27 November 2007
Getting old

News 24 rolls across my television screen, but it needs to be muted. Full Tilt flashes up once again, bearing me gifts such as 2-4 off suit and if I'm lucky 2-4 suited. My attention is easily drawn from tasks. It's something that I need to look into. Not in a drugs'll fix it, Ritalin kind of way. Actually, I don't have an idea what causes it or an appropriate remedy. It's seems I am picking up on ailments recently. I think I'm getting old.

The plan was to write about a heavy session on Saturday night, but even that seems a bit too egocentric for a blog. Needless to say (I'll give you the short version) I drank two bottles of Tesco's £2.50 red wine and then took too much speed. I helped out a guy who was too fucked to get home (it was freezing and I was rather feeling quite friendly due to the substances, although it has come to my knowledge that I was being a bit aggro earlier on).

Anyway, without being able to get any sleep during the day, I got to work feeling just the slightest bit ropey. The plethora of tea, coffee and Lucozade that I drank during the day seemed to get its comeuppance as I fought to get to sleep in the early hours of Monday morning.

Fortunately, I've had nothing on today. I have though plowed through a bit of college work, which has made me feel a bit less guilty about not doing much over the weekend. And... oh shit, you see? I'm banging on about things of the least of interest, even my own!

Anyway, long, boring, rambling story short: I'm becoming an old person. I'm not out on a Monday and I seem to have picked up the old peep's narrative style.

Posted by Tim at 01:15 0 comments
Saturday, 24 November 2007
night writing pt1

There is a strange mist in my room. As I look towards my lamp, away from my laptop which omits the sound of whatever tunes the random (or 'shuffle' as it is now known) button decides, past the poor hole cards that Full Tilt is throwing in my direction and my breath that hangs in the cold; I notice that it has cleared. Well, there goes my inspiration for tonight's writing exercise.

iTunes flicks on to another song, it sounds familiar but only by artiste. It's Ben Folds, but I don't know the tune. I check to confirm that it's a track off Supersunnyspeedgraphic, because I haven't got around to listening to it properly yet. But no. It's something from Songs For Silverman. Was I really not paying so much attention when that CD was on rotation previously? Apperently so. Never mind.

This is the kind of irrelevant thoughts that fill my head as I lie trying to get to sleep. [Oh great, just been dealt the Hiltons. Decent raise preflop. Safe flop. Another bet and the pot is mine. Why can't they be that good to me all the time?] Where was I? Oh yes. Of course, had I really been trying to get to sleep the light would be off making it near impossible to see the room fog (I'd just had a cigarette, there's some sort of resolution for you) and I wouldn't have had my computer turned on, making it improbable that I'd be listening to a random Ben Folds track.

I say irrelevant, but the trying to get to sleep thoughts rarely are. If I really was as busy as I suggest, there could be the possibility that this would be the time when my thoughts caught up on me. Perhaps I only half think about things during the day and I receive the other half as I lie waiting for sleep, like some kind of Victorian telegraph, or the old pages of Ceefax where you'd have page 4 of 5 on the TV guide and the present times programming would obviously be on page 3 of 5, so you'd have to sit and wait to find out while the 3 pages of useless information passed by. My life is Ceefax? That may explain why I have a somewhat half arsed knowledge of the weather (it's blue, but should be green in the afternoon); but although I'm going through a quiet patch, no women has appeared as freakish as Bamber Boozle's missus.

No, wait a second, there is a mist in my room. I must have been looking in a slightly different direction before. Maybe I was blinded by the intensity of the 60w bulb, but as I looked over to the corner of the room: carefully guarding my eyes behind the lip of the duvet, I could definitely make out the forming of a minature cloud like substance in the air.

Now that I've aired out some of the junk in my head it's time to try and go to sleep again. I wonder what pointless or profound thoughts I'll have instead of drifting off to a peaceful slumber. Maybe I could invent a notepad that you could use in your sleep or diminished state of conciousness. Perhaps a dictaphone would work? No, I don't talk in my sleep. Or do I? I could find out by recording myself sleep. But I think I've got better things to do tomorrow than listen through a seven hour recording of silence (or non silence) just to find out. Yes, sleep, I need sleep.

Posted by Tim at 03:21 0 comments
Tuesday, 20 November 2007
No distractions

About a month ago I did an interview over the phone with Rusty Hodge from SomaFM. It was for a part of my course called Negotiated Portfolio, in which we compile a portfolio of work which we are supposed to negotiate with titles to sell. Anyway, I was under the impression that that meant actually selling work. After weeks of trying to figure out who to pitch said article to and receiving no replies in my inbox, I found out that that wasn't the case.

With fuck all work done so far this year, it is now time to write the article. I've eaten, I can't be bothered to wash up. Shit, I just need to to write the damn thing. So this is my warm up writing. Getting the brain in gear. A few pints down me to lubricate the brain and a bottle of £2.50 Tesco wine to keep me going. £2.50! I'm as shocked as you are, but in all honesty it tastes all right.

My phone is downstairs and I'm not leaving the room or falling asleep until the article is written. No distractions!

Posted by Tim at 19:39 0 comments
Monday, 19 November 2007
There are a thousand things I could, wait no, should write down. It seems ever increasingly recently that writing should be my calling, be equally and quite frustratingly, it seems that it is not. For to be a writer one should write. Hell, that's most sensible thought to pass through my head in days. And here is where my self defeating problems begin. I don't give myself time to write.

As a tap away these thoughts, it becomes painfully clear that tonight (Sunday) is the first night that I haven't had a drink in a week. I seem to be indulging in the vices of writers: drinking and smoking heavily (in both cases), but not willing to do the hard work either before, during or after.

Reading a post from my favourite blogger Tao Of Poker, the busy life that Pauly describes himself of having puts my own to shame. But it at least inspires me to think about what's going wrong in my own hectic existence. I have around three hours of contact time at university, yet within the extra (going on the scale of 9-5, five days a week, with an hour of lunch daily) 32 hours that I should give myself to study, I seem lucky to score more than three or four max. I bitch about how little time I have to do stuff and then realise that I sleep too much. I sleep way too much. Due to my financial situation I've recently had to take up a job. Meet McColls Falmouth branch's newest supervisor. Yeah, I'm 23 years old, have never had any experience in the realm of responsibility in my life and you're entrusting me your business? Well, I'll give it a shot thank you. Especially for the extra 50p per hour I can make doing it. As long as you don't try and screw me around for overtime too hard.

So, I've got a job. I'm trying to give myself more time towards college. I'm going to have to cut down on my daily sleeping allowance. I need to stop spending so much time and money on alcohol and socialising, but at the same time still receive the benefits of alcohol and socialising: meeting interesting people, sleeping with the attractive ones. I need to start eating better, but then everyone says that. Although, I do need to buy a decent cook book. Beans on toast is starting to get a bit repetitive. A bit like my writing at the end of the day. The plan was to write about the Jello Biafra show. It's taken ten minutes of venting to remember what I set out to do. This is why real journalism will not be killed by blogging: editing. I could delete the last couple hundred words, but seeing as I'm only wasting my own time, I think I'll leave it.

Aside from the obviously corrupt businesses that Biafra talked about. The horrific tales of Iraq, Iran and Afghanistan. The subject that he touched on that has stuck in my head is the constant abuse of media on society. Kids with unremovable iPods. Myspace and its 'emotional trophy cabinet' mentality. People unable to communicate without the use of technology (how ironic, as he writes it in his blog!). We allow ourselves to be tied, to be restrained by the things that are meant to make ease of daily tasks. Thus, we don't achieve anything, but distraction from our goals. Technology is replacing reality. Keeping a firm grip of our attentions, whether it be a poke on Facebook or a fiend request on Myspace, while the authorities poke us out of our civil liberties and human rights. Shit, I think I just put together a decent sentence. Admittedly, stolen from someone else, but that's how ideas work. They grow, adapt, pass on.

And it's with that shameless, smug, self achieving thought that I'm going to check my Facebook and go to bed.

Posted by Tim at 00:30 0 comments
Tuesday, 6 November 2007
Already Sliding

If I could write a good explanation as to why I haven't updated this in two weeks, I could consider myself a good writer. If I could empty my head via my fingertips and relate the mixed up thought processes I have, then I would consider myself a good writer. If I managed to analyse every thought, as opposed to letting them thrash around my mind while I try to sleep, I'd consider myself a good writer.

Considering the way things are right now (and I think we now the way this is going), I can't. In the space of a week, everything I thought no longer seems the same. The way I look at things is now different. The way I act and hold myself is somewhat reminiscent to the immature, unlearned, pre-jaded but depressed teenage self. Whereas for the last four months I've been enjoying life, dabbling in hedonistic ways, feeling free of the shackles of lazyness and boredom; I find myself bored, tired and lonely. I've got no motivation for anything. Tonight I fucked off drinking with a friend (a friend who I should mention is my ex, and what would've been a rather awkward session, but nonetheless), for what I hoped would be a drinking session with bloke mates. [Check the time here: 1.40am, I didn't even go out!]. I can't do anything right at the moment. I can't even hold together a night of drinking.

So here I am, amongst the millions of other bloggers. Sad and alone, vying for any form of attention. Trying to keep myself awake, because it's always most comforting feeling sad.
Thursday, 6 December 2007
Call it a night

If ever I saw a sign telling me to stop playing poker (for the night, not all together), then I believe it just flashed up on my screen.

Tonight, like most nights has been quite a long one. Farting around and not doing the work I should have done, led me to around five or six o'clock. Yeah it must have been six, because in the space of that hour I showered, realised that I had fuck all in the fridge for dinner, chucked some frozen food on, ate it and got to the bar for poker.

This being the last Wednesday of term meant it was the Grand Final night. Our college poker works like the WPT (ish), where players get entry to the Grand Final over the course of the term by gaining points on their overall position in weekly tournaments.

Managing to not get a hand higher than the 8-5 off suit bracket for the first two hours, I considered myself to be looking sharp as we headed to the final table with around my starting stack. With the blinds reaching significantly stack hurting levels, I managed to make a few steals, to keep on par. Ninth went out, then eighth and then on the bubble I found that I could steer clear of unnecessary conflict. Within the space of half an hour, the balance of the table went from one side to the other. My side I can quite happily report. The bubble burst with myself stood well clear from any messy discharge.

Slowly, I had been amassing chips. Playing at the right times against the right people. It was four way and for once the chips were evenly distributed around the table. To my left was my comrade James. We'd been joking that we were Communist Russia in a rather Peep Show way, when the bulk of the chips were on the right wing of the table. Through what was even bad luck or shoddy play, or a combination of the two Ti and Chris managed to run into the wrong end of an all in against your narrator. It was heads up and I had a slight lead.

My heads up skills are notoriously known around college for the fact that they are non existent. You don't earn the nickname Second Prize for nothing. In fact I've probably come second more often than I've finished in any other place combined. Hey, at least I'm consistent.

I held back on confrontational hands, opting to make minimum bets instead of stack risking raises and it paid off. I was tempted to call an all in pre-flop with K-10 off, but declined knowing that James was a conservative player. And then came the final hand.

I'm on the button and get dealt 5-6 off suit. After thinking about raising I decide that I'm better off calling, with the possibility that if reraised I can escape with limited damage. I call, he checks. The flop brings 6d-6s-As. Merry fucking Christmas I think to myself. He bets out half the pot. I stall, and mask my thoughts on how to make the most out it as indecision. I reluctantly call. The turn comes down something like an eight or a ten, I can't really remember, but it was of Spaded descent. There's a flush draw out here. And I'm committed. He makes a minimum bet. The big 'flush draw' light flashes in my head. At the same time though, the 'heads up' siren is wailing. He wouldn't have gone for the flush draw if he had the Ace, what the hell has he got. If he has got the flush, I've still got outs for the boat. I reraise him all in. After a minute or so thought he calls. "You got spades?" I ask. "No?" He responds. What the fuck has he got? Cos even with the Ace your fucked mate. "I got trip sixes," I say as I felt my cards. He turns over the Hiltons. "Pocket Queens, nice" I say and check that the spade isn't in his hand. It's not. The river brings a five filling my boat and earning me my first Woodlane Poker Club Main Event.

With no time to celebrate, I came home to finish off a presentation that I've got in the morning. Well, I say that. What actually happened was I went home, made a sandwich and watched Family Guy for an hour, whilst playing on Full Tilt. Finishing just out of the bubble on a two table tournament, I got on with finishing the work. (It's taken so long because of all these distractions!) I'd just taken a herbal sleeping pill (give it a few weeks before I go for the real stuff), when I stoked the Full Tilt fire again. First hand of a single table S'n'G: I get Paris and Nikki. In early position I decide to min bet it. I get a few callers. The flop comes down harmlessly, Jack high. I bet out, two folds, one call. Safe turn. River brings an Ace and a backdoor flush. He makes a half pot bet (which is pretty big by now). I reraise all in and he flips K-9, nut flush. "Motherfucker" I heartlessly moan to the screen and decide it's a sign to pack it in for the night.
Monday, 10 December 2007
Musings #34490221

I just remembered a thought I had over the summer. It was something like: I don't feel like a teenager anymore, no angst or depression, it feels good. The reason this came to mind is because recently I seem to have slumped back into feeling as I did in my teen years. Indecisiveness, indifference, a total lack of confidence, these are the traits I'm talking about. It's pretty late so hopefully these musings will sink in, in my sleep. Perhaps I'll awake in the morning with the awareness of it and some sort of solution. I dearly hope so, because I never want to be a teenager again.
Saturday, 22 December 2007
Time for another stress out post. Have I made a stress out post yet? I don't know. I tend not to read the stuff I write on here. The idea is to get shit out of my head. Fuck knows why I put it online. Perhaps I, like everyone else on here, like to believe that someone will read their stuff. That's it, it's stuff. And if anyone has time to read it (highly unlikely), fair play. You've found a new web page to waste their time on. Bollocks, I've just had another post modernist blog rant. Slap my wrists.

Anyhoo. The reason I'm writing tonight, like most nights I write, is to clear my head. My college workload is starting to get to me. Starting to get to me? Maybe not. It's been on my mind for a good few months and now the deadlines are approaching (I've got a month to do a semester of work - nice fuck up mate) the reality is setting in.

So yeah, I've got to produce 9000 words of features (note it's Christmas, how do you contact people this time of year?) that I have no idea where to start. On top of that, tutors are of little help developing them. I've also got to get working on the dissertation, which although I've done a fair bit of reading, I've done no note taking. Bad student!

So yeah, my degree is disintegrating in front of my eyes. When I think about it I freak out. When I don't I feel guilty for not doing so, and then freak out. Talk about a catch-22. If only I could get the ball rolling and get some confidence back in my work. And myself. Here lies the central problem. I'm in a rut. For the last two months I've been in a downward spiral. And my cynical depressive self has let it take over. Stupid cunt! Get you're head together. Get to work!

So that's the plan. In the morning. I'm gonna get my ass in gear and write something of some use, instead of this self-absorbed, self pitying shit. This isn't gonna be an easy or fun festive period (but then, are any?), but it's going to be a busy one. And it's about fucking time.
Sunday, 23 December 2007
It's time for me to give up. On everything. You know your luck's down when even your distractions don't go your way.

I'd hit stalemate with some research/writing earlier so I thought I'd check my email. 'PartyPoker has noticed you haven't been around for a while' or something to that effect, 'Log on now for a free (restricted) $20 deposit'. Sweet, I thought. That'll kill some time. But nay, it seems that Full Tilt has been in touch with them to inform them of my appalling run of late (of form and luck, it's always bad luck, yeah right). That bonus has done a few of Party's players some benefit, but not mine.

So to recap. My poker playing has gone down the pan, I'm stuck in a complete rut on the college front and I'm going through a dry spell (oh I didn't mention that before, I wonder why). Could life get any better?

Ah the joy of sarcasm. One of the few weapons to my disposal. That's it, I'll hand in 10,000 words of sarcasm. That'll get me a great grade. I can't stop now.
Sunday, 30 December 2007
Same old same old

Why am I staring at my screen at 3am? Why does this not surprise me whatsoever? The answer is because I'm a fucking idiot. With time not on my side to complete my coursework I made an early start. Up at the God awful hour of 10am, I was out the house doing journalistic errands by half eleven. By about twelve it had started raining and dropping back past my house to pick up a coat, I felt half relieved to have set up a few interviews and half annoyed that they would have to take place in the New Year.

I don't have time to be waiting around for people. This work needs to be done. I guess that's why the semester started back in October. Oh how I love learning things the hard way. It seemed like no time had passed when I found myself in a rush to get dinner on before hastely cycling to the shop. After a wasted five and a half hours, well six if you include the time spent on the bike, it was time to get back to school work. But I had no energy. Reheating what was left of my dinner and then microwaving a mouthwatering bolognese, my hunger subsided, but my zest for work (or lack thereof) prevailed.

Before I knew it I was watching the Extras Christmas special. Sliding ever more into pit of depression. Nice one Gervais. That was possibly the most painful hour and twenty minutes of festive entertainment since It's A Wonderful Life. Like everyone else who watched Andy Millman submerge himself in self afflicted self loathing whilst alienating his friends (this can't be a compliment for a TV show, but I guess it is); the end couldn't come soon enough. As with The Office Christmas special, absolution is finally achieved and we can breathe a sigh of relief for the wonderful characters that Gervais and company have brought into our lives.

I can now rest happy, safe in the knowledge that two fictional characters have achieved some sort of conclusion. However, for me it's the same old shit but a different day when I awake from my slumber. I want to be a fictional character.
Monday, 31 December 2007
Fucking Hiltons

Fuck the Hilton sisters. [I'm using the poker term for a pair of Queens, devised by Vince van Patten, not the literal sense.] I was sitting pretty in a MTT when I raised pre-flop. Then this jackass who has been constantly raising pots re-raises. Fine, I'll go over the top, I think to myself and push. He calls and shows cowboys. Motherfucker. No fucking women on the board and I go from a position where if I didn't play like a dick/get screwed, I could've cashed. Instead I'm out. And half a dozen donkeys that have been scraping through can make a few double ups into the bubble.

I need to stop posting poker bitches. They're no good for my sporting sensibilities, and I could be playing another tournament while I type this shit.

Oh yeah, 'Hiltons': they look good but cost you a lot of money.