Happiness Is Hampstead Shaped

Tue, 10/10/2006 - 7:22pm
 
I went to London last week to play the Gutshot challenge. It was right up my street buy-in wise, consisting of a £200 on the Wednesday, a £100 on the Thursday, and a £500 main event at the weekend. All were two-day events, all were freeze-outs. There was also a £200 Omaha on the Friday, but I decided to make that my rest day.

The only problem with playing a London fessie is that you have to add a few hundred ££ to cover hotel bills, very off-putting for a low-roller like me. I often sleep in my pick-up to avoid hotel bills, but what with the cost of parking and the congestion charge, even that wasn’t a viable option. I was discussing this problem with snoopy (who was also playing the fessie) and he told me that Jen and Dana live in Hampstead, which is quite close to the Gutshot. He suggested that, subject to approval from those who must be obeyed, I might be able to kip on their couch. To cut a long story short, he popped the question for me, and I got the nod.

Having blagged myself a gaff, Wednesday saw me up at the crack of noon. An hour later, with my bags packed and my chin still smarting from the aftershave, I was hurtling south courtesy of Midland Mainline. The train was almost empty, so I got myself a cup of tea from the buffet car and settled myself down on the sunny side of the carriage. Britain still boasts some of the most beautiful, unspoiled rural countryside in the world, and as I watched it slip by my window, I sipped my tea and contemplated my destination, Hampstead.

We all have a pre-conceived image of places we have never been to, and I am no exception. The Hampstead I imagined was 'amstead' as in “I ave to go to the dent’ist, me amstead eef are’nt arf givin me some gyp”. For some reason I had expected it to be all jellied eels, pie and mash, and people shouting “Leave it aht, you slaaaaagg!” Not that there is anything wrong with that you understand, but as is often the case, reality was about to step in and change my pre-conceptions forever.

Hampstead, it turns out, is a leafy suburb in the London borough of Camden. A sophisticated society famous for its artistic and literary connections. The first thing that struck me when I arrived at Hampstead tube station was snatches of overheard conversation. A couple of schoolboys walking ahead of me talked about the Dow Jones index, career choices and house prices before shaking hands and parting. A young woman spoke loudly into a mobile phone - “Oh dahling, I couldn’t possibly, I’ve had pan fry on every dinner date I’ve had this week!”

The immaculate town centre was crammed with delicatessens, fashion outlets, fine china shops, and every few yards, a wine bar or a pavement café, all jostling for space and vying for custom, all doing a roaring trade. I amused myself for an hour or so by taking in the sights and sounds of this unfamiliar environment, but time was getting on so I retrieved the scrap of paper with snoopy’s directions to the flat from my pocket and set out on the short walk to Jen and Dana’s flat.

The flat was in one of several huge town houses situated in a quiet street. All had stout security doors; access was via an intercom system. snoopy had provided me with concise instructions -  “Number 10, press the top button and speak into the grille”. I pressed the buzzer and a female voice answered.
“Hello?” “Hi, it’s Tom.” “Who?” “Tom.” “Tom who, what do you want?”
By this time I was convinced I was being wound up so I said, “Stop messing about and let me in you silly mare!” There followed a long silence, then a nervous voice replied, “Leave me alone, I’m calling the police.”
Sloppy, the numpty, had sent me to the wrong house. “Sigh!”

Eventually I did find 'Chez blondes' and gained entry. I might as well have entered a new universe, life as we know it ceases to exist within these walls. For a start, everyone’s possessions were arranged (in no particular order) so that they covered all of the floors, walls and ceilings. Walking through a room was like taking a guided tour through someone’s life. Photographs, CD's, laptops, games, clothes, and crockery, along with enough musical instruments to fill a shop. Guitars, a fantastic banjo, an auto-harp, a mandolin, a finger operated percussion type thingy made from a large shell, and what I suspected to be a cello in a case. A big stainless steel bookshelf occupied most of one wall, it was the most eclectic collection of books I have ever seen, with titles ranging from 'Clog dancing for the unabashed' to 'How to remove your spleen in one easy lesson'. There were magazines with pictures that kept you awake at night, and a book of soft porn for cats in the toilet. The cat herself, an antiquated but very beautiful old lady of seventeen (that’s 119 in cat years) presided over everything from her beanbag throne, occasionally uttering meows of praise or disapproval. The natural order of things, time included, has no meaning here, people sleep, work, eat and play with no regard for the clock.  It can be a little disorientating when the first thing you see as your eyes focus on waking is someone waving a large slice of pizza inches from your nose and asking, “Hey, are you hungry, do you want to go bowling?”

The flat was unique and interesting, but it paled into insignificance when compared to the uniquety and interestingness of its inhabitants. I met blondite MrsLime briefly, he let his mouth-wateringly delicious looking meat pie dinner go cold while he helped me sort out my Wifi so that I could connect to the router, and I thank him kindly.

I also met Dana’s baby brother Ben, he wandered in one night at silly o’clock, pissed as a fart, shook my hand warmly, assured me in the most polite manner imaginable that he doesn’t usually drink (I believe him), sat on the settee wreathed in smiles, had a smoke and went to bed. If only all little brothers were so little trouble!

NoflopsHomer, or Chris (right), who was staying over to play the Gutshot £200 before travelling out to Baden with Jen to do the EPT updates, was a revelation. I have never really spent any time in floppy’s company until now, and I never realised what an asset he is, to me as a friend and to blonde as an updater. He analyses poker hands so quickly. I watched him playing four tables online and he kept up a running commentary on all four games simultaneously, complimenting good plays and howling with derision at bad ones -  “Good move… I don’t believe it!!” I christened him Jessie Meldrew. Floppy laughs continuously throughout the day, it’s impossible to be down for long when he’s around.

Then there was snoopy, my fellow mod. Our friendship dates back to the pre-blonde Notts Gala era, and will continue until one of us shuffles off this mortal coil. Will he ever cease to surprise me? No! He told the whole group of us a story, right out of the blue. I won’t go into detail, but the gist of it was about how he is terrified of being raped by an ostrich! He told us this in all seriousness, without even a hint of embarrassment. Respect.

Dana (left) is a one off. Attractive, vivacious and talented, she is the quintessential hedonist. She lives for pleasure. She enjoys music, good food, a good smoke, hard liquor and… well, lets just say that coping with Dana on a diet of half a lettuce leaf a day is probably the reason that snoopy is able to maintain his sylph-like figure. There are not many women like Dana in the world, but snoopy has gone and got himself one!

Finally, there’s Jen, the glue that holds it all together. I envy Jen in so many ways, not least for her poker ability and her astounding command of the written word. Jen could write a prescription for haemorrhoid cream and it would still be compulsive reading.

I always see her as a sort of cross between the sugar-plum fairy and Attila the Hun, she will do absolutely anything to help you, nothing is too much trouble, but cross her, and you’re dead meat, that sweet gentle voice suddenly cracks like a whip, and grown men tremble in fear. As you might have guessed, I’m a little bit in awe of Jen; she is one of my heroes.

The poker? Well that was great too. The Gutshot put on a wonderful fessie. Sensibly priced freeze-out comps with good structures, I enjoyed them immensely and even managed a small cash.

Time will swallow up the memory of the poker until it becomes lost in a sea of other festivals, but I will never forget my first visit to Hampstead!