Day 107
As anticipated, my night’s sleep was cut short by what sounded like the entire house crashing around my ears. Of course, it turned out to be Mrs. Snowman’s nasal cavities doing their usual party trick and I ended up on the sofa.
My brother-in-law arrived late last night and after a brief meal and discussion about the cricket match between India and the West Indies, he retired to bed with some paperwork in preparation for his morning flight.
Luckily, he is traveling from Terminal Four at Heathrow airport and not Terminal Five.
If you live outside the UK this will probably mean absolutely nothing, so for those readers without an English accent I shall enlighten you.
After several years of the usual British bureaucracy and argument, plans for a new terminal were approved. It went through the usual stages of public meetings, private meetings, government committees, sub-committees and probably a phone poll organized by the West London branch of the Boy Scouts, and eventually British Airways were the proud owners of a hugely over-budget multi-billion dollar facility.
The only teeny little problem is that the finished project is the most colossal fuck-up.
Their new state of the art security system works with such focused efficiency that it wont let any of the ground staff back into the building once they’ve gone out of it and manages to cause major delays for the passengers who were supposed to go through it without any hold-ups. This in turn ensures a large majority of flights have been cancelled and the lovely new seats in the main foyer are doubling as beds.
Most of the baggage is unable to fly with those who own it and the backlog is now getting so bad that 20,000 items have been sent to Italy for storage (honestly). None of the cash machines work properly so those who are stuck there can’t buy anything from the large number of over-priced shops expecting their custom.
And they’ve given London the 2012 Olympics.
Lets all hope it doesn’t turn out like the new BA hub or we could find ourselves in an unusual situation for some of the events.
I can envisage the long jump taking place in a kindergarten sand pit and the javelin being fought out over a quick game of darts at a local pub.
I guess they could hold the swimming heats in the river Thames although the water polo could cause a few problems, as the participants would have to dodge a flotilla of turds to get the ball in the back of the net. I’m not sure of a venue for the main stadium events but from what I can gather, there’s a fucking great big building next to Runway 4 with hardly any people in it that could prove useful.
And so to the poker. Due to the bankroll hovering around zero, I had to play two freerolls that evoked nostalgic memories of starting this adventure. Both games had a field of 12,000 players with a quarter of the field going all-in on the first hand. This will give some idea of how the rest of the evening panned out. If I got a big Ace and raised the blind I’d get an over-bet from a nutcase chasing a 10 high straight. If I called with mid-pockets I’d find a raise over the top with 7-2 off.
Needless to say, it’s virtually impossible to play a proper game of poker against these idiots and pretty soon I found myself reduced to their level by making stupid bets and trusting my luck to the poker gods.
As usual my prayers went unanswered and I was eliminated before reaching the first break. I found a 10c game soon afterwards and was even less successful as my pocket 9’s got murdered by A-J within twenty minutes.
The only positive thing about the entire day was that we managed to get my brother-in-law to the airport in plenty of time for his flight. The negative aspect being that Mrs. Snowman also tagged along for the ride.
I managed to keep her mind occupied with a few snippets of mundane conversation so that she didn’t try to give me any directions and we therefore got home in reasonable time rather than taking a de-tour via central Poland.
The journey was uneventful other than a brief moment when she asked me if I thought her mother would like another cat to replace the one that recently mislaid all of its nine lives in a single go.
I can assure everyone that sudden shocks to the system when traveling at eighty miles per hour on a motorway are maybe not things you would really want to experience yourselves.
Moreover, when the wife leant over and grabbed my balls after I gave a response of “Fuck off!” I suspect that wouldn’t be at the top of your wish list either.
Starting bank: $0
Current bank: $0.14
My brother-in-law arrived late last night and after a brief meal and discussion about the cricket match between India and the West Indies, he retired to bed with some paperwork in preparation for his morning flight.
Luckily, he is traveling from Terminal Four at Heathrow airport and not Terminal Five.
If you live outside the UK this will probably mean absolutely nothing, so for those readers without an English accent I shall enlighten you.
After several years of the usual British bureaucracy and argument, plans for a new terminal were approved. It went through the usual stages of public meetings, private meetings, government committees, sub-committees and probably a phone poll organized by the West London branch of the Boy Scouts, and eventually British Airways were the proud owners of a hugely over-budget multi-billion dollar facility.
The only teeny little problem is that the finished project is the most colossal fuck-up.
Their new state of the art security system works with such focused efficiency that it wont let any of the ground staff back into the building once they’ve gone out of it and manages to cause major delays for the passengers who were supposed to go through it without any hold-ups. This in turn ensures a large majority of flights have been cancelled and the lovely new seats in the main foyer are doubling as beds.
Most of the baggage is unable to fly with those who own it and the backlog is now getting so bad that 20,000 items have been sent to Italy for storage (honestly). None of the cash machines work properly so those who are stuck there can’t buy anything from the large number of over-priced shops expecting their custom.
And they’ve given London the 2012 Olympics.
Lets all hope it doesn’t turn out like the new BA hub or we could find ourselves in an unusual situation for some of the events.
I can envisage the long jump taking place in a kindergarten sand pit and the javelin being fought out over a quick game of darts at a local pub.
I guess they could hold the swimming heats in the river Thames although the water polo could cause a few problems, as the participants would have to dodge a flotilla of turds to get the ball in the back of the net. I’m not sure of a venue for the main stadium events but from what I can gather, there’s a fucking great big building next to Runway 4 with hardly any people in it that could prove useful.
And so to the poker. Due to the bankroll hovering around zero, I had to play two freerolls that evoked nostalgic memories of starting this adventure. Both games had a field of 12,000 players with a quarter of the field going all-in on the first hand. This will give some idea of how the rest of the evening panned out. If I got a big Ace and raised the blind I’d get an over-bet from a nutcase chasing a 10 high straight. If I called with mid-pockets I’d find a raise over the top with 7-2 off.
Needless to say, it’s virtually impossible to play a proper game of poker against these idiots and pretty soon I found myself reduced to their level by making stupid bets and trusting my luck to the poker gods.
As usual my prayers went unanswered and I was eliminated before reaching the first break. I found a 10c game soon afterwards and was even less successful as my pocket 9’s got murdered by A-J within twenty minutes.
The only positive thing about the entire day was that we managed to get my brother-in-law to the airport in plenty of time for his flight. The negative aspect being that Mrs. Snowman also tagged along for the ride.
I managed to keep her mind occupied with a few snippets of mundane conversation so that she didn’t try to give me any directions and we therefore got home in reasonable time rather than taking a de-tour via central Poland.
The journey was uneventful other than a brief moment when she asked me if I thought her mother would like another cat to replace the one that recently mislaid all of its nine lives in a single go.
I can assure everyone that sudden shocks to the system when traveling at eighty miles per hour on a motorway are maybe not things you would really want to experience yourselves.
Moreover, when the wife leant over and grabbed my balls after I gave a response of “Fuck off!” I suspect that wouldn’t be at the top of your wish list either.
Starting bank: $0
Current bank: $0.14