News / John Tabatabai / 11 June 2010 /

With Las Vegas a mere week or so away, it seems somewhat futile to blog about my poker exploits, given that all the interesting poker hype is focused towards Nevada at this present time.

I decided not to travel for the start of the World Series this year for a number of reasons. Firstly I have been devoting some time towards business interests outside of poker. Secondly, the last 2 years have witnessed me kidnapped by Antonio Esfandiari, in the sense that he hijacks every possible attempt I make to return home. With an attempted hijack on the horizon I decided that a late start may actually be a more successful tactical maneuver to minimize the amount of time I spent on foreign soil.

So with Vegas only a week away I have decided to spend my time preparing myself mentally and physically for what will undoubtedly be a very draining trip. Living in Central London there is no shortage of nice hotels in which one can pamper themselves with luxurious treatments, so it seemed logical therefore that I should bypass the 5 star luxury and head for the Thai massage studio at the end of my road near Vauxhall Bridge. Upon entering the studio (which seems like an appropriate term, for the tiny hovel that I had entered), I was met by a diminutive Thai lady, who in her 'angry' sounding English, confirmed my appointment and ushered me into a changing room; my dignity only hidden by what looked like a used beach towel which seemed to have been confused for a curtain.

I waited to be collected by masseuse, a younger, quieter yet equally small Thai lady. She ushered me down some dark stairs, a small sign hanging in front of me....'We no happy ending'. I couldn't help wondering if they meant 'no' or 'know'. I chose to believe that the creator of the sign suffered from grammatical, rather than spelling issues and proceeded downwards without explaining that I genuinely wanted a 'normal massage'.

The room downstairs was partitioned off by a thin wooden wall. On the other side I could here the faint movement of a massage in progress and what sounded like a very large man breathing like an asthmatic bear. As is customary when speaking to a foreigner with bad English, I explained that my neck needed particular attention in a particularly slow, demented and patronizing voice, using hand gestures that looked like I was trying to throttle myself to illustrate the areas of concern.

The air smelt a little damp and as I lay on the table, a white sheet draped around my baby making equipment I endeavored to relax into the massage. The treatment itself was pretty good with all the standard stretching and clicking noises that convinced me something good was happening. Unfortunately the asthmatic bear in the neighbouring room, had allowed himself to drift into the deepest of contemplative states and had started snoring, the gruff panting, punctuated by distinctly audible flatulence that intermittently ripped from his posterior in volley's of machine-gun-esque glory.

Instead of drifting off towards my happy place, I found myself wondering how his poor therapist was coping; a small hourly rate no compensation for manipulating the dozing warthog's fleshy body.

The hour's massage crept by and I had been left to put my robe back on before my neighbour had stopped snoring. I got dressed and made my way to reception, paid the very reasonable £50, left my tenner change and walked outside into the sunshine. Although I felt looser, I realized that the venue is almost as important as the massage itself. In that case, bring on the Wynn and my enormous spa bill that is likely to ensue.

This year the British are doing pretty well in their hunt for bracelets, hopefully with my relaxation schedule well underway I will be equipped to return home with a bit of tasteless, gold wrist-wear.

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