blonde poker forum

Good evening to you all.

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jeeves and I am Master NoFlopsHomer's butler. The master told me about his plans to keep you abreast of our soujourn to Las Vegas but I notice that in his haste to write of our departure he neglected to inform you that I would be accompanying him. Therefore, I hope the master would not consider it out of place for me to document our trip fully.

On Tuesday morning I arose at 5am to prepare Master Floppy for the day. After pressing his travel outfit I entered his room at 6am with a pot of tea. As time was of the essence, he declined the usual happy finish and after I had helped him to close his suitcase we made our way to the airport.

At the terminal I tried to keep the master's attention on the task at hand, namely checking in, but he allowed himself to be distracted by a man of the cloth (and not for the first time, I might add).

We had a slight delay as there was a cheese-related incident involving the gentleman in front of us, but we eventually managed to Caerphilly manoeuvre ourselves onto the plane.

Upon disembarkation at Las Vegas, Master Floppy engaged one of the stewardesses in a conversation about refreshment, I believe. After he made his way down the stairs I extended the courtesy of thanking the charming lady for her hospitality during the journey. This simple act seemed to have quite the effect on her, she became quite overwhelmed with excitement and swooned before me. I caught her as she fell and, as she regained her composure she invited me to join her in her hotel room later this evening, an invitation which I thought it ungallant to decline.

We have now arrived at the hotel. Master has informed me that at some point he wishes to pay a visit to a 'baller house', whatever that is. We shall also be visiting the abode of Masters Pab, Moorman, Allinstevie and Geeforce.

The time has come to draw this introductory segment to a close, as I must join the stewardess in her hotel room, but I shall endeavour to keep you up to date with the rest of our trip*

*assuming the mods have a lax enough attitude to multiple accounts

 :respect: rotflmfao ;tightend;

Brilliant Jeeves  :D :D

Obviously pics of stewardess or it didn't happen  ;popcorn;

LOL  loving it

Keep it coming

 ;applause;

 rotflmfao ;tightend; ;applause;

 ;applause; keep them coming Jeeves

Excellent!

More, More.

 :respect:

Jeeves!?!?!

You're meant to be polishing Grandfather's gunrack!

I hear he polishes yours quite often.

(http://images3.wikia.nocookie.net/uncyclopedia/images/thumb/3/32/KennethWilliams.jpg/300px-KennethWilliams.jpg)

PMSL.

Keep it coming and as Eck said:-

 :redcard:

Good evening to you, Sir!  Seeing as Master Floppy used to have a Summer Town Home right here in Hampstead, North London, it appears that some of his mail is still being delivered to our servants' entrance.  I took the liberty (all right, I failed to notice the addressee differed from my own name - much sherry had been consumed - it was after 5pm after all) of opening a letter which I feel ought to be reproduced forthwith:





The Drones Club                                                                                                                                Hilltop Residence, Hampstead.
Mayfair



Dear Mr. Homer,

The Drones Club must regretfully inform you that your application to become a member has been rejected at this time.  As you know, the three criteria for membership are:

1) Having a name resounding in Classical allusion
2) Having a butler
3) Having a refined and gentlemanly manner with a correct level of correctness, excellent posture, and an apt witticism ready for any occasion.
3i) Wearing a monocle immediately renders the other three criteria irrelevant

While you undoubtedly possess the first two, and 3i is, sadly, becoming something of a rarity in this day and age, point 3 seems not to have been fulfilled to a level acceptable to our other distinguished members.  I refer you to your 'trial evening,' in which you were invited to sample the fine vintages of our cellar, and the amusements of our Smoking Room.  As you may recall, when offered a drink, you did not opt for one of our fine single malts, or our house port, but insisted repeatedly that you would only accept something called a "Witch Doctor," which embarrassed our barman Mr. Worthington who was fresh out of dry ice, but rose to the occasion nonetheless. 

Following from that, you behaved in a most aggressive fashion at billiards, beating Major Goulding with such a thorough lack of magnanimity in victory that he has declined all further challenges.  I must inform you that we do not usually enforce the 'trousering rule' in our establishment.

When invited to the card table, you seemed on the verge of an angry outburst that the stakes we generally played for were not 'nosebleed,' whatever that means, and also refused to accept gold doubloons as valid currency.  I would politely remind you that they currently stand at D1:$35.  Having lost a considerable sum to the Earl of Colchester, you then insisted the table play a game known as 'Omaha' which resulted in a far more confusing and ill-tempered evening than that to which we are generally accustomed.  It is also not considered proper at the Drones to accept the keys to a player's Bentley in lieu of payment in cash.  We also politely request on behalf of Lord Kendall that you return his chauffeur posthaste.

The next vacancy will be opening in 2012, and should you still be interested in membership, we suggest you reapply at that time.



Yours faithfully,


J. A. Mason, Esq. 
Chairperson.

presume we have some sort of prop bet going on how many welsh town names he can get into his wsop coverage posts?

 ;hattip;

Caerphilly cheese.

Top stuff jeeves!...

My apologies for the lack of haste in updating you on Master Floppy's stay here in Nevada. This has been for two very important reasons. Firstly I am rather stewardess-lagged and secondly and altogether more importantly my young Master has been very insistent that my tasks for him are complete before I write. The combination of these two unrelated reasons leaves me little time to update you.

However never mind, all good things come to those who wait, especially young Miss Caroline from Virgin Atlantic two floors down in Room 1362.

Enough of this frippery though, back to Master Floppy.

You may not know that I have been in service to the Floppy family since 1974, when young Master floppy was merely a twinkle in Old Mr Floppy's eyes. Back then the Floppy family were rather traditional in their manners and outlook. My tasks were regular and continual, but extremely satisfying for a young manservant in his prime. The routine was as follows:

1. 6.45am run bath for Master, put toothpaste on toothbrush.

2. 6.52am rouse the sleeping master, hand him his ermine dressing gown and lead him to the bath.

3. before 7am while master is bathing, lay out his clothes for the day depending on whether it was a city or country pursuit schedule.

4 7.15am dry off and dress Master.

5. 7.30am Hand him the Daily Telegraph.

6. 8am Serve him his eggy soldiers just like his now departed nanny Mrs Mason used to do

7. 9am Drive Master to the "up" train to London if it were a town day, or to the stables if it was a country day

before spending the day keeping the place spick and span for Master's return

Now of course I am charged with the routine of young Master Floppy, and I must say life is altogether different. At home in England I am on 24 hour call, often asked to give him a restorative rub down as he bemoans his luck on a "Full Tilt Omaha" table. Sadly the sentence "I had the full wrap, all the blockers and the nut flush draw, how could I miss? I run so cold" was not in my basic manservant training but young Master was happy I was on call to listen sympathetically as I polished his lap top bag and sharpened his HB pencils.

Here in Nevada I follow him respectfuly a few paces behind as he strides through the Rio establishment. Unable to get himself the necessary accreditation (if only he had asked I would have had a word with Smithers, Mr Jeffery Pollack's Lancastrian man about town) he cuts a somewhat forlorn figure on the outside of a long red rope calling out plaintively "anyone tell me how many chips Benyamine has got please?" but mine is not to reason why, merely to be on hand to fulfil those promises I made to his father all those years ago when I was passed along to his son.

Still, I am incredibly grateful to the young Master for giving me some time off during our sojourn here. On one such occasion I found myself chatting to several very pleasant young ladies in the Rio bar. One was called Candy, and she hailed from Puerto Rico. I was most touched to find that she "digged my British accent" and was only too delighted to fulfil her wish to shout "It's like taking Candy from a baby ma'am" as she availed herself of my vocal and other talents later that evening. Now all I have to do is ensure I have the receipt for countersigning by the Master and including in his portfolio for forwarding to PokerListings Inc, his temporary employer, on our return to blighty.

 

rotflmfao soo much better than any other Vegas diary I've ever read. Top man, Jeeves.

However never mind, all good things come to those who wait, especially young Miss Caroline from Virgin Atlantic two floors down in Room 1362.

Just got to that bit, had to pause to LOL !!!

Methinks Jeeves is enjoying his time in LV far more than his master.

Wednesday 4th June.

Just a short note to update you on two pieces of what is called over here "Breaking News"

On being relieved of my duties last night I retired to my ante chamber only to be interrupted by the insistent buzzing of my portable phone at 4am by a message from master. It merely said

"Ship the turbo Hundo for $6.5k wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii"

Unable to compute this message with any of my regular duties I fell back into a restless slumber only to be woken by a rather excitable Master a few hours later. Master clearly had not been to bed, and I began to ready his bath and shaving equipment when he thrust a series of small patches into my arms, alongside some Poker Listing shirts. Looking rather quizzical I awaited instructions which were not long in coming:

"Shib Jeeves. Ultimate Bet are paying me to wear these patches on my gear for the rest of the series. Sew them on man, holla balla fk your life sign up to poker Listings now or the kittens get it how's the norkage?" which sounded rather incongruous when uttered in a voice so unremittingly public school that the chambermaids enquire of me whether Master is indeed MI5.

Momentarily nonplussed I enquired of Master, in my informal role as moral guardian of the Floppy family name, whether such sponsorship was altogether appropriate for one so unblemished by controversy. To which the reply came

" It's balla Jeeves, Hellmuth ftw"

and I proceeded to unzip my portable sewing kit and get to work forthwith.

Today I have instructions by Master to baby-sit a rather excitable young man by the name of Anthony Phillips who I gather has been causing a few problems in the Rio. I think we will take him on a trip away from the casinos today and introduce him to some of the delights of "Peppermints" which sounds a very fine establishment a short perambulation away. 

I will report more on this tomorrow, Master's demands permitting.

rotflmfao

Quality Jeeves  ;hattip;

Vegas is merely an extension of the Drones Club to Floppy.

a beauty, keep it up, this si awesome.

a truely fantastic diary thread and one well worth reading imo!

keep it up jeeves  ;applause; :)up

Thursday


Babysitting Mr Phillips did not go exactly to plan. There I was, gently unwinding from the strains of my sewing, enjoying the attentions of Fifi from Carolina in Peppermints when from the bar I heard the strains of some young British gentlefolk serenading one of their number, a Mr Akenhead who I gather had a rather notable result. Things turned rather unpleasant when one of them got onto the Disc Jockey's turntable and began to address the assembled throng

"Ten Four Ten Four what the hell, ten four ten four fk our lives" he cried

All this to the backdrop of vinyl records being scratched at top hole volume. This was followed by the assorted British gentlefolk being chased out of the building by two ex WWE Wrestlers called Kurt and Booker shouting "HitSquad? who the fk are the Hit Squad" repeatedly.

I was not to see Mr Phillips after that point, but Master Floppy was to his credit relaxed when I informed him of our tribulations later.

As one more used to tea dances and the strains of Gershwin as his aural pleasure it was a bit of a shock to my system, let me tell you but as Candice from Iowa shimmied her way into my peripheral vision I soon lapsed into mixed thoughts of silicon laden breasts and whether I had remembered to polish Master Floppy's shoes before his next stint on the rail.

Later that day I ran into Gussie Fink-Nottle, Master Floppy's bestest friend at Eton, who told me that Master Floppy had been keeping a notebook containing frank and over-candid observations on amongst others Sir Watkyn Goulding and Lady Diana Immanuel two of his fellow bloggers. Unbeknownst to me my Master had lost the notebook, so I was half prepared for the plaintive knock on my door shortly before lights out.

"Jeeves" came the pathetic whimpering cry

"Yes, sir" I replied, altogether neutrally

"I have had a faux pas" said he

"Proceed young master" said I, awaiting the inevitable

"I have a bloggers notebook in which I jot down random thoughts about poker hands, poker players and the like, and I have lost it"

"That is careless" I said, with affected disdain, for I knew what was coming

I carried on "Why is that a faux pas?"

Floppy hesitated and cleared his throat "Because it contains my inner-most thoughts"

"Oh" said I, as one of the very few people permitted to pierce the inner sanctum of the Floppy brain, I feared the worst

I continued "so it lists why you are the A team blogger in Las Vegas and how no one appreciates you, contains your private collection of MC Hammer bubble photographs and says how much you really hate cats but just put up with it to humour Ms Immanuel?"

"y-y-y-y--yes" he blubbed

"Not to worry" I said "I will retrieve it for you"

"Will you?" said Floppy, clinging onto my calf as a comfort blanket

"Yes" said I


and with that I embarked on my plan to recover the evidence and once again protect the reputation of the family I have sworn to protect.

More top-knotch reportage from Jeeves  ;applause; rotflmfao ;applause;

what he said

Friday


I went in search of the Fish. He was the one poker player I knew likely to know where the incriminating book lost by Master could be found. Many moons ago, before I entered service I had a past I was and am not proud of in petty crime circles in Humberside and it was there I came across a bejewelled gentleman named David. He would be able to help me now.

I caught up with him having a quiet dinner in the Stratosphere with his girlfriend. I went up to him and asked if he could spare me a moment. He affected ignorance. It was only when I said to him "John Prescott. Hull Docks, Chinese container heist, 1973" that he remembered me and was quickly out of his seat leaving his pretty young lady picking at her Prawn Marie Rose and sipping her Asti Spumanti.

I described Master's predicament and David knew exactly where to go. He promised that after speaking to Jonny Fingers, Nick the Greek and Long tall Bob that he would have the item returned to me within the day.

I returned to Master, who seemed agitated. I wondered why and learnt that Master was planning a trip to the Rainforest Cafe that day with his colleague Roderick and fellow employees of Poker Listings. Master Floppy was like an excitable child and it took me back to those days wandering with him around Dudley Zoo hoping for a glimpse of the big cats in the undergrowth. To this day I still make a point of saving all tiger-related clippings I find for him to put in his Full Tilt FPP Scrapbook, the one with Clonie Gowen on the front and the words "I Luv Clonie" etched in red on the inside back cover.

Master asked me to book a table for six that evening and to ensure that his table was to have a full frontal view of the Lion for its half-hourly mechanised roaring session. Later when he returned, just as I was ironing Masters pyjamas's ready for his sleep he was quite full of himself and was affecting disdain for the Vegas Rainforest. In his diary which he immediately sat down to write he described it as "a bizarre little place with flashing lights, electronic gorillas and screeching elephants (African, if you were wondering). Honestly, though, not a place to go if you are tripping on mushrooms".

Let me tell you though, he rang me at 4am as he had soaked his bedsheets after a nightmare about the Elephants ("its those big flappy ears Jeeves")  and asked me to make him a mug of Horlicks and to make his bed whilst he "fired up" a quick Omaha session.

It was with much sadness that I was then awoken some three hours later with the news that his bumbling friend Roderick had awoken young Master at 6am thinking it was 6pm. Master was only able to sleep fitfully after that and Master was in urgent need of cleanly pressed clothes, eggy soldiers with ketchup and a new pencil to go with his brand new bloggers notebook.

As I rose wearily from my own slumbers, I longed for those predictable days with Master's parents, a schedule running like clockwork where I could peruse that morning's damp copy of the Financial Times whilst ironing flat for Master. This trip has played havoc with my body-clock but my devotion to the errant young Master is such that I will press on, steadfast and resolute, and await his reaching a longed for maturity.

Brilliant!

And Jeeves has a most adaptable writing-style, almost as if he's two different people. Remarkable.

Jeeves is getting his wages cut to six and ninepence when I get back...

Saturday.

It was a difficult conversation early this morning. Master had suffered another long and taxing day the wrong side of the rope and was clearly frustrated with developments. I gathered from his friend Roderick that Master was disappointed that his new friends at Ultimate Bet had chosen to sponsor Rizen. His first comment to me as he entered the room was

"Rizen? Who's he? Did he ever win the turbo hundo on Tilt for $6.5k? No!" and with that he slammed his bloggers notebook down on the floor scattering his etchings of Kathy Liebert on the floor.

As I bent to retrieve them Master Floppy nervously cleared his throat...

"Jeeves" said he, "I need to speak with you. I am not happy with your performance on this trip. Unless things improve I will be forced to reduce your pay and possibly find a new manservant"

I was taken aback. Thirty four years loyal service in the family and was it to come to this?

I enquired what the problem was, upper lip stiff, back ram-rod straight but inwardly in turmoil.

"Well Jeeves, I hear you are writing an unauthorised and unexpurgated diary of my trip on the internet. I have spoken to father and he says this was not contained as a clause in your manservant's contract in 1974. There was no mention of the internet in it at all. As such I forbid you to spill the beans on my phobia of flappy ears, and any other faults I may have"

I was quiet for a moment, from outside we heard the far off drone of a small light aircraft trailing a banner across the sky. We turned and saw the banner which read "I'm Mr Chip Tricks, and yes I am a cock".

I decided to take my medicine "I am sorry Master, I have watched you post on the internet for a number of years and admired it from afar. Not many gentlemen of my era embrace new technologies, except of course that man who keeps wittering on about Concrete Posts and bridges, but I thought I would show willing and attempt to integrate into that important area of your personal and professional life. If you wish me to desist, I will"

"Jeeves,it must stop. I have a lot on my plate in Vegas. Why only yesterday I was only able to eat half of my 20oz T-Bone at  the All-U-Can-Eat Diner because of the stress this has caused me. No more"

So, ladies and gentlemen, this has to be the last entry. Master Floppy informs me that following his shibbbbbbbbbb the turbo hundo for $6.5k he is now to actually play a World Series of Poker Bracelet event and this gives me, as someone who has known him since he was accepting orange and mango puree in his highchair, immense pride. If he could, ahem, shibbbbb one time it would be the culmination of many years of devotion.

So, for the time being, it is temporarily goodbye from me and Good luck to Master floppy in the $1,500 PLO event on Tuesday. 

massive amounts of good luck to Floppy in the 1500 PLO..I know you have the game for this one (not for a HE event though ;) )

I will miss this diary the most if indeed Floppy no longer permits Jeeves to write a regular update.

Best of luck in the event floppy

Friday


Firstly I must thank my noble and honourable Master for allowing me once again to digest for public consumption his travails here in Las Vegas, Nevada.

I last spoke to you nearly a week ago. It has been hectic since, with Master Floppy showing a rather colt-ish temperament for one so well-bred. However the opportunity to play in one's first Bracelet event is of course a once in a lifetime experience so one can allow him the odd foible or two during his moments of peak stress.

Tuesday, the big day, dawned hot and humid. I had discussed thoroughly with young Master his requirements for the event. The list went as follows

1. Brown brogues.
2. Freshly pressed Hackett Chinos.
3. Clean Poker Listings shirt with velcro'd sponsors logo.
4. Visor.
5. Sunglasses.
6. IPod, charged and on Playlist 63 (the one with Whitney Houston and Diana Ross)
7. Oversized headphones.
8. Fresh blogger's notebook.
9. Sharpened pencil.
10. Fresh Kumquat.

On going down the list I was in my element, nothing better than ticking off a list of tasks and reaching a satisfactory conclusion to a deadline. There I was, approaching midnight when I reached Item 10. "Fresh Kumquat". I must admit I took several looks at this item and wondered what on earth Master wanted a fresh piece of exotic fruit for.

At 3am I had returned from Spanish Joe's all night convenience store with the said item, just as Master was making his way to bed after another long blog. I enquired of him the Kumquat reasoning. His reply perhaps confirmed a thought that
had been developing in my mind for some time:

"Jeeves, I want to be a star. We've seen Oranges and Bananas, apples too. All used by players as lucky charms in big events. Well this is my stage. My big chance. I need to make a stateemnt. What better statement than saying - Look at me, Look at My kumquat- to the assembled throng"

and with that he went off to bed, before I had even had a chance to put his toothpaste on his toothbrush and lay out his cotton pyjamas which were nestling snugly under his pillow.

Yes, Master had indeed finally succumbed to the desire to wannabe, on the biggest poker stage of them all, the $1,500 PLO Event.

The next morning I bade farewell to the plucky master, remembering fondly that day long ago when I waved him goodbye on his first day as St John's Prep school in Datchet. I promised him, with nary a quivering bottom lip, that I would be on hand at the first break to attend to his needs, offer him a moist towelette and if necessary attend to Kumquat remedial work.

The first break came, and Master bounded over gambolling like a spring lamb

"Jeeves, Jeeves, they're all crap"

"Good sir" said I

"No Jeeves, I can't get anything through, they all call anything"

"Quite sir" I said, able now quite easily to attempt the relevant vernacular "all you need to do is find a hand, jam, and see it hold up"

"Yes, Jeeves, Yes!" he cried, so loudly that a nearby Kristy Gazes spilt her Americano with whipped cream down her top.

I resolved to stay on hand, a sixth sense telling me that my services would be required forthwith.

Eschewing the attentions of two nearby young ladies pressing flyers for a nearby establishment into player's hands, I watched Floppy go to work.

Soon the hand came about. Floppy limped, and saw a call-fest behind. To the inevitable late postion raise, Floppy did indeed jam but his sprits must have fallen when he saw not one, not two but three callers to his textbook move.

I craned my neck amongst the hordes of young bloggers  to see the cards go on their back. One unkempt young man from a Colombian poker publication dictated into a machine..

"and Kumquat boy is all in for his tournament life with 230 players left . Can he survive?"

I made out the cards. Noble, plucky, brave young Master showed AQJ9. Clearly a hand with potential. His foes, beastly the lot of them, showed assorted hands...AQ53...T998...AKQ5

I decided not to look at the Community cards but instead concentrated on the young fresh face of the Master, his brow furrowed in concentration.

The flop brought some "oooohs", the turn some "aaaahs" and on the fateful river Master Floppy showed that despite his time spent in uncouth America his breeding had not deserted him. Congratulating his conqueror on his exit, he picked up his Kumquat, folded his enormous ear-phones away and departed, back stiff, chin jutting out whistling "Jerusalem".

That evening, as he reposed in reflection on his fine performance Master Floppy said to me, a propos of nothing

"You know Jeeves, I could get a taste for this. I intend to play more events in the future"

and with that he went back to fondling his kumquat as I pressed his pyjamas for the night ahead.

rotflmfao.

Top class stuff!, Welcome back Jeeves!

I love the name 'Kumquat Boy' :D

 ;tightend; ;tightend;

 ;bump; ;slavedriver;

Monday

Then it happened. I heard the noise from down the hotel corridor well before I caught sight of Master and his cohorts.

"Who the **** is Hiddink, who the **** is Guusy Hiddink, who the **** is Hiddink, and the Oranges go marching on and on. Thanks Gary. Over to you Motty"

and then they emerged, faces painted in the national colours of the Netherlands, Orange flags draped around their shoulders and huge court jester hats carried at a jaunty angle on their heads. Master Floppy, his friends Gussie Fink-Nottle and Tamara Hamburger-Bunn and Johannes Van der Cruyff-Smythe had arrived back home.

I must admit I was rather taken aback. Master Floppy had long been indoctrinated in the family passion for the Oval ball and the Croquet Lawn and here he was, in a far off land, preparing to beseech Association footballers from a European, yes European, country to win a match.

I enquired of him the reason for his new found passion for the game of the Oiks.

His answer was a microcosm of the problems we face in Britain today maintaining the standard of our Youth in the face of media sensationalism of lower class sports:

"It's top hole Jeeves. Johannes said I had to check it out and support the Dutch against the Commies. It's football Jeeves, 100% total football. All the time 100% total football. Just seeing those close-ups of Rafael Van Der Vaart's rippling thighs makes Tamara go quite weak and I am thrilled at watching Wesley Schjneider caress the ball as if it is attached to his leg with a piece of string. Over to you Gary. Thanks Motty"

I immediately assessed the situation and resolved that on our return to blighty I would take Master on our annual trip to the Lords Test Match, have luncheon on the Nursery ground with the Farqhuarson's and relax in the sumptuous atmosphere of leather on Willow. At the cricket, not in the dungeon afterwards with the Amazonian Dark Goddess Candice.

I took Master to one side and gave him his bi-annual lecture on the dangers of supporting Association football but I could see his eyes glazing over. He could not, temporarily, be saved from his ardour. He did though confide in me that there was a justifcation for his horribly surburban behaviour

"It's that TightEnd again Jeeves, he keeps emailing me asking me to do things. Organise this, organise that, have you done this, have you done that? Does he not know that I am very busy here in Vegas? Why only yesterday I was re-counting Rob (http://www.blondepoker.com/blondepedia/blondepedia_view_player.php?player_id=724) Hollink (http://www.blondepoker.com/blondepedia/blondepedia_view_player.php?player_id=724)'s stack on the final table after fetching him his sixth Grand Americano with Walnuts from the Starbucks in the Rio and resolved that enough was enough. TightEnd could wait, I would support Johannes and his Dutch in their noble quest and preparing the live update schedule for August 2011 could wait. Thanks Alan, over to you for the second half Motty"

So there we had it, Master Floppy had succumbed to another malaise of modern life. Displacement behaviour borne of excessive stress. All caused by people such as TightEnd simply not understanding the fragile temperament of the Floppy's, first noticed in Lord Hubert Floppy his great-great-grandfather in the Mafeking uprising over a century ago who near the end of the battle had resorted to sticking a banana in both ear and hollering "Floppy, floppy, floppy, I am the noble Floppy"   to the local savages.

Master was simply incapable of doing anything but reverting to the norm of society behaviour and ending every sentence in football presenter cliche.

I left Floppy and his sensitive pals to adjourn to the Sports Lounge and settled back in my quarters to darn and label ("Please return to Floppy Towers if lost, reward if found") his sixth pair of socks.

Hours later, I barely noticed it but the door to the room gently opened. In creeped the Master, looking dejected.

"Master, why so sad?" i said gently

"The Commies outclassed us Jeeves. Engelaar got nowhere near Arshavin before he was substituted and we struggled to cope with their pace and invention all game. It's all over Jeeves. We're out, our dreams are dashed. It's back to supporting Twente Enschede in thier quest for Champions League Qualification, and with that it's back to Clive Tyldesley in the commentary box"

"but sir" I said "hasn't Steven McClaren been appointed their new manager? Wouldn't it be better to support Manchester United like most other clueless glory hunters who can afford corporate boxes?"

"Yes Jeeves" said Floppy. "In fact thinking about it I will return once more to Rugby"

and with that he sloped off, no doubt reminding himself of the intoxicating smell of a Prop Forward's jockstrap from long, long ago....................


to be continued.



 

 

lol...I love this diary.

great stuff as usual Jeeves!

Must be added to Best Of Blonde after this year's World Series.

You guys should wrtie a book for sure, astounding read, would pay for it. BOB deffo!

Sir you are nothing short of genius and this line alone should ensure your entry into best of Blonde


I was quiet for a moment, from outside we heard the far off drone of a small light aircraft trailing a banner across the sky. We turned and saw the banner which read "I'm Mr Chip Tricks, and yes I am a cock".


I can't believe I missed this thred

Wednesday

It is the early hours of the morning here in Las Vegas and I find myself once again awaiting the arrival of the Master for his bed-time Horlicks. I've surfed all 363 Television Channels here in my ante-chamber, surreptiously looked at Master's facebook account and spotted some rather superb pictures of female Poker Players in Berkshire (who seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time trying to smile without showing their teeth, but failed miserably to detract attention from their shapely forms in tight fitting jeans) on there with which to entertain myself and then some more pictures in a thread on this very forum, written the subsequent fan-mail letters to a Lady Chilli of Grantham and Duchess Shannon Elizabeth of California and now I find myself once more at a loose-end.

This is a familiar story of a manservant in the duty of a peripatetic Master.  Not for me, or him, the joys of a regular routine but instead the waiting, the interminable waiting. All too frequently too the hushed call in the early hours, where somehow one's ear is attuned to a different sound from the telephone, one alerting the loyal servant of imminent danger and the likely need to bail out said Master and his chums from the local Police Station after two halves of bitter top.

It was not meant to be like this, cooped up on the 22nd floor of a Vegas hotel Monolith and once some years ago it looked like it would be so different.

Master Floppy had left Eton. A life of fagging was past him. Cambridge beckoned. Oh the joy to one such as myself! Would Master head for the Footlights? Would he dazzle the whole college with his witty repartee before embarking on a career in Law, the City or the Arts? I must say I walked with a spring in my step those days, so proud to serve the young Master.

However one day my faithful servant's springy step was flung to a far off corner of the room. Master Floppy had some disturbing news

"Jeeves, I'm off to Hull. University of the People. Viva Las Prescott, up the revolution!"

"Hull s-s-s-sir?" I stammered

"There's a new Hull college in Cambridge?" I enquired, somewhat forlornly

"No Jeeves, Hull in East Riding"

There was an uneasy silence. I was, quite at odds with my training, dumbstruck

"but Sir" as I mustered a sentence "Think of your lineage, your father and your future. Think Merchant Bank, think Barrister, not Hull!"

"No Jeeves, we leave on Monday, Hull it is. Childcare, Global Poverty and Woodwork is  the course for me"

Three long years in Hull passed. Inside I was desperately unhappy at the direction Master was taking but hoping he would mature soon, and settle for convention, for slippers and the Daily Telegraph.

However it was not to be. In mid 2005 Master told me that he had accepted a position, for minimal pay, working alongside his friends Lady jennifer and Lord Adam of Snoopy for a new outfit called blonde Poker. My spirits momentarily soared. Was Master to be the accountant, or the Information technology guru? The marketing man or the man who updates the news box (top right of forum, lots of valuable information, don't miss it)?. However the moment was soon shattered

"No Jeeves, Journalism is my game, I'm going to write up hands, post pictures of MC Hammer, kittens, bubbles and Oversized boulders. This is me, this is my life. I am the Floppy. Word!"

With that he bounded like an over-size puppy into his bed-room, logged on to a forum and began to post in a thread entitled "O/T Two Word Poker Story".

Three years later here we are. Master has some more responsibility these days, and his services are in demand. His Masters think enough of him that he is allowed a blog, in which he details his thoughts and cross-references to his obscure collection of Blues and Rock Music. The music that I have to put three ear-plugs in when he puts it on his turntable late at night.

Not for us a life in the City, mega-bucks, early mornings, a wife in the Shires, a Mistress in Town and trip's to Max Mosley's house for fun and frolics. No, here we are, paid a pittance, irregular hours, no chance of meeting Mr Mosley and one frustrated Manservant.

Five minutes ago Master returned form his late night reverie. He crept in so as not to disturb me, but sadly for him the sound of a Vase shattered on the floor (full of Hyancinth's, his favourites ) caused me to pop my head into the bathroom and enquire of his well-being

"I'm ok Jeeves" he said with his head half way down the toilet Bowl.

"Great cocktails tonight, and I finished 3rd in a Hi-Lo STT at the Treasure Island, Craps is a great game. Only lost a hundo on it. Toot toot!"

and with that, as I shut the doors to the whimpering cries of Master, intermittently barfing into the abyss below I permitted myself a brief sigh, as I retired to bed. 

Top hole, keep 'em coming please.

"This is a familiar story of a manservant in the duty of a peripatetic Master."

Beautiful bit of prose  ;tightend;

tip top ramblings

This just gets better and better.

Classic Jeeves  ;applause; ;applause; ;applause;

a suitable musical interlude....

YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BWnB0hQWGdI

Wednesday


Thank you Tonji. Of Course the venerable and esteemed Mr Stephen Fry is a national Treasure and quite simply the best screen account of my character. He doesn't like girls though, and there we part company.

Meanwhile, Master retired to his bed-room at 3.45am looking rather pale and wan.

He woke me fifteen minutes later to say he had wet the bed, and could I please change his sheets. Not only that, but unknown to him he had chosen to urinate in his sock drawer too.

I am currently engaged in wringing out said socks, but felt I needed to thank Tonji for the quite delightful tune he allowed me to indulge in, but momentarily. 

Thursday

The long days drag on here in Nevada. Blistering sun beats down on the metropolis whilst most of what Master refers to as "degens" sleep until sunset. I myself, attuned to decades of service on a conventional routine, have always been more of a day person than a night person. However that becomes difficult when one, both through years of servitude and because of the request of the young Master, has to remain attired into top and tails whether in the ante chamber, attending to Master while he "blogs" or, as I did earlier today, reposing by the side of the swimming pool alongside the Duchess of Colwick and the Countess Chiprich of East Keswick (suspiciously stubbly, as a matter of fact) who I met late last night in the 7-11 behind the hotel on my errand to fetch Master a packet of Skittles and a Pokemon trading card pack.

This evening, as I brushed Master's brogues I was again disturbed by his eager entreaties

"Jeeves! Jeeves!" he shouted as he burst into the room

"I need urgent help!"

I took a deep breath, suppressing the urge to tell Master that he was guilty of stating the obvious. I was wondering what on earth it could be this time.

"Take your time Master,and slowly tell me the problem" I said soothingly

"Jeeves Jeeves Jeeves I've made the most terrible mistake" The words tumbled out, an all too obvious symptom of his upset and discord.

"I write this blog right, all about my degen shib it holla balla life here in Vegas. Except I didn't think anyone would read it and it turns out they do and Oh Jeeves......"

His words trailed off disconcertingly. Somehow I knew that we had not quite reached the Heart of the Matter.

"Go on sir" I said, betraying a little impatience and mentally re-booking myself in to the Manservant's refresher course for dealing with imbeciles, on my return to home shores.

"Well Jeeves, I wanted to look cool and balla and so I thought I'd end every blog entry with a reference to really cool music. Problem is Jeeves I've never listened to it, or heard of half of the names. Tonight one of the other bloggers told me how much he loved my song of the day – Mannish Boy by Muddy Waters. "Because the blues rocks" I said and he totally dug that and started talking about Hoochie Coochie Man"

"and the problem sir?" prompting him to get to the point

"Well that's it Jeeves. I can bluff at an Omaha pot with a bare Ace on a one suit flop but ask me to bluff about music and I'm sunk Jeeves. What shall I do?"

"Well sir, honesty has to be the best policy. Why not tell the truth. How you love Girls aloud, especially singing along to Call the Shots in the Shower?"

"Jeeves!" He shouted "It's terrible. I said I had been to see Muddy Waters in concert last year"

"but sir, he died in 1983" I said, not too helpfully in the circumstances

"Yes Jeeves, Yes but everyone laughed at me, I haven't been so embarrassed since Leslie Limp-turtle stole my homemade cottage pie in Mansfield Park"

"Well sir, one can not look back, what's done is done. However perhaps there is a valuable lesson here. Be true to yourself, and don't try to be something you are not. Perhaps its best if you stay Far from the Madding Crowd tonight, and allow yourself to recover. It will all be forgotten in the morning"   

"If you say so Jeeves"

"Yes sir"


and with that Master fired up his laptop, opened six Tilt Omaha tables and was within minutes contentedly reciting the script for the Series three, episode 2 of the A-Team, long since committed to memory.

As I attended to ironing his pyjamas for what was to be a rare early night I could hear cacophonous laughter interspersed with the catchphrases from long ago from the other side of the adjoining door...

"Whad'ya talking about Fool?"

"I ain't going on no plane"

on a continuous loop, as the sound of Hear'say and Avril Lavigne on ITunes mingled with the sound of the "Reload Now?" button on the poker software.

Master, at last, was where he belongs

 ;tightend; ;tightend; ;tightend; ;tightend; ;tightend; ;tightend; ;tightend; ;applause;

Best one yet by a MILE!!!

fab :)up

top stuff indeed.

Love the ending to that one.  Brilliant!

 ;tightend; ;tightend; rotflmfao rotflmfao ;tightend; ;tightend;

Friday

Master is working all night tonight, and has the day off tomorrow. While he is away fruit picking off the strip I intend to indulge in a full day of rest and relaxation looking at strategically placed tassels in peppermints.

For the time being, here is a picture of the noble, plucky Master, relaxing with Christopher Mintz-Plasse "McLovin", his latest Hollywood celebrity poker playing friend. Tobey (http://www.blondepoker.com/blondepedia/blondepedia_view_player.php?player_id=1136) Maguire (http://www.blondepoker.com/blondepedia/blondepedia_view_player.php?player_id=1136) according to Master is "so last year Jeeves"

and here is Master's abode, in a semi-state of tidyness. I had to stop half way through my exertions with the damp cloth to hide the half cut oranges, and something called rohypnol

and finally, dear reader, until I update you again. Said oranges in their pre-cut state. Note bottle in the background, partially hidden

At least you're making sure he eats healthy.  Can't be responsible for everything.  Although, the state of his room is shocking.  Either you're not doing your job or you need to ask for a raise.

Rather worried about his intentions with the oranges.

You're fired.

Sunday

Master burst in, slamming the door behind him. Clearly furious, he struggled to compose himself

"Jeeves, You're fired" He said sternly

"I have spoken to Papa and you are to return home at once, where you will accompany Miss Floppina (his younger sister, twice as dippy as her older brother)  to Wimbledon Ladies Semi Final Day, and then serve one month's notice back at Floppy Towers. From that point onwards you are free to seek alternative employment"

At this point I do believe I betrayed a hint of the emotion I was feeling. Having attended Master "man and boy" it was the end of an era for me, and the end of an even longer era for my service in the Floppy family as a whole.

Recovering my composure quickly, I said to Master

"As you wish Master, I wish you all the very best in your blogging career, and your furtherance of fruit as a card protector and photgraphs of kittens as tools of emotional blackmail"

at which point Master let out a loud harrumph clearly indicating that my sentiments were wasted on him, and a measure of the intense disappointment I had caused him earlier that day.

He said "Jeeves, you left me no choice. I came back yesterday afternoon to find you naked on my bed tied up with hold-up stockings and a riding crop wedged in your mouth, and three Blonde ladies exiting rather sharply down the corridor with bags containing all my possessions. I repeat, only this time with a I will hold up a picture of a kitten for added emphasis, you left me no choice"

and Dear Reader, he was right. I now have to recount the story of yesterday, and how this sorry state of affairs came to pass.

As highlighted previously I had Saturday to myself. Once I had finished my daily chores, including polishing Master's Red Apples with Mr Sheen, I knew I would be at a loose end. Master was off gallivanting and I knew that it would be difficult for me to resist the allure of Peppermints, of flesh and potential fornication. Manservant training had barely prepared me for the perils of temptation, and serving Floppy hadn't much either. It was, with hindsight, no wonder that a man such as I fully functioning despite my advancing years would eventually succumb to the not-so-hidden delights of the Peppermints girls.

I set off for Peppermints in the early afternoon, every part the elegant British Gent out for a stroll. Brown brogues and corduroys, a White and Green check shirt beneath a Green velvet waistcoat and a cravat, monogrammed especially by Master's favourite band all those years ago, S Club 7. Little did I think how much this regulation clothing would make me stand out in the club. On arrival I accpeted the invitation to the VIP area with alacrity and soon found myself drinking the finest champagne.

It was after thirty minutes or so that I began to feel light-headed. I was entertaining Candy, Mandy and Sandy, the blonde triplets from Wisconsin with my tales of British aristocratic life, although really all two of them wanted me to do was say

"Would you like Sugar with that Madam?" repeatedly, slowly and langourously.

I had availed myself of a few rhythmic dances, thrusting pelvises waved in my face with abandon and Candy whispered in my ear

"We could go somewhere more private Jeeves, just the four of us. Book us for the day and we'll show you what we get up to on those long dark nights up by the Great Lakes"   

At first I resisted, but soon that became futile. As I got up, unsteady on my legs, I noticed some empty pharmacy store sachets on the floor by the tables and wondered what they could be? However I soon thought nothing more of it as I extended the invitation back to Master's chambers, well aware that Master was likely to be gone for a number of hours.

I had displayed my fatal weakness, one I have in common with many men -  most usually in my experience those I had been asked to serve - and allowed the unrequited stirrings in my corduroys to over-take common sense and duty.

From that point Dear Reader, my mind is a complete blank. I awoke, as found by Master, bound and gagged and, somewhat embarrassingly, naked. A note attached to the mirror in the room read, scrawled in bright cherry lipstick

"Go to the police and we give the pictures to Manservant monthly and the Daily Telegraph. You have been warned"

Oh the shame, gone were Master's over-size headphones, gone his Kumquats, the rohypnol and the laptop. No more the bloggers notebooks, his passport too, his cards and his money.

I knew that I faced the inevitable. Ignominy, shame and worst of all my flaccid and naked inadequacy in front of Master, the same Master who I had applied cream for his nappy rash oh so long ago.

So now, dear and cherished reader, the time has come to say goodbye. It is Master Floppy's birthday on Tuesday and for the first time in his at times rather anti-climactic journey through life's rich pageant I won't wake him with a rousing "Happy Birthday to you", watch paternally as he opens his gifts only to be more thrilled by the wrapping paper than the gifts inside, and then cook him his favourite tea later in the day. That will hurt me most of all.

On Monday I taxi to McCarran, for the United flight back to England, via Dallas, Cincinnati and Boston. Cattle class at Master's father's insistence. Thence to Gatwick and to SW19 to meet Floppina and her chums.

After that? Well who knows.

Tomorrow is another day.

I bid you farewell.

:D :D

Another cracking read Jeeves.  If Floppy won't let you keep your job I'm sure you could make a pretty penny writing a book about how you were his 'rock'...

You shall be missed Jeeves.

what happens in vegas stays in vegas Jeeves- thems the rules. You are not the one at fault here, Floppy is for breaking the Vegas code. If his peers find out his blogging career may come to an end very quickly.


SAVE JEEVES- Dont let Floppy win

Jeeves!!!  Are ya crazy?!  Now you can come back and post all the really good dirt without fear of losing your job!!!  Don't give up.  Get back here and post.

SAVE JEEVES!!!

Who else is with us on this one?   ;applause; ;applause; ;applause;

(http://i219.photobucket.com/albums/cc43/kinboshi/JEEVES.gif)

:)up

Great stuff!!!  Anyone who would like to add the pic to their signature line, but isn't sure how to go about it...give a shout and we'll talk you through it. 

(http://i219.photobucket.com/albums/cc43/kinboshi/JEEVES.gif)

I for one have to support Floppy in his desicion.
Jeeves will undoubtedly also understand that Floppy had no choice but to let him go after what occured.

I would love to see Jeeves in the service of someone else but surely Floppy can no longer employ him.

I believe Tighty might be looking for a manservant....or was that Flushy?

Un named sources are reporting that Jeeves has terminated services with the floppys, he told our source that the idea of wimbledon with a gaggle of inbred horsealikes was not an option .... He is still in Vegas where he is holding talks with TIKAY with a view to becoming his employee.


More news as we get it .

I do not need a manservant, as I am not posh.

I support Floppy, and believe Jeeves to now be unemployable. A voluntary  life in letterbox distribution of Thomson locals surely awaits 

If you can cut grass jeeves i could put a couple of hours yr way..

BRILLIANT!!!   ;yippee; Surely Tikay won't be able to resist.  I mean, in fairness...he has a busy schedule and could do with the odd bit of help keeping himself organised.  No better man that Jeeves for the job.

Monday


Life has the strangest way of changing your plans when you least expect them. There I was, last night, all packed and ready for the taxi to McCarran. I must admit to a real sense of melancholy. Not because I was saying goodbye to Master Floppy any more, the grieving period for the loss of my noble employer had been mercifully short, and of course deep in my heart I knew he had made the right decision in dispensing with my services. No the source of my melancholy was the prospect of SW19 with Miss Floppina and her chums, an unappetising combination of equine features and mind numbing banality.

I decided, as I had three hours to kill, to venture into a casino and sample some of the atmosphere before I left. I walked into one establishment. All Roman Pillars, waitresses in togas and and the simultaneous sounds of 1,000s of slot machines assaulting my aural senses. Making doubly sure to by-pass the toga clad buxom goddesses I found myself in the card-room. In my younger days I partook of the odd rubber of bridge and cribbage, but poker had somehow passed me by. I could not tell you why, but I found myself registering with Alfonso, the Hispanic card-room manager, for something called a "$20 turbo Razz Sit and go". I was of course new to this game but that did not seem to matter as my "opponents" appeared to be so to.

With one exception. At the far end of the table was a British Man. blonde dyed hair, wrinkled features often breaking into broad smiles, a diminuitive stature that suggested to me likely seasonal employment as an elf at Santa's grotto and a blue shirt on emblazoned with the words "Sky Poker, expert analysis by fish for fish". The British man was kindly, and smart. He was able to not only help the beginners with their Razz games but simultaneously fleece them of their holiday cash. After said fleecing, kindly old man was asked for a few autographs, and the holidaymakers departed seemingly happy and unaware that they had been, to use working class parlance, "mugged".

I heard one thick set grey haired lady from Portland as she left the table for her third dinner of the night

"Jeez the British are so nice. What a lovely man. Isn't it great the British institutions let their inmates out for holidays in Vegas. In Oregon they'd be on death row!"

Soon the British man and I were, what I have come to learn as, "Heads Up". To this point I had studiously avoided the attentions of the Brit, and it was only now that he recognised me as a kindred spirit. After I had beaten him, he repeatedly told me how poor he was in the "mano e mano" form of the game as Alfonso calls it, and he invited me to the Lounge for tea and biscuits.

Some time later I had the most awful fright. We had just discussed our seven greatest world Bridges (four common choices out of seven), the joys of London routemasters and I had listened to how an establishment called DTD led the way in "DTD-Style chops" when I remembered my flight. In a panic I rose, said hurried goodbyes and rushed to get a taxi. 

On arrival at Departures my heart sank. "Check-in closed" said the Neon sign. Next flight? Tuesday. I had another night in Vegas, the embarrassment tempered by the certainty now of missing Floppina and Wimbledon. I sent a "text message" to Floppy's father, made my apologies and returned to the Caesar's Palace.

I entered the room again. The elderly gentlemen had another set of blue haired grandmother's on his charming poker leash and I settled back into the lounge, and watched. Thirty minutes later he joined me. I explained, and then he made me the most incredible offer....

"Jeeves, I'm disorganised. I'm three months behind with my invoices, six months behind with my private messages, I haven't been to Tom's for ages, I've got three weeks in Vegas and I need help. Will you help me? Organise me? Tell me where to go and when? When I want to be alone looking at buildings and bird forums will you tell that Emma Crowe I'm unavailable? What do you think? I'm tikay by the way,pleased to meet you"

He offered me his wizened hand. The option was stark. A life of the equine set in the short term, and who knows what long term. Or a life serving this successful gentleman.

I spoke, my decision had not taken long "yes sir, I would be delighted to serve you"

and thus it became so

We booked a room for myself next to tikay's and I retired for the night.

In the morning I awoke early, keen to resume my duties. Slipped under my door was a hand-written note, scrawled on Sky Poker note-paper

It read as follows

Jeeves: Duties

1. I like tea not coffee, two sugars
2. Never serve me green food or any foreign rubbish
3. Daily ironing of all Sky Poker clothing.
4. Darn the insignia of "Sky Poker" into all items of my clothing so unmarked
5. Listen to my train, bridge, bus and bird stories
6. Plan my Scottish trip.
7. Take good photos of buildings.
8. Find House Keys, carry spare hotel room key
9. Plan Vegas trip for October with "close" friends.
10. Work out way to pull wool over Sky Poker's eyes for as long as possible.
11. On fourth reminder answer blonde related e-mails
12. Wait til fifth reminder if it's from TightEnd

The end

Off to Treausre Island now for the Breakfast rebuy comp, please see me in the Red Rock at mid-day for the Omaha turbo

xx     


Oh the joy! Firm instructions, clearly given from a man clearly in control of his emotions and his needs.

I was back in business, and this time I would not spurn my opportunity for Manservant rehabilitiation.

Congratulations Jeeves, soo glad to hear you've found new employment.

Nice work Jeeves :)up

just remember the old uns do smell of wee at times....

Tikay saves the day and Jeeves!!!   ;applause; ;applause; ;applause; ;hattip;  Now then, take no notice of him if he gets grumpy.  He gets over it.  Take no notice of his roots.  He has people to look after them.  And last but not least...have fun!!!

result! :)up

Excellent news. The further adventures of Jeeves & Tikay.... ;applause; ;applause; ;applause;

Methinks you ought to change the title of the thread now your services have been transferred.

thank you kind sir

I would like a moderator chappie to change the title to reflect that change in my circumstances please

done, Jeeves

Oh dear, this could be so embarrassing. Young Jeeves, whoever he is, clearly knows me well. Up to a point.

Still, my porn stash is well hidden, so I'm safe there.

One is clearly going to have to watch one's P's & Q's.

P's & Q's  porn stash & quavers?

Thursday

The last forty-eight hours have been a blur. The man never stops! It is quite refreshing to see one so aged with such vitality and energy. As long, as he reminded me, I am two steps behind him for those inevitable moments when he falls asleep on the spot, often mid-sentence then I dare to suggest that this might be a manservant-master match made in heaven. Or at least the Mandalay Bay.

Mr tikay is a man of simple tastes. His room on the 36th floor at the Rio is Spartan, and only requires a modicum of tidying with my portable Dyson, which I purchased from the "Sofa King Emporium for bona-fide Welsh Cypriot Goods" behind the Wynn only two days ago.

In the past day we ventured out to the airport to collect arriving Sky (http://www.skypoker.com/poker/sky_lobby?aff=1062) Poker (http://www.skypoker.com/poker/sky_lobby?aff=1062) (expert analysis for fish by fish) players and I had to have a gentle word (via a discreet ear piece placed in Mr tikay's ear, as I am not allowed to travel in the same limosine as the boss ) on the journey back to remind him to go easy on the descriptions of freight trains, half built complexes and the like. As it was two of the players were fast asleep by the time they arrived at the hotel, and had to be prodded awake with a quick blast of the Dyson, which I carry around with me at Mr tikay's insistence.

That apart, a lot of time is spent moving from poker room to poker room where Mr tikay catches up with old friends. I am introduced to them all, and most seem rather intrigued by me. I admit I strike an incongruous presence, adorned in   bow tie and tails but Mr tikay insists

"Jeeves, open toed sandals are forbidden, you must dress smartly. Especially when hiding the salad from my view on the all you can eat buffet. Yuk!"

Amongst those I met tonight were a Mr John (http://www.blondepoker.com/blondepedia/blondepedia_view_player.php?player_id=209) Duthie (http://www.blondepoker.com/blondepedia/blondepedia_view_player.php?player_id=209) of London, accompanied by Farqhuar his faithful man. Mr Paul (http://www.blondepoker.com/blondepedia/blondepedia_view_player.php?player_id=334) Parker (http://www.blondepoker.com/blondepedia/blondepedia_view_player.php?player_id=334) of Brighton, accompanied by his faithful glass of red wine. Mr Ash (http://www.blondepoker.com/blondepedia/blondepedia_view_player.php?player_id=38) Hussain (http://www.blondepoker.com/blondepedia/blondepedia_view_player.php?player_id=38) of Bolton, accompanied by his extended family. Mr Greg (http://www.blondepoker.com/blondepedia/blondepedia_view_player.php?player_id=561) Raymer (http://www.blondepoker.com/blondepedia/blondepedia_view_player.php?player_id=561) of the Eastern Seaboard, accompanied by autograph hunters and "nippers" and Mr Norman Pace of surburbia accompanied by Mrs Pace and Master Pace. A Hale and hearty family indeed.

Mr tikay has time and a digital camera snap for them all, though I am under covert instructions, send by telegram from a Mr Dave of Compton Street, to remove all photographs of girders, steel and brickwork

the telegram was quite simple really

"Building Pictures stink. Stop. Get rid. Stop. Tell him I ordered it and if it doesn't stop I go to the papers with the bondage story. Stop. I know the editor of the Racing Post you know. Stop. Send. Stop. Now over to the 8.53 at Churchill Downs. Stop. How do stop sen......"

After this social whirlygig was complete I had to take Mr tikay to one side. I had to stress to him that I was not an accoutrement to be shown off for his pleasure and that I was there to serve, not be seen as a social oddity. There was no need for him to show off. He may have come from humble beginnings and thus be enjoying immensely his new found fame and status, but to hear

"Top-hole Jeeves, toodle pip" as Mr tikay departed for the latest tea-time competition and

"Jeeves my good man, bring me a tea two sugars would you, lickety spit"

both in front of his associates from Sky (http://www.skypoker.com/poker/sky_lobby?aff=1062) Poker (http://www.skypoker.com/poker/sky_lobby?aff=1062) (expert analysis by fish for fish) the fragant Ms Taylor and the Rock Chick Ms Crowe stuck in my throat a little I must say

It was thus most encouraging as we returned to the 36th floor at the Rio that he turned to me. As he turned to me I saw the tiredness in his eyes. Once out of the public limelight the crackle and the sparkle departs and is replaced by a world-weariness and a very evident sense of being perplexed at how a boy from such humble beginnings had ended up here, a poker superstar where people actually listen to him. No one had ever listened to him beyond a sentence or two before.

"Jeeves" he said "tomorrow we go to the barber's"

"I need my hair doing, new hair dye son. It's Vegas, it's the bright lights. I must sparkle, I must be a presence for my people, for Sky (http://www.skypoker.com/poker/sky_lobby?aff=1062) Poker (http://www.skypoker.com/poker/sky_lobby?aff=1062) (expert analysis for fish by fish) and for England. I am the face of British Poker, England is mine and it owes me a living"

and gently humming to himself, whilst muttering about how to take good skyline photgraphs at night, he retired to his messages, his forum and his public. 
 

top notch stuff as always Jeeves  ;applause;

Jeeves has the light touch of genius  ;hattip;

In the past day we ventured out to the airport to collect arriving Sky (http://www.skypoker.com/poker/sky_lobby?aff=1062) Poker (http://www.skypoker.com/poker/sky_lobby?aff=1062) (expert analysis for fish by fish) players and I had to have a gentle word (via a discreet ear piece placed in Mr tikay's ear, as I am not allowed to travel in the same limosine as the boss ) on the journey back to remind him to go easy on the descriptions of freight trains, half built complexes and the like. As it was two of the players were fast asleep by the time they arrived at the hotel, and had to be prodded awake with a quick blast of the Dyson, which I carry around with me at Mr tikay's insistence.

Uncanny!

I took Miss Taylor & Rock-Chick to the Airport to collect both players when they arrived on Tuesday. It's about 2 miles from The Rio to the Hotel, say 10 minutes. We got so lost, & went to Terminal 1 first. Then to the mile away Terminal 2, thus arriving late.

We bundled the players & Guests (8 in all) into a stretch-Limo, & said we'd see them back at The Rio in 10 minutes, & get them booked in.

I got sort of lost, trying to dodge the horrendous Strip-gridlock. (And ended up in the World's biggest building site, literally).

In all, it took me 90 minutes to find the Rio.

I went to the Airport again today, & got lost on the way, missing the Airport Turn-Off. And got even worse - MUCH worse lost - coming back. And ended up running into the back of another car.

You got a spy out here?

eh?  I thought this was a factual diary?

I'd put it down to age - Tikay's bound to forget minor details at his time of life.

Indeed...you have to feel for him.

poor Jeeves - he's putting his heart and soul into serving his new master and Tikay doesn't even notice he's there

THIS IS PURE CLASS  ;hattip;

TK only notices Autograph hunters these days..he doesn't care about anyone else anymore..the fame has gone to his head.

Thursday

At this precise moment Mr tikay is Indoor sky-diving, and I am writing on a hand-held Blackbird. Blackcurrant? Blackberry? Some new invention emblazoned with Sky Poker (experts analysis by fish, for fish) anyway. Instructors were said to be shocked when sir walked across the swimming pool to reach the sky-diving centre, and then floated up to a platform at the far end of the arena. Mr tikay insisted this morning that I iron his special Superman boxer shorts before he dressed. He told me, I hope in jest, that he would wear his boxer-shorts outside his flannelette Pantaloons at some point in today's team-bonding proceedings and that I should take a photograph with his minature digital camera. He intends to present this to Mr Mark Robson, Lord Feltham, in a special souvenir "I love Vegas" photo frame. How touching.

On leaving the Rio this morning I again heard, from my respectful two paces behind and one to the left stance, Mr tikay breezeing along happy as Larry, singing a propos of no one and nothing

"You are my Voodoo Child, my Voodoo child" which i gather was blazing out of the rather AOR radio station that he has on the digital radio in his room.

For a sprightly 78 year old (he told me he claims 60 years old in public, but really its 78) he does a very good job of being "hip and with it".

This afternoon Mr tikay has a busy filming schedule, and he has asked me to drive him from location to location. Apparently  after a misdemenaour yesterday that I was sworn to secrecy about, but which he then duly recounted in his own diary, he cannot trust himself to adequately assess braking distances in his now less than pristine Dodge Charger. It will be my pleasure to strap myself in and transport the media star to his locations, while he catches forty winks in the back alongside his Sky Poker (experts analysis by fish, for fish) minion.

Toodle Pip!

indoor sky diving?!  He mentioned in a PM he was going sky diving but forgot to mention the indoor bit.  I am no longer impressed (but still looking forward to the video - I do hope you've got your handycam with you Jeeves?

Blatant "I get PMs from TK" brag IMO.

No worries, it saved that damn Jeeves from doing the reveal. He sees everything, hears everything, & knows everything. He's omnipresent, & omnipotent.

i thought it was impotent

I don't think that's possible in Vegas with all the viagra adds.

'If you experience an erection that lasts more than 24 hours please contact your doctor.'

I bet doctor is the last thing on their mind.

Have you tried it?
It's great in your coffee.
Stops the biscuits going soft when you dunk them.

Monday

Perhaps I acted a bit hastily. I was so keen to be in service with a kindred spirit that of course I leapt at the opportunity to serve Mr tikay. However, approaching a week later I am, not to put too fine a point on it, if I may say so, in the fullness of time and cognisant of the ungrateful mien that I will be accused of, shattered. Yes, the rumours reaching me from dear old long lost blighty are true.

He never stops. Back in my past service my hours may have been flexible but at least I knew that I would have a lot of time to myself. With Mr tikay, a hair-dyed Duracell bunny, one simply never stops.

Here is a typical day, Mr tikay style. With myself of course two steps behind, and one to the left in bow tie and tails


10am. Rise after three hours sleep. Dress in Sky Poker (expert analysis by fish for fish) clothing and go down to breakfast at the Rio.

10.30am In mid-breakfast, be joined by assorted poker players. Who I also have to serve at Mr tikay's request.

11am Go to the viewing station behind the Rio kitchen and observe the freight trains passing through the railyard below. Write in "the Train diary of Tony K, 1949" any instances of freight being pulled by two engines. This diary is quite remarkable, runs to 27 volumes, all indexed and colour coded and he carries it with him everywhere.

11.30am Meet up with Sky Poker (expert analysis by fish, for fish) to discuss day's filming schedule

12am Begin filming. Today Mr tikay and Mr Norman Pace are discussing main event strategy with two online qualifiers. There is a heated debate between Mr Norman and Mr tikay after Mr tikay gives what I deem to be very sensible advice to the new players.

"Pass every hand for two orbits, look who is active, look who is tight, build an image"

Mr Norman, who is constantly on the telephone to an agent ("No I don't want to do summer season in Yarmouth with Gareth, get me Shakespeare, get me Checkov, but no more light entertainement, comprende?") contends that the advice is flawed.

"What happens if you get Aces tikay. Pass?"

and the two verbally spar like a couple of ageing lotharios lounging in a bathrobe being attended to by Eyyptian nymphs in the Luxor. Very pleasant, allegedly.

1pm Take 37 of the advice shoot

2pm Hang about in the Rio Lobby taking snaps of poker players, instead of resting and having lunch. Pay special attention to poker player's footwear both for adding to "the feet diary of tony K, 1950" and for posting on blonde poker diary under the guise of a competition

3pm resume filming.

5pm Enter tournament at Treasure Island

5.01pm-9pm Inflict a series of outdraws on poker tourists, and tell train stories

9.01pm Travel to Rio for more filming. Tells Jeeves to go up to players playing WSOP main event at their table and ask them if they would mind being interviewed at the table

9.02pm-10pm Joe Beevers and Barry Greenstein accept Jeeves' proposal. Matusow tries to hit Jeeves and is restrained by security. Hellmuth asks for payment. Doyle Brunson is asleep.

10pm Mr tikay films interviews with Beevers and Greenstein. Asks to take photographs of their feet but both refuse. Security hovers. Mr tikay flashes his media pass "Courtesy of Mr Jeffrey Polloack, WSOP High Priest and Commissioner, steam train enthusiast, to dearest Tony xxx"

11pm Mr tikay conference calls with a Ms Dingdell of Northamptonshire on the subject of pipes, plumbing and water. Tears are shed. I am on hand to provide Sky Poker (expert analysis by fish, for fish) monogrammed tissues to Mr tikay, clearly overwhelemd with the predicament.

Midnight Enter tournament at the Venetian. Jeeves is instructed to look out for any examples of open toed sandals on the casino floor.

4am Back to hotel room, catch up on PMs, blonde poker forum, emails until 7am

7am Bed

10am Rinse and repeat.


So, dear reader, I am on the verge of collapse. Not only do I have to accompany mr tikay through his schedule but in the only three hours of "down-time" I have to iron, clean, darn, polish and impersonate. By impersonate I am under clear instructions to pass myself off as Mr tikay in print should a Mr Beard of Nottinghamshire be listed as "online" on the blonde poker forum. I know not why.

Mine of course is not to ask questions, but to willingly accept the wishes of my new master. I do though worry, about both myself and my stamina and mr tikay.

We have not yet had the conversation of what happens in ten days time on Mr tikay's return to his abode in Ilkeston, Derbyshire. That conversation must be imminent, but at the moment I do not know how I reply when mr tikay asks me to continue in his employ, as he surely will.

LOL  ;tightend;

what he said. This just keeps getting better.

+1

Pure class...

if bored jeeves asked his higness for a rendition of the central line trains on the tracks...

give up working for Tikay..........get yourself a job with Compo

Fashion consultant?

Monday


I took delivery of a package on Saturday, marked "BOSE" and addressed to Master Floppy, care of myself

I am currently holding onto said item, for safe-keeping. Until he pays me my pending money in lieu of notice anyway.

I "slipped" Randall on reception a $20 note to keep quiet.

p.s don't tell him.

p.p.s I call this petty behaviour an "utter triumph" in honour of my past Master.

Genius Jeeves, you certainly are "the man"

funny!!

Well you chaps may well think it's funny, but One is not best pleased with this.......

Go to the viewing station behind the Rio kitchen and observe the freight trains passing through the railyard below. Write in "the Train diary of Tony K, 1949" any instances of freight being pulled by two engines.

The instance to which you refer did NOT have a freight train "pulled" by two engines. (and the terminology is "hauled", not "pulled"). The two Locomotives were "bank" Locos, i.e, they were at the rear. And, at the front, hauling it, were five Locos. I thought I made that very clear. Do I need to re-Post - in fuller detail - the whole scene?

And it is not a "railyard" which I view, it's a regular piece of Permanent Way (track). The "Railyard" is on the other side of town (I discovered it by chance when lost the other day), & I plan to visit it at length later this week. Don't worry, I'll take the camera.

You have missed the point utterly & totally, & I can see why Floppy dispensed with your dubious services.

Do pay attention.

Monday

It has been a tough morning. Mr tikay awoke in a bad mood and things have got worse. I am continually picked up in the most pedantic fashion for poor terminology, poor grammar, lack of attention and for double creases in the freshly laundered boxer shorts.

Apparently shortly before I joined mr tetchy's employ he got lost on the "wrong side of the tracks", or should that be on the "wrong side of the permanent way"? I'm so confused, it is the downside of working for someone so decrepit I suppose.

Anyway whilst lost mr tetchy discovered a whole rail yard and tomorrow he intends to take me to delve into its inner most secrets. Little does he know that I discovered it's inner most secrets in the back of his beat up flame red Dodge Charger the other night during his all too rare three hour sleep with Christina, a rather fetching Puerto Rican Waitress from the Tropicana. However we had to rush as the detritus on the back seat of mr tetchy's car took a good twenty mintuers to clear. Afterwards though it acted as suitable camoflage for the evidence of my worrying, at my age, repeated exertions.

Mr tetchy is now having a brief repose checking his messages. No doubt this afternoon we will explore the Crane topography of the downtown area, where much building work is afoot. The last time I was downtown I had a hard hat, but for different reasons than I shall be needing this afternoon.

Relations between I and my Master are I fear on a downward slope. Perhaps I will answer that voicemail from Mr Old Compton offering me freelance work at Newmarket.

All of a sudden, I am in turmoil...

Must rush, mr tetchy is complaining about my dubious cups of tea and is threatening to haul me over the coals again.

   

Boxer shorts ? I was sure he'd be a dyed-in-the-wool M&S Y-front man.

Tesco's these days actually, 5 pair for £7.

But you get what you pay for, &, rather curiously, & perhaps aptly, they do not have that little, err, "wee-hole" or slit that Gentlemans Underwear usually has to facilitate easier bladder evacuation. So visits to Gents Conveniences require an inordinate amount of fumbling around for a suitable exit orifice. In that respect, Jeeves is most handy.

thanks for that image.  No, really.

i thought you had a bag fitted??.,.,??

 rotflmfao

Tuesday


"Jeeves" said Mr tikay "I don't feel quite right"

"No sir" I said, as it was quite obvious that Mr tikay had been over-extending himself in the days previously

"I feel like a good rest, no poker, proper food and a chance to recharge my batteries. Today I will have a day off"

"Yes sir" said I "and a very wise decision if I may say so sir"

"You may" said mr tikay "as long as you tell those excellent big suits as Sky Poker (expert analysis by fish, for fish) that I will be back on form tomorrow for a full day of hanging around poker tables while people are trying to play"

"I shall sir" I said, and went off to inform one particular suit from Miami called Victoria at once.

To my mind one particular incident encapsulated the lengths to which mr tikay has gone to fulfill his obligations to his late-in-life employer.

Yesterday as previously described mr tikay awoke in a foul mood. The reason for this became clear. Helicopters.

He did not confide in my of course but from my respectful distance behind I heard him describe his abject terror on the mobile telephone to a confidant in the Hinckley area.

"Helicopters Tom! They want me to go up in a helicopter! They operate against the laws of engineering and nature that I live my life by Tom. How do I get them to film on a train instead, or on a bridge, or a boat, or....."

and my tikay's voice tailed off as what I assume was soothing advice made it's way down the line.

After the phone call mr tikay's back seemed stiffened. He was prepared to do his duty for his qualifiers, his employers and his confidant.

As we arrived at the Helipad, me as usual in the limosine behind with assorted make up artists, cameramen and off-duty croupiers, he took me to one side

"Jeeves" he said, hand trembling and colostomy bag quivering through the creases of his mongrammed shirt "I do not like helicopters. Will you accompany me on this journey, and be by my side in case of severe wind?"

"Yes sir" I replied "my wish is your command. Here are your pills for the flatulence"

He looked at me and his mouth opened as if to admonish, but he thought better of it and merely handed me a parachute which he insisted on us both wearing.

There were six seats in the rear of the helicopter. Mr tikay sat in the middle of a row of three, flanked by me on one side and a cameraman on the other. On the row in front two excited qualifiers whooped and hollered flanking the sound man. The grey hair qualifier began to shout "We're going to need a new Hot-O-Meter after this one eh tikay? tikay.....tikay" but he got no response.

Mr tikay was already eyes shut, his hand gripped on my knee, the other hand gripped on the cameraman's equipment. He stayed that way the entire flight intermittently humming a tune gently to himself, a sort of meditative chant of long lost innocence, and of times gone by

"up up and away in my beautiful my beautiful balloon" he sang gently, followed by "Time flies by when you're the driver of the train,and you ride on the footplate there and back again" a ditty I recognised from my days when Master Floppy was but a babe in arms, watching Chigley on BBC Television.

When we landed, mr tikay's eyes re-opened and he sprung back into life, ever the professional.

Later that evening, after mr tikay had departed his usual Caesars Palace competition, only this time uncharacteristically early, he retired to his room to work off his frustrations in his online diary. From the next room I heard at one moment the sounds of Pearl Jam from the television followed by plaintive cries to himself

"Bette Midler? Cher? How would I know who they are you silly boy!?" and

"Solve that maths puzzle Jocko" and a cackle that comforted me that mr tikay was once more on form, our dysfunction long behind us.

Today we encamp in the Rio card-room again. Hopefully we avoid interviewing people mr tikay knows nothing about like Mr Hevad Rainman Khan. It was a trifle embarrassing to see Mr Khan have to set mr tikay right when he was being asked questions about Dustin Hoffman, Tom Cruise and their roles as Raymond and Charlie Babbit and what it was like being a savant playing Poker.

Instead lets hope for interviews in mr tikay's comfort zone, and a happier gentleman all round

I bid you farewell, more anon. 

 

 

   

Some outstanding work here Jeeves, you should write a sitcom or something.

Thursday


I was most surprised to receive an evening off on Tuesday. mr tikay was meeting up with friends at the Red Rock for dinner and decided that my presence was not required.

I however was most perturbed at this turn of events. Although my service of mr tikay has been short to date I have quite taken to his eccentricities and looked forward to polishing his silver at the table before his meal. So, trying extremely hard to avoid the temptations of flesh that had got me into such trouble earlier in the trip I decided to follow mr tikay's red Dodge charger from a respectful three cars' length behind on the eight mile journey from the Rio to the Red Rock.

This took rather longer than I expected. mr tikay appeared hunched up over the steering wheel, rarely deviating from 48 miles per hour. On repeated occasions large American vehicles would pull up alongside mr tikay's vehicle in the middle lane on the freeway. The window would wind down and I would see gesticulation and waved fists and unintelligible shouting. mr tikay would drive on undisturbed.

On arrival at the Red Rock I donned my "hispanic" look of a dark moustache and long black haired wig and sunglasses. I observed events. A sour faced tanned gentleman in a loud blue Hawaiian shirt shook Mr tikay's hand followed by two thin young gentlemen carrying ladies handbags. Finally a couple, the gentleman looking like he was just out of bed wearing a Mickey Mouse T-Shirt, arrived and the party went to the bar.

I took my position at the far end and heard general hilarity as mr tikay ordered a cup of English tea. I avoided the hordes of American tourists convinced I was a waiter and then headed to the restaurant and took the table for one by the kitchen. mr tikay's party was soon in full flow. Red wine was being ordered by the bottle and even the gentleman in the loud blue shirt was seen smiling, which led mr tikay to whip out his digital camera and take at least thirty photographs of what seemed to be a cause for celebration.

After several hours, an event lengthened by a robust debate between mr tikay and the maitre d'omo about the presence of green food on mr tikay's plate, the evening appeared over.

All Six diners piled into mr tikay's car and they left for the freeway, the strip and the card-rooms. Only slowly. I jettisoned my disguise and sprinted in through the back passage to be present in the reception of the Rio for mr tikay's arrival.

"A good evening sir?" I enquired

"Yes Jeeves, very good. Julian and Kevin had five bottles of wine between them, Garfield smiled and Jim lives here now you know"

"Yes sir, very good sir" I said and awaited instructions.

"To Caesar's Jeeves. Caesar's. For blighty and glory!"

and he strode off, brushing off autograph hunters and hanger's on in his wake, only pausing to snap a particularly attractive bendy bus in Poker Stars livery in the car park.

It was a long night. I kept my now all too familiar foot watch but there was a marked shortage of open toed sandal paraphenalia to show mr tikay, much to his obvious disappointment.

Wednesday and mr tikay was back on Sky (http://www.skypoker.com/poker/sky_lobby?aff=1062) Poker (http://www.skypoker.com/poker/sky_lobby?aff=1062) (expert analysis by fish for fish) duty. His shirt freshly pressed he was once again to be found in the Rio, interviewing poker legends and looking after his qualifiers. Playful in temperament (though inwardly I cringed at his insistence that the security guard checked JP (http://www.blondepoker.com/blondepedia/blondepedia_view_player.php?player_id=222) Kelly (http://www.blondepoker.com/blondepedia/blondepedia_view_player.php?player_id=222)'s ID for proof of age and homework outstanding) and joyful in voice mr tikay was in his element.

In mid afternoon I was sent back to mr tikay's suite with firm instructions

"Tidy it Jeeves tidy it!"

"Yes sir"

" I need it to be spotless for when I take photographs of it later to include in my diary"

and off I went. This was not an easy a task as you might have imagined. I had to hide the following items from camera-shot:

- Hornby train set, narrow gauge
- Heated blanket
- Hot water bottle
- Stannah Stair Lift brochure
- Sachets of Horlicks
- Vehicle Log Book (It has been staring at him for days, but I intend to delay "finding" it until arrival at Gatwick)
- Photograph of RED-DOG
- Independent Newspaper, open at careers page, with unintelligible red jottings in the margin

Some two hours later the room was once again fit for viewing by mr tikay's adoring public. He bounded in like Laurence Llewellyn's Grandfather and order me to shift some furniture around before he snapped with carefree abandon.

Then mr tikay returned to his blog, his diary and his forum. Happy, content and no doubt thinking of an evening's poker ahead. On the rail, where he belongs.


 

top stuff. This diary is the best thing to come out of Vegas since....well..Elvis' dead body, I guess.

Pure genius!

+1 Quality  :)up

Saturday


It was my own fault. I thought it would be a nice surprise for mr tikay. Permanently he has been moaning that his last Sky (http://www.skypoker.com/poker/sky_lobby?aff=1062) Poker (http://www.skypoker.com/poker/sky_lobby?aff=1062) (expert railbirding by pensioners, for youngsters) qualifier has refused to bust from the WSOP main event, thus preventing mr tikay from playing the game of his calling for several nights in a row.

In the middle of all this moaning, mr tikay has been moving from table to table, taking pictures of unsuspecting men with such carefree abandon that one might think this was an art to which he first became accumstomed some years ago. Whenever he alights on one particular table he pauses, as if in reflective contemplation, and then turns to me. He appears to mouth the words

"I love Jaffa Cakes and chips"

and I nod, as if I have an earthly clue to what he is referring in the middle of the competition

For four days straight now mr tikay has laboured tirelessly for the cause, using his frankly years-out-of-date mobile phone to ring the studio in Feltham with the progress of the qualifier who refuses to bust (QWRB as the cameraman refers to him, sotto voce) and all the time maintaining the sprightly air of a man half his age, with half the Vodafone bill.

So last night the surprise was sprung. I had been down to the local convenience store and purchased the items I needed for the task. I excused myself half an hour early as the "de-bagging" procedure as mr tikay calls it began and went up to mr tikay's suite. Stepping over the Hornby train track, the photgraph of Mr RED-DOG and the universal adaptor I placed a trail of the items from the lift, up the corridor and into mr tikay's room. All leading to a plate on the desk, next to the lap-top, ashtray and the picture of the colonic irrigation hose.

I waited for mr tikay's arrival. I lit a candle, put on some Johnny Cash and felt I thought justly proud of the relaxing moments my master was about to experience.

Then the moment came. The door burst open.

"Jeeves, call housekeeping. Some idiot has left a trail of Jaffa Cakes in the corridor and what the hell they're here in my room, and Jeeves what's the candle doing on and where are the lights and JEEVES......."

and he stopped, mouth agape. He tried to speak, but no words came out. Clearly awestruck with my effort his eyes had alighted on my masterpiece.

There on the plate was a carefully arranged tower of Jaffa Cakes, surrounded by French Fries drizzled in Marmalade.

Some moments passed. mr tikay looked at me. I looked back at him, chest out, back ram-rod straight and preparing to make him his nightly Horlicks to accompany his feast.

"Jeeves" he eventually mustered his voice "what is this?"

"Well sir" I said, preeening alittle against my better judgement "I couldn't help but hear you say repeatedly today how much you liked Jaffa Cakes with chips. I know you are a man of eccentric culinary tastes so I decided to reward you for your unselfish dedication to QWRB and Sky (http://www.skypoker.com/poker/sky_lobby?aff=1062) Poker (http://www.skypoker.com/poker/sky_lobby?aff=1062) (railbirding by pensioners, for QWRB) and make you a meal"

"but, but,but,bu....." mr tikay's voice trailed off. I had seemingly achieved the impossible. He leaned wearily against the back of the desk chair and shook his head   

"thank you Jeeves, most kind, that will be all"

and I thanked him back. As I left the room, curtseying gently as is my norm, I heard the gentle sound of the Hornby train track and the barely perceptible sounds of mr tikay talking to the Station Master on the model platform, the Station Master's cocked right arm permanently unfurling the green flag in a pose I had seen, but never forgotten, mr tikay do himself in moments of maximum stress.

mr tikay seemed to be saying "When will this end Station Master? When can I return to my Angell, my Compo and my RED-DOG? When? When?...."

and as I shut the door, I realised that for mr tikay, that day could not come soon enough.

QWRB had a lot to answer for.

LMAO Best one yet for me.

Tikay, in photo smuggled out by understairs staff (thanks Jeeves)

Anyone else have this image of TK rolling around naked in a pile of Jaffacakes and chips while thinking of Compo and Mr Red?

If you didn't yet...you're welcome :)

ffs, that can never be undone now.

Outstandingly funny work Jeeves, one of the most amusing things I've read in a long time.

Sunday


The QWRB was knocked out of the competition at last, and mr tikay's mind turned not to playing poker, but of home, and home comforts.

As he retired to bed after a long long few days he instructed me to prepare a list of jobs for him to do on his return. I have just placed this on his keyboard, but here it is for your delectation


1. click on your Sky Poker (for non Camels, about Camels) blog from various ip addresses to get the readership figures up

2. Buy CD playing train noises at bed time to soothe you to sleep

3. Buy CD with the sound of chip riffling for wake up time

4. Get jeans ready for home - I gather mr tikay much prefers frayed jeans to the smart look he has been adopting whilst at the beck and call of Sky Poker (railbirding Camels, for non Camels)

5. Pre-warn KFC mr tikay is returning to the UK to allow them time to order large quantities of low grade battery farmed and tortured chicken in

6. Same for motorway coffee supplies

7. Get mr tikay's incontinence pants ready for the first time he meets Compo again

8. Get signed photo of Steve Davis for Lady Dingdell of Northampton

9. Get the bed/cocoa/teddy ready at Sky Poker (one hump or two, for Camels and Non Camels alike) offices for afternoon naps

10. Buy shares in Days Inn for mr tikay's return to play at Luton and block-booking required urgently. 


Sadly it odes not appear that my services will be required beyond Las Vegas airport as mr tikay has made no mention of an arrangement between us for beyond this Wednesday. There is still time though, so we will see.

In the meantime I have three manservant interviews arranged for late next week

a) Mr Old Compton, Lord of Sandal

b) Mr P.P.Bolt, overLord of Penge and Peckham

c) Mr R. OyalFlush, equerry to the Lady Mayor of Brighton


If mr tikay dispenses with me, I shall hopefully be fortunate enough to choose my next position, and I thank these gentlemen for their enquiries, though the gentleman of those above who found me through AdultFriendFinder was either extremely persistent or extremely lucky. 

good luck Jeeves in your search for future employment,if you are assigned to any of the three aforementioned i am sure you will need it (plus stabproof vest in the case of b )

I must admit that I was rather hoping that you Jeeves would continue to serve Mr tikay on his return to the auld sod.

However should this unfortunately not be the case my money would be on c), but I would like to take this opportunity to wholeheartedly thank you for keeping us all up to date latterly with the day to day affairs of Mr. tikay and formerly with those of Master floppy whom I trust is bearing up on his Todd Malone.

Jeeves dude,

There's a job for you here at Sky Poker (for fish, by fish etc.) whenever you want. We can put you up in the wardrobe. You'd feel at home - there's an ironing board and a selection of Sky Poker embroidered shirts waiting for your attention, some of them washed. If you get stuck for a gig, cell me.

Vic

Tuesday


The last 48 hours in the service of mr tikay, as he has informed me that our arrangement terminates when he gets in his taxi to McCarran later this week. So I return to my interviews, and my bachelor pad in Kensington Gardens.

Free from the obligations to his employer mr tikay has been at last able to play poker and it is a joy to see him in full cry in the Caesar's Palace. Apparently his results betray a lack of practice and to my mind a slight sense of anti-climax. Secretly, and I can see it in his eyes, and see it in his smile, all he ever wanted and all he's looking for now is to go home, and take at least three hours off before embarking on the M1 and the trip to Feltham.

Last night was not without a slight mishap though. I had only just finished pressing mr tikay's Sky (http://www.skypoker.com/poker/sky_lobby?aff=1062) Poker (http://www.skypoker.com/poker/sky_lobby?aff=1062) (thank god he busted, busted thank god) shirt and slacks when he called me through to the room

"Jeeves, we're leaving now. To Caesars. Where are my clothes?"

"Here you are sir" I said, handing him the neatly pressed clothes

I watched him dress, and he carried on with his endearing habit  tucking his shirt into his underpants, and then I gave him the once over as instructed.

Pristine as usual, we left the room and moments later found ourselves in the Rio reception.

As we walked towards the front door I noticed a commotion out of the corner of my eye, from slightly behind me

"There he is, there he is!!!" shouted a tall man in a baseball cap carrying an ipod and shades

The man, also wearing an American sporting top emblazoned with logos for something called Ultimate Bet, charged past me and stood in front of mr tikay threateningly.

It stopped us in our tracks. The man was all a bluster

"Hey man!" he said "You are the limey guy who called the floor after that clown called my re-raise with  Td 4d. What were you doing? It was none of your ******* business *-hole"

The expletives continued as a crowd gathered expectantly

The man carried on

"The ****** floor gave me an orbit's penalty all because of you. I got knocked out of the biggest tournament in the world because of you. You ******** ******* ********"

At that point he paused for breath, and mustering his dignity I could see mr tikay bristling. Slightly embarrassed, slightly reticent and ever so definitely British, the rejoinder was upon us

"Mr Hellmuth, your behaviour was appalling. In England we enjoy playing civilly with respect, decorum and good manners. I felt it my duty as Sky (http://www.skypoker.com/poker/sky_lobby?aff=1062) Poker (http://www.skypoker.com/poker/sky_lobby?aff=1062) (thank god he bust, bust thank god) ambassador to call the floor, and report my findings to them"

Mr Hellmuth, as I now knew him, stood mouth agape. Eventually he spoke

"Hey buddy, I'll give you a ******** Sky (http://www.skypoker.com/poker/sky_lobby?aff=1062) Poker (http://www.skypoker.com/poker/sky_lobby?aff=1062) Ambassador from me!" and he swung at mr tikay, catching him on the bridge of his nose.

"Take that, don't ******** try to relight my fire again, now Shine on and if you ever test my Patience again I'll ********* ******** your ****** you ********"

mr tikay, to his eternal credit did not fall. Blood trickled from his nose and stained his monogram. Reception security came and put the disagreeable Mr Hellmuth under concierge arrest, condemned to listen to six hours lobby muzak as community service.

We returned to the room, I tended to the nose, found new clothes for mr tikay and fifteen minutes later we were on our way, mr tikay doing a very passable impression of Karl Malden in the "Streets of San Francisco", with a nose the size of a small Central American dictatorship. Hopefully temporarily.

Unsurprisingly mr tikay was a trifle subdued that evening. As we made our way home later he spoke to me, wistfully.

"Jeeves, we must not let anyone know what happened tonight. I want you to tell everyone I walked into a glass door. A mere accident. Mr Hellmuth's reputation must not be compromised. If it is I'll have Matusow after me for reporting him previously, and I am not sure I am up for that"

"No sir, Of course sir" I demurred, amazed at the fortitude and professionalism of my soon to be former employer. 

   

rotflmfao and to stick Take That references in there...Brilliant!

quality stuff as always :)

Hmm, Rocks Off then?

I shall miss you muchy.

And Lionel Ritchie too!

Thursday


Home in Kensington. Unemployed, interviews start tomorrow.

This will be my last post as I embark on a new chapter in my life.

I thank you for your attention to my meanderings, and those of my Masters.

To quote the not quite as noble as I thought mr tikay..."It's been emotional"

Goodbye.

Excuse me. You have yet to serve your required notice period. And I'm out of loo-roll.

Tut, Tony, did you take your lappy to the toilet, again?!

Poor Jeeves.

rotflmfao



Top class stuff Jeeves.

Noooooooooooo

Hang on Jeeves old chap ... I am doing the lottery tomorrow, if i get a touch you can come and work for me.

Good news & Bad news Jeeves ya mug ...


Bad news is, I didnt win the lottery :(

Good news is, I am gonna try again tonight :)

Monday

This will be one of a few occasional posts as by request I have been asked to update my diary readers of my progress since my return

You will re-collect that I had three potential employment opportunities in hand when I landed. This is how it went.

First I travelled to Brighton, and the fresh sea air whipping around my face as I strolled along the promenade immediately restored my spirits. My appointment was with The Honourable James Dempsey, Royal Equerry to the Mayoress of Brighton. I knocked on the door of a Pied a terre towards Hove. The door opened and there stood a tanned, blonde but ever so slightly portly gentleman in a Pink tu-tu. I took this to be the Honourable James.

"Dah-ling, how good of you to come, Mwah, Mwah" he said as he hugged me ferociously and kissed me on both cheeks.

He beckoned me into a spacious living room area where sat a quiet man with dark hair called PJ Kelly Le Brock playing, and I counted, 16 tables on something called "Full Tilt" on two monitors whillst simultaneously playing something called "Halo" on his left foot toes.

The Hon James did not appear interested in my references, or my deportment but merely asked me to sit beside him and gave me a list of my potential duties.

They seemed unusual, so much so that I asked him to clarify.

"Yes Dah-ling, all you have to do is photo-shop naked photographs onto facebook profiles, set up prop bets, make sure I get to the Brigton cash game, polish the Jag and pretend to post as me on the Poker Hand Analysis board. Each post there has to contain a minimum of two expletives, three insults and two LOL's"

To be frank, this slightly worried me. The pied a terre was a frightful mess, the pictures of Judy Garland on the wall were covered in dust and yet my duties were not to include cleaning and tidying? Were my years of faithful servitude to be spent on childish japes and faux-practical jokes?

I made my excuses and left for my next appointment the following morning.

Bishops Stortford. Lavish suburban piles and the faint murmur of planes at Stanstead airport disturbing the genteel peace of the area. I arrived at the gates, on which were adorned figurines of racehorses, and pressed the intercom. Silently the gates opened. It appeared crowded as in the driveway were three white vans advertising the services of plumbers, and a John Lewis van delivering an Ironing board.

A dark haired tall gentleman in an unironed shirt and sandals, smoking a large humidor, greeted me. In the background I heard racing commentary.

"Come in Jeeves, nice to see you"

He introduced himself as Compo, which I never established was his real name or because of his sartorial resemblance to the character in the magnificent "Last of the Summer Wine".

"Jeeves, I'll be with you in a minute I just have to bluff off a stack on Laddies with bottom pair, no kicker. Make yourself at home"

The place was spotless, a testament to the no doubt long suffering Mrs Compo, and I wondered what tasks the gentleman of the house had in mind for me. It was not, clearly, to be cleaning and cooking. Ironing maybe.

When Mr Compo had concluded he gave me a list.

"I've worked this out carefully Jeeves. Easy enough. Just research the form of the American racing over the past month at Churchill Downs, Aqueduct and Belmont, and give it to me each Monday morning. Drive me to At the Races, Feltham and Luton. Job done"

"No cleaning sir? No sartorial grooming? No polishing?"

"No Jeeves, just do my research for me, make me look like I know what I'm talking about. Leaves me more time for playing poker see?"

My spirits sank, was I really to spend my years of faithful servitude to study far off horse-racing form and negotiating the M25? I thought not, and explained this to Mr Compo

His reply rather startled me

"That's ok Jeeves, just fix the power shower before you go would you?"

So I travelled to my final appointment, the back streets of Peckham. A land of housing estates, high rise tower blocks and people with their trousers half way round their knees.

I travelled to the 23rd floor of Free Nelson Mandela House and knocked at number 236.

"Innit?" said a young lady as she opened the door

"Excuse me madam but I am here to see Mr Boltpp. Is he at home?"

The young lady roared with laughter, and I knew not why

"Oi Bolty, some posh old sod here to see ya, innit"

A young man in a baseball cap, tracksuit bottoms, betting shop pen in his mouth and six cans of stella adorning a seemingly home made belt around his middle sidled up to the front door.

"Awright Jeevo?"

"take a pew son" he said as he let me past the assorted detritus of urban dwelling in the hallway to the living area

"back in a few minutes, few deliveries to make son" and he grasped some small bags and left the room

I took in the ambience. Empty cans, full ashtrays, Jeremy Kyle Show on full volume on the 73" HDTV flatscreen in the corner. Yes, there certainly appeared to be a job to do here more in the manner of my traditional keeping.

I heard faint voices in another room and listened closely

" I nikked dis 'ello mag from da doc's....it's got Jordan and Peter pics innnit!" was met by the reply

"wikked innit....didja get ya tablets sorted for dat smell cumming from ya minge?"

"nah, I was too busy sorting the 20 inchers on Bolty's Nova, it's well phat innit! Bling Bling!"

none of which I readily understood, but they seemed happy enough.

At this point Mr boltpp returned

"is simple Jeevo. This place is a dump. I need it tidied, kept spik and span for me and me homies. Up to it matey?"

Manna from Heaven. I knew it would be a challenge but it was familiar territory.

At that point a man called Dean, I later learnt, burst in

"ere wats that nigga lookin at-ee is ganna get a beatin-dere be blood on da floor man. oi faggot you startin or wha? yo mumma got banged up by ma dog hoe" he said quickly towards my new Master, who seemed as confused as I was.

As I accepted the position and moved my belonging's into Tiffany's room, I began my duties.

mrboltpp spent the rest of the day trying to balance empty cans of Stella Artois on his head, whilst Dean made arrangements to have a meeting eith his friends later at McDonalds for supper, in the car park, in assorted Vauxhall Novas I gathered

It was an unusual scene, but readily better than all the alternatives


to be continued...................

rotflmfao

 ;D

Class!!!

 ;hattip; rotflmfao

welcome back Sir

 ;applause;

Pon my soul!

Absolute genius.

More please.

Great news Jeeves, I was hoping that you'd find employment soon.

Quality personified

indeed  ;applause; ;applause;

thank you sir, I am most impressed by your understanding in this matter.

Innit.

Jeves,

Have you considered positions with Methusalah Karabiner, His Red-Ness, or Lord Lob Long?

I could provide references. Of a sort.

thank you sir. I hope you have recovered from your escapades in Nevada. One shall always remember that time with fondness, and a tinge of regret at your rather harsh decision to terminate me so soon after

As to the gentlemen you refer to, I think this current role may be rather short term. Either MrBolt will be "banged up innit" or I shall be a "fall guy wossat?"

Should this come to pass I would be greatly indebted if you would forward my name to your posse, innit.Bling!

Kind Regards

Jeevo, sorry Jeeves

Harsh? I think not. Your lack of attention to duty allowed me to....

Lose my car keys.

Lose my vehicle log-book.

Have a car crash.

Walk into a plate glass window & inflict injury upon my body, thus marring my looks.

In addition, you threatened to blackmail me with allegations of "dirt" on me.

Exactly as one expects from below stairs scally's.

Upon receipt of your apology, I will reconsider your position.

congratulations on your new employment jeeves.

More outstanding work Jeeves, keep it up, this is becoming the stuff of legend

well done on the new job jeeves. If it goes tits up you could always try colchester (pleeeeeasssse at least consider a job with kev)

I thought Ginge did all the cleaning, cooking and ironing Kev needed done?  ;scarymoment;

Sad, but true....

so what have you done to bolt??

 bound and gagged him in his closet????

He's been busy, making a music vid.

It's here......

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g_XP7ksgN9k

good to see he has been keeping busy then..

Monday

"Look Jeevie" said one of Mr boltpp's posse "If you are coming out wiv us you need to ditch the tie an' tailz. We're gonna dress ya for da hood"

I looked up from buffing Mr bolt's spare VW Passat badge keyring, wondering what the kindly Ms Jaquinta was referring to when Mr bolt himself burst into the room

"Jeeeeevvv---ooooo, Jeeeeeeevvvv---oooo" he half shouted and half sang.

"We're back from Lakeside, and we have the bling for you old son" and he put several bags down on the floor in front of him

Ms Kelly Carried on "take all that into da bedroomz Jeevie, and come out when ya dun."

I put down my polish and picked up the bags and retired to the ante-chamber. I laid out the items on the bed and nearly fainted

From bottom to top we had

- One pair of Nike trainers
- One pair of Adidas tracksuit bottoms
- White Fred Perry Shirt
- Assorted items of jewellry, including necklaces, ear studs and an ankle chain
- Blue hoodie
- Burberry scarf
- Boston Red Sox Baseball cap.

I looked down at myself, flawlessly attired in my regulation manservant's uniform, loving worn for over thirty years and sighed deeply. What had the profession come to, that the only positions worth availing oneself of these days were amongst the social underclass, amongst new money and dressed in such a manner as would have caused arrest back in the heyday of the Manservant.

I undressed slowly, taking great care in folding my now former clothing into a neat pile for forwarding to my abode across London. I then put mrbolt's newly acquired items on and looked at myself in the mirror. A great depression settled over me, and I left for the living room.

I opened the door and stood in front of my "crew". The roars of laughter shook the tower block to its foundations and caused the fire alarm to go off. The kindly mrbolt too pity on me and stood in front of me, pushed my baseball cap to a jaunty angle, untucked the shirt and loosened the laces. He also tried to pull my trousers half way down my thighs, but I was having none of that

"There Jeevo" he said proudly when he had finished with my deportment "Now we can cruise da hood, is payment day boi"

Unbeknownst to me I had an important role to fulfil on that evening's trip around cluttered stairwells and back street passages. I was to bring up the rear, carrying a portable stereophonic unit and generally looking the part. I was given three CD's to alternate in the equipment "Goldie Looking Chain" "So Solid Crew" and, for the ladies I was told, "Kerry Katona" "Claire (http://www.blondepoker.com/blondepedia/blondepedia_view_player.php?player_id=1679) MacGregor (http://www.blondepoker.com/blondepedia/blondepedia_view_player.php?player_id=1679)" and "Lily Allen".

The evening went slowly. I was not permitted to witness the many transactions that seemed to take place in front of me but they seemed to go off to the satisfaction of all parties.

Transactions concluded the group stopped on the Peckham High Road in a bus stop shelter and chewed the cud for over two hours. I would like to be able to report on the texture of the discussions but sadly most of it passed me by. At one point an elderly gentleman in a Sky (http://www.skypoker.com/poker/sky_lobby?aff=1062) Poker (http://www.skypoker.com/poker/sky_lobby?aff=1062) ("expert analysis by those who never go to the doctor, for fishes") top and carrying a Doctor's prescription stopped at the bus stop, asking

"Excuse me but where is the nearest chemist please?"

I recognised the gentleman as my former employer but fortunately I was so incognito that my presence went unnoticed. As he was about to depart mr tikay asked one of the crew why he was playing music so loud on the "box"?

The reply was lucid and more than perfunctory

"instead of moaning about it people go do something useful and i dont care about people playin music on their fones or their boxes and i dnt fink sony walkman dus either!! its the chavs hu go round in groups tryna bully vulnerable people on there own shud piss you off not us and i was this close to kickin the Tooting group of chavs in the head the other day if they hit this gur(fortunately for them they never, becus the Tooting chavs r all mouth) but i bet evry1 of them  r muppets wen u c shit happenin dnt stand ther doin nuffin fuckin stamp ur feet down u pussies"

Mr tikay stood there open mouthed, managed a brief "good day to you" and shuffled off down the row of shops, passing a gentleman in a "Loyalty Scheme" T-Shirt shouting at a row of televisions at the front of Argos. All I could catch was

"Bloody British Swimmers! trying your best is not good enough. Win you bunch of losing tossers"

As the evening concluded we took over the top deck of the number 45 bus back to Nelson Mandela Towers and I was asked to prepare a brief snack for my grouping. Their favourite is "Oven Chip Sandwiches" involving Oven Chips, ketchup and Bread, nothing else, and I soon delivered the meal to the assembled throng.

Mid way through the nutritous meal, mrbolt stood in front of his crew and asked for quiet

"I has an announcement to make" he said and beckoned his good lady friend Ashanti to the front with him

I waited for mrbolt to speak but as he hesitated Ashanti spoke up

" Big news. Big! Big! Big! News. Bolty has proposed to me and we are getting married. Yup, you heard right, married! Which is just as well, as not only have I said yes to my man, but we've got reason to tie the knot - I's pregnant again!"
mrbolt looked overjoyed. He is to quote him "well out of touch" with the 7 children he has from 4 previous marriages and can't wait for the chance to do it right this time.

Ashanti carried on

"we've already got the names sorted. If it's a boy it will be Artois after mrbolt's hero, and if its a girl then we've both plumped for Shania. Anyway, I think I must have missed a few pills somewhere because it was anything but planned, but I's not sad now it is happening"

barely pausing for breath she continued

"So I's been mental as you can guess! We's off to get the rings tomorrow at Elizabeth Duke"

Whilst I was of course delighted for my new employer I was simultaneously wondering whether I was up to the onerous task of taking a young baby through its early years, as I last did with mrfloppy over twenty years ago.

As I tried to sleep that night, my feet barely covered by the Burberry quilt cover, I wondered if my employment path was best followed elsewhere.....

Below is a picture of mrbolt, shortly after his happy announcement

rotflmfao

Tis very good.

word bro innit

Get out there Jeeves, while you still can.

Loving it.

top stuff!!

top hole sir

an illuminating and riveting read to go with my early morning toast and marmalade

indeed, if only we had other people providing us with top reads like this...I seem to remember a certain fat bloke who used to tell great stories fairly regularly...alas no more, he has better things to do now that he's in the land of the skinny beautiful people.

IOW, get posting Snatty!

lol.your not having much luck lately Jeeves, lets know how your getting on every now and then please

Quality Jeevo, quality..

Sunday

Finally, it is over. No, not mrbolt's interminable late night habitations of inner city stairwells and underpasses. I am instead referring to the Olympics.

It has been a long two weeks. At first mrbolt did not seem overly enthused by the sporting extravaganza unfolding on his HDTV propped against the far wall of his living area. It was only when the track and field began that he began to instruct his crew to desist from watching Jeremy Kyle and Trisha and to instead fix their eyes on BBC1 in between the bi-hourly trips to KFC and the nightly assignations with assorted personnel in shady locations.

I began to have fears for what lay ahead when mrbolt took me to one side in the kitchenette and said to me, sotto voce and conspiratoriallly

"Jeevo, here's a list. Head off to JJB and come back with everything, yo hearz me brotha?"

"Why yes sir" I replied, a touch naively.

I retired to my chamber and laced up my sparkling black Oxfords, and buttoned up my waistcoat. It was only when I was rising to leave the room that I looked at the list. I hesitated and read the list again. I merely have to repeat it here for veracity's sake.

1 x Yellow (BRIGHT!!) Sleeveless lycra training top

1x Green (BRIGHT!!!) Shorts

1x Nike Gold (SPARKLING!!) Running Spikes

1x Copy of Bob Marley's Greatest Hits

1x Rastafarian knitted hat (LONG!!!)

The emphases are mrbolt's, not mine.

Unaware that I was able to pruchase the last two items in JJB Sports I perambulated down to the local Shopping centre and several hours, and several offers of gear, later I returned to mrbolt's abode.

I took him to one side and his Burberry capped face lit up when I spread my haul on his camp bed in his Pimper's Paradise of a room.

"Give me five Jeevo, I'll be right out!"

and I reposed to the living area where Jaquinta, Waynetta and Dwayne were debating the respective merits of Michael Phelps and Mark Spitz as Olympian Swimmers

After the five minutes the door burst open and there stood mrbolt. Dressed in his athletics gear, woollen hat and with the strains of "Buffalo Soldier" emerging from his bedroom he told us he had an announcement

"I am de real Bolt, I is from now on Jamaican, and I will support me bruvva Usain as he run for da Olympic glory for Bolt's everywhere. Word!"

I did not know quite where to look, I was aware of a stifled giggle from below to my left and the ticking Elizabeth Duke clock was audible in the awkward moment.

Ever in charge of his team, of course no words of dissent were made to mrbolt.

"No woman,No cry lads" he said and slung himself over the empty sofa.

The following week he was in a very mellow mood, even refusing to go out on his night shift rounds, only livening up for any occasion where Usain was on screen where he ordered Marley turned up full volume and he celebrated each victory  with a blood-curdling cry of

"Satisfy my Soul Usain bruvva, Satisfy my soul"

Fed up of Waiting in Vain for instructions I busied myself cleaning, and resolved to tough it out. With the help of some sticky back plastic, coasters and gold paper I fashioned three realistic gold medals to hang round mrbolt's already impressively medallioned neck, with which he was most enamoured.

Well today it was finally over, and mrbolt could hardly stand, his eyes bloodshot in a mixture of over-exposure to Clare Balding in a Presenter's role and substances from Easy Skanking and Jamming.

I had already resolved that I had to leave and begin the Exodus from the delusional mrbolt, now taken to patrolling the streets of Peckham dressed in Jamaican National costume, that such a life was not making the most of my talents.

I knew where I was going, for Redemption not in a Redemption Song but for a Countryside position in the Midlands

The PM I received on here had a mystical quality that struck me as honest and reliable

"Dear Jeeves

I am normally looked after by my wife and daughters but we are all stumped by this one. A dark haired man from Nottingham has taken to arriving in my abode, stripping to his waist whilst talking about Cesc Fabregas, putting a bone in his mouth getting on all fours and growling in a deep tone. Once he has finished playing with my dog he thanks my wife and I, and invites me to his house for Roast Dinner. I am powerless to refuse. Will you come and relieve us of this gentleman? A trial period perhaps, and if your talents prove useful in restoring some order to the life of the Nottingham gentleman there may be a longer term position in the offing?

Please let us know soonest

RED-DOG and Mrs Red"   

Suffice to say I am now in Nottingham, and a new chapter of my life has begun.

However that will be a story for another time .
 

Glad you avoided any Confrontation whilst working for Mr Bolt.No doubt he is Riding High on emotion after the achievements of his namesake.Good luck with your new position in Nottingham,i am sure that you will be less likely to encounter any Uprising there.Please keep us informed of your progress as you are becoming somewhat of a Legend.

 rotflmfao
gl  jeevo Jeeves in your new job

Sheer genius.

Best-of-blonde minumum.

 rotflmfao ;applause; ;hattip; 

B of B for sure!

Good Evening, tonight on London Tonight we have the strange story about a South London man found with a can of Iron Bru inserted into er how can I say this, a very delicate part of his anatomy. With more on this breaking news let me pass you over to Johnathon on scene at the Nelson Mandela Estate, Peckham

Thank you Sarah, yes earlier on this afternoon people heard screams coming from the bottom of a stair well here in the notorious Nelson Mandela Estate. 5 hours later policemen on a routine patrol found a young man bound, gagged and naked with the top of a can of Iron Bru just visible, the rest of it stuck in a very painful place indeed. The man was rushed to hospital where doctors with a large pair of pliers are attempting to remove the can as I speak. As with all crime on this estate this incident is assumed to be drugs related. I have spoken to some residents here who while wishing to remain anonymous have indicated to me that the victim was wealthy enough to have actually had his own butler. One clue that the police found at the scene which may turn out to be be a vital clue in this incident was a half eaten deep fried mars bar. It has already been sent away for DNA analysis and police are very hopeful of a quick resolution to the case.

This is Johnaton Manning in Peckham, South London, now back to Sarah in the studio...

Friday


It was a long and taxing night. I was safely ensconsed in my Nottingham Pied a terre with Raif ("Dont call me Ralph darling, it's Raif, like Raif Fiennes, only older") when he broke some news that I greeted with mixed views

"Jeeves, darling, I am going to Vegas with Red Tom, 15th October, and you will of course be accompanying me. Book us flights dear man, book us hotels dear fellow and enjoy your first experience of Las Vegas. Elton John, Penn and Teller, Siefried and Roy darling, it's going to be a blast!"

I didn't have the heart to tell him that many of life's recent vicissitudes had begun this Summer in Vegas. My fall out with Master Floppy (dear Master Floppy, how life would have been so much simpler if I had turned the other cheeks and stayed with my life's calling), my adventures with mr tikay and my subsequent return to the high rises of South London and fake Jamaican patois and smelly stair-wells.

Instead I played dumb, told Raif that I was happy to make all the necessary arrangements and went back to the task in hand. Cleaning a Bone of gristle to give to Raif's best friend, Kizzy the dog, whom he planned to visit for afternoon tea and stimulating conversation on the morrow.

At that point Raif's phone rang. The strains of Judy Garland wafted into the Kitchenette from the ring tone and I heard Raif answer

"No this is not Edward Jeeves latterly of Peckham via Las Vegas, Staffordshire and Sotuh Kensington. I am his employer Raif, not Raif Fiennes, but simply Raif. I'm not wearing a shirt at the moment you know. Bare to the torso I am. I shall go and establish if Jeeves has finished his tasks for the evening"

The softly slippered feet padded onto the linoleum  and enquired if I wished to take the call. I asked Raif for the identity of the caller

In a forboding tone Raif lowered his voice and whispered, seemingly afraid that Maud and Joyce his aged lesbian neighbours would hear through the thin walls

"It's Sergeant Dixon of Dock Green Police Station in Peckham. He would like an urgent word with you"

I cleaned my hands on the lingerie clad lady photographed apron and picked up the phone

"This is Jeeves"

"Edward Jeeves latterly in the service of Usain Bolt, formerly known as Timothy Bolt, of 132 Nelson Mandela House, Peckham, London?"

"Yes, that I am"

"Well we have detained Usain in our custody as he was found on Stairwell sixteen tonight with a metal can protruding from his orifice, a deep fried mars bar in his mouth, sellotaped firm, and holding a copy of Braveheart and with a face painted blue"

I tried to process the information

Sergeant Dixon continued

"Later we found two Scottish gentlemen face down in a skip in Tooting, clutching photographs of Olympic gold medallists and SNP flags. About their person were leaflets detailing Site traffic on Cryptologic, and Sharkscope log in details"

I was beginning to put two and two together

"Furthermore Usain had been tattoeed. His chest was emblazoned with the slogan ...

Stake me ya fker, I'm a winning player "

"Usain gave me this number, saying you were the one phone call he wished us to make"

"Would you please arrange to bail said person?"

A manservant's lot is really not like it was in more genteel times. I was becoming achingly aware of my poor career choices in recent times, but I felt a duty to help, mrbolt/Usain/Timothy in his hour of need

Sadly my funds were rather limted, as I had only that day paid for four Lee Evans tickets for my niece Benjamina Mayhew from a very kind man I met on a friendship site, so i was in the ignominious position of asking Raif for an advance on my wages

"Excuse me sir, my former employer is in a spot of bother. Bail is only £200 as the kind Sergeant says he'll be back soon enough. Could you tide me over until next week?"

Fortunately Raif was a kindly soul

"As long as I can accompany you to the Police station Jeeves. Will there be policemen there?"

"Yes sir" I said wearily

Another wrong career choice was looking the most probable outcome.

LMAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!   ;applause; ;tightend; 

LMFAO best one yet imo.

superb  rotflmfao rotflmfao

Obv. an inside job if Jeeves knows about my Judy Garland ringtone...

Raif exposed.

rotflmfao This is truly top class...that was some post!

absolute class!

the best thread ever on blonde FACT!

Lol. Nice style :)

Monday


A most taxing weekend has just passed, but first I must update you on the events following my last post. I did indeed travel to London at short notice and did indeed bail my erstwhile employer out of his predicament. I expected some thanks but instead there has been no comment since. I have yet to break the news to Mr Raif that his £200 is up the swannee, presumed missing.

That conversation awaits happier times.

On Friday Mr Raif appeared restless, pacing his flat from one corner to the next, seemingly wrestling with a huge conundrum. I busied myself with my Friday chorse, making sure the place was spick and span for the weekend ahead. In truth in this new employ Friday's are not my favourite day. For one the scheduled rota of tasks includes polishing Mr Raif's prized collection of solid silver dog bones, and secondly it heralds the weekends when Mr Raif goes out to play, with my presence required to the rear of his right shoulder.

When I had finished my tasks I dared venture a question to the pensive Raif.

"Excuse me sir, but I cannot help but notice you are a little pre-occupied this fine Friday. May I enquire the source of your dudgeon?"

Raif sighed and it began to pour out

"Its DTD 3-2-1 Weekend Jeeves and I so want to play. However I only want to play if Tom's there, and Tom hasn't rung. If he doesn't ring soon I will have to go on my own Jeeves and I so want Tom to be there and its...."

and with that his voice trailed away, perhaps cognisant of the futility of his anguish, the anguish that only a man waiting for portentous news outside his control can feel

I suggested a short term solution

"Perhaps a round of golf sir at Wollaton Park? take the frustration out on some rough and some trees and possibly the occasional green and fairway?"

This did not go down well as Raif immediately reached into his nearby Jacobean Bureau and literally flung a batch of golf scorecards, banded together held by a bright yellow scrunchie hair tie, in my direction

"Look Jeeves, my scoring average is up 2.65 shots per round over the summer, I'm hitting less than 54% of greens in regulation! And all because I'm looking out for finches and hedgehogs and ferrets and terriers to photograph and send to Tom and no matter where on the course I go I can't see any. I bet Tom is so disappointed in my lack of wildlife observation skills. Maybe that is why he hasn't rung?"   

I left the question hanging, a pregnant pause only interrupted by the Arsenal cuckoo clock striking the hour of 3 o'clock in its distinctive tone "Wenger, Wenger, Wenger" cried the feather clad Ian Wright figurine as it leapt out of the clock metronomically.

A few minutes later the telephone rang. From the next room  I could hear the most alwful commotion. Raif had evidently fallen asleep reading his "1971 Double Winners" top trumps cards and in his excitement to find his mobile he had knocked over his Dame Margot Fonteyn signed tutu, mounted on his nest of tables.

Eventually he answered

"Raif Karabiner here"

and I could see a warm glow settle across his face as the call was, indeed, from his chum.

"Yes Tom, going to DTD tonight? You are? You need to play live poker? Well yes...of course........join you for a breakfast....let me just check.......yes I think I am free, see you there at 7pm"

He put the phone down and danced around his living room, twirling with the abandon of a youth re-discovered

The next few hours were spent in  joyful preparation. Shoes polished, Corby trouser presses on full bore, shirt ironed, Brylcreem tenderly applied and soon we were out of the door and down through Lenton to the QMC roundabout and thence on to DTD, nestling snugly behind the Showcase cinema and next to the lapdancing club that I shall never attend.

The night flew by, Raif in a joyous mood. Flirting not too convincingly with waitresses, fluttering his eyelids at Tom's extra portion of fried bread and bemoaning a seat draw that left him eight tables away from his mucker.

I spent the evening sitting on the sole sofa by the entrance like a spare part, secretly willing my charge to exit the torunament and not be in the mood to spend six hours on cash losing £5.50 overall, highlighting typographical errors in the UK's leading Poker magazine for nothing more than my own morbid fascination with grammar and punctuation.

Sadly it was 4am when Raif decided to leave, with a promise to Tom that he would "play the £300 tomorrow but only if you do"

I inwardly sighed, and prepared for a Saturday of thinly veiled expectation, and the intermittent humming of the two trouser presses, one for each leg.       

Saturday evening was quite the whirlygig! Raif needed medical attention by Simon Trumper and his ruler when it was announced over the tannoy that "Tom is all-in first hand". Raif's heart nearly leapt out of his light blue, short-sleeved linen effect teryline shirt! However it was a false alarm and to his credit Raif managed to survive to Day 2, and all with Lady Mason of Hampstead and Lord Feline of Sussex unable to witness him play a single hand. Rumour has it they were too busy with other endeavours.

Sadly Raif's charge to the title was haltedearly on the second day, and he retired to his home chastened temporarily.

As his spirits returned he pondered, unaware of my presence behind the sofa trying to retrieve his Betamax Video Collection of episodes of Magnum PI

"It doesn't get any better than that. Seventeen hours over three days in the presence of Tom and his breakfasts. I wonder when I can next pop round with a big bone for Kizzy?....."

and with that he fell into a deep slumber, the silence only interrupted by deep breathing and the Ian Wright Cuckoo calling out its Gunner beat.

LOL These just get better and better.

 ;iagree; ;topman;

I left the question hanging, a pregnant pause only interrupted by the Arsenal cuckoo clock striking the hour of 3 o'clock in its distinctive tone "Wenger, Wenger, Wenger" cried the feather clad Ian Wright figurine as it leapt out of the clock metronomically.


sheer genius
 rotflmfao rotflmfao rotflmfao rotflmfao

That had me literally in tears laughing.

+1...I laughed very very hard at this.

v.funny..... more!!

Jeeves,in the "boss"pic,  that chap on the right make me think he's just about to share a dodgy kebab he ate earlier.

I think that might have been just after I surprised him with the old Tikay misread allin bluff manoeuvre with K2 cunningly set up with two hours of folding.

Friday

I am on secondment. Raif called me over whilst we were shopping in the Victoria Centre yesterday (A new trouser press required, and six sticky buns from Greggs) when he received a text message.

He asked me to read it out to him, which I did with alacrity

"Ralph, I need to ask a favour. Can I borrow Jeeves? New flat a mess, pipes need cleaning too. Off out to meet Jade Goody tonight. Answer soonest. Trace xx"

My heart sank as I read it, I have never worked for a lady before, and sense I may be unfamiliar with their domestic ways. Aside from Strippers in the bedroom, my exposure to the feminine sex in a domestic capacity has been rather lacking for some time but I neverthess awaited Raif's reply with neutrality

"Well Jeeves, we can't let the good lady down. To Northampton with you! I'll survive til you get back. I'll give Tom a ring and see if he wants to pop round"

I agreed with my Master, and jotted down the details of my temporary employ.

When we returned to Raif's spotless abode, I took myself off to my bedroom, tastefully decorated in Dennis Bergkamp wallpaper and Paul Merson duvet cover ( straight white lines all over ) and called the number I was given

The ringing stopped and I heard a voice from a short distance away

"Don't pull that pipe out! What have you been eating? Not enough water! Drink more water!"........the voice trailed off, and then a female voice came on the line. Business like, haughty and faux posh

"Good afternoon Tracey "you can ring my" D'Bell here. When would you like an appointment for?"

I explained that I was not after an appointment but that I was nevertheless at her service for the forthcoming week

Her relief was evident

"Jeeves" she screamed in a high pitch voice

"Yesssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss!"

I remained silent, and awaited instructions

"Jeeves, come to Northampton on Monday, early, and I can let you know what your tasks will involve. Is that ok?"

"Yes, madam, of course Madam"

"One thing Jeeves, I need you to bring a photograph of Steve (http://www.blondepoker.com/blondepedia/blondepedia_view_player.php?player_id=413) Davis (http://www.blondepoker.com/blondepedia/blondepedia_view_player.php?player_id=413), snooker legend. Manage that do you think? Got a big crack in my bedroom needs covering, and I reckon that on the wall is as good as anything"

and with that I put the phone down, sighed audibly and prepared to pack......

I put on Raif's "Best of Boyzone" CD in a vain attempt to quell my nervousness, and then my mobile rang again

"Oh and Jeeves?"

"Yes Madam?"

"If you can pick up some Cheekbone Accentuation cream before you come, that would be good. Try Boots."

I went to speak but she was in full flow

"I am at DT (http://www.dusktilldawnpoker.com/)D (http://www.dusktilldawnpoker.com/) at the weekend, qualified for the Sky (http://www.skypoker.com/poker/sky_lobby?aff=1062) Poker (http://www.skypoker.com/poker/sky_lobby?aff=1062) (expert analysis by fish, for colonic irrigators) Tour you know? Online satellite. Did you know I've won my last 16 poker tournaments? Must tell you about my A9 hand. I put it all down to Paul (http://www.blondepoker.com/blondepedia/blondepedia_view_player.php?player_id=326) Jackson (http://www.blondepoker.com/blondepedia/blondepedia_view_player.php?player_id=326). Have you heard about the DT (http://www.dusktilldawnpoker.com/)D (http://www.dusktilldawnpoker.com/) academy? Saw Edna at Luton the other night. Do you know her? She was looking well. Out with Jade Goody on Monday. She says I look young-ish. What do you think Jeeves? What do you reckon i should do about this lady customer who let me down? Didn't keep her appointment Jeeves! What is the world coming to? Did I tell you I am playing at DT (http://www.dusktilldawnpoker.com/)D (http://www.dusktilldawnpoker.com/) this weekend? Frank Bruno's going I gather. tikay's going too. Must be careful to flutter my eyelashes at the right time Jeeves Ho Ho Ho! 16 poker tournaments Jeeves, did I tell you about the Sky (http://www.skypoker.com/poker/sky_lobby?aff=1062) Poker (http://www.skypoker.com/poker/sky_lobby?aff=1062)(expert analysis by fish, for colonic irrigators)  tour........................"

and with that I held the phone quite a distance from my ear, and clicked "Off" when it finally went silent........

I would like to say that Monday cannot come soon enough, but I would be lying

 rotflmfao rotflmfao rotflmfao  Hang in there Jeeves, you'll be grand.  She hardly ever bites...much.

rotflmfao ...poor Tracey

Jeeves, I think you need to seek union representation. You're becoming a plaything of the Blondes.

My Arsenal cookoo clock seems to have gone missing, does anyone know where I could get a replacement ?

Thursday

I am currently sitting in the special WIFI access location in the Sports Lounge at the Luton G Casino. I am temporarily homeless, and intend to meet up once more with Raif when he attends the "blonde bash 7" on Saturday. From there I will take further instructions as to my future employ.

This week has not going well.

It was 9am on Monday morning when I climbed the stairs to Ms D'Bell's Penthouse flat in leafy surburban Northampton. I rang the doorbell, and heard from the the other side of the door a quick commotion, and a hurried conversation, half whispered which I caught through the thin plastered walls

"Just get in the cupboard, keep quiet and I'll smuggle you out when he goes to clean the bathroom. Understand?"

The door opened and with a smile so unrelaxed and a face so flushed Ms D'Bell greeted me warmly

"You must be Jeeves. Let me show you around my home and give you your list of tasks"

With that she proceeded with the guided tour. I meanwhile tried very hard not to think about which cupboard I was meant not to look in, though the gentle shaking of the Mahogany effect tallboy in the hallway was a gentle clue that some things were to be neither seen or heard, a throwback to the 1950s employ I established my credentials in so long ago.

We soon came to the list of chores with which I was to be gainfully employed for the week of my sabbatical. Routine enough I thought, until we got to the section headed, in bold red

"PIPES: How to clean a colonic tube"

and Ms D'Bell showed me to a spare bedroom which I gathered was to double as mine for the week which contained over 50 colonic implements for my cleaning use.

To say I was daunted was an understatement, but within half an hour I was about to be left to my own devices.

As the front door shut loudly from the hallway I permitted myself a small peek from through the blinds at Ms D'Bell's secret assignation. Discretion to my nevertheless temporary employer does not permit me to divulge the name of her companion. Yet. Though the beard, trailing emu's legs and Star Trek top did rather give it away.

I took the opportunity to look around. On the wall a signed yet slightly frayed photgraph of a UK poker celebrity hung slightly askew. On the sofa a Crow Puppet leant gently against a life size copy of Orville the Duck only confirming that behind each person's public facade there are often touching mementoes of a fractured past, and unhealthy obsessions.

As I tidied, carefully not disturbing the home made shrine surrounded by candles headed "actionjack: The UK's bestest Poker Tutor" and the homage in the kitchen to Messrs Davis, Bruno and Gascoigne I turned on the CD player and heard the unmistakeable refrain of Chas and Dave

"Snooker loopy nuts are we......."

Moving to the bedroom I accidentally slipped on empty packets where once nestled packs of Duracell batteries, dusted the fifteen year old Police uniform and tidied the bedside table. The reading matter intrigued me

"Ouch, how wide is that bloody pipe?" by The Royal Society of Colonic Irrigators

"Gullibility and how to handle it: A self help Manual"

"I am Steve Davis' brother. No really, Harry" by Frank Bruno

"You too can continuation bet with nothing but charm" by Devilfish

At the end of the day I was wrecked. My feet ached but the penthouse was spotless.

I heard the key turn in the lock and I rose and straightened my waistcoat.

Ms D'Bell stormed into the Living room, flung several pipes on the floor and looked at me straight in the eye

"Jeeves" she said, struggling to collect her thoughts "I am a moody cow sometimes. For no other reason than that, you're fired"

I was for once speechless. My mouth opened and words formed, but silence reigned

"Leave tonight, leave me to Orville, dear Orville"

and with that she went to run a bath and I heard the soprano strains of the once talented singer


"I wish I could fly, way up to the sky but I can't"

I said under my breath "You can"

and she carried on "I can't" , testament to a chronic lack of confidence so well hidden by bluster, outward naivete and an ability to semi-bluff with impunity

I collected my belongings, inadvertently packing an XXL Pipe with mink-lined fur nozzle and shut the door behind me. Embarrassed to contact Raif with news of my failure to please my Mistress, I headed for Luton.

Now, three days later, surviving on casino free sandwiches and over-strong tea fed to me by Ukrainian waitresses, I long for Raif, for cuckoo clocks and for my routine to be restored

huge lols.

I am learning more about the members of the forum from this thread than anything else I've read so far.

 :)up

 rotflmfao

Poor Jeeves.  We need to find you a home fast!

Jeeves in Cork - that could be entertaining......

Don't even go there.  He wouldn't last the week at ours. 

Since news of my predicament hit the wires I have had three phone calls asking if I would work for them

they were from

1 The Duke of Colchester, latterly of Portsmouth, Hampshire and Lady Colchester formerly of the Isle of Wight

2.The Archduke Boldie of the Netherlands and Queen Mrs B of the Central Belt

3. Count Knave of Yorkshire and his noblemen Brent and Richard


I need help in establishing which I should pursue please. I know little of any of them

Rule out:
1. You'll spend your time reffing domestics over corrected posts.
3. Unless you like cupboards

Go for
2. She needs a man about the place.

oh jeeves you must help out those poor boys from yorkshire

you any good at house-training monkeys, Jeeves?

rotflmfao....God I hope not...don't want to spoil the Mrs, see?

Good fkn job as I've changed the locks since my cookoo clock went missing.

Check your collection of Ian Poulter pics Ralph ;)

Have you thought of attending to the daily needs of Mr Flush, of Brighton, Jeeves?

OK own up ...................who's kidnapped Jeeves and changed the password on his lappie.

I reckon Jeeves has been banned for stirring on the internet poker board

Wrong ... Jeeves Grimmed Karabiner and robbed his cuckoo clock.

ok so whats happened to jeeves the last couple of months? has he been inside?

he has just resurfaced on another thread and apparently he's just arrived back in vegas under the services of "a young chap that talks of nothing but greyhounds"
wonder who that might be?
come on jeeves fill us in on where and what you been upto the last couple of months and also the lowdown of what your upto the next couple of weeks.

Tuesday


The end with Raif was swift, he wielded his rapier with P45 attached with a perceptible air of glee on informing me that I was not to accompany him on his trip to Las Vegas with Bob Carolgees, and I was left once more searching for gainful employment. A little miffed at the swift and unceremonial nature of my departure I did extract a modicum of revenge by setting the Ian Wright cuckoo clock to cuckoo its plaintive "Offside Ref!" quarter hourly chant, only every five minutes. At maximum volume.

Setting off once again for London I recognised that the prevailing economic environment was not condusive to gentlemen asking for the services of menservants to help relieve them of their more mundane tasks, but I persevered nonetheless. When however some weeks later all avenues appeared to be exhausted I must admit I ploughed into a slough of despond. I hit the bottle, and I hit the casino tables. There, at £2 a time, dealer standing on soft seventeen, I wiled away many a long hour surrounded by Thais of indeterminate sex and sexuality.

I was at rock bottom. Nowhere to turn to, and considering whether life was worth it, and how had it all come to this? At this point my fortunes began to change. That evening I ventured to the Circus casino in Luton. Virtually Dunstable in fact, not a salubrious town or establishment but I was hoping that rather than gaming in the plush environs of the West End surrounded by the temptations of Spearmint and Stringfellow employed flesh that I could ill afford to ogle, that a change of scenery and a change of table would do me the world of good.

After several hours of play I noticed a commotion at the front door. In came a group of men, Pool cases slung over their shoulders, one wearing lingerie over his jeans and another smaller gentleman being chased for his Proof of Age ID by the burly receptionist. Two of their number, one with rotund girth and stubble, another with Ginger hair and rather more mature came and sat near me at the table. We struck up a conversation and they mentioned that they were shortly to be vacationing in Las Vegas.

My memories of Las Vegas were bittersweet with Mr tikay, and I was still smarting from Mr Raif's pointed refusal to let me accompany him on his Spit the Dog concert season. I nevertheless made polite conversation as my funds slowly dribbled away in a hail of automatic shuffling machines and hitting thirteen every time I doubled down.

The larger gentleman, who introduced himself as "Al, or Shieldsy" called across the room to the Poker tables where the lingerie clad far too thin gentleman was showing an album of photographs containing dogs to his fellow players, two of whom had slumped asleep on the table some minutes previously. The cross-room call had not disturbed the flow of one-way conversation from the animated cross-dresser and so Shieldsy beckoned me to follow him across to meet him.

Immediately I, professional curiousity aroused, saw the work required with Shieldsy. Unkept hair, scruffy clothes and scuffed shoes. None of these would last five minutes if he had a proper man about his house. However Shieldsy had something else in mind. Not, fortunately, accompanying Master Rosy on his school run or Mr Ginger Old Git to the library but the man I now saw in front of me. Introduced as "Ben".

Standing respectfully a few paces back I overheard snatches of conversation

"come on Ben, you've just had a major score. You can get him to do EVERYTHING!"

"Will he walk the dogs?"

"He'll walk like a dog if you ask him Ben. Come on. How cool will it be in Vegas to have your own butler?"

"Hold on, I have to ask Flushy"

"Stuff Flushy Ben, this is your treat to yourself"

"Let me ask Aisling"

"Aisling won't be in Vegas Ben, this is your treat to yourself"

"What does he know about greyhounds?"

"I don't know Ben, but he'll learn if you want him to"     

and with that the rakishly thin gentleman, rather shy but endearingly polite, walked across and proferred his hand to mine....

"Jeeves, I'm Ben, nearly 21 years old and only wearing this thong for a bet. We're going to Vegas for a fortnight and we could do with some help organising. Interested?"

Well how could I refuse? Stipend established I spent the next week in a whirlygig of planning and booking.

My return to Las Vegas was upon me.     

Yay!!!  Jeeves has another gig!   ;applause;  Good luck Jeeves.  Take no notice of the lingerie.  It was a bet.  He's not really a cross dresser.  Honest.   ;whistle;

welcome back jeeves, you have been missed!

absolute class and he has all there charactors spot on already! lol

welcome back Sir

Spiffing yarn Jeeves, & observsational skills spot-on.

I shall add this to my "Thread of the Year" Shortlist immediately.

Do look after that Boy, please. He's come under the influence of one Lord Dempsey-Ament of Brighton & Hove, & I fear for him, as well as coming under the whip of a dominatrix female with dubious culinary skills. He needs you.

Now there's a thought......................surely Jeeves must be able to post pictorial evidence of the most perfect fry on earth.................the challenge has been set methinks.

Welcome back Jeevsie old boy, looking forward to your posts, as ever.

We have landed in Vegas, and tales will no doubt follow

For now, I have been given one sole instruction by Master Ben.

It is simple. It is clear. Sadly, it is unlikely to be acceptable to his travelling companions

In a whispered aside from McCarran to hotel, Master said

"Whatever you do Jeeves, you must keep me out of any lapdancing bars. I've promised Ling. If she finds out I'll be Japanese rope tortured, she's even threatened the butt plug this time, and the last time she used ropes the welts lasted for weeks. Jeeves, promise me, no bars on this trip"

Sadly I neglected to inform the young Master that I have a track record of being weak in sight of the temptations of the fairer sex, that can be a conversation for the days to come.

Whilst Master recuperates from the long journey spent listening to his rotund mate snoring by his side, I must share with you one story from the weeks leading up to the trip

One of my roles for Master is as Chauffeur. I had not seen Master's car but turned up for work very early one Sunday morning to be met by an expectant Master.

"Jeeves, today we go and see the loves of my life in Oxford. You are driving, my mate Kev is in the passenger seat and Dad and I are kipping in the back"

Unaware that Master was acquainted with students in Oxford, but nevertheless familiar with the colleges there from my own youth, I was secretly looking forward to this assignation. Were we to visit the hallowed halls of Magdalen, or the librtary at Balliol or the common room at Corpus Christi where Jennifer Farqhaurson introduced me to the delights of illicit fumblings many decades ago?

My first shock was the car itself. Impeccably attired in morning suit and black Oxfords, together with regulation Chauffeur's black peaked cap I opened the garage, which young Master's father kept referring to as a "lock up for all the dodgy stuff" and there greeted me a vision in Lime Green, with what appeared to be a chess board pattern on the roof.

A Ford Fiesta I gathered. Ever the professional I stifled my surprise and settled into the driver's seat. Unfazed by the pictures of greyhounds on the dashboard, and the "Winalot dry" sack in the passenger seat Well I drove the car round to the front of the house, and in climbed the Master and Father and alongside me a balding man in a black "blondepoker" shirt, with the faint whiff of doner kebab and stale Mayfair cigarettes on his clothes, speaking estuary English last heard in "Oliver" the musical in 1963. This man handed me a black card and said

"awright mate, got any online poker accounts? do me a fava mate, open one 'ere. Triffic LOYALTY BONUS for yer play, great leagues, great community spirit. Even better fewer Jocks on the site these days too. Spolit the place they did with their songs and their youtube videos"

I must admit to being rather dumbstruck with this forward approach, until Master rather spolit the salesman's patter by saying

"Ignore him Jeeves, he's only here to give me amusement on the journey, and my camera's broken down and I want Kev to film when we get there"  

Filming? What was this? A remake of Chariots of Fire running round the courtyard? A Brideshead like mini-series set at Jesus college?

As we sped up the M40, an incongruous sight no doubt in a lime green vehicle, my mind was agog with the possibilities.

Taking the Oxford turn off I headed for the Town Centre, my brain a mixture of excitedly crazed endorphins and unrequited longing for my student days so long ago.

Alongside me, the salesman awoke with a start. Trying to pass me another card I reminded him that I had already had the sign up speech. Forsaking the beseeching look for one of puzzlement

"Jeeves, you need to head for Headington, not town centre. Roooooooooooks" he shouted

and young Master awoke and directed me to some run down outbuildings down a track a few miles away

With a growing sense of dread I parked up and we disembarked.

We walked into what appeared to be an establishment containing kennels, at which point a ruddy faced gentleman beckoned us tomwards him.

Before I could blink two black greyhounds charged towards us, and the particularly frisky one first went to Master and then jumped on me, knocking me down in the process.

Unconcerned with my welfare Master and his two friends and the ruddy gentleman were making their way to an Oval track across a muddy field, two dogs jumping beside them and trying to lick the chilli sauce off the salesman's collar. I followed, my ears buring with the cacophony of barks and screeches from hundreds of greyhounds in the kennels.

At the track the staff set up some traps, and Master urgently instructed the salesman to set up his camera phone whilst the first of two dogs were loaded up.

On enquiring how this could possibly be a race with only one greyhound taking part I was informed that these were "trials" for young dogs.

At that point disaster struck as the mechanical hare did not appear to work. They needed to find a replacement. Furrowed brows ensued until Master seemed to have an idea.

"Someone will have to be the hare. Who is the fastest runner?".

His father did not look in a fit state to run, and anyway was busy arguing with a kennel hand about whether it was Sunday or not and what time the pub opened.

The salesman frankly had seen better athletic days, and anyway was too busy proferring black sign up cards to other kennel hands

Master looked at me. Looked me up and down. My impeccable attire had turned into a bedraggled mess, mud on my trousers, and paw prints on my white shirt.

He handed me the furry object, told me to fasten it around my waist, and get in position.

Once again a dream job had turned into a nightmare in a short space of time....

I could hear the traps being shut behind me, and I awaited my cue to run, being told to stick as close as possible to the running rail. I remembered my runs round the College Courtyard, but the potential similarity paled as it began to rain.

The traps opened, a guttural cry of  "Go On Rodney!!!!!!!!!!!" filled the air from the Salesman, whilst the father had moved on to argue about whether tomorrow was Monday or not, this time with his own shadow, and was thus too busy to notice.

I began to run, and rounded the first bend before with a thump I fell face first into the dirt, a greyhound astride me, all four paws triumphantly ripping at the fur attached to my posterior.

Vegas could not come soon enough..................................  

That Sir is fkin GENIUS !!!

 rotflmfao rotflmfao rotflmfao rotflmfao rotflmfao rotflmfao

 ;hattip; rotflmfao rotflmfao ;hattip;

I'm in tears here Jeeves - the best yet!

Brilliant.

+1

 ;applause;

Geo

 rotflmfao rotflmfao rotflmfao
glad to see you back jeeves, gl with the new job ,i am sure you will enjoy your stay in vegas rotflmfao

O......M......G!!!!!!!!!!!!!  LMAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!   rotflmfao rotflmfao rotflmfao ;applause; ;tightend; ;hattip;

If it wasn't before it certainly is now the top contender for thread of the year................just pmsl @ the salesman with the black sign up cards.

top draw jeeves!!!!  rotflmfao rotflmfao rotflmfao

+2 awesome. i would but the book btw.

awesome!

After Master Rooks has dispensed with Jeeves services - & he will, when he gets home, as he has 'Ling to submit to his every whim, I think Jeeves should go & be Tighty's Butler. Now that'd be interesting.

In the days before the flight Master Ben gambolled around Mid Bedfordshire like a spring lamb, excited to be leaving behind the Arndale Centre and the Milton Keynes Cows and looking forward to the bright lights of the Big City and his chance to mix it with adult poker players for almost the first time, not frequently finding many in the salubrious surroundings of the Stanbridge Scout hut in which he learnt the game he came to love, each Friday night.

The night before the early morning flight Master Ben disappeared for several hours and late in the evening burst into the house, whilst I was busy packing his Samsonite, with his two dogs at his side. He restrained the young male dog, who on sighting me appeared to expect me to retain the Bunny tail from my trial track endeavours and reared up most alarmingly, knocking over Master's father's Ruud Gullit figurine, hand painted, on the mantelpiece.

I enquired of Master why he was accompanied by two dogs the night before his departure.

His reply caused me consternation

"They are coming too Jeeves, sort it. Flushy said I should take them and he's never wrong"

In the far corner of the room Rosy carried on watching Tracy Beaker re-runs, whilst Noly was playing online cribbage. Shieldsy was engaged in his favourite activity, hand down his jeans re-arranging his "furniture" absentmindedly. None appeared at all perturbed by Master's suggestion.

With a deep breath I was once more cast into the role of the voice of reason, giving the sensible reasons (quarantine, long flight, excess baggage costs) why the dogs could not accompany Master on his first adult trip.

Master's bottom lip trembled, and his eyes widened and watered. I was looking not at an adult, but at a vulnerable child clearly used to getting his own way by such tactics with his father.

"Jeeves, I order you. Here are two boxes. Make them suitable for dog transportation immediately"

I did as ordered and the next morning we headed for the airport, five men, five suitcases and two packing boxes from which came the sound of uncontrolled yelping.

So to check in, where Shieldsy walked up and down the 46 check in desks asking for phone numbers, with absolutely no success whatsoever. Five suitcases checked in and then we gently placed the first packing case onto the weighing conveyor. The check in girl looked across and arched an eyebrow, at which point the dog leapt out of the box and began to run amok through the check-in queue, chased not only by Master, semi-chased by Shieldsy being unable to move at any pace whatsoever and assorted Policemen carrying Machine Guns.

As this was taking place I noticed that two policemen were at my side and they lifted me straight into a side room and sat me down.

What was I to do? I had known that Master had made a foolhardy decision the night before and now I was to carry the can. Ever the loyal servant I told them they were my dogs, and I could not bear a fortnight without them. I was strip searched which brough uncomfortable echoes of Eton and Mr Harris the Maths teacher's algebra detentions and told that I would be detained for the time being whilst they made arrangements for the dogs. I provided the address in Oxford and when left for a few minutes saw Master and his companions go through to departures, Master crying on his mobile phone, and Shieldsy once more fiddling down below while my Rome burnt all around me.

Several hours of solitary penitence later I was released, and my first task was to find the next flight to Las Vegas, where no doubt my luggage was already, together with my charges.

Before I boarded I recieved a text message.

"Rosy enjoyed Dora the Explorer on Nick Junior on the flight. Shieldsy soaking wet. Noly boring. Where are you? Hurry up. Ben"

Twelve hours later I knocked on the door of the room Master and Shieldsy were sharing. Lit dimly only by a light above a mirror the room was already a mess. Shieldsy was resting on his bed in nothing but creased boxer shorts, not a welcome sight after so many hours in transit, whilst Master was looking longingly at Sky Poker (produced by fish, has to find guests for the Club five days a week, for fish) logos and pictures of Greyhounds on the other bed.

I asked Master if my services were required until the morning and was met with the quiet voice of a man homesick already

"No Jeeves, see you at midday tomorrow. We are going to hit the sack and then the 2pm tournamnet at Caesars. Wear your toga....."

With a sigh as I knew the next morning would involve me transforming a terylene sheet into a Roman creation, I bade them goodnight and headed straight off to Peppermints for some R and R.

;tightend;

stick to peppermints jeeves and dont go off strip- trust me on that.

I really feel that we need an explanation of that one Ariston.  ;angel;

I'd rather he did not elaborate, to be honest. ;)

You were there too Tikay?  ;gobsmacked;

Wow - I thought I'd heard a different version but over to you Ariston - don't miss out any of the bits involving Tikay..... ;D

This is Police Sergeant Antwan Demarcus Juliano of Las Vegas Police Department, Nevada

I found details of this website, and login/password, in a wallet belonging to an English gentleman, Bartholemew Jeeves, of Kensington, London, England

It is with much sadness that I have to report the the death of this gentleman, in mysterious circumstances. The body was discovered at the well of a fairground ride in the Stratosphere on Saturday night.

On investigating my officers discovered that the restraint mechanism on the carriage containing the now deceased gentleman was faulty, and investigations as to cause of death are ongoing.

If anyone has any information on this gentleman, particularly anyone with a possible motive/grudge against Mr Jeeves, please contact me on 00331525825400. You can speak confidentially.

Mr Jeeves' travelling companions have been informed of his tragic loss, and have been interviewed in the VIP lounge of "Pure". They will be re-interviewed as they did not make much sense first time round. It was late. They were emotional.

No - say it ain't so.

Mistaken identity?

RIP Jeeves.

Has to be mistaken identity!  I reckon someone stole his wallet when he landed in Vegas.  We've got to find Jeeves!!!

I tried ringing the number but there's some crazy woman asking what i'm wearing and making strange noises down the phone what's that about,surely this is a hoax

0033 is the code for France - I reckon Jeeves is doing a Reggie Perrin & going to clandestinely make English fry-up breakfasts for SpaceFrog!!!

Any sign of a cookoo clock ?

Spacefrog would never let an Ian Wright cuckoo clock in la maison!!

I was down and low on account of having a particularly rubbish day and now I feel all smiley...thank you Jeeves

I reckon Jeeves will turn up in Frog-Land, as spacefrog's butler/cook.

I don't believe this is true - it would've been on the news.  I think Jeeves is sick of writing his diary so he's trying to pull the wool over our eyes.  Shame on you Jeeves!

crying my eyes out here, RIP Jeeves.  You will be missed.

AHEM!!

This post was suspicious - "Antwan Demarcus Juliano" is clearly a made up name so I think Rod might be right.

Got it!

"Antwan Demarcus Juliano" is an anagram of.....

'Now unjust, maniacal dear".

So there's our clue.

A campaign on the same size scale as the "free the weatherfield one"(what was all that about the wierdo's) is a must to find our jeeves,he's been kidnapped imo

it's also an anagram of Earl Wannajudocumstain.  I think he's quite famous among the aristocracy, distantly related to Bill Clinton IIRC.  I reckon he's kidnapped Jeeves to be his slave.

Pavment pizza, gentleman's gentleman flavour.

(http://www.gerardsmyth.co.uk/assets/images/Jeeves_001.jpg)

(http://www.gerardsmyth.co.uk/assets/images/Jeeves_002.jpg)

 ;tightend; ;tightend;

Is it a rule at this Las Vegas newspaper to have exactly one spelling mistayke in each article? :)

Jeeves cannot be dead - I can only imagine that the pressure of a trip to Vegas with Rookie has made him a little unstable....he's probably had a real Reggie Perrin moment and will surface somewhere soon bedraggled, thirsty from his walk across the Las Vegas desert and clutching a momento from his time sleeping in a teepee with native American Indians.

It has to happen - he cannot be dead.

Blatently just a move to improve his chances in the thread of the year category imo

Update


This is Police Inspector Matthias Kiwanuka Umeniyora of the Las Vegas Police Department


We asked Mr Jeeves' employer Mr Benjamin Turnstill of Luton, Englandshire to formally identify the body yesterday. He was unable to do so, and so asked his colleague Mr Allan Shieldsy also of Lutonshire, England to do so

His precise words were

"Maybe, I dunno. Can I go back to bed yet?"

Thus the investigation still remains current, and we have sent off fingerprint and dental records to the Association of British Manservants, Over 50 year old division, for verification. Oh, and Interpol too. and Mossad. and Hamas.

In the meantime we are still appealing for further information as to Bartholemew Jeeves. Anyone who can help please call 00353441525718411

This was the face on the body we found, together with mask and a fistful of dollar. Perhaps readers of this organ can confirm or deny if this is Jeeves?



 

i think like Conan Doyle, the creator of this thread may live to regret killing off his protagonist so early....

HE'S NOT DEAD!!!!! It looks like the pokerbrat was pretending to be Jeeves to entice the laydees. Still on tilt from from not being one of the November Nine I expect.

Jeeves lives and will reemerge when his mind and Squaw allow.....some of this may be a guess.

I felt exactly the same way about Albus Dumbledore

If Albus Dumbledore reemerges with a squaw i will eat my new hat.

And I will book a trip over to avail of Ding's 'clearance services' 

Is this some kind of jopke?

shhh....don't interrupt me. I am on the phone to JK Rowling

(http://www.gerardsmyth.co.uk/assets/images/Jeeves_003.jpg)

Huh?   :dontask: rotflmfao

(http://www.gerardsmyth.co.uk/assets/images/Jeeves_004.jpg)

LMAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!   ;applause;

Thursday

I am extremely disappointed by the youth of today. I was left in Las Vegas, assumed dead, by my employer Mr Turnstill and his cohort Mr Shieldsy on their return to England. Neither, according to the Police who eventually discovered me face down in a skip behind the Red Rock Casino some ten miles away from the Stratosphere, had been able to identify me as the body at the bottom of the Big Wheel. Seemingly unconcerned with my welfare they then departed.

What was I doing face down in a skip? That, dear reader, I cannot help you with. I remember leaving Peppermints with Candy and Stacey and then, some forty eight hours later there I am. In a skip. No wallet. No clothes. Just the faint whiff of rohypnol and amyl nitrate in the vicinity, and a rather concerning bite mark on my inner thigh.

The police took me to the station. Fed me and clothed me. Offered me a bed whilst they continued their enquiries. I gather they contacted a representative of blonde Poker to ask him to assist in the enquiry, a certain Mr tikay, but when no reply came to PM, email or second PM after 48 hours they wrote to Sky Poker, analysis for play the presenter fish by presenter fish, who invited the Police Sergeant to be a guest on The Open, and then The Club, and then The Open again. The Sergeant asked me why this would happen and I replied with a truth held to be self-evident in British gaming circles

"Officer Umeniyora, they'll have anyone on the show. Unless you are a Crow or a mad-man. Or both"

Some days later, de-briefed by the British Consul, issued with replacement passport and bank card, flight ticket purchased I left America again and returned to England. My future was completely uncertain, once more I was bereft of a career, this time in the throes of a vicious credit crunch and with a rather chequered recent employment history rather spoiling my hitherto unassailable curriculum vitae.

I settled back into my home in Kensington and scoured once more the situations vacant in Horse and Hound and Country Life. So as not to close off a potential avenue of enquiry I also scoured Heat and Closer too, purely for research purposes.

The phone did not ring, and letters of mine went unanswered. I began to despair. Christmas beckoned, a time of the year where life's uncertainties are magnified by jollity elsewhere by those more stable.

It was a Tuesday morning. My telephone rang.

"Good morning can I speak to Jeeves please?" came the deliberate and ever so slightly posh voice at the end of the line

"This is Jeeves. To whom am I speaking?"

"This is Richard Prew of blonde Poker" said the voice

"How may I help you?" I said, almost regretting the sentence as soon as it left my mouth. My history with that organisation: Peroxide Pensioners, Gullible Gunners, Crackpot Colonics, Reckless Rookies. My experience of all suggested I should terminate the conversation there and then.

Instead, the voice answered.

"I am getting many enquiries as to your identity Jeeves on our forum. Would it be ok if we disclosed who you are?"

I had not realised that the general populace of the community had worked out that Jeeves is in fact a nom de Plume of one of their number.

"I am not sure" I replied. "It's not really important I know, but I would like to protect my anonymity in case of reprisals"

"Oh" said the deflated voice. In the background I could hear children shouting intermingling with the strains of the Post Horn Gallop

"Is there anything else I can help you with sir?" I asked, in hindsight rather stupidly

"Well....." and there came a pause, a pause so pregnant that a midwife with a suction pump was no doubt on hand to assist

"I am looking for a personal assistant"

and with that, I packed a bag and caught the train to Bedfordshire. Waiting for me on the platform was a large man in a blue football shirt.

"Jeeves!" he cried. " I never realised you were Jeeves!"

as we walked to the car, it started

"Got to write a diary piece when I get back on endogenous macroeconomics and the risk of deflation followed by stagflation, hyperinflation and reflation. While I am doing that you can make my milkshake, clean the car, send reminder emails to everyone who hasn't answered me in the last ten minutes and then if no answer five minutes later, send another one"

"Yes sir" I responded, trying my best to hide my no doubt premature weariness.

Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeves!!!!  Wait til he takes you on a trip to the grocery store!   rotflmfao

Oooohhhh!

What WILL the fen boys say now?

wheee - glad you're alive and well Jeeves!  Have fun with the tight one :)

Aha

It all makes so much sense now.
I can't believe that name never came up when we were discussing the identity of Jeeves at the weekend. It's exactly as Tikay said though, you find out who it is and then you're like, "Oh ffs, why didn't I think of that before, who else could it be?"

 ;tightend;

Exactly. It could not possibly be ANYONE except you know who.

Nice one, Dewi.

My email clue to a Blondite wanting to know who Jeeves could be was: He/She plays poker and is a Blondite. 

This clue obviously precludes Dewi on the playing poker part?

Dell, you do know they lied to you to wind you up, don't you?

That would never happen.   would it?

There's a few ;joestrummer; about....

so is jeeves gazza or steve davies

This is a double bluff. Jeeves is Ironside.

nope i am much better looking

by the writing style it can only be Jenn or flopsy surely. Its way to well written to be most of blonde

i'll give you 10-1 on flopsy and 50-1 on jen

I will take £20 on each as long as you bet £40 with me at 1000-1 on it being sofa ;)

Christmas Eve

I was looking forward to Christmas spent serving the Prew family when three days ago my mobile telephone rang. It was a softly spoken Scottish lady, sounding slightly exasperated, and not a little harrassed. In the background I heard a man shouting, and banging noises.

"Hello, is that Jeeves?"

"Yes" I replied, immediately quizzical

"My name is Mrs Bolide from Scotland and I need your help. It's Christmas in three days and I live with a man so angry and out of control that I fear I may not get through the holiday season without beheading him. Are you free currently for a short term assignment?"

"I am sorry Mrs Bolide" I replied, relieved "I am currently in the employ of Mr End"

"Oh I have spoken to Mr End" she replied "he says I can have you for a few days"

I looked across to Mr End, at that moment engaged in bolting shut and padlocking the lid to his bread bin. He looked back, and failed to hide the hint of a smile on the corner of his face.

I said I would ring Mrs Bolide back.

Several minutes later I did so, my conversation with Mr End only interrupted by his rummaging in cupboards for KitKats

"Mrs Bolide? I would be delighted to travel North of the Border for the Xmas period. See you tomorrow"

On arrival in Glasgow I was met by the lady herself. Small, dark haired and pleasant, but slightly timid especially around bald men it seemed.

She took me to the Bolide house. I was puzzled by one thing, and wondered when to bring it up. My research on the blonde poker forum had discovered that the gentleman in question had a username Boldie, yet his name was Peter Bolide. Why was this? I wondered 

I asked the question. Her reply raised as many questions as it answered

"My husband's real name is Peter Von Beckenbauer but he had it changed by deed poll before he came to Scotland. He's German see. He changed his name to Peter Bolide becuase of his love for Bolides."

"What are Bolides?" I asked, genuinely non-plussed

"Bolides are an astronmical term. Astronomers tend to use the term to mean an exceptionally bright fireball, particularly one that explodes, sometimes called a detonating fireball. Peter is a keen amateur astronomer, liking nothing more than spending hours in the attic peering out to the stars and absentmindly talking bollocks and ranting, and he chose that name to appear less Germanic than Von Beckenbauer in everyday life. When he signed up to blonde Poker he mistakenly put his name down as Boldie, and didn't have the heart to change it as the simpletons there immediately assumed it was because he was a slaphead"

"Oh" I replied, lost for words

We entered the Germanic looking mansion having exited the Germanic car and in the Germanic living room, was a tall gentleman, dressed in breeches and shiny boots. He was pacing up and down in front of a PC and I stood and watched as he dictated a reply to a minion called Helga whilst a re-run of 'Allo 'Allo played on the wall mounted Germanic HDTV Plasma above the Germanic fireplace, with a roaring Germanic fire in full flight.

"OK, not everyone is skint...in fact..let's assume all these people could easily afford it.

Spending 1000s on young kids for Christmas is still beyond belief in my humble opinion though. Again, why does a 9YO need a laptop? Why do you need to take your young kids halfway across the world to give them an "unforgettable" Christmas? Can't that be done from the home? Really?

Am I really missing something here, is that what parenting is all about? Is that honestly the best parents can come up with these days? Kid wants a PS3 for christmas and therefore he/she/it shall have it even though he/she/it isn't even into double digits age-wise yet?

I watch telly and hear parents moan about peer pressure, I look around the office and hear people moan about them being skint one month and then spending 1000s on Christmas the next because "the kids want it". I see people I know go completely nuts and throw all reason out of the window when it comes to this great overhyped holiday because they have kids.

Pillocks, every single one of them.

I understand I might be one of the few people that really doesn't like Christmas, I think it's overhyped and generally an awful, awful time of year...I also understand that most people do like it (but then a lot of people watch Big Brother and read The Sun so I don't think that that statistic really matters)...I do think that people completely lose the little bit of common sense that they have at Christmas though...and that's why it annoys me.

Just let it annoy me, I am happy that way...it makes me feel good.

I think people who spend 1000s of pounds on their kids at Christmas are idiots. You go spend 1000s of pounds on your kids at Christmas, what do you care about what I think? Honestly,....you probably don't...if you do care what I think though, that's probably because in the back of your head you are asking yourself;

"When did I become one of those assholes that spend 1000s of pounds on their kids at Christmas?"

Parents, think about it;
It is a completely natural process. I have no kids and therefore believe most parents are complete fannies when it comes to theirs. You were the same when you didn't have kids. Now you have kids and you've become an asshole about it. I can safely say you've become an asshole about it because that's what you thought about people like yourself before you had kids. This is fine, it's not a problem....you've even become one of those people that say "It's easy to say when you don't have kids yourself, your whole life changes when you have kids of your own" as if that is an excuse to become a twat and you always hated people telling you this.

Most parents are twats when it comes to their own kids. Again, this is completely understandable...and can even be commended in most circumstances. However, only very rarely is your kid as clever as you think it is. Very rarely is your kid as good looking as you think it is and very rarely is your kid as good in sports as you think it is.
You now probably need that SUV to go shopping...even though you always hated people like that.

You should drag your baby onto a plane and sit right behind me, even though you always hated it when people did that to you.

By all means, bore people with stories about what insignificant little thing your child did the other day..even though you hated it when people did that to you. (And I really LOVE to see pictures of your kids nativity play!)

Again, completely understandable and it's great..you SHOULD feel this way about your kids....but it still means you're a pillock...and almost everyone becomes one when they are a parent.

All I'm saying is that there are varying degrees of pillocks, and those that spend 1000s of pounds on a child at christmas..top the list of pillocks IMO."

He eventually paused for Germanic breath and must have sensed he had non-Germanic company. He turned round and strode towards me

"You are Jeeves Ja?"

"Yes Mr Bolide"

"Call me Petey" he said disarmingly "Did you know that Dusseldorf is the capital city of the German state of North Rhine-Westphalia. It is an economic centre of Germany. The city is situated on the River Rhine and has a high population density - the Rhine-Ruhr metropolitan area has over 10 million inhabitants alone. The city is renowned for its many events and also for its fashion and trade fairs. Every July more than 4.5 million people visit the Große Düsseldorfer Kirmes fair"

"Er, no sir" I said, struggling to get a word in edgeways

"Even better Ja, lowest concentration of children per head of adult population in Germany. These adults are sensible Ja? Not pillocks. Not parents. Sensible Germanic towel loving pragmatic and functional adults."

He stood back and admired his profile in his Germanic mirror. After a further pause he stated, definitively

"I hate children. I hate people who have children. I hate governements. I hate hair. I hate non-German cars" and walked out of the room in the direction of a kitchen I later discovered to contain a fridge full of bratwurst.

I looked at Mrs Bolide, and Mrs Bolide looked at me

I did not ask the obvious question.."How on earth do you put up with that?"

but instead, ever the professional, said

"Mrs Bolide, where are my quarters? I would like to get straight to work"

My Christmas working holiday had began.

 

hey boldie is so upper class with a butler

tally ho jeeves tally ho!

I would like to see Jeeves go back to his towel folding duties to be honest, otherwise which chair am I gonna sit in tomorrow?

It is scary to see how well he's captured the essence of me though...can't wait to see where this goes...although I doubt he'll get much time around Christmas.

Dear Jeeves

Just in-case I don't get the chance over the festive period, I would just like to take this opportunity to say thank you for listening and flying up to Scotland to help me out.

I will be forever in your debt.

Mrs Bolide

;applause;

Good work Jeeves.

To be fair to Mr. Bolide, he's probably just overstressed at the moment, what with the move from Edinburgh to Glasgow.

Glasgow or Edinburgh, it's all the same really..except that one town is full of buckfast drinking neds and the other is full of people who think they're better than other Scottish people.

Falkirk FTW!

wow - just realised I never even knew boldie's real name!

vincent van vandervan?

whats the point i know its none of the 3

update please Jeeves old boy.

Jeeves is still about   rotflmfao

http://mosh.nokia.com/content/4F77235989507D7AE040050A453009D0

It looks like Jeeves has managed to get his old job back.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/technology/7990296.stm

I was at a low ebb. After my job with Blatch had come to a sudden end, after months of no pay and much creative accounting,  I had taken a role as Aquarium cleaner at Pets at Home, Croydon. There, amongst the guppies and the Goldfish I spent my days, reminiscing over former glories. And Blatch.

Late last Thursday evening i took a telephone call. Old habits die hard and I answered

"Jeeves speaking, butler for hire"

All I could hear was a muffled voice exclaim

"How on earth do I use this bloody thing? Maria?! Maria?! Where on earth is that girl when you need her?"

before eventually a man cleared his throat, recovered his composure and spoke

"I've lost seven stone you know?!"

I struggled to place the voice. The odd dropped "h" betrayed Southern roots, and the raspiness betrayed a man of nervous disposition and plentiful smoking

"May I ask who I am speaking to?" I proferred politely

"It's television's Tony Kendall of course Jeeves"

I was momentarily stunned. My employer at the time of my initial diary in these parts some two years ago had contacted me out of the blue.

"Hello sir, how may I help you?"

"Well Jeeves, I've lost seven stone and live on 1200 calories a day"

"Yes sir" I intoned, growing weary of the clear onset of senility in the televison personality's repetition

"Now then Jeeves, I've blagged it for another trip to Las Vegas Nevada with Sky Poker, where fish are fish and yoghurts are natural. Only I need help Jeeves, Serious help.  I'm so disorganised. Not even Mother Hen and Anneka can help me."

"What would you like me to do sir?" I asked, without thinking, immediately regretting it

"Come with me Jeeves, organise everything before hand, everything while I am there, and deliver me safe to Feltham, Middlesex afterwards"

"The stipend sir? What is the stipend" I decided to bluff, hoping he was unaware of my recent tribulations in Leicestershire

"Sky Poker, where fish are fish and the Green Room is Beige, pay me a fortune Jeeves. I'll pay you whatever you require"

Moments later we had struck a deal. I was on my way to Las Vegas, Nevada with Television's Tony Kendall once again

I meet him on Wednesday, and we fly on Thursday

I would like, should this esteemed site allow it, to record our experiences here once again

For now, I will content myself with the list of instructions provided by the Sky Poker, where fish are fish and where raked rebuys doubled the management pension pots, Relations manager himself


- 1200 calories a day until I hit the airport

- Once I hit the airport buy me fourteen non-fiction books

- and an all day breakfast. Preferably a Buffet breakfast. I love Buffets.

- Persuade police that I have not cloned my number plate and get them to cancel impending prosecution

- Read Blatch thread because if I do I might get cross

- Report back on Blatch thread

- Visit mods board, it still exists I think. I'll lend you my log-in.

- Invite Sofa King to Swansea Sky event. Get him to do those tricks. Do NOT get him to flog stolen number plates to Sky management

- Tell Mother Hen that I have a butler again and she now has time to pursue her career path to the top of Sky Poker, where fish are fish and Producers can be bolshie I've found.

- That's it.

See you Wednesday at Gatters, 7am sharp.




 

Welcome back!
Let the japes commence.  :)up

Roffle, good to see you return Jeeves. Back with a bang there.

Wonderful news, wecome back Jeeves  ;woohoo;

genius  ;tightend;

Brilliant to have you back Jeeves! Really looking forward to your exploits in Vegas.

Groan.

Is there NOTHING you don't know about me?

Pure class writting
who is Jeeves.,..,.is it Stephen fry??,..,?

Monday

Las Vegas is on Thursday, and I have booked myself into Economy some three rows being Mr tikay who is just ahead of me in Premium economy.

At his request I have been researching, via a young lady I once knew called Arabella in the British Airways Frequent Flyer (in more ways than one) programme, tikay's travel companions and intend to impart this news to him when he is a slightly better mood than he has been today.

On Mr tikay's left: Dietmar from Dusseldorf. He has requested extra leg-room

On Mr tikay's right: "arbboy" from Betfair. Methinks this is a flight that might go on, and on and just when me tikay thinks it's coming to an end, and on.

Anyway preparations continue apace.  Books are being bought.

The text instruction as brief "Addicted. I want Addicted. Adams"

I have jettisoned plans for Oasis on mr tikay's IPod, and will instead replace with Gorillaz to accompany the inevitable Johnny Cash. I expect I will have to listen to "Hurt" about three hundred times in mr tikay's suite ante-room over the next fortnight, mostly to the accompaniment of how Cash "gets how little time I have left".

The long term car-park has been booked, the Plane Spotter's guide also. I am wondering if my capacity to smile vacuously while mr tikay describes the maximum thrust potential of the Rolls Royce Trent 1000 engine will have survived two years without the requirement for that particular skill . As I know what will inevitably follow, I am also packing the Rolls Royce plc Annual Report and Accounts for the perennial discussion of mr tikay's shareholding in said company. I intend to memorise these accounts before Thursday and dazle my master with my knowledge of contingent liabilities and forward order books.

I have spent the day outside Arquiva house in Feltham, shining the new 3-Series, and double checking the number plate. I have filled two wheelie-bins with Latte Cups and Sandwich wrappers.

tikay has just texted me again. "Don't forget the Oil of Ulay. Apologies for the all night farting". Quite a text to receive that, if you were to take it out of context.

Anyway I am looking forward to the trip. A fortnight three paces behind one of the hardest working men in the Industry. A man who has his eccentricities, and may keep irregular hours, and may be OCD. Or Obsessed. Or forgetful. There must be an upside somewhere.

Oh no, another text

"Do not call it a handbag"

This just never stops.

I will report more on arrival at McCarran. 

 

Rumbled Jeeves. Not a latte cup in the Beemer, & one no longer partakes of crisps. Changed man, me.

Otherwise, good obso skills.

Oh the JAPES!

It was an early morning. I met my master in the lobby of the Days Inn Gatwick at 5.30am and from there we travelled through to departures. I was travelling light, Master was not.

Three suitcases. In the first the routine paraphenalia of the traveller, clothes and tolietries. In the second his reading matter for the trip. Sixteen books on subjects as diverse as Engines, trains and Motors. and Gangsters. The third suitcase was padlocked with a Yale so sturdy I was tempted to purchase boltcutters just in case the key was lost. Mr tikay saw me struggling to carry this case and re-assured me that my efforts were not in vain

"Jeeves" he said "I have been sent a Manual on how to use Twitter, direct from San Francisco. 1,459 pages long over 8 volumes. Guard it with your life. I will get to 200 followers if it kills me, and it is from now on your job to Tweet as if you are me, as much as you can. Sky Poker, where fish are fish and talent isn't talented, are paying me by the tweet. It's in my new contract, see?"

I was not sure I did see, being hitherto unfamiliar with the new economy world of Twits and Tweets and Tweetdecks and TwitPics, but at least I knew that the first volume would wile away the Virgin Atlantic flight that was impending.

Through into departures and we received the unfortunate news that the flight was delayed. This caused angst to an already psyched up Master, who was no doubt relying on me to provide order and routine through the long days ahead but as Mother Attilla Hen, with whom I am developing quite a rivalry for Mr tikay's organisational affections said to both of us

"Not even I, with my legendary abilities to organise and do risk assessment reports and use my Sky Poker (where fish are fish and the talent isn't talented) Amex Card, can control the vicissitudes of Air Traffic Control, Sir Richard Branson and the weather tikay"

I was tempted to claim I indeed could control the weather, just to wind the clipboard clad Mother Hen up, but thought better of it. Best to choose one's battles rather than shoot from the hip at this early stage and then be spent for the important nights ahead.

After a momentary flummox, tikay summoned us to action

"Jeeves, Mother Hen...breakfast!!"

and off he strode to the Garfunkels restaurant next to the Thomas Pink shirt shop. Mr tikay sat down and proceeded to order three all-day breakfasts, one for each of us.

Several minutes later after pronouncing to Abdul and Karim, recently arrived from Kabul and Tehran respectively and about to be deported, that he had

"lost seven stone this year" and

"Mother Hen couldn't stop the plane being delayed. Not in my contract that" and

"Jeeves is my Twit. Jeeves, send a Tweet"

he tucked in to scrambled eggs, sausages, bacon, beans, hash browns, mushrooms whilst asking for a customer complaint form about the piece of Parsley that had adorned his breakfast which was as out of place as some of the Sky Poker Non-talent at a Temperance meeting.

Meanwhile Mother Hen told Sergio, a young Spaniard en route to Rio De Janiero, that she had a Black Amex Card and a new clipboard. Sergio was most impressed, as was Mother Hen's intention.

Several hours, and six weigh-ins for tikay on the public scales at £2 a time, later we boarded.

Premium economy for Mr tikay and Mother Hen. Economy for me. Proof, as if I needed it, that the pecking order was skew-whiff.

Now, posting from approximately three hundred miles south of Greenland, half way through our journey, I have watched Mother Hen fall asleep only 47 minutes into a discourse on Trent Engines. I've watched Sandra the Head Cabin Lady make her excuses after 37 minutes of a discourse on London Gangsters of the mid 1960s. I've watched Mr tikay get a tour of the cockpit because one bright spark called GreekStein decided to tell SirRichard that one of his passengers on the flight to Las Vegas was one hundred years old today. I've complained on mr tikay's behalf that the in flight entertainment contains far too much fiction and not enough factual based programmes and we are STILL ONLY HALF-WAY

In a spare few minutes I have also created my own twitter account. I will be updating you on Mr tikay's trip via

@Jeevesfortikay

Please follow me. There you will see the real version of tikay's own tweets which might be written by me, as you know now but of course will be sanitised for corporate reasons

For the real story, follow @Jeevesfortikay

   

rotflmfao

you got your first follower Jeeves old boy :)up

Fantastic.

Ship the mention!

4th and loving this forum this week. Like a breath of fresh air.

 rotflmfao ;tightend; ;applause;  Following you now too.   ;)

+1   :)up

just brilliant rotflmfao rotflmfao rotflmfao

Sunday, early morning


I am shattered. It's early morning here in Nevada and I have been up all night. Panic began in Mr tikay's coterie when he lost his prescription sunglasses. Video film was immediately replayed, freeze-framed and analysed and I was sent back to re-trace each of his steps since he woke up yesterday morning. As you know by now, my life is spent three paces behind him and one step to the left so it was an easy enough task but nevertheless still involved visiting six card-rooms, fourteen hotel lobbys, three plazas, a brief detour past the Bellagio fountains and then back to the Rio suite. By the time I ended my fruitless search tikay was beside himself. Mother Hen was googling "Specsavers Las Vegas" and the camera crew were on all fours in the bushes. Presumably looking for the sunglasses too.

It was a long day yesterday. Endless filming of links, looking after Sky Poker ( where fish are fish and the talent is now half blind ) online qualifiers, listening to tikay battle with his conscience and into various meetings with bracelet winners and acquaintances of his from the other side of the pond.

My Master's battles with his conscience are quite interesting. They typically go as follows:

"Jeeves, can you find out what competitions are on today at Caesars, the Venetian, Binions and everywhere else please?

"Yes of course sir. Would you like Five or six spoons of sugar in your Latte?"

"Five please. When will you have the information Jeeves?"

"Within thirty minutes sir"

twenty minutes later....

"It doesn't matter Jeeves, I had better work today"

Jeeves puts down the phone, and stands down his contacts in each casino

ten minutes later

"on second thoughts Jeeves, I might be able to fit in the 7pm Caesars jobbie. What do you think?

"As you wish sir, would you like me to book ahead?"


and this continues ad infinitum all day. As it happened yesterday the conscience won, but the downside for me was that by 8pm I was searching the suite for these sunglasses in between proof reading sir's latest blog post, and writing his twitter posts.

Now, ten hours later, and with no sign of the glasses, a new day begins. Today we are promised no filming, but plenty of writing and definitely poker. However things rarely turn up like that.

Take yesterday again. I was introduced to a young man, albeit a rather effeminate young man, by the name of James "Cottonbud" Williams. His mother would be proud of him, impeccably polite, well dressed. Strangely blonde hair, almost as if in tribute to my Master. My master had insisted on wearing a white shirt and beige slacks. With his still pasty complexion I ventured that it might be best to wear darker clothes to provide a suitable contrast to his skin tone. It was a basic tenet of my manservant training that such thoughts were never far from my mind, especially when in the service of English gentlemen of a certain age in far off climes.

However Master would have nothing of it

"Nonsense Jeeves, I haven't had an accident for ages"

I hadn't actually mentioned an accident, but clearly I had struck a nerve.

Anyway back to Master Williams. tikay's instructions were firm but complicated

"Jeeves, Williams is cottonbud. However when I am on Sky Poker (where fish are fish and no there weren't any accidents) you must refer to him as LJAMESL. Only when I am off duty may you call him Cottonbud"

"Right sir" I drawled, unable to hide a lazy affectation in my voice in the middle of a long day  

"Jeeves I am serious. LJAMESL when on Sky Poker (where fish are fish and boy band members go to play). Corporate image is everything. he's an important player. Look after him with me"


At that moment Mother Hen arrived. I ventured a joke. I should not have ventured a joke.

"Oh look, Mother Hen. Well named isn't she tikay? Do you know Adult Hens don't have teeth? Quite apt really, as the presence of this Mother Hen is as rare as Hen's teeth. Hahahaha"

Tumbleweed swept the Rio corridor. tikay looked at the floor. Mother Hen gave me a look so fierce that I feared she might ring Rupert Murdoch himself and summon up the combined might of Fox News (Vegas Station) and Sky Sports News (Osterley station) to smite me from the earth. The ever failingly polite LJAMESL at least had the decency to give half a laugh before tikay shot him a look that said "Stop, and stop now"

Anyway, I will give you my leave.


More anon. If the glasses turn up, life will be much easier.

 

Brilliant, & uncannily perceptive. You know before me the plan for today, it seems. And you know of my never-ending battle with my consience.

I love you, Jeeves, I do.

who is it?

Surely a prerequisite for any manservant as able as Jeeves?

I think I have just about recovered

The night before last tikay succumbed the devil on his right shoulder, ignorring the Angell on his left and played the 7pm "jobbie" at Caesars. Several hours later, and much to my chagrin as I was hoping for a late night sortie to Peppermints once tikay had been securely tucked up with the Freddie Foreman biography, a mug of Horlicks and the soothing sounds of a RED-DOG audio book on his I-Pod, and tikay was approaching a final table.

At that point a rather exhausted Mother Hen appeared after a work packed day by the Swimming Pool, with television cameras in tow to "record the final for our viewers". tikay had the good grace to look suitably embarrassed, and his co-finalists from Wyoming, Nebraska, Alabama and Utah began to charm said Hen with tales of how "we are lumberjacks just like that Darvin Moon who was so unlucky to finish second last year". Hen looked suitably impressed, but not as impressed as if they were Spanish and called Carlos.

I was sent packing, with spurious instructions to write a blog for the next day. Also to find a dark shirt and dark trouser combination, preferably in cotton twill, for the morrow as instructions had been received from the female Gok Wan in England to that effect. I must admit I was disappointed to be thrust out of the potential limelight as victory beckoned, but remembered quickly that my role is one for the background, to oil the wheels and smooth the trip, and not overtly glory in the all too rare successes of one's Master.

I retired to my slumbers and awoke the next morning to find tikay already one fingered tap tap tapping at his laptop.

I gently enquired as to the result of last evening's tournament and was told

"No Jeeves, 9th I am afraid. Still I had a good night."

"Commiserations sir" I said with sincerity and continued my morning chores.

Yesterday was a big day of course with the start of what they call the "Main Event". My role for the day was a vital one. Sustain tikay's spirits through the long punishing hours of sitting down and then watching poker. Followed by uploading photographs, writing blogs and being there further when required.

For hour upon hour we watched the 1,125 participants play. For me, not being from poker circles, it was as exciting as a day's Angling in Chernobyl, but for my Master, it was Nirvana. Constantly interrupted by friends and acquaintances and giving him his usual regal few minutes it was quite clear that by mid afternoon he was exhuasted.

I enquired of the ubiquitous Mother Hen as to why this might be and received an all too revealing hesitant response

"well,er, you know, er, jet lag maybe, long schedule, er, late night?"

I decided to press the point so unconvincing was she

"Not that late a night Miss Hen, surely? he finished 9th"

A worried look shot across the Hen's face. She knew she was on dangerous ground

"er, well, 9th, er, yes, well, 9th."

Immersed as I now was in Poker culture, and having studied numerous Mike Caro videos starring Joe Strummer and Trade King in preparation for my trip I could see Miss Hen was giving off what we Poker people like to call "tells". In this case the chewing of the lip, the unsteady breathing, the eyes looking downward. She had, and she knew it, been rumbled.

Not wanting to cause I scene I strode across to the media area where I found a newly refreshed tikay eating a doughnut, kindly provided to him by Tony G, Lithuania's biggest doughnut (exporter).

"Sir?" I said

tikay looked across wistfully, the biscuit clearly transporting him to a long forgotten time in Ealing

"Sir?" I said more forcefully

"What happened at the end of your Poker Tournament last night?"

"well,um, yes, well, um, yes Jeeves. I went to bed"

"Forgive me sir, but it would be far easier to tell me the truth now, and for me to smooth over any issues at this point"

"well, um, well...." his voice trailed off, knowing no doubt that he was about to impart news that would knock himself off my lofty pedestal.

I waited, unwilling to avert my gaze, for tikay to spill his non-dieting beans

"Jeeves, I won the poker tournament. I won $5,000"

"Marvellous news sir. Now that wasn't difficult was it?

"Jeeves, that is not all"

A few seconds pause seemed like an interminable wait

"Well then it only seemed polite to accept a cup of tea from one of one of my vanquished foes and Oh Jeeves, I'm sorry"

My mind was racing. What on earth was he inferring?

He cleared his throat and a sorry tale emerged.

"We went for a cup of tea and then, I don't know how, but I was walking back to the Rio and all of a sudden I was distracted by the most fantastic 18-wheeler on the empty highway. Before I knew it my Man bag was gone and the 18-wheeler driver was hooting and three youths were climbing into his cab and and Oh Jeeves!"

"Why didn't you tell me earlier Sir?" I asked with the kindly manner of a provincial Doctor

"I was embarrassed Jeeves, I have been such a fool. It was a nice 18-wheeler though"

"Don't worry sir" I said "you'll always have me"

and with that, he tucked into another doughnut, perusing this website

http://www.shamozzle.com/WorldWEBCAMwatchTRUCKINGwebcamWatch.html

 life returning to "normal" once again

Jeeves, you are unreal. But it was 2nd, not 1st. I don't do "win", you should know that.  And I've been nipped for most of it already, fml.

Unbelievable writing, sir, so inisightful.

Saturday, 2am

He's finally asleep. Finally.

We are five days into tikay's mammoth stint railing his qualifiers and taking numerous blurry photographs. Five long days. It must be said my Master takes these days in his stride but I must say I find it all rather like "GroundHog Day". Four Day Ones, Two day Two's and that is just for starters. It has become so repetitive that when My master gives that repetitive refrain

"Jeeves, what are the blinds now? I can't see the screens, I've lost my glasses and I am going blind you know?"

Yes I do bloody well know, how could I forget? However I am now attuned to give one of my few standard answers raning from

"50-100" to "150-300" or, if it is late "300-600".

These seem to suffice.

I did offer to take over photography duties a few days ago upon noticing that my Master could not take a good photograph for, frankly, toffee. I also offered to take Mother Hen and her Gold Plated Rupert Murdoch Amex card to a local camera superstore to upgrade his equipment, but neither Mother Hen or tikay took that well.

The trick with both, you see, is to make them both think that the idea you have placed in their mind is theirs and theirs alone. That way progress will be made. Both are too stubborn to readily accept advice from a menial servant though. My success with this tactic has been limited as a result. Probably because Mother Hen walks round the Amazon all day muttering "Nachos, mmmmmmmm" to herself repeatedly and tikay seems to have other matters on his mind.

One of these matters soon appeared in the Media Room at the Rio. A lady called "Chili" had arrived in Las Vegas fresh from Grantham, Lincolnshire. It must have been a rushed journey as she was dressed most inappropriately given the temperatures head to toe in black, with a "Maria's Steak Pies" apron on top. They left me for a moment and went into a hushed huddle. When the lady departed to play a $10 STT at the Golden Nugget, tikay revealed to me that he had bought

"300% of Maria in the Bellagio $340, 200% of Maria in the Caesars $108 and 115% of Maria in the WSOP Main"

I cleared my throat, and wondered if this did not make the greatest financial sense in the world?

His reply revealed much about the man

"Jeeves, I stand by my friends. She's helped me with my phone, my laptop, she's come out here with nothing but an apron and her Gothic clothing, I am there for her. After all, one day I might need my camera repairing"

I chose to demur on this occasion, such was tikay's steely glare. Either that or he had fallen asleep with his eyes open, again.

For the remainder of my time I have watched my Master take photographs.

"This will make a good one Jeeves" as he alights upon some cleavage or another as long as there is a Sky Poker, where fish are fish and Nachos are aphrodisiacs, player within three tables of said cleavage. Off he trots, snapping away, flashing his Sky Poker, where fish are fish and private photo collections are now extensive, accreditation when said damsels look slightly sceptical at the intentions of the doddery Peroxide geezer staring in their direction.

After one such interlude he decided to upload said photgraphs onto his laptop

"Look Jeeves, its Dan Brown" he said, rather too excitedly. As much as Mr Brown merits excitement, he having a belly with which my Master is much taken, I could not help noticing the lady also in shot. I could not quite place her, and asked tikay who it was

"No idea, Jeeves, I was photographing Sky Poker's (where fish are fish and Hi Lo Omaha is an experience) own Dan Brown"

I let a silence hang. I knew he would not be able to contain himself for too long because I had spied a collapsed tab on the screen "Jennifer Tilly, NSFW".

At that moment the silence was broken as in strode a man, festooning Sytner BMW business cards at baffled dealers, live updaters and valets

"Any time you want a Beemer lads, talk to me" every few seconds like Terry Tibbs with a Midlands accent.  

"Alright tikay. Regards. Oh mate, great photograph of Jennifer Tilly's tits. You reckon she'd want a Beemer off me? Do you? Do you? talk to me! Regards."

tikay, to his eternal shame, kept up the pretence

"Who?" but betraying himself by a sneaky glance in my direction and a quick click on the "x" to remove the Tilly Tab.

The car dealer was insistent "Tilly tikay, talk to me. Regards"

"I am sorry I do not know Tilly, Terry" said tikay  

At which point I took it upon myself in a moment in which I frankly let myself down badly. I took control of the laptop mouse and collapsed the Firefox browser. There, on the screensaver, was a still photograph that gave the game away. Tilly, folding Jacks full on television because she thought "he might have Kings". I then restored the Tilly tab. There, breasts heaving in the clip, was the Tilly Tell during the same hand.

tikay had the good grace to blush, his red cheeks now a marked contrast to his pale complexion. He should have known though that the car dealer would not think any less of him

"Talllllllllllllllllllllllk to me you old Dog. Never heard of her tikay, talllllllllllllllllllllllllllllk to me. Regards" he drawled, chuckling away, and with that strode off in search of a punter happy to export a BMW from Leicester to Vegas, via Shanghai.

For the rest of the day, my Master shot me looks of complete derision.

Once again, I began to fear for my position. Before he retired to his slumbers tonight his parting shot was

"Jeeves, we'll speak in the morning"

and now it is time too for my bed.

Goodnight    

 rotflmfao             First Class Jeeves old boy, first class.

Any news of your master's fascination with "EPT Winner" Sandra Naujoks?

rotflmfao the best yet....Top stuff.

I am SO owned.

But I still have some hidden Vegas secrets which Jeeves would die for. Can't tell him everything, that would not do at all.

Tuesday


"JESUS CHRIST Jeeves, three our our bloody qualifiers have got through to Day Four, my chest is hurting, I got a time penalty at Caesars and now to cap it all off the people in Harrogate tell me that the click-throughs from blonde FLIPPING Poker exceed those I get from facebook and Twitter combined. JESUS CHRIST Jeeves"

It had been another long day. Eight hours criss-crossing the Rio tournament floor had clearly taken its toll and here, sitting in his ante room sipping a late night latte only a few hours ago, all the frustration came flooding out.

At that moment the new mobile phone buzzed. tikay asked me to check the incoming text message.

"Please Jeeves, I just can't handle pushing all those buttons" he sighed

I opened the inbox and looked at the header. "Maria" was the ominous sender. Only the twenty-seventh text from her today, and this was the same as the last several.

"tikay. Have got £5.75 left. Found it in back of suitcase. Change it to dollars for me? Now, please"

I quickly opened up a Currency conversion tool on my IPhone, did my sums and arranged to meet Maria in the lobby to pass over the dollars. Maria quickly skipped off in the direction of Larry the Lobster, with dreams of the Bellagio Cup side event emanating out of every pore.

I rode the life back up to the suites to the accompaniment of the ever-present "Nouvelle Vague", lift music of choice in Las Vegas this Summer. I opened the door to the Suite quietly as already I could hear the faint rumblings of a snoozing master.  

There in the ante-room , his Sky Poker (where fish are fish and click-throughs come mainly from blonde Poker, perhaps they should be charging for it) polo shirt hanging unkempt outside his chinos, lay slumped a very tired tikay muttering in his sleep some jumbled words amongst which I could pick out "Duffy" "Murdoch" and "Contract, mmmmmmm".

I busied myself getting his outfit for Day Four later today together. I cleaned his black shoes, ironed the Marks and Spencer ("always Marks and Spencer, Jeeves, British Institution Jeeves, bought my shares in 1966 Jeeves. Calvin Klein Jeeves? never Jeeves, very disappointing support Jeeves") boxer shorts and socks and then myself settled down to a few hours repose before reveille at 6.30am sharp, as per normal.

Our trip has but a few days to go. My own future is uncertain, as tikay has given no indication of our arrangements once we arrive at Gatwick. Perhaps a little support on this diary from my loyal readers might help persuade him to persist with our uneasy alliance? I have received a few approaches for employment. One, from a "Colonic Clinic, Milton Keynes and Northampton" sounds intriguing. Another, from the Paperestis family of Dulwich, frankly less so. Though possibly more lucrative if the destructive tendencies of the younger members of the family can be handled. A third, from a newly knighted entrepreneur called Sir Dean Donksalot promises much, but also promises repeated ironing duties of Hanah Montana T-Shirts. Soon, I will have to decide which is for me so my current master to use the modern vernacular needs to get "his arse into gear".  

Until then though, Sky Poker (where fish are fish and the blonde Poker invoice is being prepared) has three qualifiers nearing the cash in the major poker tournament worldwide, and tomorrow looks set to be busier still. Beneath the public mask, where nothing fazes him, I know my master is struggling. I hope one of these three plucky players can make his whole trip worthwhile.

rotflmfao Lift music of choice

LOL don't tar my lovely sister with my destructive brush!

v good though!

aarrggghh - lift music piuts me on LIFE TILT

Tuesday 9.30am


His mood is even worse today.

Verbatim, he has just had the following conversation with me on the way to the Media Area

"Jeeves, what on earth does Kinboshi mean by On here tikay engages his viewers/readers/audience/groupies, talks about things in his own inimitable style, joins in a dialogue with those who respond, etc.  It's what he does well - and people love it.  ?"

"I'm not sure sir, why not ask him?"

"I can't ask him Jeeves, can I? I'll ring him up and get 20 minutes on the Hadron Collider, 10 minutes on the holocaust, 20 minutes on homeopathy, 12 minutes on religion and then 36 minutes on do I know anyone that wants a bleeding portrait photographer in Nottingham"

tikay paused as his step quickened and then the monologue resumed

"I've had enough of forums Jeeves. RNG this, rigged that. Everyone is so unintelligent. I just want to get my twitter count up and now I being told everywhere about my inadequacies on it and...Oh Jeeves!"

Just as tikay's bottom lip jutted out the tell tale sign of an incoming email alert punctured the silence. tikay looked at the screen and let out an audible sigh of frustration.

"Listen to this google alert Jeeves. On "Ladies in Poker forum" they are having a discussion on which Tena pads are best to wear when 3-betting light Out of position to an aggro raiser.  Jeeves, why don't they all talk about trains and cranes and bridges and nature and all the wonderful things the world has to offer?"

I was struggling for an answer, but I thought that it was best to be placatory at this point or else the day could become unbearable

"Sir, just be true to yourself, post what you like, do the best job you can. Don't worry about anyone else. If you lead, those you want to follow will follow. Don't worry yourself about the inner machinations of the man on the Clapham Omnibus, just be true to yourself"

"Yes but Jeeves" tikay cried. "Look at this..."

and he thrust the mobile internet screen close to my face. There, in front of me was the latest tweet from Stephen Fry which read

"Time for Cardiff Uni ceremony. The darlings are making me an hon fellow. Sweet Matthew Rhys & Michael Sheen have given me Welsh to say. Eek!"

I looked across at tikay. I feared an explosion was nigh

"Darlings, Jeeves! Darlings! That's the sort of model I am meant to follow. No Jeeves, I can't do it. Sod Kinboshi. Sod Boldie. Stuart Bipkin Binking Hopkin can do one too. I've had enough Jeeves. I will go and take my photos and tweet my tweets and listen to no one"

and with that he strode off, myself struggling to keep three paces behind and one pace to the left.

A long day ahead did indeed beckon.

Worse - he'll bang on & on & on & ON about "speed does not kill", when it's patently obvious to even the dumbest of dumb that it DOES.

Blood pressure rising inexorably here.

It's not me, it's everyone else, don't you see?

Yes sir, I do see

There there, lets go for a nice latte and a custard cream, just like that nice Mr Kirkland used to give you.

Mr Kirkland, OBE, if you please.

Apologies, sir.


If it would make you feel better, we can talk about JCB's too, if you'd like?

Sigh. I assume you mean "Hydraulic Backhoe Excavators". "JCB" has become a generic term for all such machines. Which is so wrong.

Not all vacuum cleaners are Hoovers, are they?

You are SO argumentative today, too. Desist, please.

Yes sir. Henceforth I will only speak when spoken too. Or I spot a particularly nice pair to snap for your private collection

 rotflmfao rotflmfao rotflmfao

I said 'speeding' doesn't kill. 

;)

Yes, repeatedly, & monotonously, mantra-like.

Obviously not often enough, as you continue to misquote me.

Yes, yes , yes - we know and you can stop going on about it.

We've got the message, no need to repeat it.

We'll even spread the word to help you

 Jesus doesn't kill; and speeding doesn't exist

lol Kin got pwned haaaaaaard

This haha,wpwp.

There is need to repeat, as I obviously didn't make myself clear the first/second/third time.

Anyway, more from Jeeves please.

Wednesday 2.43am


Sometimes you are just asked to do things beyond the call of Duty. Now is one of those times.

I am currently standing outside "Ross, Dress for less" a discount clothing store on 516 S Decatur Blvd

"Why?" I hear you, loyal faithful readers, cry.

Well, tikay has run out of "knickers". Not that I am prone to such outbursts but I am afraid that when I was informed of this fact at midnight, and that he required new underwear to be on his bed at 6am his Vegas wake up time, I let out an involuntary "Fuck my Life".

Of course there was only one thing for it. Armed with two $50 notes from the boss, there was no option but to queue up outside the only clothing store in Nevada to open at 5.30am.

It's surprisingly cold at 2.30am outside in Vegas. Just me, the odd vagrant, Liv Boeree staggering home to some abode or other and Phil Hellmuth and the WPT girls practicing their entrance to the next event in a nearby car-lot disturb the eerie silence of a night back-lit by the lights from the strip a few miles away.

Yesterday was a roller-coaster of emotions for the "team", as I now feel we can call ourselves.  It began of course with tikay in a mood with all and sundry. By the end of the day though one of the Sky Poker, where fish are fish and where tikay will claim anyone who has ever heart of Rupert Murdoch as a member of the Sky WSOP Player "team", "team" had cashed with average chips. In addition a further player with the slightly ungrammatical name of "LOLUFOLD" had cashed, and with big chips too. This had transformed the mood of the boss. Suddenly it was "the best day ever" "amazing". Poker was a "great game". As a stream of optimistic consciousness spewed forth from his mouth I was told that "poker forums are great", "players have every right to question RNG's on sites" and "I've always loved Bennythedip on that TalkSport place".

I am reminded of the words of Clarise in the Girl Bar Las Vegas, situated in the Krave nightclub on 3663 Las Vegas Boulevard, where I happened to just spend a very pleasant 90 minutes on my way to South Decateur.........."Whatever". A phrase uttered in response to my request to spend extra to have my face pressed into her chest in an asphyxiation scenario for at least fifteen minutes.

Anyway, I digress. The performance of "LOLUFOLD" in particular had Mother Hen, strangely not spending the day by the pool nursing a hangover, scrambling to re-arrange flights back home because, as tikay opined:

"Well, Jeeves, LOLUFOLD has played some hands on Sky Poker, where fish are fish and we'll get positive PR out of this trip if it kills us, since we launched. That makes him ours. Mine. Ours. Now out of the way, I have to interview him, quickly".

Off he swept, cameramen and the weary Hen in tow, a one man Duracell bunny with calves like a Tour de France cyclist, to interview Mr LOLUFOLD, who hadn't actually done much LOLling or FOLDing in the previous four days, which accounted for his unfeasibly large chip-stack.  

So, now two and a half hours until the shop opens. Boeree has now vacated the scene, and Hellmuth has gone quiet. It's a time for reflection. Trying not to reflect on tikay's request that "any Knickers you buy must have pictures of steam trains on them". I fear that request might be impossible to fulfill. Instead to reflect on a trip nearly ending, and leading to an uncertain future for myself.

I trust that tikay, LOLUFOLD and that nice lady from Grimsby are sleeping well. I trust I will be on a percentage for these extra duties I am rendering in the service of the man they all admire so much.  

 

Don't let him get the last word Jon.

He'll think he's won if he does.

That's how his little mind works.

I wouldn't want to stoop to his level

Don't let him beat you. What kind of message does that send out to British cowboys everywhere?

It's a little spooky when my manservant knows so much of my intimate secrets.

I lolled hard at the BennyDip & TalkSport reference, a secret I've only shared with one soul. Good work, Jeevs, now I may be able to tell the story, in my Diary. Which I shall much enjoy.

Now, I have work to do.

Friday 3.33am

Tomorrow our journey ends, and we fly back to Gatwick in time for tikay to hot-foot it straight the the "Luton £100 jobbie"

He will be doing this in brand new underwear. I hope he is grateful. I however was not too grateful when on my arrival back at the Rio suite yesterday morning I was presented with the site of tikay standing in front of me holding a thin white bag. I could see from a distance that it had faint green writing on it. I approached and tikay gingerly handed the bag to me.

On the bag I could see that we could launder shirts for $4 each, pants for $6 each, shorts for $2 each and the list went on.

"Jeeves" said a bleary eyed tikay shorn of underwear and frankly not the most arresting sight after a night's queueing outside, "I never knew that hotels would clean your clothes for you. If i had known I wouldn't have sent you out for new undergarments"

It took every fibre in my substantial being not to let out an expletive. I had assumed that it was tikay's legendary fastidiousness and the secrets held within his underwear that had meant that he was reluctant to hand over his dirty clothing to an unspecified third party without a properly drafted legal agreement as to privacy drafted by the Sky Poker, where fish are fish and cojntracts are legally binding but blonde Poker never gets paid, legal team. However, no, despite years of itinerant living in airport hotels the world over he was simply unaware of this added value service offered by hotels. FML indeed.

Of course yesterday the last qualifier in tikay's care departed the WSOP Main event and therefore the burden of work that had sat so heavily on the weary master was finally lifted. I was sent upstairs to pack whilst tikay went off to play some final tournaments. Only this time one hopes without time penalties. I will report back when he finally returns for one last night's slumbers in his aircraft carrier sized bed which, frankly, is wasted on him. However it wasn't wasted on me, Cassandra and Juliette earlier. However I won't tell if you don't.

So my thoughts turn to the future. I have been conducting telephone interivews with potential employers. One such, a "Dingdell" asked me quite the strangest question I have ever been asked in a job interview:

"Mr Jeeves, would you be willing to be a guinea Pig if required?"

My mind raced. What on earth could she mean? I had been asked to participate in various scenarios over the years but the thought of being stuck in a pen with nothing but a bowl of lettuce was a new one on me. I sought clarification and was told

"New hose techniques Jeeves. Lube, soothing whale music, I talk about Gazza in an excited voice and whoops-a-daisy up it goes"

My silence lasted slightly longer than it should have done I felt. Eventually I broke the silence only to decline the kind lady's offer and instead I moved on to the next phone call I had to make.

"Paparestis" my note said. Greek family. Dulwich. Troublesome son in need of intellectual guidance apparently. However from the note I could see I needed to speak to the father

I rang the number and eventually a young lady answered.

"Can I speak to Mr Restis please?" I enquired in my best speaking voice, keen to make a good first impression.

I could hear a muffled voice shouting, indicative that a hand was over the phone

"Dad, yes but no but some fella wants you I fink yes but no but, come on dad. Posh geezer yes but no but innit". This must be the daughter, but my concern was to be for the son I gathered, the real headcase about which I had been contacted

Eventually a kindly voice was on the line

"Is Paparestis here hellos peeps" said a heavily accented voice

"Hello Mr Restis this is Jeeves and I am calli...."

I was interrupted

"What you mean? My name is Paparestis"

"I know Mr Restis, you are the head of the family, father to your children and owner of most of East Dulwich according to the background check I have done on you via my friends in Interpol"

"Interpol? Interpol what you means man?" said a now indignant voice "I am Paparestis not Restis. Are you taking the mickey taking mans?"

"No sir, so you are not Papa Restis but Paparestis?"

I think at that point I had lost him. Speaking sotto voce to someone I assume was his son he said

"Is wankers Costantine, wankers I tells you. Why wankers always bother me?"

Then a younger voice came to the phone

"Blatch, its not fucking Blatch is it?"

"No sir, it is Reginald Jeeves, I am contacting your father about the potential manservant position to Costantine Paparestis"

He replied "Well why didn't you say that you numpty? Are you sure this isn't BipkinBopkin or Tittyhead or CheekyPrewdiePants?"

"Pardon sir?" Even I was now getting confused.

We started again. The son explained to the father that there had been an unavoidable confusion based around the rather immature desire of myself to make a cheap joke in writing about the family surname

The father came back on

"My son. Tearaways. Irresponsibles. Good job in a media agency but spends all days picking fights, all nights wastings his monies and I wants him to settles down, finds a nice girlie, give me grandchildrens and stop handing over my money to con-mens"

"Well yes sir, I think I may be able to help. After all at heart I think your son may be 24 Carat gold at heart. A Ha Ha"

Sadly the clever wordplay working to complement the son's character and tie it in with the name of his employer was clearly wasted as once again the shout went up down what I assumed was the Marble hallway

"Costantine he's fuckings at it agains!"

Nevertheless I rescued the situation and a few minutes later the terms of my potential stipend were settled, and I was given twenty-four hours to make a decision.

So here I sit, alone in a Rio suite. tikay off who knows where. Some 18 hours left to make a life changing decision. Still no indication from tikay as to whether he wishes to retain my services. A job offer in hand from elsewhere but serving both a high maintenance father and a tearaways son.

Which way would you decide? I will leave it in your hands

Brilliant,just brilliant.

rotflmfao

LOOOOOL absolutely pissed it!

Amazing!

P.s. My dad has a laaaaaandaaaaaaan accent (born and bred here)

Perhaps your finest work yet sir. Loved this line...

"New hose techniques Jeeves. Lube, soothing whale music, I talk about Gazza in an excited voice and whoops-a-daisy up it goes"

Ever considered writing a sitcom?

lol excellent work Jeeves.  It sounds like the Restis family could really use your help.  I should take up their offer of employment if I were you.

rotflmfao... indeed join the Restis family.

This!  :)up

"his legendary fastidiousness and the secrets held within his underwear meant that he was unwilling to hand over his dirty clothing to an unspecified third party without a properly drafted contract"

Now this is true genius  rotflmfao rotflmfao ;tightend; ;tightend; rotflmfao rotflmfao

Was my favourite bit too!

Please find employment with Hopkin and/or Pieman when you finish with Papertits.Thanks.

Good idea!  I was thinking a sojourn to Cyrpus might be in order first though.  He could claim the VAT back on his expenses too...

Utter genius.

PS - You may not leave my employ until I give you permission. I hope that's understood.

Am at Vegas Airport now, on way home.

Wooly Jumper Airlines never fail to fail, & the homebound flight is delayed. Obv.

Shold arrive at Gatters about 11am-Noon Saturday. so, just enough time to get to DTD for the £50 affair, then on Sunday, the Luton £100-er. Monday, work re-starts big time.

Required urgently:

1) New reading glasses. Old ones no longer work.

2) New non-reading seeing glasses. Can only see Flop from Seats 4,5 & 6.

3) Weighing machine, to assess damage to waistline in Vegas.

4) New underwear. Can't be arsed to wash the old ones.

Now, I need to go a-Tweeting.

PS - Am in Airport Lounge, & can see, close up, a New Zealand Air 747-400. Heaven.

What to read on flight home? Campbell's Diaries, my 5th different book on "google", or the Lehman Bros collapse?

England.

We arrived back in Blighty Saturday lunchtime after a slightly delayed journey where tikay managed to convince his travelling neighbour Victoria Coren that he had a tattoo of "Sky Poker" in the form of a fish and a pound sign on his buttock. Apparently tikay reckoned that when this was printed in her book sequel he'd "make a lot of money Jeeves. Silly girl".

I loaded tikay's bags into the back of his sparkling Beemer at Gatwick Airport and our brief conversation went as follows

"Right Jeeves, I am going straight to DTD, then to see Angell, then on Sunday to Luton. See you Monday night at the Days Inn, Heathrow then?"

"You still require my services sir, only you hadn't said until now?"

"Well Jeeves, we need to talk about it. However not now, DTD awaits. See me Monday night in the lobby. I'll have done a first full day back at Sky Poker in Feltham, where fish are fish and the Wardrobe lady has a crush on me".

I hesitated, not sure whether to press the point. Just as I was about to do so he spoke again

"Thanks for the last fortnight in Vegas Jeeves. Let's not speak of the calling pants shorts and trousers pants incident at reception again though, please?"

Of course I demurred and we went on our seperate ways.

This of course left me hanging. The Restis family were expecting my decision but I felt it only fair to wait to see what my current employer had in mind. Knowing him, not a lot more than Poker, twitter and RED-DOG, but one could hope that on Monday night things would be different, just for once.

I was on the Gatwick Express back up to town when my mobile rang

"Jeeves? Restis. My gaffe, 7pm. Meeting about my son" and the phone abruptly went down.

A change of plans then.

I changed trains at London Bridge and headed for leafy Dulwich. I found the address and was slightly taken aback to discover a Mock-Tudor Mansion behind locked gates and a high wall.

I introduced myself on the intercom and the gates opened. On either side of the 80 foot drive were Marble statues of Greek figures minus any accroutrements. I began to realise why the son might have some personality issues, and difficulty in attracting girls.

To the front door and the doorbell rang, to the tune of "Stan" by Eminem. The door opened and there stood a young lady. An Emo-Goth cross, late teens. All attitude.

"Yeah. your name is? your name is? your name is? Yeah yeah" she intoned

I found the repetition slightly offputting and replied, entering into what I thought was the spirit of the occasion

"Slim Shady Miss"

Tumbleweed sped across the front of the house as the young lady looked me up and down

"Yeah right. Well ya wouldn't be Slim Shady maybe Fat Shady. Who are ya really? Not the Pigs again are ya? I told ya I dun nuffink wrong"

I stiffened my back, and replied with verisimilitude

"Jeeves. Here to see your father. About your brother"

She laughed uproariously. Followed by a girlish giggle and a shortness of breath that almost had me considering the Heimlrich Manoevure

"Here to see Dad about Cos? Roll on the Fucking floor laughing mate, Roll on the Fucking floor. One sec"

I knew not why my question had stirred such a reaction but eventually a lady I took to be the Lady of the house came along and showed me to a chair outside what I was assuming to be a study

Ten minutes passed, time I used gainfully to study the wall photo portraits of a young bespectacled man through his school years from mullet to acne and back.

Eventually the door opened and I was beckoned in by a swarthy man holding a Siamese cat and dressed in a Velvet smoking jacket. Not at all what I expected.

It was a massive room. At the far end was a large Oak table, flanked by what I assumed to be two bodyguards. Shaven heads, poured into ill fitting suits and clearly, though I felt guilty for noticing, packing a punch in more ways than one.

"Come in man. Sit"

This was clearly a man in charge of his domain. A powerful man.

His opening gambit was as far removed from my expectations as it was possible to be

"Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars, Jeeves?"

Non-plussed would not begin to describe my reaction. My mouth opened but I couldn't think of the right words to say. Was this some kind of test?

Eventually he rescued me, all the while stroking his cat whilst the bodyguards stood impassively by his side.

"Hayley Williams, mate. I discovered her, was a girl in my clubs Jeeves. Proceeds of that single help fund my empire Jeeves. Biggest empire in South Laaandon mate. You name a pie, my finger's in it mate. Problem is I'm not getting any younger. I need my son to take over. Learn the ropes first. Only he's fucking useless Jeeves. Too interested in some fella called Mantis on some two bit poker site. Too interested in this new fella Sid Harris. Obsessed with Evil Pies, not my fucking Pies. Got BipkinBopkin and his fucking furniture on his brain. Comprende?"

I sort of comprende-d, but was feeling uneasy. I decided to venture a question or two

"So the aim is not to help your son mature, find a partner and give you grandchildren then?"

"Roll on the fucking floor laughing Jeeves. Couldn't give a stuff if he had the mental age of EvilPie in a stripclub. I need him to grow a pair, Jeeves. When the Pigs come knocking and the Yardies come onto our turf I need him to stand up and fight for what I have built. At the moment he has as much spine as a pissed Eel Jeeves."

My second question had been pre-occupying me since I had first met him

"On the phone you spoke in a pronounced Mediterranean accent, only in real life you sound like Mike Reid on Runaround"

"Protection mechainsm Jeeves" he replied "I do the Greek thing until I'm ready to let my guard down then when I can the real me comes out. Sarf Laandan born and bred mate"

I asked if I could meet the son, to see the scale of the task awaiting me should I decide to jump tikay's ship onto the Restis flotilla. The reply was weary

"Sorry Jeeves. He's out playing 25p-50p Razz at the Empire tonight. Again. Probably lending more of my money to people like Barrington fucking Nicholas which I will never see again unless I break his kneecaps like the last fella that didn't pay back. Stay overnight and you can meet him in the morning"

I agreed, and was shown to a spare bedroom. In there were the telltale signs of a former boy's playroom. An old Chelsea strip, a Dennis Wise life sized cut out figure. A cork board with a photo of a teenager with thick glasses standing next to Jet from Gladiators. I could well see that turning this young man into the future boss of the criminal underworld would be quite a task, but a task that would no doubt remunerate well.

As to the meeting with the fuckwit himself, that is the subject of my next post.

   

"Roll on the fucking floor laughing Jeeves"

So so good  rotflmfao rotflmfao ;tightend;

oh my, I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

I'm starting to regret those fb rapes, or the invention of 'cheeky little prewdiepants' or even arguing with mantis. well, maybe not the last one but you get my drift.

rotflmfao...VWP Jeeves

best yet!

Write a book, Jeeves, you get better & betterer.

And the character assassination analysis, the way you've captured GreekBoy's character so perfectly. It's almost like it's payback time, & you are relishing this.

I slept well. I awoke at 8am to the sound of Mr Restis shooting clays in his back garden, strapped to real pigeons. A ruthless man, and I was on my guard.

I walked downstairs to see Mrs Restis breakfasting on her own in the amply proportioned conservatory. I had thought that both younger Resti would still be in bed being young people fond  no doubt of lieing in but I heard a sound from a room opposite the study.

I gently pushed the door open a little, careful not to disturb the occupant of the room. The sight through the crack disturbed me someone. There, in monogrammed silk pyjamas stood the spitting image of Angelos from Shooting Stars. Belting out a tune on Playstation Karaoke

"You want me to come over, I got an excuse
I might be holding your hand, but I'm holding it loose
Go to talk then we choke its like our necks in a noose
Avoid the obvious,we should be facing the truth

Start to think it could be fizzling out
Kinda' shocked because I never really had any doubts
Look into your eyes, imagine life without ya

And the love kick starts again
Starts again"

As he swayed across the room he was in his element, clearly at one with the music but clearly not an Example of a budding Baron of the Underworld.

I clicked the door shut and joined the Lady of the House for Houmous and Tarasamalata on Cornflakes, an oddly beguiling combination. At that moment Mr Restis came in, sixteen pigeons and one Paparazzi slung over his shoulders. He hung them in the pantry and beckoned me to him.

"Right Jeeves. I need to warn you about Costantine. Likes "The Arts" " He nudged me conspiratorially and winked, no doubt expecting me to understand what he meant.

He carried on

"Season tickets for Legally Blonde in the West End. Saw Hairspray twelve times. We Will Rock you wallpaper in his bedroom"

I began to understand. This conversation plus my earlier sighting and the Sister's prior laughter were painting a picture, it had to be said.

He took me through to the Living Room, and without knocking we walked in on the son busy manicuring his nails. On a nearby laptop the poker forum was open alongside a second tab in which a Google search was being conducted for "Mantis Birmingham Identity Hendon Mob Results Poker e-Harmony Compatability".

Cos stood upright quickly, head bowed in the direction of his father. His pyjamas began to slip and he pulled them up like a recalcitrant six year old. That was clearly the wrong moment for the Playstation backing track to KickStart again.

"What the fuck is that son?" the father enquired. To be fair, he could have been asking about the Pyjamas. Or the manicuring. However he wasn't and the son knew it

"I have got an evening job, Dad" Half expecting the father to be proud of him, but knowing in his heart of hearts this was as likely as him winning a nine table session of Pot Limit Omaha Six Max on Full Tilt Poker.

"Go on" said the father

"I am going to be lead singer in an Example tribute band, Dad, and I am practicing his greatest hit"

The father's face was like thunder. It then appeared that extreme stress led him to resort to Mediterraean patois once again

"Examples? Fucking Examples? I got you fuckings jobs in leadings International Media Agencies and you want to fucks around in tributes bands? Costantine you are a disgrace to the family. You should be readyings yourselves for life as boss of leading International crime syndicate not fucking around on poker forums and Wests Ends Musicals and fucking Playstations. Get a fucking grips mans"

I did not know where to look. The son looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him up. Something to swallow him up anyway, if the father was right.

I asked for a few minutes alone with the distraught son, to see if I get a connection with him, on which life's valuable lessons could be based and built upon.

The father agreed "Of course Jeeves, take as long as you like"

Once the door had been slammed I put a fatherly hand on the young man's shoulder and he looked up, eyes moist and expression hand-dog.

"Who the fuck are you?" he asked, his abrupt front kicking in. "Not fucking Mantis are you? Nah your sentences are too short for that"

"Quite sir" I replied, keen to emolliate in line with what I suspected was the young man's core character beneath the aggression he showed so readily to the outside world.

I carried on. "Your father has high expectations of you doesn't he Cos? You feel he doesn't emphathise with your love of musical theatre. You lash out at all and sundry because of this. Perhaps you would work with me to solve this conundrum?"

He looked at me and scanned the paper sheet of references I gave to him

He talked to himself

"tikay. Hmmm. NoFlopsHomer. Karabiner. Dingdell. TightEnd. Compo. I know all these guys. He's worked for all of them. Hmmmmm. Basket cases the lot of them"

He looked at me. I proferred another suggestion

"Perhaps sir, we could do a duet on "No air"?. I'll be Chris Brown, you can be Jordin Sparks. Is that on your Playstation disc"

He nodded, as excited as a puppy presented with his first large bone.

As we swayed in time and sang " Tell me how I'm supposed to breathe with No air" I knew that the road to becoming a Drugs Overlord began here. It would no doubt be a rocky journey, but in time he could become a real man instead of the simpering wreck I saw before me.    


YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T9yGcKlYAiw

Wow, I didn't know Cos was this camp...I mean, obv I knew he was slightly ginger beer but didn't know it was this bad.

WRITE THAT BOOK JEEVES.

Mr Jeeves, Whilst you are at the Resti Residence. Can you see if you can find a copy of the young greek's birth certificate. He has been telling the forum he is only 23, but i unearthed this picture of him on facebook with another famous blonde. Yes, that really is Phil 'Snatiramas' Cooklin. It was taken circa 1990 so it casts a huge cloud over his claims he is only 23.

TIA.

LOL, sure is Snat.
BBC Library photo of a young Dave-Lee Travis and Simon Bates imo.

:o

That really is them!