I may be extremely tired and a bit hungry, but at least the hangover has finally gone. Gone too has the stress of getting to London and being unable to get hold of my friend Felix. Felix, who I had come up to London to stay with. I've just noticed that once again I have limited battery life, this may be another brief post.

Over a coffee at Waterloo, I managed to be contacted by Nick, Felix's house mate. After spending just over £6 on coffee and a pouch of tobacco, I lugged my backpack (clothes, computer, coat and everything) and my guitar to Euston where I met Nick. Instantly my mood picked up from hungover stress to optimistic relief.

The tube wasn't exactly fun (what with the luggage and the public), and by the time we arrived here in Whitechapel my bones and muscles were aching. However, since the cup of tea, glass of squash (which practically went down in one), a cigarette and an episode of The Simpsons, I am feeling much, much better.

The red light is on the side of my laptop, and I can't really be arsed to plug it in or carry on writing. I'm gonna get some rest, I'm going to be writing quite a bit in the coming weeks.

The following literature takes place at about lunchtime on Friday

The low battery light has come on. I don't have much time.

The adventure has begun. After Tuesday's decision by Harrie and Dunc to drive to Morocco, a slight alteration to the plan - they're going to hitchhike, and an afternoon of getting supplies in Salisbury, the mission is on.

I've just got on the 14.20 to Waterloo, which I'm taking as far as Woking. Dunc and Harrie have just set off from the station to go back to Harrie's to pack and then hitch to Woking. I wonder who will win this race?

The 'mobile' internet is as frustrating on a moving train as it is in a stationary house. One minute there are 2/3/4 bars, next there are none. Fuck possible causes of cancer. We need telecommunications dammit!

I've just received an email from Joanna at Front, giving me directions to the office and a few do's/don'ts. I'm going to have to do some fancy dress shopping tomorrow when I get to London. That or see if I can fit into Olivia's dress. Battery dying... Losing power... Khan!

It's way, way to late to write. Omelettes and cigarettes is all that are on write now/ This make sense later. I hope.

They have to sleep.

You know it's not good when you resort to smoking bits of stalk that you find on the floor in your room. Fortunately, tonight the bit of stalk was offset with a bit of green I found on my bedside table. It's been sat there for at least a month. I can't believe I've never noticed it, resting under my Brass Eye DVD.

The findings came as a relief, as I returned from an hour of busking in my usual spot by the art shop in Newquay. Wounds from last night's drinking were still apparent as I walked down the hill. Despite spending the afternoon laid out on the sofa watching US Open tennis and Louis Theroux's Weird Weekends, drifting in and out of consciousness; I was still feeling knackered at 11pm. Plus after last week's over emphatic singing (which resulted in the loss of my voice for a few days) my throat isn't getting the best recovery from the battery of alcohol and smoke that passes through it. Within the first song I knew I wasn't going to last long. A lozenge and some pleasant punters eased the first half hour by, but both had evaporated by the time I called it quits at around 11.45. With around enough money earned to buy an eighth, if I could only afford such luxuries.

On Wednesday, I passed two major milestones signaling the end of the summer. Before jetting down to Falmouth, I handed my week's notice in at Somerfield. To my amusal the managers were having a meeting when I arrived. Knocking on the door (which has a window in it, thus making they're presence in a meeting immediate to me), I was greeted, as a blind person or one with mental difficulties, with the observation: "We're in a meeting." Condescending tones, as store policy, added for affection. "We'll be done in an hour." Added to assert authority. "I can see that, I just need to give you this letter." I said, placing said letter on the table. I left with a grin of mirth, with the knowledge that I were to end this term of insult at the hands of middle aged, middle managers.

By about midnight on Wednesday, I decided to call it quits at the Q Bar. For the ninth or possibly tenth week in a row, nobody apart from myself made use of their Open Decks. For being the only fucker to play, I've been kept in casual employment on a free drinks all night deal. A deal that is pretty shit, in any cases, but especially so in my case of traveling over from Newquay to do so. Two jobs down in the space of eight hours. A personal best.

On Thursday, after a few hours of snooker and a few pints, I popped into Somerfield to pick up a well needed snack and my hours for the last week. In a repeat of last week's piece of managerial ineptness, I found that I had been given no hours. At around quarter to four, following a drinking and catching up session with my mate Harrie from uni, I decided to call in sick. Fuck them. If they're going to play nasty with me, I can play nasty with them. I would pay good money, and probably cringe at the possibility of hearing the drunken slur I left on the store's mobile's answerphone.

At about one o'clock. Minutes after the departure of Harrie and his friends from work. I received a call from Somerfield. (I was supposed to work at 12.30.) "Tim, you know you're supposed to be in today." Said the voice on the phone. "Didn't you get my message?" I asked in return. Apparently not. No surprise there then. A five minute chat with the manager, who I've yet to meet properly resulted in my explanation of the series of cock ups that has left me with my roguish opinion of the store. It sounded like Russell (I believe him to be called) had a hint of understanding of where I'm coming from.

And so with my only income being from busking, it's taken me til this afternoon to appreciate a simple truth. I'm a professional musician.

Checking my inbox for any word from Front (might have to just show up at the offices), I just had a comical misreading of one of my emails. It read: 'Win a trip to see where Iron Man was made'. I thought to myself, what sort of location is Birmingham for a holiday?

I'm this very second doing the live card dance. It's a term that I've just coined, as I pushed all in with K 10 and hit one of my live cards (matey had A 8) to survive. It's a pretty simple one, but to those not fluent in the poker lingo I can see how it'd possibly be confusing. Especially as I'm not really dancing. I'm lying down in bed, with my laptop resting on my crotch. But you don't know that. Ah balls, you do now. Never mind.

Talking of being fluent in things. I'm no where near fluent in Polish yet. I don't know if I've mentioned on here (cos I don't read it, I'm not quite that narcissistic to do that) I'm learning Polish, to aid my attempts in going over there, taking their jobs and shagging their women (well, one of them to be precise).

It's a little bit complicated at the minute. As I'm still in the first week of my four week course. I say course, when in fact I mean 'book'. Which is designed to be completed within four weeks. (28 lessons, 28 days in four weeks... They haven't met me before.) I've been at it [I haven't been 'at it', I'm on my own aren't I?] for (insert another live card dance) about ten days and I'm still get the hang of the first three lessons. I've even been getting help via MSN from the missus. The thing is, Polish, like most other languages in the world, has different genders of words (masculine, feminine and neuter) as well as different endings for words depending on their use in a sentence.

And they say English is the hardest language in the world to learn.

Bollocks.

I've been speaking and writing in English for fucking ages. It's a piece of piss. I can understand there are plenty of numpties out there who can't quite handle it (usually those of which it is their first language), but still, everyone speaks English. Therefore, it must be easy.

Stupid comments aside, I reckon after the next four weeks of studying (and I'm pretty good at it it, when I put my mind to it) and a few weeks of being surrounded by it it'll be łatwy. Easy.

It's now about 3.00am and I'm starting to wonder whether the coffee I had earlier was de-caff. And whether orange and cranberry juice mixes all right. It wasn't, and it does. My tournament has ended in success (after coming back from being short stacked 5 handed, and a marathon heads up against a luckbox). I think I'll have one more game and carry on studying. I don't have work til tomorrow evening.

Ok. So this one's called: The Best Feelings Ever.

I kind of drew up a rough sketch as to how to write this on the way back from the store. It's now 7.00am. Craig and the Old Man have gone to work. I've just trekked to the Post Office to get some baccy from the newsagents, to skin up. Full Tilt has been fired up. It's time again to write.

I came up with a startling observation on the bus. It's not the magnitude of your feats, but the degree in which you perceive them, that have the bearing on your overall stakes of happiness, and fulfillment. For example, on the bus, I found myself quite chuffed knowing that at my disposal was a sweet magazine, some sick tunes to listen to and the finest chocolate digestives that would never see a cup of tea. I was, essentially, overwhelmed with self adoration. I'd made it.

Which got me thinking. What else brings such feelings of achievement. Walking up the high street at 6.45 in the morning to get baccy to make a wee bifta is one. I confounded myself in a crapulent sense of well being by: buying an apple from the grocers and giving it to homeless chap and making a rollie for Jesus, the coolest homeless/guitarist type I've ever met. Now I wonder home, stoned and write. That's a pretty sweet feeling.

I thought back to yesterday. Seeing Lauren and the old women she lives with (Vicky and Annabel). And that I made the right decision to get out and live my life. Weird fuckers.

And that at any given point, I'm capable of being either: an elastic sharp witted tool, a grafter, a guitarist, a human boy that is constantly on the verge of breaking into song/tears because of the ridiculous state of happiness (tickets booked, ready to rock) and boredom (another month without her!). I'm in a constant limboid state. An emotional deep fat fryer. Don't ask me to explain that metaphor. I'm just hungry.

Eight words. Five more than the usual three, six more if you say it in Polish. But the effect is just as... [I've been drinking] effective.

Under the commands of the hottest, smartest, funniest (and the list goes on) girl to have ever walked the Earth: I appear to be writing this blog again.

But what the hell do I write about? If I try to write anything too impersonal I'm discounting the last two and a half months of my life. If I don't, I whore my private life out to the internet and an inaccountable (and probably small) amount of people. Time to follow the trends of contemporary culture, write about my life as it's the most important thing going on in the world today [see The Sun and Jade Goody]. Let's be a media whore.

Since my last post I've had approximately one more month in the company of my fine lady. All good reason for not writing (on here in any case) in my book. It's quite a time consuming business entertaining someone you can't take your eyes off. Writing a blog would be quite tricky too with an averted gaze. As for the last five days in which she's gone, I don't think I could manage to write anything substantial without a 'boo hoo she's gone' kind of context.

I say that, but essentially, I am still as pissed off that she (you, my only reader) has/have gone. For two months I felt alive. There were reasons to wake up in the morning, to go to work, to go busking, to eat, to do the washing up and of course to go to bed. The strange thing is, although I'm alone in England again, the reasons are still there.

They are not as immediate. They do not come into my store when I'm in the darkest of bad moods and cheer me up, they do not make me laugh by making stupid sounds and pulling silly faces, and all the things that an uptight, unpaid writer can write about, but won't, because that would be too easy... It's pretty simple: I'm completely in love.

So yis. I now have plans (of some sort) as to what to do with myself. Following the directions I've taken from getting a degree in the old journalism business I'm going to go to London to whore myself out (read: intern). After that I am going to go to Poland to be reunited with my lover. Then who knows. I don't. And that's how I like things. If I can manage to find work over there and adjust to a foreign way of life, fucking way to go. If not, I'll try and make a go of it in London. Has anyone ever heard of someone with one of them going nowhere in life [sic]?

But even if I wind up in a worse supermarket job, with two power crazed middle aged old women treating me like their manslave. I'll still be happy and have something to live for, I'm in love.

"You're watching World News Tonight, I'm some guy in London", "I'm some dame in Washington" and I'm Tim Horner in Newquay.

Nuts to writing anything inanely intelligent tonight. It's just gone 3.30am, I've got two Full Tilt poker windows open, I'm checking my emails, watching News 24 and writing this. Details can be obtained at a later date.

Hmm... Should've read my last post before I started writing this one. I have no clue as to what kind of state I left this Tramspotting convention. Ah flip, it must be late. BBC 2 has just gone to Ceefax. Seriously, I don't pay my License Fee to see random pages from the old Ceefax. I pay it so three middle aged men can arse about in foreign countries in expensive cars. I pay it to see highlights of national sporting figures failing spectacularly. I pay it so that when I occasionally listen to Radio One, I can hear Jo Whiley bang on and on for weeks about some shitty bands playing songs (probably not even their own) at some shitty free festival on the other side of this strange island nation.

I believe the last words written on this bad boy had something to do with me putting in a day's work at a cheese factory and DJing (?). This conclusion has been reached as I only seem to write on Wednesdays. Which as a writer is a bad habit I seem to have slipped into. I just have too many non writing related things to be doing now that I've left university. Like work in Somerfield (the latest of my remedial jobs, secured by the attainment of a degree in the media sector), busking to drunk people outside the kebab house in town, playing two tables of poker (well now one, stupid overcards not hitting) and quite enjoying the music that accompanies BBC 2's presentation of old school Ceefax (affectionately known as the poor man's Internet). I take back my previous rant. Despite the ire caused by Jo Whiley, the Beeb is pretty sweet. Fuck, this is starting to read like a normal blog. I think I've been paying too much attention to playing the cards. Actuall

It is at this point that the writer ingeniously re-re-raises a bullying big stack pre flop. The bully turns out to have Aces, which hold up against the valiant scribe's Jacks.

What I was about to say was: Actually, I think I better focus on the poker, as I've reached the final table - more words will follow. The irony that the break was going to occur, but occurred due to less fortunate reasons is appreciated (I grew up in the nineties, tale end of Generation X). Not quite as much as I'd like though. For clarity that's the enjoyment of the ironic situation I'm talking about, not the year in which I was born. Maybe I didn't get a chance to go and see Nirvana in their brief and awesome reign, but I get to be old enough to appreciate them and young enough to not have the burdens of... well, being old, owning a house, having a mortgage and kids.

Alas, I become aware of the rambling nature this prose has taken. The mission to avoid regular blogging standards (either boring, uncontrollably stupid or both) is achieved. And I think I'm starting to feel a bit sleepy.

Seeing as it's Wednesday tomorrow I imagine I'll be on here again. Hopefully not writing to drown out the sounds of friends having sex on the floor above, and hopefully with some more purpose. I might mention something that I've done recently or if you're lucky you might get some really stoned thoughts. (I got a 2:1 by getting baked. I also think it's worth mentioning that this has all been written in a sober stupor.) Three weeks on the lash. It had to end at some point. This one will do.

As I tap away diligently on my keyboard it dawns on me that I have yet to write a post about Glastonbury.

I guess, 'Got wasted. Smelled,' doesn't make for good writing. Nor good reading. It's been a few weeks now so I guess what memories I have have faded into the grey matter. Never mind.

I've got used to writing about other things anyway. Like poker. And the bane of my life that is technology. I'll stick to what I'm good at.

For reasons unbeknown to me (or the 3 network), my mobile phone has stopped working. This is quite a bother. For the reason that Orange are a useless excuse for an Internet 'Provider', I cannot access the Internet from my laptop using their 'Wireless' router. This is also a bother. I'm quite bothered.

My course of action in remedying this injustice is two fold. On the Orange front I shall do absolutely nothing. Except accept that trying to do anything will be a waste of energy and spirit. If you Google 'Orange broadband is shit' you'll be presented with numerous pages written by disgruntled consumers. You'd think someone at Orange would get the hint. Perhaps it's in their company mission to piss off every person in the UK. They seem to be doing a pretty good job of it. The mobile on the other hand. Well there's not much I can do right now except wait for my brother to show up with his 3 phone and figure out if it's my SIM or my phone that is fucked. Because that's 3's only answer to my problem.

I think I might start a premium rate tech support line. 'Switch it off and back on again. That's £29.99 please.'

Jesus, Full Tilt Poker, that's why I came on here. But why am I in Firefox putting my log in to Blogger? I don't know. Let's do both. It's what you're good at. We've seen that. There's evidence of that. Not sure if the evidence works for it or against it; but I'm pretty sure it's there. Damn, now he's gone with the music. I have to open my trusty DSS DJ program (for mixing and generally more fun options than iTunes and Windows Media put together).

The irony, DSS, for all DJs that are claiming Jobseeker's Allowance from the DSS. I should be. I'm seeking employment. I should get money for that bitch of a pasttime. Saying that, I've just come over to Falmouth to DJ in exchange for a night's worth of beer. It's not really work but it's a paid (in sorts) activity. If the amount I drank tonight is more than the bus fare I'm good. I think I'm good.

So yes, time to get writing on here. I'm not sure when I last put some words on this page. It must be quite a while as I've been preoccupied with much better things than writing. And that's quite a statement considering prior to this break from my blog, the only thing going for me was writing. The degree, the gauge of sanity. I love writing, even bollocks like this, but this is something else.

To destroy the illusion of one flowing stream of thought, I have to note a rather annoying fifteen minute pause in the writing that occurred between this paragraph and the last. I've been involved in a few hands and a little bit of banter via Facebook and MSN with Mags. The cunt.

What's been going on then? Well, I moved back to Newquay. Briefly stopping off at my folks' for a few hours; I've since been in the company of one unbelievably awesome young lady. This is why I haven't been writing. I'm either having fun, laughing my ass off or recovering from the two. Except for tonight that is. For reasons I've previously mentioned.

And I think that's about all I can manage for this evening. I promise I will write a generic music blog post about Glastonbury at some point, but I really can't be arsed to go into too much detail right now. Got cards to focus on.

Damn the cigarette holder doesn't fit a joint in it. That's about the only down side to it. The pluses are that it does keep smoke out of my face (I tested it while playing the guitar), it looks fucking cool and it was given to me by the most amazing, amusing, attractive and erudite (thank you Bret and Jemaine for that one). Ol also brought me over a load of foreign football shirts (I had no Summer til now, ta) and a sweet tie with a tank design on it. Amazing.

It's the first Monday back in Newquay, I have just posted my last post that must have been written at some point on Saturday. Sitting in front of the screen shouldn't be top on the to do list, but I've entered a two table sit n go and writing is seems like the better option to dumping $5 and going to the pub. I need to be fashionably on time.

Yesterday I left Falmouth and arrived in Newquay. As did Ol. I don't much feel like writing my private life over the internet (that's what photos on Facebook are for). But I will say it was good.

Anyway, my joint is running low, as are my chips. I've got a beautiful girl and a cold beer waiting for me in town. Good night.

Ah fuck it. This blog has had to be written in Notepad because my computer has reached new heights of base line slowness. I'm transfering a file on MSN and it seems to have completely eaten my meager connection speed.

Without the bunting or fanfare, this a landmark blog. Like all the good ones I'm writing it instead of seeing to more important matters. The landmark: my last post as a student of University College Falmouth. The more important matters: packing/tidying/eating.

There's an element of multi-tasking to my methods, as it turns out that the laptop did some update thing last night and every five minutes tells me to restart the system (which I can't do because I'm transferring files, keep up).

Last night was the last one in town with the guys and girls. Not my last night, that's tonight. But it was a good one and sad one equally. This morning we reconveined to have a final Wetherspoons breakfast together. We then went to Argos and got Casio watches (I've totally got in early on the trend. I got mine last year!). The circle is complete. I've graduated, I've had my farewells, now all I need to do is leave. Well, I need to pack and tidy up first, but I've explained that.

In a half assed bit of reminiscing, I've realised that I've learned quite a bit over the last three years. About myself, about people, about life and about writing. I'd never imagine a few years ago that I'd be able to sit at my desk (lying in bed) and bash out 500 words in a matter of minutes without having to add superfluous fluffy bits of excuses and padding to my words. Just stick to the point. The odd tangent is welcome but can be outstayed. Keep it sharp.

And I think that's a nice place to leave it. There will be more words by the Art School Writer in the future. Words of greater relevance, humour, insight (hopefully) that more and more people will read. That's where I need to head next, a platform with an audience. But as my transfer has just fucked up, I can let the laptop restart and get on with more important matters. Like getting out of this place.

It has been a joy, of immeasurable standards.

It seems like as good a time as any to do some writing. Since I finished the course, the writing has slowed down considerably. After about three months of non stop typing and thinking, I think it was time I took a week of or something.

Anyway, I got my results on Friday and I am rather chuffed with myself. My year of consuming more alcohol, drugs and general mishaviour (than the first two years put together) has resulted in me achieving a rather deserved 2:1. To think that had I applied myself fully I could've easily attained a first is quite an odd one, yet not one to bother me. I came here to get a 2:1 and have a good time (though maybe not in that order). As well as the drinking and partying I've also had a winter break in Poland, skinny dipped and bathed with friends, busked, laughed (a great deal), cried (not so much) and all things in between. This has been a good year.

I've spent the night at a party telling the same stories to people over and over again. What I did, what I'm going to do... I feel like an actor doing loads of junkits. It's slightly bizarre.

What is also bizarre is that I'm still up writing and playing poker at 8.45am. This after feeling and looking like death earlier, declaring my efforts to stay off the beer tonight (which I did, to an extent; wine and Jim Beam & Coke). I will start taking it easy. I need to. I have energies to be saving for more enticing activities this weekend. Perhaps I'll just donk out of this tournament and get my head down.

I'm doing this for doing this's sake. Tapping 'blogg' into the Address Bar didn't see the following 'er.com (+Ctrl Enter)' appear. Something is up.

I've got internet and I'm feeling like writing something. That's the top and the bottom of it.

Not sure if I wrote on here about t'internet problem (I think that's a suitable yet not cheesy opportunity to use Mr Kaye's addition to the English language), what with not having access to it. My 3 mobile broadband totally fucked me in the ass. Yes, I had to provide my own lube. Basically, what happened was: The dashboard thing that told me I was connected to 3 Mobile Internet told me I'd used 300 odd Mbs. I get a message saying I've used 30.37 (approx) extra. What is this message saying? I phone them up. 'You've used 303.7 Mb over my 1Gb limit and now you owe us £30.' Or something to that effect. Motherfuckers.

So that's how I've not been online often. The whole ending my degree has helped to keep me away from the glare of dull LCD displays.

Why did I come on here? Oh yeah, to write. I'm a bit stoned and I think that's why. But now Mags has put Blazing Saddles again and my attention has again drifted. Good to be back on here, however shortly.

Damn swine the computers. Or computer, as in the special needs child of a computer I am using. It appears that running Firefox with three tabs open and trying to download a file (all of 2Mb big) is too much to ask. Why is it that as technology gets better, faster, smaller, cheaper (that might have something to do with it), it also becomes more irritating?

That's a bit of a throw away thought at the minute, for I have no brain power for those sorts of debates. No debates. I have minimal functionality in the noggin departments at best of times and considering I'm just starting a fourth day of end of college celebrations, I wouldn't expect any deep thoughts for a while.

Right, I'm just rambling now. I'll blame it on the tennis. Too much time in the sun. People with surnames beginning with X and ending in J. No, I'm just looking for excuses now. Blogging for blogging's sake. I know. I'll put some pretty pictures up. Cheers Ol x.



There we go: something to write about. It had to happen sooner or later. I've been trying to find where I post all my stuff online, so it can be linked to on here. Windows Live Space or SkyDrive or something to that effect. Having three Hotmail accounts isn't making it any easier either. I've found folders of college files but not Tramspotting ones. Where did I put it last? I must've had it around here somewhere. Click, no. Click, no. Click... yes. Right. If that's worked properly there should be some sweet pics on here, which means my job is done and I can shower off the sweat and smell of defeat from tennis.

God damn, I shouldn't have spoke bad about computers or any product associated with Bill. Bloody computer karma has just kicked me in the balls, making me wait five minutes to upload an MP3 that doesn't even work. Arse. No music today. Haven't got time to be fucking around with this. I've got English students to be getting drunk with.

Two posts in two months. Anyone would think I've had things to do.

Turns out I have. Since Friday I've been making the most of free time. Friday was the final deadline for college, and despite consuming a large amount of alcohol/others whilst working my ass to the bone over the previous fortnight, it's quite pleasant to drink without worrying about work.

Hell, it turns out that I haven't had five minutes to drag my sorry cursor to my 'Blogger: Dashboard' button. It's been some quite consuming work. I'd better get a decent grade now.

Anyhoo, it's way too early in my day at this very moment. I've awoken on a sofa to some pretty boring talk from England players about Wednesday night's game against the USA. I suppose there isn't much exciting to talk about prior to such a big game. Can't wait for the press conference ahead of the friendly against the mighty Trinidad and Tobago.

I was gonna start putting a bit more effort into my posts. A spring clean as you would. Perhaps now I've got some time to think to myself for five minutes, five hours, five months, five years (still haven't quite got over finishing the degree)...

The point was: I'm gonna try and make an effort. Get some pics and music up here. Make it look like a decent blog (no point in writing decent copy if no one is going to read it). Make it a decent blog. So here are Today's treats, a poster I pinched off the internet which needs some slight detail editing (i.e. make it for my party) and some sexy tunes from the Sexy Party's playlist.


Alfredo Luna - Claudine 69
The Herbaliser - Sensual Woman
Malcolm McLaren - About Her
Justin Timberlake vs Metronomy - SexyBack (Tylerfedchuk Indie Edit)

The television set is looking more and more appealing. My attention is flickering between it and my computer screen. That doesn't seem to be just now, but for the last few weeks. Anything seems to grab my attention more than the reasons for being sat in front of the laptop. Not good when you've got a fuck load of college work to do.

God, I can't even be arsed to write this. My blogging and writing seems to be at an all time (well, not all time, I'm pretty sure I couldn't write this well in 1989) low.

To quote Chris from Skins once more, 'Fuck it'.

Two weeks, no writey? Not on here I'm afraid. Been way too busy last minuting my dissertation (over the past week).

Shan't be long on here neither. Got shit to do. But rest assured I'll be getting on with self doubt and cracking tunes circling my mind.

I wish I had time to write more.

Love

Three times in one night? I'm going to be sore tomorrow.

Ah fuck it. If there's a better place than their own blog for someone to brag about their skills at the poker table I haven't heard of it. Dejected and tired, and somewhat fed up of reading the same shit over and over and over again, I decided to fire up a single table sit n go. One last roll of the dice for the night. That and after the annoyance of going out ninth (top six paid) in the last game and the horrendous drunk session I had last Thursday, my bankroll seriously needed a kick in the right direction. And it got just that. Woo hoo! Back up to the major league level that is $100, I can feel a degree of pride for having a three figure bankroll again.

Notes to self for future reference: Don't play like a twat. Play the game to win it, not to try and win as many hands as possible. Don't play drunk. Don't play tired. Don't play games unless you've got time to commit to the end. Don't lose concentration at the final stages. And don't cry like a baby when you make a stupid move and luck doesn't go your way (re: last post to some extent).

Right, time to sleep. Too much to do tomorrow to be on here all night. Ah fuck, half three? I can be up and at my 'desk' for twelve. Easy.

Eye off the ball. I took my eye off the fucking ball for two seconds and just threw away an hour's work. The poker hand mentioned in the last post came from a 45 player tournament. I had just made it to the final table, mainly by playing tight and aggressive and paying more attention to my text book (and this blog of course). But final table time, time to switch on. I turned open my book and got all of thre sentences in to a new chapter. I look up. Pocket eights. Middle position I raise (blinds: 200/400) to 1800. One caller. The flop comes J-2-6 rainbow. I think about it for a minute. He wouldn't have just called with Aces/Kings/Queens. Jacks highly unlikely, that would warrent a reraise to avoid a danger flop. A-K, A-Q, A-J or a pair lower than 10s. I shove, he calls and has me covered by about 1,000 with KING FUCKING JACK. What the fuck is he calling big pre flop raises with that shit? I don't hit either of my two outs and I'm out. Incensed, enraged, but I've learned a lesson. And they're worth cash. If not a currency.