I often find it very difficult to explain to the unwashed masses exactly what it is I do for a living. When I tell a non-poker officiando that I'm a professional poker player, I immediately feel the need to back that up with more information. I'm immediately on the defensive.
This is because, as soon as I've announced it, I can almost see their natural skepticism rising up from whence it dwells, in the deeps of their gut. It climbs up their spinal column and invades the face, manipulating muscles into a frown and makes their eyebrows do that thing which says, "Aye right".
This reaction is understandable, us gambling types typically don't get very good press.
Indeed why should we, some of our number are in the midst of a destructive addiction. Begging, borrwing and stealing wherever they can from whomever they can. Even if we're not that bad, we can be known to be awfully rude and uncomprimising to new players (even nice little old ladies), shove pounds of cocaine up our noses, sleep with prostitutes and get up to a bunch of other stuff that neither Mother or Reverend Green would be particularly pleased with.
It's also natural to assume that gamblers never win, you get nothing for nothing and that we are all bound to go broke eventually.
If you're reading this on the blondePoker webpage, you're probably involved in poker in some fashion. You already know the above not to be true for all of us. Don't worry, that's not really the point of my article. I tried preaching to a choir once, it was a waste of an afternoon that may have been better spent getting coked up with prozzies to be honest with you.
I saw something the other day which caught my attention. A homeless man, vending a certain magazine, outside a Glasgow train station. When I first passed him, I respetfully declined his offer to sell me a comic. I always do, reasoning that any donation will likely be spent on booze or some other, more illicit, substance.
I had around half an hour to wait for my train, so grabbed myself a burger and somewhere to sit. From the place where I chose to plonk my arse, it just so happened that I was able to observe the aforementioned homeless chap as he went about his buisness. What I saw was not what I expected.
Every time a taxi pulled up, he would open the door. Every time a lady with some hefty luggage approached the steps, he would carry it up for them. What impressed me most about this was that he wouldn't stick out his palm, bell-hop style, after performing these small favours. Instead, he simply turned around, back down the steps, and continued punting his wares in his non-overly obtrusive style. He certainly had a work ethic.
Before I boarded my train, I bought one of his magazines. In it they'd printed a letter from a lady thanking a vendor that she was friendly with. He had donated the money he'd made that day to sponsor her jumping out of a plane for some charity or another. It was all the money he had, around £30 or something, and she was incredibly moved by the significant gesture.
I started to feel rather ashamed at my original attitude. While I get frustrated that all poker players are tarred with the same brush, I'm guilty of a similar crime. I assume everybody on the street is funding a heroin addiction, mugging pensioners or driving back to their comfortable suburban house in the evening.
Maybe it's about time I allowed for another possibility. Some could just be decent folks, who've just had a bit of bad luck. Surely someone in my profession can emphasize with that. I'm not about to throw open my doors to bums, but I certainly have opened my mind a little since that day.
This is because, as soon as I've announced it, I can almost see their natural skepticism rising up from whence it dwells, in the deeps of their gut. It climbs up their spinal column and invades the face, manipulating muscles into a frown and makes their eyebrows do that thing which says, "Aye right".
This reaction is understandable, us gambling types typically don't get very good press.
Indeed why should we, some of our number are in the midst of a destructive addiction. Begging, borrwing and stealing wherever they can from whomever they can. Even if we're not that bad, we can be known to be awfully rude and uncomprimising to new players (even nice little old ladies), shove pounds of cocaine up our noses, sleep with prostitutes and get up to a bunch of other stuff that neither Mother or Reverend Green would be particularly pleased with.
It's also natural to assume that gamblers never win, you get nothing for nothing and that we are all bound to go broke eventually.
If you're reading this on the blondePoker webpage, you're probably involved in poker in some fashion. You already know the above not to be true for all of us. Don't worry, that's not really the point of my article. I tried preaching to a choir once, it was a waste of an afternoon that may have been better spent getting coked up with prozzies to be honest with you.
I saw something the other day which caught my attention. A homeless man, vending a certain magazine, outside a Glasgow train station. When I first passed him, I respetfully declined his offer to sell me a comic. I always do, reasoning that any donation will likely be spent on booze or some other, more illicit, substance.
I had around half an hour to wait for my train, so grabbed myself a burger and somewhere to sit. From the place where I chose to plonk my arse, it just so happened that I was able to observe the aforementioned homeless chap as he went about his buisness. What I saw was not what I expected.
Every time a taxi pulled up, he would open the door. Every time a lady with some hefty luggage approached the steps, he would carry it up for them. What impressed me most about this was that he wouldn't stick out his palm, bell-hop style, after performing these small favours. Instead, he simply turned around, back down the steps, and continued punting his wares in his non-overly obtrusive style. He certainly had a work ethic.
Before I boarded my train, I bought one of his magazines. In it they'd printed a letter from a lady thanking a vendor that she was friendly with. He had donated the money he'd made that day to sponsor her jumping out of a plane for some charity or another. It was all the money he had, around £30 or something, and she was incredibly moved by the significant gesture.
I started to feel rather ashamed at my original attitude. While I get frustrated that all poker players are tarred with the same brush, I'm guilty of a similar crime. I assume everybody on the street is funding a heroin addiction, mugging pensioners or driving back to their comfortable suburban house in the evening.
Maybe it's about time I allowed for another possibility. Some could just be decent folks, who've just had a bit of bad luck. Surely someone in my profession can emphasize with that. I'm not about to throw open my doors to bums, but I certainly have opened my mind a little since that day.
Thomas 'thetank' Stott