I haven't slept since the last post. You would think that having been in the air for four and a half hours on two flights after such a horror day that I would be a wreck - foul tempered, listless and smelly.
I'm in a 5* Hotel room in the wonderful, amazing, fabulous city of Melbourne. My jojoba scented bath is running so I won't keep you.
Melbourne stands a serious chance of displacing New York as my favourite city. I am already horrified that within 48 hours I will have left. Three weeks wouldn't be enough.
More later. The bubbles are calling.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Saturday, February 25, 2006
22:04 NZT Sat 25th
Saturday. A horrible day devoid of positives. For the first time I want to come home.
The fun continues since today is not even close to being over. I have a flight to Auckland tomorrow morning at 05:50. Since I am transferring on to an international flight I need to check it at least an hour early. The desks open at 04:30, so I have just booked a cab for 4 am. I dare not go to sleep so with Super XIV rugby, Woody Allen’s Take The Money And Run on DVD and caffeine pills I will try to stay awake all night and then sleep on the planes.
I did my betty swollocks on the 3rd ODI. I traded throughout the game, working money back and forth.
The first quarter, as it were, went swimmingly but (with the benefit of hindsight) I should not to be deceived. Things broke for me but that was just luck.
The second quarter was frustrating and I wound up back to square one by halftime. Flat, level, even stevens.
The third quarter was abominable. I found a value bet on NZ, watched it go up in smoke whilst being unable to close out and lock in my loss because the market got thin and the Indians raced 3 or 4% ahead of me.
I eventually took an appallingly short price not because it was value but because I was desperate to limit the damage. The fixers swung into action. Wires hummed, certain phones rang and then rang off immediately, the special flag was put out on the West Indian balcony and their super-aggressive start instantly crumbled into dust.
It’s only money. Rather, it’s only lots of money.
The fourth quarter could have been worse. I took more non-smart risk and clawed back a few thousand but it was still carnage.
Now I can handle losing - sounds funny but it is actually a key skill. What gnaws at me is that I know I played this game like a **** when things went wrong, on more than one trade. That’s the real failing – making poor, rushed, risk-stupid decisions with someone else’s money.
Back to winning a bag of sweets on the tour, with two dead rubber games left and limited confidence.
I have never been a hard worker. Even on Thursday when I went off to the library in Christchurch to put my head down and get on with a very good book I only flicked idly through the pages and made cursory notes. This explains why I am a gambler, trying to make something for nothing. No-one succeeds without hard work and I'm not trying hard enough.
-
I swam yesterday, feeling guilty for overeating through boredom in the last few days. I felt quite good running this morning, but didn’t beat my previous time by more than ten seconds, which was very disappointing. Either I am getting fatter or my effort on Wednesday made me feel so bad because I was close to my limits, which would explain the lack of improvement. I'm not working hard enough towards these goals either.
Drat drat and double drat.
-
I'm only blogging this to motivate myself in the future. Memento mori and all that.
The fun continues since today is not even close to being over. I have a flight to Auckland tomorrow morning at 05:50. Since I am transferring on to an international flight I need to check it at least an hour early. The desks open at 04:30, so I have just booked a cab for 4 am. I dare not go to sleep so with Super XIV rugby, Woody Allen’s Take The Money And Run on DVD and caffeine pills I will try to stay awake all night and then sleep on the planes.
I did my betty swollocks on the 3rd ODI. I traded throughout the game, working money back and forth.
The first quarter, as it were, went swimmingly but (with the benefit of hindsight) I should not to be deceived. Things broke for me but that was just luck.
The second quarter was frustrating and I wound up back to square one by halftime. Flat, level, even stevens.
The third quarter was abominable. I found a value bet on NZ, watched it go up in smoke whilst being unable to close out and lock in my loss because the market got thin and the Indians raced 3 or 4% ahead of me.
I eventually took an appallingly short price not because it was value but because I was desperate to limit the damage. The fixers swung into action. Wires hummed, certain phones rang and then rang off immediately, the special flag was put out on the West Indian balcony and their super-aggressive start instantly crumbled into dust.
It’s only money. Rather, it’s only lots of money.
The fourth quarter could have been worse. I took more non-smart risk and clawed back a few thousand but it was still carnage.
Now I can handle losing - sounds funny but it is actually a key skill. What gnaws at me is that I know I played this game like a **** when things went wrong, on more than one trade. That’s the real failing – making poor, rushed, risk-stupid decisions with someone else’s money.
Back to winning a bag of sweets on the tour, with two dead rubber games left and limited confidence.
I have never been a hard worker. Even on Thursday when I went off to the library in Christchurch to put my head down and get on with a very good book I only flicked idly through the pages and made cursory notes. This explains why I am a gambler, trying to make something for nothing. No-one succeeds without hard work and I'm not trying hard enough.
-
I swam yesterday, feeling guilty for overeating through boredom in the last few days. I felt quite good running this morning, but didn’t beat my previous time by more than ten seconds, which was very disappointing. Either I am getting fatter or my effort on Wednesday made me feel so bad because I was close to my limits, which would explain the lack of improvement. I'm not working hard enough towards these goals either.
Drat drat and double drat.
-
I'm only blogging this to motivate myself in the future. Memento mori and all that.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
22:29 NZT Thur 23rd
Facial Discrimination
Warning: this post contains dangerously high levels of vanity.
In twenty minutes I’m going to place a call to the office of my father’s dentist, a Harley Street practitioner. Something my father said makes me think that Dr Searson, a South African by birth, was in the Police Service over there once upon a time.
I will have to grovel for not having been to the dentist since before university. Grovel for not having had my maxilla broken as a teenager and my face re-set. Grovel for still sucking my thumb at the age of twenty-seven. Grovel for having an utterly asymmetric face as a result.
My mother says that the orthodontist in Kew, who was so keen to go to work with chisel and pliers in 1991, burst out of his office, strode up to her and demanded to examine her jaw. He hadn’t seen a case like mine and wanted to check out the genetic antecedents. Lucky Mummy’s jaw is fine, as are the jaws of my lucky father and lucky brother.
Not so lucky here.
The mandible sticks out at funny angles, skews sideways at the front and the back and means that I have a prodigious underbite. By way of reinforcement I have dreadful fangs and twisted teeth too. The maxilla seems set too far back in my mouth too.
In all likelihood it would be easiest to get a replacement head direct from the manufacturer.
So in twenty minutes (in fact in ten minutes now) I will place this call, write off the tens of thousands it will take to get fixed and begin the three year procession towards the sunlit uplands of straight white teeth. I forget the context (might well be in Experience) but Martin Amis wrote of his journey, via some horrific sounding maxillo-facial surgery, to the “land of heads thrown back in wide smiles, gloopy kisses and fine dining.”
Of course, Negative Capability will be carrying exclusive coverage of my bloody and drawn-out engagement with complicated orthognathic, orthodontic and cosmetic dentistry. I expect the parts where they break bone will make the grittiest entries. One day I may even smile about the whole business.
-
Had a good haircut, though it is a bit shorter than normal and if I am totally honest makes me look gay. I might have to play up to this. The place I found is outwardly quite traditional, aimed at the gruff, tough hetrosexual men of Christchurch and staffed by friendly women. They're all about grooming and along with haircuts and wet shaves also offer ‘treatments.' I am weirdly attracted to the idea of a facial and a back wax. Well, why not?
I will be in Melbourne on Sunday and Monday so I have delayed the shopping until I have been there. Doubtless there will be a much bigger choice of better stuff. Looking forward to seeing Matt and Sal for lunch on Monday.
-
22:10 GMT 8 Mar
" The gadget [a large, temporary and uncomfortable restraining bridge] was brought into the room, and shyly awaited its introduction. Here it came, my ticket to good looks and fine dining, to the head thrown back in vivid laughter, to nuzzling and honeying, to goopy kisses."
Amis, M., Experience, (London: Jonathan Cape, 2000), p. 123.
Warning: this post contains dangerously high levels of vanity.
In twenty minutes I’m going to place a call to the office of my father’s dentist, a Harley Street practitioner. Something my father said makes me think that Dr Searson, a South African by birth, was in the Police Service over there once upon a time.
I will have to grovel for not having been to the dentist since before university. Grovel for not having had my maxilla broken as a teenager and my face re-set. Grovel for still sucking my thumb at the age of twenty-seven. Grovel for having an utterly asymmetric face as a result.
My mother says that the orthodontist in Kew, who was so keen to go to work with chisel and pliers in 1991, burst out of his office, strode up to her and demanded to examine her jaw. He hadn’t seen a case like mine and wanted to check out the genetic antecedents. Lucky Mummy’s jaw is fine, as are the jaws of my lucky father and lucky brother.
Not so lucky here.
The mandible sticks out at funny angles, skews sideways at the front and the back and means that I have a prodigious underbite. By way of reinforcement I have dreadful fangs and twisted teeth too. The maxilla seems set too far back in my mouth too.
In all likelihood it would be easiest to get a replacement head direct from the manufacturer.
So in twenty minutes (in fact in ten minutes now) I will place this call, write off the tens of thousands it will take to get fixed and begin the three year procession towards the sunlit uplands of straight white teeth. I forget the context (might well be in Experience) but Martin Amis wrote of his journey, via some horrific sounding maxillo-facial surgery, to the “land of heads thrown back in wide smiles, gloopy kisses and fine dining.”
Of course, Negative Capability will be carrying exclusive coverage of my bloody and drawn-out engagement with complicated orthognathic, orthodontic and cosmetic dentistry. I expect the parts where they break bone will make the grittiest entries. One day I may even smile about the whole business.
-
Had a good haircut, though it is a bit shorter than normal and if I am totally honest makes me look gay. I might have to play up to this. The place I found is outwardly quite traditional, aimed at the gruff, tough hetrosexual men of Christchurch and staffed by friendly women. They're all about grooming and along with haircuts and wet shaves also offer ‘treatments.' I am weirdly attracted to the idea of a facial and a back wax. Well, why not?
I will be in Melbourne on Sunday and Monday so I have delayed the shopping until I have been there. Doubtless there will be a much bigger choice of better stuff. Looking forward to seeing Matt and Sal for lunch on Monday.
-
22:10 GMT 8 Mar
" The gadget [a large, temporary and uncomfortable restraining bridge] was brought into the room, and shyly awaited its introduction. Here it came, my ticket to good looks and fine dining, to the head thrown back in vivid laughter, to nuzzling and honeying, to goopy kisses."
Amis, M., Experience, (London: Jonathan Cape, 2000), p. 123.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
10:00 NZT Thurs 23rd
The very warm sunshine has gone. As I write it is pelting down with rain outside. Seems like ideal blogging weather. I have already been here for one week. Where did it go?
I’m considering a minor makeover and might go out later for a haircut and a little bit of casual clothes shopping. This may not be entirely unrelated to the lingering Itch, which of course remains thoroughly unscratched.
-
Wednesday. I put a shocking effort into my run round Hagley Park in the morning and very nearly dogged out. Shameful. I had better beat 36m 34s by a minute or more next time out. Were all those nights plodding round Battersea Park and along the Embankment in vain?
Despite the world and his weather forecaster predicting floods and plagues of frogs for Queenstown Sky NZ crossed to the ground at 10am where there was bright sunshine and the captains were ready for the toss. I had to drop everything and get the trading screens set up.
The ground at Queenstown is in the most incredible setting; on the edge of fjord, surrounded by towering, jagged mountains (the Remarkables) and right next to an airport.
NZ won the toss and bowled. The wicket was evidently slow, spotted with crowns of grass (these are bogeys since they can cause the ball to do funny things on impact) and generally unhelpful for batting.
The Windies plodded along scoring runs intermittently and losing wickets rather more frequently. After ten overs the score was 10/2 and little old contrarian me was beavering away laying 1.07 (about 1-13) about the New Zealanders.
Note: When betting, be it on cricket, horses, flies crawling up a window pane or poker, my aim is to find bets where the odds (which represent a reward/risk ratio) I am taking diverge from the aggregate probabilities of the possible outcomes. When people talk of 'value' in betting they mean this divergence - finding something you can buy for less than you perceive it be worth.
Without resorting too much to stereotypes and oversimplification I hope that the average person tries to think in terms of “what will happen” – picking a single, linear path of reasoning/guesswork. In a simple sense the human brain is wired to reason things through in terms of stories and cause-and-effect.
I attempt to step back from that and consider the fuller spectrum of possibilities. In cricket all manner of events can occur which will determine the outcome of the game. The probabilistic basis is very fluid and can change quickly. I then guess my way towards an estimate (couched as a percentage which can then be translated back into odds) of all the possible paths towards one side winning. It is all massively subjective. At heart I make educated guesses, try to be more right than everyone else and hope to get lucky.
As it happened I considered that New Zealand were going to win the game nine times out of ten from this point. The market said thirteen times out of fourteen, so there is a small potential profit margin in opposing the Kiwis at this price, if I am arrogant enough to think that I somehow can outperform the rest of the world aggregated together as a market.
Wavell Hinds scored a fluent 76 in the lower middle order and the Windies scraped their way up to 200.
This wasn’t a challenging total but the market still made NZ too short. I have some theories about why that is but can’t begin to outline them here. I need coffee, forty minutes and a whiteboard and neither of us want that, do we? Loath as I am to throw money away I had topped up. The overall position, including a small side bet, was close on -10k NZ + 112k WI.
You can imagine my excitement when the Windies reduced New Zealand to 13/4 in the fourth over of the Kiwi innings.
I did something quite filthy when Scott Styris fell with the score at 49/5 and laid 1.90 about the Windies for 30k, to bring my net position to +20k NZ +85k WI. Filthy because I laid odds that were a fair bit over my estimated probabilities just to lock in a profit. I am weak and want to go back to the office showing a decent return on the jaunt.
In the long run giving away these small clips of value here and there adds up. There will be many, many occasions where I lose the money staked on the initial lays. In the long run doing what I did is cutting back my profits, whilst my losses would probably run unchecked. Hedging in this way looks great in the short term but fundamentally doesn’t do profit and loss that much good in that all-important five year timeframe. The real Amos Mantra is “It’s A Marathon, Not A Sprint.”
There are caveats to this, relating to money management and the psychological well-being of the trader him or herself. It’s a great boost to win, not least because it normally means not losing. I have read references to studies where psychologists say gamblers register the pain of loss at two-and-a-half times the intensity that they feel the pleasure of winning, assuming that you can somehow quantify emotional feeling. I'll ask the expert.
Brendon McCullum, Peter ‘Lucky Fish’ Fulton and Daniel ‘Get Out Ya Fucker’ Vettori steered the Kiwis home. I won small, if you can call 20k small, and it looks like a great trade. I caught the top and the bottom of the market on the Kiwis and will probably return to London in the black now. But for forty minutes I had the scent of six figures in my nostrils and it was very, very sweet indeed.
-
Maybe I’ll get my hair shorn and dye the stubble blonde to celebrate. The one thing I will do is remove Poker from the interests listed in my Profile. Horrid game. I haven’t played seriously for months and have absolutely no desire to do so anymore.
I’m considering a minor makeover and might go out later for a haircut and a little bit of casual clothes shopping. This may not be entirely unrelated to the lingering Itch, which of course remains thoroughly unscratched.
-
Wednesday. I put a shocking effort into my run round Hagley Park in the morning and very nearly dogged out. Shameful. I had better beat 36m 34s by a minute or more next time out. Were all those nights plodding round Battersea Park and along the Embankment in vain?
Despite the world and his weather forecaster predicting floods and plagues of frogs for Queenstown Sky NZ crossed to the ground at 10am where there was bright sunshine and the captains were ready for the toss. I had to drop everything and get the trading screens set up.
The ground at Queenstown is in the most incredible setting; on the edge of fjord, surrounded by towering, jagged mountains (the Remarkables) and right next to an airport.
NZ won the toss and bowled. The wicket was evidently slow, spotted with crowns of grass (these are bogeys since they can cause the ball to do funny things on impact) and generally unhelpful for batting.
The Windies plodded along scoring runs intermittently and losing wickets rather more frequently. After ten overs the score was 10/2 and little old contrarian me was beavering away laying 1.07 (about 1-13) about the New Zealanders.
Note: When betting, be it on cricket, horses, flies crawling up a window pane or poker, my aim is to find bets where the odds (which represent a reward/risk ratio) I am taking diverge from the aggregate probabilities of the possible outcomes. When people talk of 'value' in betting they mean this divergence - finding something you can buy for less than you perceive it be worth.
Without resorting too much to stereotypes and oversimplification I hope that the average person tries to think in terms of “what will happen” – picking a single, linear path of reasoning/guesswork. In a simple sense the human brain is wired to reason things through in terms of stories and cause-and-effect.
I attempt to step back from that and consider the fuller spectrum of possibilities. In cricket all manner of events can occur which will determine the outcome of the game. The probabilistic basis is very fluid and can change quickly. I then guess my way towards an estimate (couched as a percentage which can then be translated back into odds) of all the possible paths towards one side winning. It is all massively subjective. At heart I make educated guesses, try to be more right than everyone else and hope to get lucky.
As it happened I considered that New Zealand were going to win the game nine times out of ten from this point. The market said thirteen times out of fourteen, so there is a small potential profit margin in opposing the Kiwis at this price, if I am arrogant enough to think that I somehow can outperform the rest of the world aggregated together as a market.
Wavell Hinds scored a fluent 76 in the lower middle order and the Windies scraped their way up to 200.
This wasn’t a challenging total but the market still made NZ too short. I have some theories about why that is but can’t begin to outline them here. I need coffee, forty minutes and a whiteboard and neither of us want that, do we? Loath as I am to throw money away I had topped up. The overall position, including a small side bet, was close on -10k NZ + 112k WI.
You can imagine my excitement when the Windies reduced New Zealand to 13/4 in the fourth over of the Kiwi innings.
I did something quite filthy when Scott Styris fell with the score at 49/5 and laid 1.90 about the Windies for 30k, to bring my net position to +20k NZ +85k WI. Filthy because I laid odds that were a fair bit over my estimated probabilities just to lock in a profit. I am weak and want to go back to the office showing a decent return on the jaunt.
In the long run giving away these small clips of value here and there adds up. There will be many, many occasions where I lose the money staked on the initial lays. In the long run doing what I did is cutting back my profits, whilst my losses would probably run unchecked. Hedging in this way looks great in the short term but fundamentally doesn’t do profit and loss that much good in that all-important five year timeframe. The real Amos Mantra is “It’s A Marathon, Not A Sprint.”
There are caveats to this, relating to money management and the psychological well-being of the trader him or herself. It’s a great boost to win, not least because it normally means not losing. I have read references to studies where psychologists say gamblers register the pain of loss at two-and-a-half times the intensity that they feel the pleasure of winning, assuming that you can somehow quantify emotional feeling. I'll ask the expert.
Brendon McCullum, Peter ‘Lucky Fish’ Fulton and Daniel ‘Get Out Ya Fucker’ Vettori steered the Kiwis home. I won small, if you can call 20k small, and it looks like a great trade. I caught the top and the bottom of the market on the Kiwis and will probably return to London in the black now. But for forty minutes I had the scent of six figures in my nostrils and it was very, very sweet indeed.
-
Maybe I’ll get my hair shorn and dye the stubble blonde to celebrate. The one thing I will do is remove Poker from the interests listed in my Profile. Horrid game. I haven’t played seriously for months and have absolutely no desire to do so anymore.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
07:11 NZT Wed 22nd
Looks like rain is going to severely affect the ODI today at Queenstown. I am off running now - perhaps my betting brain will function better when out of breath.
People have remarked in the past about the levels of frankness and openess in my blog. Two things to note: 1) what about the things I don't say? and 2) you ain't seen nothing.
People have remarked in the past about the levels of frankness and openess in my blog. Two things to note: 1) what about the things I don't say? and 2) you ain't seen nothing.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Editor's Note
This blog has 'perudo' as part of the URL - chosen because I enjoyed the game, which is Liar's Poker played with dice and therefore quite close to my interests/occupation/sickness of gambling and games.
I also gave it the title Negative Capability quite recently, having experimented with 'You Can't Eat It' - a diet reference which tipped its hat to the Amos Mantra - "You Can't Eat Value".
In Woody Allen's Manhattan (1979) Diane Keaton's character serves up a nicely observed piece of bullshit art criticism - "... it [a steel cube] had a marvellous kind of negative capability."
Now I find that not only has Philip Pullman been sniffing around this but also that arch bad boy, John Keats, got there first!
Do I accept the weighted literary overtones of my newly pretentious blog title (maybe writing some long winded disclaimer on the way, to wit) or should I rename it again?
Whilst considering the problem in its thorny whole why not head over to http://www.lestalenslyriques.com/welcome.htm, click on the blinking musical note and then on the 2nd (yellow) note from the left in the DSL/Cable section, assuming that you have the necessary speakers/ears combination in place.
I also gave it the title Negative Capability quite recently, having experimented with 'You Can't Eat It' - a diet reference which tipped its hat to the Amos Mantra - "You Can't Eat Value".
In Woody Allen's Manhattan (1979) Diane Keaton's character serves up a nicely observed piece of bullshit art criticism - "... it [a steel cube] had a marvellous kind of negative capability."
Now I find that not only has Philip Pullman been sniffing around this but also that arch bad boy, John Keats, got there first!
Do I accept the weighted literary overtones of my newly pretentious blog title (maybe writing some long winded disclaimer on the way, to wit) or should I rename it again?
Whilst considering the problem in its thorny whole why not head over to http://www.lestalenslyriques.com/welcome.htm, click on the blinking musical note and then on the 2nd (yellow) note from the left in the DSL/Cable section, assuming that you have the necessary speakers/ears combination in place.
19:40 NZT Mon 20th
The Deal – Seinfeld.
INT. NIGHT. JERRY AND ELAINE ARE SITTING AT EXTREME ENDS OF THE COUCH. ELAINE FLICKS AIMLESSLY THROUGH THE CHANNELS.
ELAINE
Hey, look at the naked people
JERRY
No, I don't wanna see the naked people.
ELAINE
Been a while?
JERRY
I have a vague recollection of doing something with someone, but it was a long, long time ago.
ELAINE
I think my last time was in Rochester. My hair was a lot shorter.
JERRY
I remember that it's a good thing. Someday, I hope to do it again.
-
I’ll admit it. Sunshine, hotel room, expense account. Christchurch pullulates with attractive, half-naked women and I’m randy as hell. That is, within the confines of my sex 'drive' which is monastically low.
For the record my hair was a LOT shorter. Australia were still clinging to the Ashes. As the World's Most Perenially Single Man this shouldn't be a surprise.
I really should rethink my strategy. This morning the dawn horn impelled me to take the laptop off to the upmarket café where I have breakfast most days. Jeans, crumpled light navy blue linen shirt, crumpled cotton Nick Ashley blazer. I did some work on Excel whilst playing Handel’s Orlando and daydreaming of Glyndebourne and Goodwood. Pretentious, moi?
Were some dazzling brunette with a fascination for posho life in Sussex and a penchant for crumpled clothing to wander by - well, she wouldn't know what had hit her. If I was a betting man I'd say 1.5kg of Dell laptop would be a strong favourite though.
As it happened beautiful women did smile at me, but only because I was gawping at them in the manner of Bingo Little’s lovelorn expression in Wodehouse – like a calf dying of dyspepsia. I may have felt like the bee's cheese sitting there with my earbuds, the Home Team % Expectancy Formulae in Column J and a four shot latte half-drunk but I must have looked like a royal wally.
I think probabilistically that the Monday morning breakfast pull is up there with seeing Elvis and Shergar win the Stewards Cup from a middle draw on soft ground, which makes it only fractionally less likely than any other non-event in my non-sex-life.
-
Having turned my face, neck and arms a vivid and shrimpy pink at the football yesterday I doused those parts with Factor 15 before heading back to the QEII, to go swimming and then watch some of the Canterbury – Central Districts 4 day cricket match. It was frustrating on arrival to find that I’d left the suncream in the hotel and couldn’t lie in the strong sun all day to get the legs and torso to match.
To borrow Marcus Berkmann’s analogy, Ingmar Bergman would have appreciated the pace of NZ domestic cricket for its fatalistic Nordic stillness. Canterbury were racing along at 99/1 from 37 overs when I arrived and 220/3 after tea when I left. Poor old Min Patel of Kent and England went for 59 from 15 overs, including a dismissively huge six from his second ball. It wasn’t the most thrilling game ever but I’m looking forward to going back tomorrow. The 50m pool is pretty good too, although I can't do two consecutive lengths of front crawl over that distance. I can run 7.2 miles round Richmond Park in less than 57 minutes but ask me to swim 100m and I have to use breaststroke.
INT. NIGHT. JERRY AND ELAINE ARE SITTING AT EXTREME ENDS OF THE COUCH. ELAINE FLICKS AIMLESSLY THROUGH THE CHANNELS.
ELAINE
Hey, look at the naked people
JERRY
No, I don't wanna see the naked people.
ELAINE
Been a while?
JERRY
I have a vague recollection of doing something with someone, but it was a long, long time ago.
ELAINE
I think my last time was in Rochester. My hair was a lot shorter.
JERRY
I remember that it's a good thing. Someday, I hope to do it again.
-
I’ll admit it. Sunshine, hotel room, expense account. Christchurch pullulates with attractive, half-naked women and I’m randy as hell. That is, within the confines of my sex 'drive' which is monastically low.
For the record my hair was a LOT shorter. Australia were still clinging to the Ashes. As the World's Most Perenially Single Man this shouldn't be a surprise.
I really should rethink my strategy. This morning the dawn horn impelled me to take the laptop off to the upmarket café where I have breakfast most days. Jeans, crumpled light navy blue linen shirt, crumpled cotton Nick Ashley blazer. I did some work on Excel whilst playing Handel’s Orlando and daydreaming of Glyndebourne and Goodwood. Pretentious, moi?
Were some dazzling brunette with a fascination for posho life in Sussex and a penchant for crumpled clothing to wander by - well, she wouldn't know what had hit her. If I was a betting man I'd say 1.5kg of Dell laptop would be a strong favourite though.
As it happened beautiful women did smile at me, but only because I was gawping at them in the manner of Bingo Little’s lovelorn expression in Wodehouse – like a calf dying of dyspepsia. I may have felt like the bee's cheese sitting there with my earbuds, the Home Team % Expectancy Formulae in Column J and a four shot latte half-drunk but I must have looked like a royal wally.
I think probabilistically that the Monday morning breakfast pull is up there with seeing Elvis and Shergar win the Stewards Cup from a middle draw on soft ground, which makes it only fractionally less likely than any other non-event in my non-sex-life.
-
Having turned my face, neck and arms a vivid and shrimpy pink at the football yesterday I doused those parts with Factor 15 before heading back to the QEII, to go swimming and then watch some of the Canterbury – Central Districts 4 day cricket match. It was frustrating on arrival to find that I’d left the suncream in the hotel and couldn’t lie in the strong sun all day to get the legs and torso to match.
To borrow Marcus Berkmann’s analogy, Ingmar Bergman would have appreciated the pace of NZ domestic cricket for its fatalistic Nordic stillness. Canterbury were racing along at 99/1 from 37 overs when I arrived and 220/3 after tea when I left. Poor old Min Patel of Kent and England went for 59 from 15 overs, including a dismissively huge six from his second ball. It wasn’t the most thrilling game ever but I’m looking forward to going back tomorrow. The 50m pool is pretty good too, although I can't do two consecutive lengths of front crawl over that distance. I can run 7.2 miles round Richmond Park in less than 57 minutes but ask me to swim 100m and I have to use breaststroke.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
22:10 NZT Sun 19th
Let’s do this backwards.
Sunday: Woke up with what must have been hypoglycemia at 4.45am. I was having an ordinarily horrible dream about sit-ups. I’d been out on the fitness trail in Hagley Park that morning and done 25 of the dratted things. In the dream I was unable to do one, but somehow I was experiencing up-and-down head jerks.
As I jolted awake this movement seemed to be continuing. I thought it would go away but as I stared at the red digits of the alarm clock which were streaking down in my blurred vision (like several lines of identical text I was scanning down, if that makes sense) it didn’t. In fact it got quite a bit worse.
I felt god-awful – nauseous, feverish. Covered in sweat and butt naked I staggered to the loo and was unable to vomit, since my stomach was empty. I hadn’t really eaten the day before – only a falafel pita for lunch and some fruit. On top of which I drank about six cups of strong coffee whilst trading the ODI, which was relatively stressful, before having a hot bath and going to bed with the fan on.
There are drinks and sweeties in the minibar in Reception. It was a struggle to put on some trunks and a T shirt but I fretted about passing out alone in the room and not being found. Flopping downstairs I broke all dieting rules by laying waste to half a can of Coke and a Mars bar.
I still felt dire and spread myself out in the recovery position on the floor by the lift. No receptionist around. A couple coming back late stepped over me. After 10 mins I had to dash outside to be violently and liquidly ill, attracting whoops of derision from four local lads going home after the night. Back into the recovery position and I was well enough to drag the corpse back upstairs after another 20 mins.
That’ll teach me to stay in my room and go to bed early and hungry because I don’t fancy eating alone in restaurants.
I woke up again at eleven and wandered out to conquer this particular demon by having a high protein, high carb brunch and an ice-cream. This last treat was to reward Mummy’s little soldier for being brave and not dying of a mystery illness in the night. I spoil myself rotten. Still feel awkward eating out alone.
Then off to the QEII Stadium in suburban Christchurch to see an international soccer friendly between the All-Whites and Malaysia. It was $10 to get in, which is less than a fiver. I saw the last third of the curtain raiser between Canterbury United and Auckland City and settled down to read the program for an hour between games.
However I quickly recouped the price of admission when the Canterbury Brass Band, complete with Chelsea Pensioner-esque uniforms, took their place on the bandstand. Engrossed in reading about Adrian Webster’s travails as a journeyman footballer with Darlington FC I picked up a faint tune from the band. It was sort… of… familiar but not on a muted trumpet.
Because I’m.
Easy Come.
Easy Go.
Little High, Little Low.
!!!
They went on to play a full version of Bohemian Rhapsody, transposed for a brass band, Scaramouche and all. The French horns didn’t want to die – in fact they sometimes wished they’d never been born at all. The cornets were collectively just a poor boy, very possibly from a poor family. The whole funky ensemble just had to get out, just had to get RIGHT OUTTA HERE. It was fantastic, and I was the only person pissing themselves laughing about it.
Frankly the scrappy game of football which followed was something of a disappointment.
NZ were big at the back, with former Leeds Utd defender Danny Hay towering over the Malays. The All Whites play an English style crash-and-bash game and suffer very English faults such as being shit at going forward with any kind of control.
The Malays had a couple of comedy midfielders and lost their shape quite easily. At one stage they seemed to be experimenting with an novel 2-7-1 formation which involved five blokes on the right hand side of midfield.
It finished 1-0 – the Kiwis outmuscled a tiring Malaysia to nick a scalpers goal six minutes from time. The All Whites ought to have converted at least one of the several good chances they had in the air earlier in the game, and 2-0 would have been a fair result.
Saturday. Aside from not eating much (see above) I had to stay in from 8 till 10 listening to the “Cricket Club” on NZ Sports Radio and go to work on the 1st ODI from 12.30.
I won’t go into details of the game. It was a small win for us, largely because I got lucky on a couple of runs bets which weren’t particularly sharp. I matched about 250k on the match odds market and would have won every penny in the world if the Windies had copped. Just as they started to come into the match on the back of a good stand between Sarwan and Ganga they lost a wicket. I never really got a price to close out on the Kiwis but crushed some of my liability at roughly neutral odds. I have to give up lots of slippage to get 100k through quickly, which I never like. That’s liquidity risk for you.
Friday. Seems a while ago now.
I ran Hagley Park in the morning, wandered the same streets as Thurs whilst coming to the realisation that I really had seen downtown Christchurch on the first morning, like a child unwrapping all his presents at once, and that there wasn’t much to do. I wandered off the Jade Stadium in the afternoon and scouted around, scheming of a way to meet the groundsman and ask him technical questions about the preparation of drop-in wickets. This may prove hard to accomplish.
Sunday: Woke up with what must have been hypoglycemia at 4.45am. I was having an ordinarily horrible dream about sit-ups. I’d been out on the fitness trail in Hagley Park that morning and done 25 of the dratted things. In the dream I was unable to do one, but somehow I was experiencing up-and-down head jerks.
As I jolted awake this movement seemed to be continuing. I thought it would go away but as I stared at the red digits of the alarm clock which were streaking down in my blurred vision (like several lines of identical text I was scanning down, if that makes sense) it didn’t. In fact it got quite a bit worse.
I felt god-awful – nauseous, feverish. Covered in sweat and butt naked I staggered to the loo and was unable to vomit, since my stomach was empty. I hadn’t really eaten the day before – only a falafel pita for lunch and some fruit. On top of which I drank about six cups of strong coffee whilst trading the ODI, which was relatively stressful, before having a hot bath and going to bed with the fan on.
There are drinks and sweeties in the minibar in Reception. It was a struggle to put on some trunks and a T shirt but I fretted about passing out alone in the room and not being found. Flopping downstairs I broke all dieting rules by laying waste to half a can of Coke and a Mars bar.
I still felt dire and spread myself out in the recovery position on the floor by the lift. No receptionist around. A couple coming back late stepped over me. After 10 mins I had to dash outside to be violently and liquidly ill, attracting whoops of derision from four local lads going home after the night. Back into the recovery position and I was well enough to drag the corpse back upstairs after another 20 mins.
That’ll teach me to stay in my room and go to bed early and hungry because I don’t fancy eating alone in restaurants.
I woke up again at eleven and wandered out to conquer this particular demon by having a high protein, high carb brunch and an ice-cream. This last treat was to reward Mummy’s little soldier for being brave and not dying of a mystery illness in the night. I spoil myself rotten. Still feel awkward eating out alone.
Then off to the QEII Stadium in suburban Christchurch to see an international soccer friendly between the All-Whites and Malaysia. It was $10 to get in, which is less than a fiver. I saw the last third of the curtain raiser between Canterbury United and Auckland City and settled down to read the program for an hour between games.
However I quickly recouped the price of admission when the Canterbury Brass Band, complete with Chelsea Pensioner-esque uniforms, took their place on the bandstand. Engrossed in reading about Adrian Webster’s travails as a journeyman footballer with Darlington FC I picked up a faint tune from the band. It was sort… of… familiar but not on a muted trumpet.
Because I’m.
Easy Come.
Easy Go.
Little High, Little Low.
!!!
They went on to play a full version of Bohemian Rhapsody, transposed for a brass band, Scaramouche and all. The French horns didn’t want to die – in fact they sometimes wished they’d never been born at all. The cornets were collectively just a poor boy, very possibly from a poor family. The whole funky ensemble just had to get out, just had to get RIGHT OUTTA HERE. It was fantastic, and I was the only person pissing themselves laughing about it.
Frankly the scrappy game of football which followed was something of a disappointment.
NZ were big at the back, with former Leeds Utd defender Danny Hay towering over the Malays. The All Whites play an English style crash-and-bash game and suffer very English faults such as being shit at going forward with any kind of control.
The Malays had a couple of comedy midfielders and lost their shape quite easily. At one stage they seemed to be experimenting with an novel 2-7-1 formation which involved five blokes on the right hand side of midfield.
It finished 1-0 – the Kiwis outmuscled a tiring Malaysia to nick a scalpers goal six minutes from time. The All Whites ought to have converted at least one of the several good chances they had in the air earlier in the game, and 2-0 would have been a fair result.
Saturday. Aside from not eating much (see above) I had to stay in from 8 till 10 listening to the “Cricket Club” on NZ Sports Radio and go to work on the 1st ODI from 12.30.
I won’t go into details of the game. It was a small win for us, largely because I got lucky on a couple of runs bets which weren’t particularly sharp. I matched about 250k on the match odds market and would have won every penny in the world if the Windies had copped. Just as they started to come into the match on the back of a good stand between Sarwan and Ganga they lost a wicket. I never really got a price to close out on the Kiwis but crushed some of my liability at roughly neutral odds. I have to give up lots of slippage to get 100k through quickly, which I never like. That’s liquidity risk for you.
Friday. Seems a while ago now.
I ran Hagley Park in the morning, wandered the same streets as Thurs whilst coming to the realisation that I really had seen downtown Christchurch on the first morning, like a child unwrapping all his presents at once, and that there wasn’t much to do. I wandered off the Jade Stadium in the afternoon and scouted around, scheming of a way to meet the groundsman and ask him technical questions about the preparation of drop-in wickets. This may prove hard to accomplish.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
00:10 NZT Fri 17th
My inner nerd (the plane spotter referred to below) has been more than satisfied by 24 hours in the air flying 12,000 odd miles. Nothing but praise for Air New Zealand though – excellent service, decent vegetarian nosh and aircraft with non-falling-off wings. LHR – LAX was blissful; a half-full 744 that had been refitted with new seats and IFE. Transit was painless enough and within a couple of hours I was boarding NZ019 for the 13.5 hours trans-Pac down to Christchurch. I was squeezed between Mr and Mrs Retired Oklahoma and a California lawyer on a plane which still had the tired old interior and no IFE. Too uncomfortable to sleep but no entertainment either. Conversation was the winner but it was a relief to touch down shortly before dawn and set foot in the Southern Hemisphere for the first time.
Not being able to check in till 2 I took my time to get out of the airport. True to form I couldn’t even face putting a taxi on expenses and took the public bus. The suburbs of Christchurch are quite charming to drive through, probably even more so if you’re from Oklahoma. You can see why people make comparisons between England and Christchurch; it’s as though Christchurch is the new and improved version, with added flowers, space and sunshine. The street layout is somewhere between England and America but there were lots of school kids in stripy ties and shorts or straw hats to play up the Blighty overtones.
Overall Christchurch is charming. The physical urban layout, with the great open space of Hagley Park to the West, is compact and nice – it reminds me a little of Austin or Savannah in that it’s a small, relaxed and self-consciously pretty city (fit but you know it) that beguiles the outsider, especially one who grinds through London life. Tomorrow morning I’ll go for a long run and really see the rest of it.
I flaked out not long after unpacking and nearly missed the Twenty20 International between NZ and West Indies, which would have been slightly unprofessional of me since I am here on business. In fact I was still in a daze whilst the Windies batted poorly and only a late flurry got them to 126. It couldn’t possibly be enough on a fair drop-in wicket with irregular and short boundaries.
Of course I found myself laying stupidly short odds on New Zealand chasing. I must have a time advantage over the market because even after Fleming was dismissed I could lay 20k at 1.04. I took enough of it and my net position was -540 NZ +14300 WI.
Things went my way when the slower WI bowling came on. In fact they went so well (donking Kiwi joy) that come the last over New Zealand need 16 from 6 balls. A little further meddling had made my position and liability larger but I definitely had the right side of the probabilistic pricing skirmish and the book stood at -2400 NZ or +18000 WI.
I put up some action on New Zealand to close my liability but nothing at a price which I would consider value. The market was relatively thin and since New Zealand had been 1.01 in running there were small traders dying to close their positions. They were offering bigger prices and giving away some value in the hedge. That’s not the way we trade, although of course the hindsight bias (why didn’t I do that) kicked in quite badly when the second ball soared over long off and into row T for six. I really ought to have taken them on but I was rather excited and not thinking clearly.
A couple more easy runs in the over (details irrelevant) brought us to the following pretty pass. New Zealand needed six to win from the last two balls. The capable James Franklin misses a ball fired into the pads and scores a leg bye. Relative bunny tailender Shane Bond needs to hit a six to win from the last ball (or paste a no-ball for four) and four to tie. This last scenario renders all match odds bets void. Hedging traders complain about this because they aim to work themselves into positions where they win small on both sides and would prefer the market settled on who has lost fewer wickets. However the Indians void all bets if matches are tied and since they do drive the cricket betting markets Betfair dances to their tune.
Dot ball, one, two or three to win. Please no boundaries or comic West Indian fielding fuck-ups. Come on Bradshaw. You can do it. Fullish length, base of leg stump would be so sweet. You da man, Ian. Use the Force...
For the record the ball passed over the cover boundary on the first hop. My dream start to the trip (nearly paying for it four times over on the first try) was crushed. Displaying hitherto unsuspected batting ability Bond backed away and crunched a length, straight ball. Just watched the replay. Tie, tie, super tie.
Not being able to check in till 2 I took my time to get out of the airport. True to form I couldn’t even face putting a taxi on expenses and took the public bus. The suburbs of Christchurch are quite charming to drive through, probably even more so if you’re from Oklahoma. You can see why people make comparisons between England and Christchurch; it’s as though Christchurch is the new and improved version, with added flowers, space and sunshine. The street layout is somewhere between England and America but there were lots of school kids in stripy ties and shorts or straw hats to play up the Blighty overtones.
Overall Christchurch is charming. The physical urban layout, with the great open space of Hagley Park to the West, is compact and nice – it reminds me a little of Austin or Savannah in that it’s a small, relaxed and self-consciously pretty city (fit but you know it) that beguiles the outsider, especially one who grinds through London life. Tomorrow morning I’ll go for a long run and really see the rest of it.
I flaked out not long after unpacking and nearly missed the Twenty20 International between NZ and West Indies, which would have been slightly unprofessional of me since I am here on business. In fact I was still in a daze whilst the Windies batted poorly and only a late flurry got them to 126. It couldn’t possibly be enough on a fair drop-in wicket with irregular and short boundaries.
Of course I found myself laying stupidly short odds on New Zealand chasing. I must have a time advantage over the market because even after Fleming was dismissed I could lay 20k at 1.04. I took enough of it and my net position was -540 NZ +14300 WI.
Things went my way when the slower WI bowling came on. In fact they went so well (donking Kiwi joy) that come the last over New Zealand need 16 from 6 balls. A little further meddling had made my position and liability larger but I definitely had the right side of the probabilistic pricing skirmish and the book stood at -2400 NZ or +18000 WI.
I put up some action on New Zealand to close my liability but nothing at a price which I would consider value. The market was relatively thin and since New Zealand had been 1.01 in running there were small traders dying to close their positions. They were offering bigger prices and giving away some value in the hedge. That’s not the way we trade, although of course the hindsight bias (why didn’t I do that) kicked in quite badly when the second ball soared over long off and into row T for six. I really ought to have taken them on but I was rather excited and not thinking clearly.
A couple more easy runs in the over (details irrelevant) brought us to the following pretty pass. New Zealand needed six to win from the last two balls. The capable James Franklin misses a ball fired into the pads and scores a leg bye. Relative bunny tailender Shane Bond needs to hit a six to win from the last ball (or paste a no-ball for four) and four to tie. This last scenario renders all match odds bets void. Hedging traders complain about this because they aim to work themselves into positions where they win small on both sides and would prefer the market settled on who has lost fewer wickets. However the Indians void all bets if matches are tied and since they do drive the cricket betting markets Betfair dances to their tune.
Dot ball, one, two or three to win. Please no boundaries or comic West Indian fielding fuck-ups. Come on Bradshaw. You can do it. Fullish length, base of leg stump would be so sweet. You da man, Ian. Use the Force...
For the record the ball passed over the cover boundary on the first hop. My dream start to the trip (nearly paying for it four times over on the first try) was crushed. Displaying hitherto unsuspected batting ability Bond backed away and crunched a length, straight ball. Just watched the replay. Tie, tie, super tie.
Monday, February 13, 2006
19.45 GMT Mon 13th
It has been a while since I posted because I haven’t had very much interesting going on this year. You could argue that nothing of what I write taps into a wellspring of entertainment and information, reflecting the gaudy firework display which is my rainbow life. If you did, you’d be a tosser.
Tomorrow I’m leaving the country for the first time since April 2000. Then I flew off to Malaga for a Victorians CC cricket tour and neatly dodged revising for my Finals. To make doubly sure of failure I played League cricket for Shobrooke Park IIs throughout my exams as well.
The wheel is come sort-of-full circle. NZ001 to LAX and then NZ019 to Christchurch – back to back 12 hour 744 rides. Purpose of visit? Cricket tour, work avoidance. Splendid.
Having spent 14 years growing up on Richmond Hill watching the Heathrow traffic coming into land I am strongly fascinated by planes. I know Miros and McIlwaine have both been shocked to find themselves rounding off a hard evening’s roulette at the Gala Piccadilly by being dragged off to the end of LHR’s runway 27 at 5 am, to watch the early morning heavies landing from the US, the Far East, Aus and Africa.
Of course the daily spectacular of life under the flightpath in those days was Concorde. On my bedside table right now is a small grey leather Concorde freebie notebook from that era – largely unused but falling apart – which was a gift from my father. In those days he used to use the plane monthly and would also bring back Droste chocolates when he came to see my brother and I. I have a Concorde bridge set somewhere which may yet make its way onto Ebay. Let’s see how much money we can make out of the New Zealand – West Indies ODIs first, but it’s nice to have something to fall back on.
Tomorrow I’m leaving the country for the first time since April 2000. Then I flew off to Malaga for a Victorians CC cricket tour and neatly dodged revising for my Finals. To make doubly sure of failure I played League cricket for Shobrooke Park IIs throughout my exams as well.
The wheel is come sort-of-full circle. NZ001 to LAX and then NZ019 to Christchurch – back to back 12 hour 744 rides. Purpose of visit? Cricket tour, work avoidance. Splendid.
Having spent 14 years growing up on Richmond Hill watching the Heathrow traffic coming into land I am strongly fascinated by planes. I know Miros and McIlwaine have both been shocked to find themselves rounding off a hard evening’s roulette at the Gala Piccadilly by being dragged off to the end of LHR’s runway 27 at 5 am, to watch the early morning heavies landing from the US, the Far East, Aus and Africa.
Of course the daily spectacular of life under the flightpath in those days was Concorde. On my bedside table right now is a small grey leather Concorde freebie notebook from that era – largely unused but falling apart – which was a gift from my father. In those days he used to use the plane monthly and would also bring back Droste chocolates when he came to see my brother and I. I have a Concorde bridge set somewhere which may yet make its way onto Ebay. Let’s see how much money we can make out of the New Zealand – West Indies ODIs first, but it’s nice to have something to fall back on.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Brazen
You have to admire XFM. Scheduling the Army recruitment adverts RIGHT AFTER the trails for Jarhead, in which a laconic Jake Gyllenhaal wonders aloud about the mistake of joining the Marines to kill and get killed.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
A Bad Beat Story (But with photographs)
My housemate Tim and I have left the alcoholic cleaners to get on with it and have washed up in Windsor.
Keen to experience December cold for ourselves he and I find ourselves on the Long Walk from the Castle to the Copper Statue.
He is absurdly bullish about how quickly we can walk the three miles. Shortly after we are 60% of the way there he thinks we can make the statue with 5 minutes.
Naturally I offer him evens for all the money I have in the world against this impossible event. He almost takes it, myopic eyes struggling against the wind to judge the distance left (well over a mile).
Just then we are passed by a fairly serious jogger. The man is running to a good pace. I am flabbergasted to be offered 20 quid at 2-1 by Tim that this jogger will reach the end of the Long Walk within four minutes. It literally cannot happen.
Obviously I bite Tim's arm off for the bet and with 90 seconds to go I am counting the money when...
Disaster strikes. The Jogger, no doubt aware of the futility of his task, turns around over half a mile short of his target and runs back. Robbed again! This is worse than the muppets in Brighton outdrawing me constantly.
I know the fix is in as The Jogger dogs it back past us, refusing to meet my angry glare.
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Friday, November 25, 2005
Days in the Life
04:00 - Dutiful subconscious wakes body up since still dialled in to Pakistani time. Get most of the way out of bed before realising that don't actually have to be up yet. Check Australia-West Indies Betfair prices on WAP. Fail to remember them. Go back to sleep.
05:55 - Alarms go off. Having laid out running clothes the night before and carefully pinned house key into shorts decide that it is far too cold to bother. Go back to sleep.
07:00 - Wake up fitfully. Remorse at not going for run reinforced when weigh self (on two sets of scales) - seven pounds heavier than a fortnight ago. Eek. Remember misery of fat self. Remember pleasure of female attention. Resolve to go running at 6 am in future. Suspect that this plan may contain a fatal flaw.
07:15 - Set off for work. Taking advantage of day/night game in India I have bought a travelcard so don't have to drive millstone-around-neck-car to work. Have found that driving to work at 3.20 am is just fine and dandy but generally then takes 1 and a half hours to drive home in the afternoon/evening, during which time famous Goldie bad temper boils over. Tend to end up calling most of West London "utter c*nts" at maximum volume. This seems to have little impact on their behaviour - probably because they are all utter c's.
07:17 - Listening to radio on mobile I learn that the Northern Line isn't working between Archway and High Barnet. I need to get to Woodside Park. About turn.
07:20 - 08:50 - My lovely-not-at-all-millstone Audi is very nice. Fits the posh white boy image. However I am massively frustrated by the traffic in Fulham. Boss is very understanding and agrees to collect data re: odds before/after toss in Ind-SA ODI.
In preparation for a blissful tube journey I have put a few new tracks onto the phone for Tube listening. Seems a shame to waste the effort and consequently I find Grace Jones's "Pull Up To My Bumper, Baby" catchy and hilarious enough to listen to 4 times in a row whilst ploughing around the North Circular, having quelled urge to carry on driving westwards on the A40 into the cold, clear blue. Strange effect of Grace's music is to make me believe that I am on some freeway in Los Angeles rather than the A406 between Park Royal and Staples Corner. Am ashamed at quite how suggestible I am.
08:51 - The twelth day in a row at work. Or something like that. South Africa have won the toss and would seem to have gained the substantial advantage that comes with that. SA have bowled first. Prices haven't moved that far. My boss sees SA as a bet at 2.20 (decimal odds - 6/5 in old money). Asks for my opinion. Still dazed and decaffinated I merely grunt back at him. Wish I had an opinion that would seem shrewd.
09:06 - India lose their pinch-hitting opener Pathan early on. The wicket is very grassy and offers a lot of assistance for seam bowling. Lay 2.10 India for a few grand. Quickly am surpassed and don't see a reason to lay bigger odds. Cancel outstanding offers.
09:11 - India lose another wicket. Bugger. Although position from earlier India lay now looks good am aftertiming self for not being more bullish. Also ignoring canny boss's advice to lay more. Know in heart of hearts that decision made at that time was the right one and that hindsight is 20/20.
11:10 - Reverse position by now backing Indiashire and laying SouthAfrishire. India seem to have put themselves in position to make a fair first-innings score. Can avail self of what appear to be decent value prices with which to trade. Value is the ONLY consideration for us.
14:45 - South Africa shat up by 10 wickets. A comprehensive dicking. Indiashire never in the hunt. You live and learn. 5k poorer. Not the end of the world. You can't eat value.
15:50-17:40 - Drive home in traffic. It does take aeons to cross London at this time of day. Try to relax with favourite Handel opera - Alcina. Almost works.
18:00 - Ex-gf calls. I had taken a rather lovely girl out to supper a couple of times over the past fortnight. But we're not flirting and there wouldn't seem to be a spark between us. Shame really because the more I come to know her the more attractive she is to me. Ex seems keen to boost my flagging self-confidence and get me in mood to pursue Rather-Lovely but can't resist boasting about her own ongoing and epic sex life - currently dating two people. She then accidentally-on-purpose asks me to compare her with current date. I say I don't want to make comparisons but when pressed say both solid 7s, in hope that this is a bland, vanilla answer. I NEVER think of people in this way but hope she'll wind her neck in.
Fat chance. Ex complains that she is actually an 8. Ex was, um, a big piece of kit and I can't resist an offhand wisecrack that ex 'was only an 8 by volume'. Ex explodes - calling me a f*cking c*nt. Hangs up. Then calls back to call me a c*nt again. I deserve it.
20:00 - Derive disproportionate satisfaction from getting the travelcard refunded, because had to argue for it. Yesterday I bet several hundred thousand. Now I am spending Friday night getting 8 quid back...
21:00 - Have to work later on. No-one around anyway. Have the same conversation as always with nice housemate T., then drink expresso at the same time as vodka from freezer. Tastes odd. Deduce that alcoholic cleaner has been at carefully hidden vodka then topped up with water. Fly into rage. Drink rest of water-vodka combo and decide to blog about day whilst watching classic poker/pool/gambling movie The Hustler. George C Scott's character Bert Gordon always reminds me of Andy Norman. Realise that it was 5 years ago that started playing poker and meeting these weird people. Look at contacts in mobile. Remember with a start that despite knowing next to nothing I have regular contact with Britain's shrewdest punters and that am actually the luckiest fish in the fish shop.
23:15 - Having failed to finish The Hustler I listen to Antony and The Johnsons session version of 'Fistfull of Love' for about the fourteenth time in the day. Amazing track. May have limited karaoke potential - a heartrending pean to rough sex sung by a transgender man with a multi-octave vocal range. Would have to be quite drunk before getting onstage and belting out "So I collect upon my body/ The hints, the little symbols of your devotion/ And I feel your fist/ And I know it's out of love."
Talk to Internationally Famous Person about Australia-West Indies day 2. Watch first session - I stand and applaud in my cold Battersea sitting room when Brian Charles Lara becomes the all time leading runscorer in Test cricket.
Lay the draw at avg 4.57 to lose 7 k, also bet WI at big prices (9.6 when dismissed for 405. This is a stupid price even for a team that is outclassed man-for-man. Luck can play a big part in cricket - WI should have a 15% chance of winning the game from here so betting them at 9.6 (10.41%) return is a +EV bet. Go to bed.
03:10 - Woken by call from drunk ex. Whichever fuckbuddy she had been out with that night had got himself arrested. 'Would I come round for a cuddle?' Like fuck I would. Am polite but flatly negative.
I will later agree with her that we can't be friends and that we will not speak again. I can't remember ever saying a deliberate farewell to someone before. I tell her the truth - it was lovely to know her and that I hope everything works out well.
05:55 - Alarms go off. Having laid out running clothes the night before and carefully pinned house key into shorts decide that it is far too cold to bother. Go back to sleep.
07:00 - Wake up fitfully. Remorse at not going for run reinforced when weigh self (on two sets of scales) - seven pounds heavier than a fortnight ago. Eek. Remember misery of fat self. Remember pleasure of female attention. Resolve to go running at 6 am in future. Suspect that this plan may contain a fatal flaw.
07:15 - Set off for work. Taking advantage of day/night game in India I have bought a travelcard so don't have to drive millstone-around-neck-car to work. Have found that driving to work at 3.20 am is just fine and dandy but generally then takes 1 and a half hours to drive home in the afternoon/evening, during which time famous Goldie bad temper boils over. Tend to end up calling most of West London "utter c*nts" at maximum volume. This seems to have little impact on their behaviour - probably because they are all utter c's.
07:17 - Listening to radio on mobile I learn that the Northern Line isn't working between Archway and High Barnet. I need to get to Woodside Park. About turn.
07:20 - 08:50 - My lovely-not-at-all-millstone Audi is very nice. Fits the posh white boy image. However I am massively frustrated by the traffic in Fulham. Boss is very understanding and agrees to collect data re: odds before/after toss in Ind-SA ODI.
In preparation for a blissful tube journey I have put a few new tracks onto the phone for Tube listening. Seems a shame to waste the effort and consequently I find Grace Jones's "Pull Up To My Bumper, Baby" catchy and hilarious enough to listen to 4 times in a row whilst ploughing around the North Circular, having quelled urge to carry on driving westwards on the A40 into the cold, clear blue. Strange effect of Grace's music is to make me believe that I am on some freeway in Los Angeles rather than the A406 between Park Royal and Staples Corner. Am ashamed at quite how suggestible I am.
08:51 - The twelth day in a row at work. Or something like that. South Africa have won the toss and would seem to have gained the substantial advantage that comes with that. SA have bowled first. Prices haven't moved that far. My boss sees SA as a bet at 2.20 (decimal odds - 6/5 in old money). Asks for my opinion. Still dazed and decaffinated I merely grunt back at him. Wish I had an opinion that would seem shrewd.
09:06 - India lose their pinch-hitting opener Pathan early on. The wicket is very grassy and offers a lot of assistance for seam bowling. Lay 2.10 India for a few grand. Quickly am surpassed and don't see a reason to lay bigger odds. Cancel outstanding offers.
09:11 - India lose another wicket. Bugger. Although position from earlier India lay now looks good am aftertiming self for not being more bullish. Also ignoring canny boss's advice to lay more. Know in heart of hearts that decision made at that time was the right one and that hindsight is 20/20.
11:10 - Reverse position by now backing Indiashire and laying SouthAfrishire. India seem to have put themselves in position to make a fair first-innings score. Can avail self of what appear to be decent value prices with which to trade. Value is the ONLY consideration for us.
14:45 - South Africa shat up by 10 wickets. A comprehensive dicking. Indiashire never in the hunt. You live and learn. 5k poorer. Not the end of the world. You can't eat value.
15:50-17:40 - Drive home in traffic. It does take aeons to cross London at this time of day. Try to relax with favourite Handel opera - Alcina. Almost works.
18:00 - Ex-gf calls. I had taken a rather lovely girl out to supper a couple of times over the past fortnight. But we're not flirting and there wouldn't seem to be a spark between us. Shame really because the more I come to know her the more attractive she is to me. Ex seems keen to boost my flagging self-confidence and get me in mood to pursue Rather-Lovely but can't resist boasting about her own ongoing and epic sex life - currently dating two people. She then accidentally-on-purpose asks me to compare her with current date. I say I don't want to make comparisons but when pressed say both solid 7s, in hope that this is a bland, vanilla answer. I NEVER think of people in this way but hope she'll wind her neck in.
Fat chance. Ex complains that she is actually an 8. Ex was, um, a big piece of kit and I can't resist an offhand wisecrack that ex 'was only an 8 by volume'. Ex explodes - calling me a f*cking c*nt. Hangs up. Then calls back to call me a c*nt again. I deserve it.
20:00 - Derive disproportionate satisfaction from getting the travelcard refunded, because had to argue for it. Yesterday I bet several hundred thousand. Now I am spending Friday night getting 8 quid back...
21:00 - Have to work later on. No-one around anyway. Have the same conversation as always with nice housemate T., then drink expresso at the same time as vodka from freezer. Tastes odd. Deduce that alcoholic cleaner has been at carefully hidden vodka then topped up with water. Fly into rage. Drink rest of water-vodka combo and decide to blog about day whilst watching classic poker/pool/gambling movie The Hustler. George C Scott's character Bert Gordon always reminds me of Andy Norman. Realise that it was 5 years ago that started playing poker and meeting these weird people. Look at contacts in mobile. Remember with a start that despite knowing next to nothing I have regular contact with Britain's shrewdest punters and that am actually the luckiest fish in the fish shop.
23:15 - Having failed to finish The Hustler I listen to Antony and The Johnsons session version of 'Fistfull of Love' for about the fourteenth time in the day. Amazing track. May have limited karaoke potential - a heartrending pean to rough sex sung by a transgender man with a multi-octave vocal range. Would have to be quite drunk before getting onstage and belting out "So I collect upon my body/ The hints, the little symbols of your devotion/ And I feel your fist/ And I know it's out of love."
Talk to Internationally Famous Person about Australia-West Indies day 2. Watch first session - I stand and applaud in my cold Battersea sitting room when Brian Charles Lara becomes the all time leading runscorer in Test cricket.
Lay the draw at avg 4.57 to lose 7 k, also bet WI at big prices (9.6 when dismissed for 405. This is a stupid price even for a team that is outclassed man-for-man. Luck can play a big part in cricket - WI should have a 15% chance of winning the game from here so betting them at 9.6 (10.41%) return is a +EV bet. Go to bed.
03:10 - Woken by call from drunk ex. Whichever fuckbuddy she had been out with that night had got himself arrested. 'Would I come round for a cuddle?' Like fuck I would. Am polite but flatly negative.
I will later agree with her that we can't be friends and that we will not speak again. I can't remember ever saying a deliberate farewell to someone before. I tell her the truth - it was lovely to know her and that I hope everything works out well.
Saturday, November 05, 2005
William
I have a younger brother called William. He and I have never been close - I was quite a shit to him throughout childhood. He was more obviously badly affected by our parents divorce, refusing to go with my father on visitation weekends. We're not similar people - I want social contact and I don't think he does.
We both left university (I had my 2:2 from Exeter in History and Politics, he had a 2:1 in English from Bristol) with no clear idea of what career to follow.
I went on to throw five years down the crapper imagining that I could run a spool of thread into a pair of pants as a professional gambler. Maybe somewhere out there in the infinity of space one of my doppelgangers managed it. It wasn't me. I'm still in debt, I have nothing to fall back on if I get sacked tomorrow and I have missed the property boat, unless I follow the mugs into Croatian villas or buy-to-let flats in Somalia.
Now I don't want to sound like an Anthony Robbins tape here but since I made a few separate changes to my life they have had a wonderful aggregate effect. Hardly a massive insight but something which eluded my sicko's brain. Wake the town and tell the people.
My brother wants to be a poet. He lives in Loughton in Essex, in my dying grandmother's tiny 2 up 2 down terraced house. He never goes out as far as we know but just reads and listens to music. Maybe the ravens feed him.
I respect the artistic ambition which differentiates his dream from mine. Cynically I doubt he can find inspiration in those surroundings. Passing nearby this morning at 9 am after work I dropped in. I woke him up which of course was a terrible start. He looked terrible - pale, fat, unsmiling. He reminds me of how I was at my nadir. I made small talk with him then gave up and asked about his life. I decorated my enquiries with disclaimers ("not trying to interfere", "feel concerned, that's all") which were self-evidently untrue and all I can have done is alienated him even more.
We both left university (I had my 2:2 from Exeter in History and Politics, he had a 2:1 in English from Bristol) with no clear idea of what career to follow.
I went on to throw five years down the crapper imagining that I could run a spool of thread into a pair of pants as a professional gambler. Maybe somewhere out there in the infinity of space one of my doppelgangers managed it. It wasn't me. I'm still in debt, I have nothing to fall back on if I get sacked tomorrow and I have missed the property boat, unless I follow the mugs into Croatian villas or buy-to-let flats in Somalia.
Now I don't want to sound like an Anthony Robbins tape here but since I made a few separate changes to my life they have had a wonderful aggregate effect. Hardly a massive insight but something which eluded my sicko's brain. Wake the town and tell the people.
My brother wants to be a poet. He lives in Loughton in Essex, in my dying grandmother's tiny 2 up 2 down terraced house. He never goes out as far as we know but just reads and listens to music. Maybe the ravens feed him.
I respect the artistic ambition which differentiates his dream from mine. Cynically I doubt he can find inspiration in those surroundings. Passing nearby this morning at 9 am after work I dropped in. I woke him up which of course was a terrible start. He looked terrible - pale, fat, unsmiling. He reminds me of how I was at my nadir. I made small talk with him then gave up and asked about his life. I decorated my enquiries with disclaimers ("not trying to interfere", "feel concerned, that's all") which were self-evidently untrue and all I can have done is alienated him even more.
Got Me So Down / I Got Me A Headache...
/ My heart is crammed in my cranium / And he still knows how to pound / This wrinkle in time /I can't give it no credit / I thought about my space / And I really got me down. (Frank Black, Headache).
I'm trying (and likely failing) to hold back a particularly bilious and trite wave of self-analysis. I had five hours sleep between Weds 7 am and Fri 3 pm, culminating in the frankly bizarre decision to play tennis at 11 am on Fri morning. Obviously that was ghastly and it then took two hours to drive from Islington back to Battersea. I was not in a happy mood and the downbeat music which I carry around in my CD changer doesn't exactly help. Feeling a little psychotic? Well, how about some nice, soothing Radiohead? No? Mozart's Requiem? Bach's Goldberg Variations - ideal funeral music, you know? Nick Drake? By the time I finally got home I didn't know whether I should burst into tears or burst into Asda wielding our two biggest knives and a sawn-off cricket bat (I have just such an item, so watch yourself).
I've missed a party and a wedding this weekend to waste away watching the Aussies dick the Windies. There isn't even much in for us, thanks to me wanking away 4k on a mis-click. The detectives on the Betfair forum are aghast that the Windies could be matched at 1.31 - for what it's worth and in my defence the whole bet was matched at an average 6.6. Woohoo. Or maybe not. As long as there is a result we can forget about it.
And right now South London sounds like a warzone. I need sleep as I have an 18 hour day beginning at midnight on Saturday but the fireworks in Battersea Park half a mile are deafening. They echo off the tower blocks on the other side of Falcon Road. My ex was kind enough to inform me that she was going along with a group of mates, one of whom was her blind date. I miss her at the moment because of my isolation lifestyle and could have done without hearing that. Now the retort of each firework cuts a little bit deeper and I feel more than just sleep-deprived.
I'm trying (and likely failing) to hold back a particularly bilious and trite wave of self-analysis. I had five hours sleep between Weds 7 am and Fri 3 pm, culminating in the frankly bizarre decision to play tennis at 11 am on Fri morning. Obviously that was ghastly and it then took two hours to drive from Islington back to Battersea. I was not in a happy mood and the downbeat music which I carry around in my CD changer doesn't exactly help. Feeling a little psychotic? Well, how about some nice, soothing Radiohead? No? Mozart's Requiem? Bach's Goldberg Variations - ideal funeral music, you know? Nick Drake? By the time I finally got home I didn't know whether I should burst into tears or burst into Asda wielding our two biggest knives and a sawn-off cricket bat (I have just such an item, so watch yourself).
I've missed a party and a wedding this weekend to waste away watching the Aussies dick the Windies. There isn't even much in for us, thanks to me wanking away 4k on a mis-click. The detectives on the Betfair forum are aghast that the Windies could be matched at 1.31 - for what it's worth and in my defence the whole bet was matched at an average 6.6. Woohoo. Or maybe not. As long as there is a result we can forget about it.
And right now South London sounds like a warzone. I need sleep as I have an 18 hour day beginning at midnight on Saturday but the fireworks in Battersea Park half a mile are deafening. They echo off the tower blocks on the other side of Falcon Road. My ex was kind enough to inform me that she was going along with a group of mates, one of whom was her blind date. I miss her at the moment because of my isolation lifestyle and could have done without hearing that. Now the retort of each firework cuts a little bit deeper and I feel more than just sleep-deprived.
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