Having wriggled free of the corporate straightjacket I felt a tsunami of liberation flood through my veins. HMS Freedom set sail, the P45 tossed overboard and I was gliding along the ocean top, propelled by a sighting of tax-free profits in the distance. My blind optimism hadn’t yet accounted for any of the choppy waters that lay ahead.
Oozing a fresh sense of purpose I worked harder than Donald Trump’s accountant to balance the books in my favour for March. In retrospect I was working vicariously through my own idealised version of myself in years to come. Positive self-fulfilling prophecies in poker are powerful. Visualising success can’t guarantee you that crucial hold deep in a tournament but it can certainly spur you on to make a higher percentage of solid decisions throughout a session.
As March bowed out stage left, April’s opening scene unveiled the annual golfing piss up pilgrimage to The Algarve with two of my oldest friends. Somehow £400 stretched to include flights, 4* accommodation, transfers, three buffet meals and a free bar. Later, tickled by half a dozen mischievous San Miguels, we bellowed a raucous howl at the expense of poor Pedro behind the bar, for he would not churn a Euro of profit during our tenure.
“FOREEEEEEE LEFT.” At the strike of 10.30am we strong armed some golf course lubrication off of Pedro and swaggered to the first tee. Playing golf a few pints deep offered advantages as inhibitions of the water hazard down the left had vanished. Instead my inner voice asserted ‘this one’s heading down the fairway so I can crack open another Superbock.’ Inevitably my Titleist careered left but I couldn’t care less with a refreshing tinny in the bag to wet the whistle.
“NEXT UP we have George singing George Ezra-Blame It On Me”, brimming with Dutch courage it was my turn to belt out a crowd pleaser for the over 60s. During the rendition, my eyes darting around the room, I felt energised by the looks of encouragement and fantasised of an alternative life working the Butlins circuit with nothing but a microphone, beaten up Citroen Saxo and hipflask of Jim Beam. What a simple yet fulfilling life that would be. Crashing back down to planet Earth we chinned a few paint strippers and diet cokes and slipped out into the night for some fog-brained debauchery.
The strip, a neon labyrinth of decadence, served as a case study for my declining faith in the direction of humanity. We got chatting to a group of Bristolian girls but maintaining a flow was hampered whilst they refreshed the like count on their pre-night out Instagram selfie. Amber seemed heart broken that she had stagnated at 97 likes and even pleaded with me to hop on my phone and bump it towards the elusive three figure mark. When I declined, citing that social exchanges are being relinquished by them they all stopped and looked at me as though I had finger banged their cat. Ridiculous but yet another eye opener to how Millennials often overvalue the way they are perceived online as opposed to the way they actually impact people's lives in the flesh, all due to the toxicity of social media.
The stillness of the West Berkshire sunrise was penetrated by exasperated groans as yet another river card saw the pot slide away from me. I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the computer screen, an uncanny resemblance to Pete Doherty a week after he signed his record deal.
Two agonising weeks had passed since Portugal and I'd unwittingly booked myself into Max Mosley's spare room. The daily routine involved taking a whipping for 6-10 hours and retreating back under the duvet where I'd hide until the master requested my services for another bloodbath. The emotional distress one is put through during their first downswing as a professional had been alien to me. My bludgeoned mind shifted to a fantasy of the monthly paycheque. So comfortable. So convenient. 'FUCK THAT' - at last rational thoughts got a word in edgeways over the myriad of internal noise. We were not about to return to the micro-stakes again so easily.
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