Playing: “Cards” Carvill, “Moody” Ben Summersby, Mr Feltham, Milbourn, Mr Carney
Venue: The Streatham Casino, High Stakes Poker Room
It’s a dark night in South London as I pull up to the Streatham Casino, run by the flamboyant, flame-haired Mr Feltham and his mentally handicapped associate Mr Carney.
We get down to business early. The game is No Limit Hold ‘Em, £20 buy-in. Under the infamously hardline management, minimal snacks are provided, although I came prepared with a pre-packed sandwich from the petrol station mini-mart that would make an appearance after midnight. The management are tight in everything but their game, which is looser than an old tart’s knickers.
Paul greased Mr Carney’s wheelchair wheels and we were away, playing slow and steady to let him follow the action. He’d obviously saved up his pocket-money for over a year to buy-in to this, and he wasn’t going to lose it in a game he didn’t even know the rules to. No. He would learn the rules, then lose it. And lose it quickly. Before he had even had the chance to dribble on his cards we’d taken him for all he had. Twenty big ones got shared out equally, Jamie more equally than others.
Game 2, Mr Carney’s raided the piggy bank and Mr Feltham helpfully explains that making a pair is just like playing snap. Fully prepared, he loses his second £20.
The Pringles are going down well. Paul got 3 different flavours. It’s a taste sensation when accompanied by a fine Cuban, or in Mr Carney’s case a Cafe Creme, mindfully sellotaped to his bottom lip by Mr Feltham. We’re in full flow now, a big slick gambling machine artfully demonstrating the theory of wealth redistribution along evolutionary lines. It’s a one way river of cash from the stupid to the smart, and we’re a floating ocean liner casino with Captain Feltham at the helm, complete with his new £6 Dealer Button.
An almighty hand of Jamie’s Full House versus Feltham’s Flush has one of their stacks shortened by about a half, and it wasn’t Paul. Looking at Jamie I would worry about the guy if he was living any richer. He conjures up Henry VIII in my mind as I watch his ruddy cheeks break into a cackling laugh.
My downfall comes when I can’t stop myself trying to keep MrFeltham honest, bringing him out into the open like the lying, cheating, bluffing weasel he really is. Of course, he’s hooked me on a line and is behaving like a saint, and soon has over half my stack. Maybe I should bring a little more respect and humility to the table, but I’m not sure you can cash that in at the end of a game…
Mr Carney’s losses are galactic in proportion and thus unprintable. There just aren’t enough zero’s in the world. Mr Feltham fits the head restraint on him in case he has a turn.
“Moody” Ben Summersby has been playing tighter than a pair of hotpants all night. I think he’s got a new system. “I’ve got a new system” he says. I could tell by the “How To Play Poker – And Win!” book poking out of his back pocket. If only I’d thought of that. He ends the night with enough cash to get a cab home, so he’s evens overall, although he’s got an evening of warmth and friendship to deposit in the bank of life. No friendchips though, the snackage ran out hours ago. By way of consolation Mr Carney wheels himself to the kitchen and returns with two baby bottles of Piper Heidseck champagne in his lap. In what is one of the funniest things I saw all year, he proceeds to remove the moulded plastic cork from the top, and reveal a screw top beneath. Using his motorised claw to grip the bottle, he slowly unscrews the cap, unleasing a violent wet fart of spectacular non-gasiness. Declining the soup bowl Mr Carney has brought in to contain the champagne. Mr Feltham drinks from the bottle and toasts a night that came good for him.