Black Belt Poker

I was going to write this on my last night in Vegas, but as I went to type my opening sentence, I suffered a rare migraine, so rare that I haven't fallen foul of one in 15 years. I wasn't sure what it was at first. I kept rubbing my eyes, thinking that I'd just looked at a light bulb head on and that the blurry blemish disrupting my view would soon vanish, but it didn't. Then when my arm and mouth started to go numb, I was slightly concerned and decided to go down to the casino floor just in case I fainted or something. As you likely already know, if you're feeling disorientated, hitting a Vegas casino is unlikely to aid the matter, and It didn't as I ended up walking around the casino in circles like a one-oared canoeist.

Was this a warning? Your body is a temple and all that? Not everyone sees it first-hand, but I throw myself at the World Series every year. The PokerNews hours are intense and ridiculously long and breaks are few and far between. With the Twitter revolution in full flow and players following the updates at the table from their iPhones and iPads, the pressure was higher than normal, and criticism inevitably ensued from all angles. On top of that, there were expectations from Black Belt HQ to follow our players and keep the homepage new and fresh. The deal was to do three days for PokerNews, and then dedicate four days to BBP. So, in essence, two months without a day off. Despite the workload, I feel I did my best: my PokerNews updates received good vibes (although accompanied by one official complaint) and the BBP site boasted more content than ever before. Others may disagree, but I was satisfied that I'd done my best, and it seemed like my migraine was the war wound to justify that claim.

It's around this time that I promise myself to get in shape upon return, flush out the Vegas habits and poor diet with a bout of regular exercise and healthy heating. At the very least, I wanted to get some wholesome British food in my stomach rather than the stodge-podge of the Poker Kitchen. The first meal I had when I hit UK soil was McDonalds. I decided my new regime would start the next day.

In order to purchase a cheaper flight, I had to wait a couple of days after the conclusion of the Main Event before flying home. The irony is that I decided to treat myself by staying in the Encore. I'd spent eight weeks trapped in the confines of the Hard Douche Hotel, and I had to get out. The Encore was a worthy substitution.

A serene appendix to the Wynn Casino, the Encore boasts rooms which make 'staying in' a viable option. Whilst the Hard Rock was dark and dreary with a car park view, the Encore offered a simple, but effective sleek decor with a stunning view of the Strip. The beds are comfortable, there's a nice seating area, and the bathroom is bigger than most rooms.

But it's the little touches that make the experience. No longer did I have to worry about my 'do not disturb' sign being stolen (which happened virtually every night) and being woken up of a morning; the Encore has a 'privacy' button which illuminates a sign on the door. The desk has a swivel chair, the TV spins around so you can watch it from either the bed or the couch, and the drapes and lights are all activated via remote control. Best of all, the shower has a seat meaning that I could now wash out those crabs without having to get off my backside.

I'm not 100 percent sure why, but I act differently in the Encore. I talk with a posher accent, I try to wear nice clothes and I even bring out my new walk to replace my usual ill-postured trudge. I'm a scrooge when it comes to tipping, but at the Encore I'm like the Santa of Vegas. The Encore likely brings out the worst in me, but it makes me feel like I'm wealthier and more important than I actually am. When Barry Greenstein complains about his chip count, people use me as little more than an information hub, and railers elbow me out of their way to get a glimpse of Ivey, it's nice to feel important for at least two days, and the Encore provided that outlet.

Unfortunately, it couldn't last, and on June 22 my Vegas venture came to an end. I've developed a fear of flying over the years, but I was lucky to survive my taxi journey. I think the driver had touretts as, every few minutes, he'd have some kind of fit in his seat, and start shouting obscenities. I was rather scared, but I'd become accustomed to the bizarre eclecticism of Vegas taxi drivers. On one trip back to the Hard Rock, the Mexican taxi driver asked Dana and myself if we would mind if he played some music. "This is a beautiful song," he claimed in a stereotypical Mexican twang. "Very famous in my country." As the intro passed, the driver suddenly began singing along in a booming, almost operatic voice. I offered Dana a raised eyebrow which she reciprocated as the performance continued in the front seat. Only in Vegas, I thought, do taxi drivers double as opera singers.

Most taxi drivers are immigrants come from countries as far away as Russia, Korea and various parts of Africa, grateful to have reached American shores and to be living in the 'land of the free', although one Ethiopian spent an entire journey complaining about the weather. "This is too hot for me," he moaned inexplicably. Many confess to being addicted gamblers, heading off to the casino after a hard shift and blowing their earnings in seconds. It's a depressing trend that I've seen replicated many times before on more homegrown soil.

One taxi driver told me of how he used to work in the industry. "I was a pit boss at places such as the Rio, MGM and Binions," he explained. "I had a pretty good job in truth, but I got out a few years ago and decided to drive cabs instead." He shook his head dismissively before ranting: "Corporation fucked it up. The wealth used to be shared but the guys at the top got greedy. Vegas used to be about booze, broads and gambling, but now it's all centred around money, and all that money goes right to the top and skips everyone else out. Money's all they care about and it's fucked it up for everyone."

There's no doubt that Vegas has changed. Vegas used to be a place where you could go and have fun at an affordable price, but not anymore - $4.99 steak and eggs are being replaced by fancy restaurants, cheap house games are becoming harder to find despite a recession, and there's an ever-expanding club mentality in which a vain, image-obsessed clientele are willing to stump up obscene amounts to sit the right side of a rope and pay over the odds for a bottle of bubbly.

Vegas is the only place I've ever seen with a shop dedicated to selling light bulbs, but for all its illuminations, it's one of the darkest places on the planet, playing host to some of the ugliest, money-obsessed human beings around and eking every feasible vice out of its more unwitting victims. Morals are left at the door, and what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas only to protect those who'd be crushed to hear what a loved one had got up to on a weekend trip to the adult Disney Land. It isn't nicknamed Sin City for nothing. This is the Devil's playground, and he has a field day all year round.

But, Vegas is also one of the most intriguing locations on Earth, and I can't help but be increasingly fascinated by what it has to offer. I'm a sadist at heart, and I find fascination in watching the animals in the zoo. To continue feeding my thirst, I expect this won't be the last time I venture down the rabbit hole. There's way too much to see, and looking away will only result in a missed show. Curiosity killed the cat, but no one said anything about the beagle.

Vegas Blog:

May 23: My Old School Teacher
May 31: Welcome to America; Let the Institutionalising Begin
June 1: Pleasure & Pain
June 5: 100% British Beef
June 9: Alphabetti Spaghetti & Giant Meatballs
June 13: Colour Me Up
June 14: The Crying Game
June 20: Last Gasps
June 25: Dancing With the Devil
June 30: The End of a Streak
July 6: Tournament of Famous People
July 10: Running on Empty
July 15: An Excuse to Party
July 16: Food for Thought