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 Maguire according to Master is "so last year Jeeves"

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

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. 

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. 

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 Hollink'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.



 

 

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.

If there is public demand for the return of Jeeves I will either


a) Ask master in the most reverential terms for him to re-consider his decision

or

b) You must promise not to tell him I am posting covertly.


You must let me know though. I have been approached by the Nevada Gambling Press to syndicate my ramblings, so time is short. Toot toot!

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

 

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