Well I guess I'm officially a professional online poker player now.

Things have been going really well and I've been grinding online tournaments 2-4 nights a week and moving up the P5 rankings.

But one night recently things did not go to plan. A couple of hours into a session whilst playing around 7 or 8 tournaments and with around $1,000 in play, my apartment where I'm staying in Berlin had a power cut.

It's pretty much a nightmare scenario and I knew that every minute that the power was out was costing me money, as my equity in each tournament slowly diminished. After lighting some candles and waiting for about five minutes, I decided I had to make a run for it. I quickly packed a bag and jogged 500 metres or so down darkened streets to the nearest major crossroads, where I frantically tried to flag down a cab. At this moment I was glad I was in Berlin, as Berlin has BARS and they are open LATE!

Taxi secured, we ambled slowly towards the nearest collection of bars and clubs on Bergmanstrasse. I didn't know the German for "If you break the speed limit I'll pay you double", so we cruised along sluggishly with the driver humming to easy listening music. My slightly agitated state did not cause the accelerator to be pressed down further

Out of the taxi like a bullet, I had the laptop out and began running down the street, repeatedly hitting refresh on the wifi network list. After a little while I found an unsecured connection, so I stopped for a moment, logged in, played a few hands (doubling up in one tournament) and then continued to move.

Eventually, salvation! - A man sitting outside a bar with a laptop. I raced in and after a quick exchange with the efficient barman (don't you just love Germany), in which I was able to locate a plug socket, the wifi password and a large beer - I managed to log on to all my tournaments. Despite missing around 40 minutes, the damage wasn't as bad as it could have been.

I wish I could end the story by saying I went on to win one of the tournaments, but that night it wasn't to be. I struggled on manfully, busting out of each tournament one by one accompanied by some of the worst music in the world.

In my haste to find a wifi connection I had been less than diligent about my choice of watering hole. And that's right, horror of all horrors, I'd stumbled into..... A WINE BAR.

This place was bad. It played a selection of the most unappetising soul, watered down reggae and accountant friendly 'dance' music that is humanly possible. Of course, they wouldn't want to offend one of the well dressed members of the Berlin's chic and upwardly mobile middle class that supped wine by candlelight and discussed property prices and David Hasselhoff. Quite what the regular patrons of the bar made of a sweaty, bedraggled Englishman hunched over his laptop in the corner smacking his mouse button repeatedly, alternately cursing and cheering under his breath as he downed several beers is anyone's guess.

Included in the Ford Mondeo drivetime mix was of course, Birmingham's finest purveyors of steaming horse terd, UB40. Several years ago I'd been tortured by UB40's greatest hits, Abu Gharib style whilst sleeping in a German leisure centre. This reacquaintance back on German soil brought back painful memories of what I now describe through gritted teeth as 'that long night in Essen' (these memories were only partly soothed at the time by a visit the following day to the quite marvellous Bochum Mining Museum.

Also in the mix was Sade, Phil Collins, Sting (natürlich) and a lot of other inoffensive and totally unmemorable vocalists. At one point a song began that had something about it - I thought to myself that things might be about to change, but I was wrong. It seems that song was just TOO INTERESTING for that establishment and the barman quickly skipped the track and moved back on to some bland, insipid neo-soul.

So there I sat for several hours, painfully busting out of one tournament after another without cashing, being aurally assaulted and stared at by German estate agents.

People ask me what it is like to play online poker for a living. Some think I travel around with the world wherever and whenever I want, don't pay income tax, don't get out of bed before noon, don't have to answer to a boss, don't have to wear a tie, watch as much daytime television as I want.

Yes, I'll admit, this is all true. But instead, what I will tell them to do is the following visualisation exercise...

Imagine this scenario. You are trapped in room unable to move from the table for more than a few seconds at a time, you can't even get up to go and use the bathroom. Sting's greatest hits is playing loudly on repeat. On the other side of the glass in an adjacent room, the faceless and soulless members of UB40, who you only recognise by their Brummie accents and appreciation of the musical canon of Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner, slowly and methodically set fire to over $1,000 of your hard earned money. Whilst doing so, they alternately cackle maniacally and attempt to call Ali Campbell to try to desperately beg him rejoin the band.

This, my dear reader, is the 'balla' lifestyle of a professional poker player.

Recently I spent a few days on a golf course in southern Spain where I played a poker tournament sponsored by British bookmaker. I'd won free entry to the tournament back in the halcyon days of September when it seemed I could do no wrong at the poker table.

On arrival I was picked up at Malaga airport by a driver with a card with my name written on it. This was perhaps the most awesome part of the whole trip! When I rolled up at the hotel after an hour of Spanish football chat, I was allocated a suite with champagne, chocolates, two showers and a bidet. After sampling all four, I went to dinner and met some of the fellow players. Almost all from the UK and Scandinavia, they seemed a little better than I hoped they might be, but I still fancied my chances. This was tempered somewhat after I saw the tournament structure sheet and realised the tournament would be something of a crapshoot.

The next day after a visit to Gibraltar which I will write about in another post, it was time for the tournament. It was a 30 runner tournament with 10k starting stacks. Five places paid with the prizes from $10k up for $45k and the chance of doubling your money the next day by winning a heads up.

I vowed to play pretty tight the first few levels and try to see flops and make a hand before turning up the aggression. However the first hand I ended up getting involved.

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Hero (button) 10,000
Scandi in sb 10,000
Blinds 50/100

Middle position limped for 100 and I limped behind on the button with 76 of spades. The sb then popped it up to 450. The initial limper deliberated for ages before folding and I called in position and with a nice hand.

Flop: 5c 8d Kh (pot 1050)

I flopped an up and down straight draw and my first thought as the sb reached for chips was - Man, I've come all the way to Spain and I'm going to end up getting half my stack in on the first hand. But after some deliberation, the sb surprisingly decided to check. I thought about what to do here and decided to check behind and see a turn. I saw no reason to bloat the pot on the very first hand. I had no information on the villain and if I was check raised then although the stacks would be correct for three betting all in, I'm not sure that I would be able to pull the trigger, nor would I be sure that it would be the right thing to do.

Turn: 4s (pot 1050)

A beautiful turn card giving me the nuts. The sb again deliberated before betting out 500. Just under half the pot. At this point I pot him pretty much exactly on a pocket pair between QQ and 99. I thought AK would be most likely to fire a continuation bet on the flop as would pocket aces. The other option would be pocket kings but that would be statistically unlikely. Going with my read and with the board pretty dry, I decided just to call and give him the chance to bet again on the river where I would raise him as long as the board didn't pair.

River: 9 (pot 2050) A lovely 9 on the river meant I still had the nuts and when he quickly bet out 1,000 I thought for around five seconds before raising to 2,500. After thinking for a minute he folded. Perhaps waiting to the river to raise on such a dry board was suspicious. But I may not have got any extra money out of him if I hadn't waited, so I liked my play.

---

Nothing too much of note happened for a couple of levels. I won a few pots but my stack remained relatively static. Already though there was very little play left in the tournament when I picked up QQ.

Hero (utg+1) ~12,000
Button ~14,000
BB ~18,000
Blinds 200/400

I am dealt QQ second to act and with 30bbs in my stack. With the poorly structured tournament and top heavy prizepool, I'm pretty much committed to going all the way with the hand. I open 2.5x to 1,000 and the button who has been reasonably tight, reraises me to 2,500. He hasn't played too many hands, but I do remember him opening to 5x at the 100-200 level, so based on that alone, I don't think he is a great player. Therefore his raise is not necessarily a monster. JJ, TT and 99 are in his range for sure, as well as AK and the two pairs that beat me.

I am resolved to shoving, when the BB, who I'd earmarked as a good aggressive player, ponders for a moment before he cold four bet shoves all in. I really don't see there is any way he is doing this with anything other than AA or KK. If he had AK I think he would have thought a little more and I would have detected some indecision, but it seemed to me he was saying to himself "ok here we go" before he shoved. I knew he was good and wouldn't risk his tournament on a crazy move. In the end I folded quite quickly. In fact, I think it was a pretty trivial fold. The button also pondered and folded.

I later found out the BB did indeed have AA and I think the button had AK, so it was a good fold by me.

---

I remained quite shortstacked approaching the dinner break and was mentally preparing to make a run for the buffet when I got involved on the last hand before the break.

MP ~8,500 Hero (sb) 10,100
BB ~14.000
Blinds 400/800

A poor player with no concept of stack sizes, fold equity or pot odds, deliberates and then limps. He'd been limping with hands like AJ and folding postflop when he should have just been shoving. It folds to me in the SB and I look down to see A4 of spades. I'm sitting in the ten seat so I look around the dealer to the one seat just to check if he isn't itching to stick his chips in and he seems calm, so I decide to complete. BB quickly checks.

Flop: 7c, 4h, 7h (pot 2,400)

I take a second and check to see what develops and the BB quickly bets out 2,000. The player in middle position thinks and grimaces before folding. And now it is on me. I don't know a lot about my opponent as my view of him has been obscured by the dealer for the whole tournament, but he seems pretty solid. My thought process runs like this. If he had a pocket pair, I think he would have at least paused for a moment to decide if he wanted to raise. Next, if he had a 7 then the normal play would be to check, to try and check raise or to let opponents get a free card. Now some players do just bet out with their trips here. But neither of his opponents had shown any particular strength and I didn't think he was an imaginative player, so I ruled this out. This thought process led me to the conclusion that I had to be ahead. Either he had a worse 4, some kind of draw or complete air. I raised all in and he quickly folded, cursing under his breath and I went into dinner slightly healthier with 20 players remaining.

---

After dinner the 500/100 level is inexplicably missed out and we go straight to 600/1200. I have only one move left in my arsenal. All in.

I duck and dodge my way around, shoving several times when I can get first in and am in late position. A couple of times I even shove blind as I can't afford to let the blinds go through me. Finally I pick up KK and bust a short stack to go over 20k. As we play hand for hand the clock keeps on running and the structure gets even worse. Finally we get down to nine players and break before the final table.

I'm sitting in seventh place with 21.1k and the blinds at 1,000/2,000 with an ante and about to rise to 1,500/3,000. I'm just looking to get my chips in. I start in middle position and vow to shove blind first hand if it folds to me. Sadly I don't get the chance as the aggressive Brazilian to my right opens the first two pots. Next two hands I get trash and am forced to take the blinds. In these hands the other two short stacks have gone all in and won coinflips to double up, leaving me in last place. With just over 5 big blinds it folds to me on the button and I look down at my first card and see A5. It's an easy shove but sadly the BB wakes up with pocket eights. I don't manage to get there and am knocked out in 9th, with just my bidet to comfort me.

I really enjoyed playing live for the first time in ages, but I was sad that the structure of the tournament was so bad. I felt that with a better structure I could have been more of a threat, but I thought I played pretty perfectly, I was happy with my QQ laydown and didn't make any mistakes. Maybe I'll come back and win it next year.

"Send em all back, that's what I say"

"Who?" I replied, somewhat taken aback.

"The Muslims, all of them, send them back"

This was my first verbal exchange at the 1/5 Spread Limit Seven Card Stud game at the Mirage. As an opening salvo, this was somewhat of a statement of intent.

"But send them back where?" I asked in response.

"HOME" replied the elderly lady, now clearly getting agitated as she discarded her hand on fourth street. There was heavy action of a $2 bet from a man across the table, who from first glance, it was difficult to distinguish whether he was alive or dead.

"But most Muslims in the UK were born there" I stated matter of factly, as I brought it in with my three up.

"SEND EM' BACK" was the unequivocal response from the lady.

Clearly we weren't getting anywhere fast in this debate.

The elderly moustached man sitting next to me now chimes in, "They're all terrorists anyway, those a-rabs"

"You really think that?" I inquired somewhat incredulously.

"Damn straight" he emphatically answered, as he applied the heat with a fifth street bet of two dollars which was too much for his opponent, a sweet looking old lady who had thus far not revealed any prejuduces of her own.

I was only playing this game whilst I was on the list for the 1/2 no limit game, but when the floorman called me over the tell me that my seat was available, I knew I had to stay here at Racist Pensioner Stud Club (RPSC). Average age of the table must have been around 75, and needless to say, this proved to be my favourite game in the whole of Vegas.
<span>
The hotshot arrives</span>

The game was slow of course and as I folded several hands in a row I considered my options. Should I argue with these people, call them racist, rile them up, ask them what they think about them there homo-sexuals? Or should I sit here and try to take some of their money (extremely slowly).

Fortunately I didn't have to make a decision, as a well dressed middle aged man in sunglasses took the open seat on the table.

1-5 Spread Limit Seven Card Stud is like this. Three cards are dealt to each player, two face down and one face up. The person with the lowest up card brings it in for $1 and then there are five rounds of betting where each player can bet or raise between $1-$5. Each player receives four more cards, three face up and the last one face down. There are no blinds or no antes, just the solitary $1 bring in. Clearly this was not an action game and the old folks were content to just bet $1 or $2 each street. Once someone bet $3 and the rest of the table insta-folded with looks of shock and fear on their faces. Like I say, an action game.

This new young hot shot (he was about 45 years old) had other ideas.

"You don't have to bet five bucks on every street you know son" pleaded the half dead looking guy, clearly exasperated. This big bet action was obviously not good for his health.

"Ahh know" replied the hot shot in a thick southern accent, now actually chewing an unlit cigar. He'd dragged in three or four pots in a row and the lack of racist comments for the past few minutes indicated that the rest of the table clearly had something to new to ponder.

And so it was that my rush of cards dictated that I was the one who was destined to stand up to this interloper ruining our little casual prejudiced game of cards.

First I spiked a small two pair on fifth street and hung on against his $5 bets on fifth, sixth and seventh and was relieved when it held up against his kings. Next hand I had a myriad of straight and flush draws in my four exposed cards and made the hotshot fold an open pair of fours in a decently sized pot. Finally a few hands later I began rolled up (the best opening hand in Seven Card Stud, three of a kind) and waited until fifth street to pull the trigger and check raise to get full value from the two pair of the hotshot.

When he lost the last of his chips a couple of hands later and strutted off, an audible sigh was heard around the table (and that wasn't just from the guy who had breathing problems).

Mr racist moustache man turned to me and said "Well done son, that sonnavabitch deserved it"

"But he wasn't even Islamic", I wanted to, but sadly didn't reply.

Then I received the heartiest and strongest pat on that back that I have ever been the recipient of. "I'm proud of you son" praised the racist old man, smile beaming from underneath his grey facial fuzz, "you really showed him not to mess with us".

I was now one of them.

<span>Time to leave</span>

As the game returned to its monster $10 pots, there was clearly nowhere else to go from here, so I left the table shortly afterwards.

"Send em back" the old lady exclaimed one more time, winking at me as I racked up my now not inconsequential mound of $1 chips. I sighed as I made my way to the cashiers cage, knowing that all was right with the world in one corner of the Mirage Poker Room in Las Vegas.

So there we have it, possibly one of my greatest achievements in poker, I'd earned the respect and admiration of a racist old man with a moustache and made friends with a prejudiced geriatric woman.

WSOP main event final table or not, I wonder if Phil Ivey has ever achieved that?