Fatally hooked by World Series of Poker

The circulation is just starting to return to both buttocks, and let's hope there's a little bit of summer left to restore a complexion that could only be rendered pastier by a package holiday to Transylvania.

But getting the poker virus out of the bloodstream may prove a little trickier judging by the way I startled the wife with an icy stare over the breakfast table the following morning, with both hands cupped to conceal a steaming mug. "Tea or coffee dear? It's your call."

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You'd have bet my sponsored Betfair shirt on another steaming mug lasting less than 20 minutes in Europe's biggest ever poker game last week, but it turned out to be a shade over 23 hours of sweaty-palmed endurance at the table in Leicester Square's Empire Casino.
The Betfair World Series of Poker Europe began with 362 players, 361 of whom knew the precise odds on matching their two cards with a flush draw, and one of which was attempting to frighten them into folding by casually mentioning that he once wiped out an entire table of Happy Families' players by picking up "Master Plod The Policeman's Son."

And yet it all ended with the complete novice on Team Betfair being escorted to the cashier's desk, and the bloke behind the counter saying: "How would you like it?" "Er, what do you mean exactly?" I inquired. "Cash or cheque?" he said. "Um, how much is it again?" "Twenty seven thousand, one hundred and fifty." "Pounds? I asked." "Pounds" he said. I worked out the odds on surviving the walk back through Soho at three o'clock in the morning with the thick end of thirty grand stuffed into a pair of bulging pockets. "Ah. Better make it a cheque."

By then there were only 32 people left at the tables, one of whom was going to walk away with £1?million, although he, or she, would find walking pretty difficult if they plumped for the cash option. And some of these players had qualified for the tournament by winning a $1 internet game on Betfair.com's site.

After two days and 16 hours of actual playing time, I was still in, and 49th in chips out of 84 players remaining. This was it. Day three was when I either left with nothing, or enough cash from seeing 48 more players eliminated ahead of me to walk back out into Leicester Square and sit through (I worked out) 1,509 showings of Les Miserables before I ran out of money. Finishing 36th guaranteed you £27,150. Finish 37th, and you got nothing.

I found myself sitting next to a 20-something Oriental plugged into an Ipod, with an expression so mean I reckoned his day job, if he had one, was probably as an enforcer for one of the Triad gangs. I picked up two jacks, found myself going head to head with him, and when I shoved all my chips into the middle – what's known as going "all in" – he folded.

"You had pocket kings?" he inquired. "Well, you're right in thinking it was a pair," I said. "Kings, right?" he went on. "Jacks, actually." "No way man. It had to be kings. I think you may be not telling the truth," he said. "You could have seen for yourself if you'd paid for the privilege," I said. "But as it is, you'll have to take my word for it."

He shot me a menacing glare and I wondered whether I'd be spending that night sleeping in my bed, or (with a knowledge of gangland vernacular gleaned from watching The Godfather) sleeping with the fishes. "Man, now you've got me on tilt," he said. I turned to the chap on my left and asked him for an interpretation. He spoke, as many players do, in a flat monotone, with neither eye contact nor change of deadpan expression. "I think you may have upset him."

Soon after I picked up two nines, and we were at it once more. The flop turned up an ace and two smaller cards, and I decided on a big raise. He folded again. "You paired the ace, right?" he asked. "No, I had two nines," I said. "You're lying again man, how can you bet without the ace?" "Because I'm stupid," I said. What he didn't know was that I was being accurate with both the nines, and the stupidity, but he clearly had me down as both annoying and dangerous. "You play on the internet?" "No." "Just tournaments, then." "No." "I get it. You're a cash player." "No, I don't actually play at all – unless you count playing for matchsticks at Christmas." He smiled for the first time. "Nice joke. I'm starting to like you." I knew two things for sure. A) it wasn't a joke and B) he wasn't starting to like me.

At the first two sessions, the field had been whittled down to 46, and I bumped into Kirk Morrison, a charming American professional I'd played with in the very first session of the event, and who'd been unbelievably kind when I accidentally kept breaking the various forms of etiquette. Kirk had stayed on after he was eliminated, and said: "Hey man, you're nearly in the money. Let me give you some tips. These are mean guys that are left, and I don't want them to run you over."

News Added: 18 September, 2007

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