On poker, golf, and why golf is not the new poker (not explained in article)

Woke up Saturday morning slightly hung over and drenched in sweat.
Had to go to town before heading off to Reading for a monthly four-way poker tournament, ‘The HaringenKop”.
Didn’t want to go to town, as it was very sunny and hot and I all wanted was a pool and some Neurofen. And some liquor.
You see I was forced to go buy some new shoes. Big deal I hear you say.
Yeah well not really. The problem is that Saturday morning / day is the least likely time in my life where I’ll go shopping. I needed new shoes badly, however. How badly is another tale in itself, but we’ll gloss that over for now.
I set off, and the temperature kept rising. The headache was subsiding and the layer of alcohol-based sweat covered more or less my whole body.
Obviously I didn’t find any shoes and so headed for Paddington in my All-Stars with holes the size of Birmingham.
At Paddington I conferred with the Kaptain, and found my train. The platform, and the train itself, was more or less empty. Had nine minutes to spare so I quickly skinned up and lit my joint. One drag down and a sudden rush of people headed towards me from a train just arrived. Seeing as I was smoking rather pungent stuff, it was hard to disguise what I was doing. Nevertheless, I had to finish the spliff before I got on the train, and tried my best to shield my actions. Not very successfully may I add. Having finished the spliff in record time I shrugged at the passing commuters’ looks of disdain and got a seat on the train.
This is perhaps a good time to explain a it more about the HaringenKop.
Essentially a four person freeze-out £10 tournament of Texas Hold’Em, it has been played the last weekend of every month since January at various locations in the UK.
Started by Lord Bramley, Kaptain Kazemi, the Professor and I, it is the most intense regular game of poker I play. With blinds doubling every 3 rounds, it is rare that anyone beats the game.

I arrived in Twyford, and hung around the station car park waiting for the Kaptain.
Every time I leave London I am always struck by the silence.
The Kaptain picked me up; we bought some booze, ice and cigars and headed towards Casa Kazemi. I downed a bottle of Hoegaarden whilst we were waiting for the Professor (who allegedly had been stuck in a traffic jam for an hour). The Kaptain was making drinks and I had a perfectly mixed Vodka, lime and brown sugar concoction (can’t remember its name – someone refresh my memory?).
The game started as usual, all nerves and edgy laughs. I was determined to break my recent run of poor play and my determination (and new strategy) paid off. Kaptain was the first casualty, followed by Lord Bramley. The Lord was somewhat upset that his form had been set back. Then it was down to heads up. At this point I knew what and how I was going to play, and felt fairly confident going up against the Professor.
A few hands later and I could claim the Kop for the third time this year, extending my lead in the league table and netting £40.

Following the usual damped spirits associated with the end of another Kop, it was decided that we go play some golf. Simon had appeared mid-game and was equally keen. The Kaptain booked a tee-off time at Hurst Golf Club, near Woodley. At this stage I had drunk a litre of San Miguel, a Hoegaarden and four neat vodkas with fresh lime and sugar. By the time we arrived at Hurst the weather looked mean and I was getting wasted.
Following a comical tee-off and some more beer from my rented golf bag we proceeded to take 25 minutes to finish the first hole. Halfway through the second hole the weather snapped and it began to really piss down. I spat on the golf bag.
The Professor, the Kaptain and I took refuge under some trees. The Kaptain and I went cannon ball on another litre of San Miguel and a spliff deviously prepared by the Kaptain.
Revitalised by the cannon ball we thought fuck it, let’s play on. I finally got a ball on the green after perhaps four drops and a few mulligans. I proceeded to shoot it with a driver at full strength. When that didn’t have the desired effect I threw my golf club as far as I could in disgust. This was to repeat itself several more times that afternoon according to my companions. We finally played enough holes to get close to the clubhouse. I managed to convince everyone (with a little help from the Professor) that we should have a drink and then play on. We entered the clubhouse, completely soaked and fairly ‘high-spirited’ in the middle of the annual club raffle or some shit like that. The bar was rammed with 40 something’s with money and no taste. The golf Captain, sporting a ridiculous moustache and a terrible golf club polo shirt, was dealing out raffle prizes to drunken applause from all the rich, single divorcees and the flash, city-slicking breezers filling the place from wall to wall. Despite all the fancy crap, there wasn’t a university degree in there.


Whilst I was enjoying myself as much as is possible with completely wet shoes and jeans in a golf club god knows where surrounded by face-lifts and Hackett shirts, my friends decided to play on. My reaction was to go straight back to the bar and order another Guinness. Fuck them I thought – there’s no way I was going to play more golf in this shit weather. The moment I ordered my pint (and my friends had left), things started turning nasty. The bar man asked if I was a member. I declined and he charged me £3.10 whereas minutes before the price had been £2. I was drunk and getting pissed off with this bullshit. Tried to eye up some women but found it hard to stand up. I was trying not to notice the swamp building in my shoes as the water soaking my jeans gradually made it down. I finished my pint and headed for the gents. I managed to find a cubicle and attempted to pull down my jeans. This was near impossible as they were clamming to my wet legs. Managed to do my business and headed back for the bar. On my way out of the gents the ‘club Captain’ cornered me. He told me this was a private function, and would I leave please? I refused to speak to him, turned around and made my way towards the exit. I glanced back and noticed he wasn’t checking up on me. I ordered another Guinness and began compulsively drinking my pint. My wallet was at the Kaptain’s flat so I had no money (which ruled out going back to London) and standing outside the clubhouse in the pouring rain waiting for my friends to finish their masochistic round of golf wasn’t an option. A band started playing and I hardly noticed. I was roaring drunk and soaking wet, surrounded by people whose existence I wanted no part of. I had almost finished my pint when that fucking club Captain came back a second round, this time slightly more irate. I sipped my pint as he tried to converse over the booming sound of the band. I didn’t understand a fucking word, although the sentiment was clear, - get the fuck out, and get the fuck out now. For a split second my mind drifted and I completely forgot where I was, or the predicament I was in. I finished my pint slowly, staring vacantly at the club Captain’s red and aggravated face. Fuck this I declared in the way only a drunk person can, put down my empty pint, told the club Captain in no uncertain terms where he could stick his club and moustache and headed for the door. Outside it was still raining, and I was now more drunk. The Fridge called me, asking when if at all I would be back in London. He claimed to have some chicks set up. I told him it all depended on when my lift would finish playing golf.
About ten minutes later my acquaintances turned up. I re-entered the bar with them, and managed to get a Guinness of Simon. The Professor started macking the moment he showed up. I went to the toilet again, only to be corned by the fucking club Captain on my return. This time Kazemi, The Professor and Simon where with me. Realising that he wouldn’t get rid of four of us as easily as he had me, he demanded that we buy some raffle tickets. Kazemi replied that all we wanted was to buy some beer. This was obviously not the right answer. Amidst shouts of ‘private club’ and ‘private party’, we offered to buy a ticket each. This made the club Captain, if possible, even more angry. At this stage I no longer cared about the club Captain and any of his shit. All I wanted was some dry trousers, my wallet and an express train to London. What happened next isn’t clear to me. Being forced to support myself on any stable surface, trying to down yet more Guinness whilst dodging the patrolling glare of the club Captain, I lost track of time and space.

By the time we got back in the car it was too late. My plans of going to London were scuppered and to make things worse a thundering hangover was brewing somewhere in the back of my mind.
At least I won the HaringenKop.