Doctor! Doctor!

A seat at the Dogs' games is becoming rather like an appointment at the doctor's - not that easy to get. And of course there are always those that mess up the system by cancelling at the last minute with some flimsy excuse or other ("Yeah - sorry about that, but gran died yesterday while you were off playing golf with the Pfizer sales rep.")

Waiting lists for the doctor's can be murder - although compared to murder, I imagine most of us would happily wait in the queue. Obviously there are a few serious nutters out there, so we can't be 100% sure. What I am sure of is that quite a few of the said nutters are in the Phat Dogs. They're the mad Dogs (and Englishmen) but rather than any midday sun, they come out for the midnight fun.

This evening's events took place at the Doc's (Pete's) very well-appointed gaff in Lower Earley - I'm not sure what sort of doctor Pete is, but I'm guessing he's an expert in cardiology (the study of playing poker). I was immediately struck by how much better this was than a visit to my own GP, as my embarrassment would be confined to those that already know of my failings, rather than having to explain everything to one of the female Hitlers on reception. After all, if you're going to piss yourself in public, its much better that the cause is everyone folding to your re-raise with 72o rather than a requirement for a colostomy bag. Errr, apparently... I'm only going by conjecture, as my previous humiliations have only been brought on temporarily by excess alcohol and the consequent inability to move (see also experimenting with drugs).

There was another time when I rang to inform my GP that I thought I might be suffering from premature ejaculation - he said he could only give an accurate diagnosis if I came quickly. Luckily it wasn't that, although the doc said it was definitely touch and go... But enough of this, I've been told countless times that I should save all my confessions for Mistress Xena and I really can't risk being unable to sit down at next week's game...

I shouldn't really bring my sex life (very, very sic) into these reports, but my therapist says its healthy to be upfront about such things. For example, a recent survey has shown that 90% of all people masturbate in the shower, whereas only 10% sing. And do you know what it is they sing? No? Neither did I.

So, back at the Doc's the waiting room was pretty full with a dozen Dogs and 4 guests all hoping to be cured of their inability to get "an even break". Not that we're all whingers you understand, its just that badbeatitis is a common complaint with poker players, and we do have a couple of chronic cases. The 2 absent Dogs were "Quads" Marty who's been doing his own impression of God by creating new life (he and Mrs. Quads are expecting) and "DISCO" Craig. The difference between God and Craig is that God doesn't think that He's a poker player.

The Doc's phone rang and his answering machine kicked in:

If you are obsessive-compulsive, please press 1 repeatedly.

If you are co-dependent, please ask someone to press 2.

If you have multiple personalities, please press 3, 4, 5, and 6.

If you are paranoid, we know who you are and what you want. Just stay on the line while we trace the call.

If you are schizophrenic, listen carefully and the voices will tell you which number to press.

If you are manic-depressive, press any number - no-one will answer.

If you are anal retentive, please hold.

Obviously this evening was group therapy for the delusional:

"Doctor! Doctor! I think I'm a poker god... "

"I think you'll find that's poker cod - just pick a card and take your plaice with the other fish."

And so it began. There were the usual tales of woe as numerous re-buys were required, but we'll ignore those (The Wailers just aren't the same without Bob Marley). Usually it's the Coroner (G) that looks as though he's suffering most (hands clamped to his head for an eternity whilst making a decision) - but just before freeze out he called the 2 all-ins he was faced with. What's more, he was blind (the impending freeze out creates that kind of urgency most weeks).

As Lindz ("The Woo") turned over pocket rockets, and Dave ("2 Chairs") showed pocket Qs, we were all nervously anticipating the weekly impression of the worst migraine in the world, as G finally looked at his cards - 24 off suit. Oops! I wasn't sure I could bear the howling that would surely follow, and as casually as possible, slipped my jacket on.

"Start the car!"

But, as if undergoing acupuncture at my local Chinese take away, I soon began to feel a bit of a prick. There on the flop was a pair of ducks and G got his trips. And so the Coroner won, courtesy of his (definitely non-prescription) dealer. Lindsey was given a quick pick-me-up as her Ace's took the side pot, and in contrast to G's high, Dave was left looking like he'd accidentally drunk some other type of acid. He bought some more chips to take the taste away.

Remarkably, the Walk Of Shame was taken by Ping Pong for the 2^nd week running (The Run Of Shame? Nah, that was Paula Radcliffe, surely? Or am I just talking crap?) Apparently, Phil decided that he'd contributed enough to the NHS (No Hands Stoodup) - maybe next week he'll go private, but for now the "shame" of being repeatedly outdrawn will be public.

Soon after, the rest of us were falling like flies - Mark (guest) was next (another harsh one, top pair losing to Baz's 2 pairs), followed by yours truly. I'd gone all-in KT suited, and was called by another guest player (Neil) - one of the 2 brothers carrying the nickname of Cabbage. Since Pete had been the first cabbage at the Dogs, we felt Savoy would distinguish Neil sufficiently well. The Savoy is apparently a superior type, and Neil had obviously been appropriately re-named as he took me out. His JTd first made a flush to my pair of Ks, and then just to remove any trace of sympathy that might have been acted out towards me (c'mon, you know its all bullshit), the river made it a Royal Flush. Not many of those to the pound, Cabbage - hope you enjoyed it.

Later when I left and Doc bade me a "good evening", I felt obliged to request a second opinion - he must have bird flu; the man's obviously a quack. Dewie? No, that's not it. Louie? Nope, not him either. HUEY! That's the one I was thinking of. I was sicker than a parrot with the H5 N1 strain (conspiracy theory: apparently, H5 N1 is Bernard Matthews' postcode... )

After another guest (Stu) went out, Savoy found out that incorrectly diagnosing a hand can prove fatal, and Pete Cabbage was given compassionate leave and followed right behind. Our genial host, the Doc must have caught something himself and went down with something terminally nasty. Pete the Slag was referred to a "specialist" clinic and left just before Harry Potter's "magic" was consigned to the fairytale section of Phat Dog history.

As the blinds rose relentlessly, so did the casualties. Dave fell off his 2 Chairs, Baz was no longer Mr. Entertainment as he got struck down by Jesus' straight. Baz thought it was a fluke, but our holy rep had foreseen the result and kept faith. When Graham bubbled in 4^th he had a pair of Ks, but they too fell to a straight (for Del's JT).

Del had amassed a very decent chip lead, and called Lindz's huge all-in (A4s) with his K9o. His K was paired and The Woo was out 3^rd - at least she had the league leadership to sweeten the taste. Jesus had been hanging on by his (finger) nails, and soon after Del first bullied and then crucified him. This wasn't Russian roulette, however - Del had played really well all night for his first win at the Dogs (excluding visits to White City, Wimbledon, Slough or anywhere else that runs 240 volts through their hare). Hey, maybe that's what I was in a former life - it would certainly explain my fast-approaching baldy status.

In fact that was the reason for my last visit to the local surgery. I asked my GP how long it was likely to be before I finally lost all my hair. He looked up with a very sad expression, and said:

"Ten."

"Ten what? Years? Months?"

"Nine... eight... seven... "

I really shouldn't take the piss out of the medical profession, I suppose - even if they started it. They have a very difficult job to do, as my proctologist friend once illustrated with this sobering tale.

Apparently a gay bloke once fancied him. At the appointment, after checking the gay guy's arse for some imaginary "obstruction" he saw that the bloke had an erection. He cut the examination short and sent the guy away. But the next day, the gay guy says he has another obstruction. My proctologist mate doesn't believe him, but since the guy claims to be in great pain, he had to relent. And this time, he does find something.

"Good grief! No wonder you're in pain. There must be a dozen roses shoved up your ass."

The gay guy looked round - smiling, and obviously very excited.

"Read the card! Read the Card!"