/ Matt Broughton / 05 February 2008 / Leave a comment

Matt Broughton isn't a racist. Unless you're an American that is...

I'm a friendly chap around the American poker tables. I don't wear sunglasses, and never use my iPod to shut myself off from the outside world (I have days by the pool with the wife for that kind of thing). No: at the table you'll find me amusing and chatty. However that's not because I like you. Surprisingly enough, I actually hate you. In fact I hate everything about you. You dress funny; you don't talk proper; and there's a very good chance you're shorter than me. You total utter loser.

However, don't worry because you'll never know this. I offer my hand in friendship as we sit down at the table together, but in my mind all I see is that bit at the end of Superman II where the boy scout takes Zod's hand (in pretence of swearing eternal allegiance) and slowly crushes every bone in his hand. I look into your eyes as I imagine the gorgeous crumbling/crackling noise that accompanies this action. Of course I ultimately lack the strength to pick you up with one arm and throw you across the poker room (curse our weak yellow sun) but it's certainly one of the daydreams passing through my mind as you introduce yourself to me as Billy-Bob McJohnson from Oklahoma. 'Fly Billy-Bob', I think, 'fly...'

And so it is we settle down, gather up our chips... and then - and only then - I unleash my secret weapon upon thee: the accent. Sometimes I'm on a par with Stephen Fry for superciliousness; other times you'd think I was Albert Steptoe's long lost grandson. Needless to say, these poor saps are about to spend five hours with either some posh twat, or a cheeky cockney geeza ("gawd bless ya!")

Frankly, it's as if the circus has rolled into town. Remembering that a great percentage of Americans think Europe is an island off the coast of Switzerland, having an actual live Englishman at the table is like having a miniature teapot with legs dancing over the felt and pouring hot beverages on your cards; both disturbing and intriguing all at the same time.

Anyone on my table that pretends to be part-Irish (why do Americans think that's such a brilliant thing?) is dealt with swiftly, while anyone who even vaguely pretends to have "Always wanted to visit Europe" is shut down with an impromptu conversation about the "importance of Benelux to the troubled peoples of Croatia and Lithuania". With the trouble-zones under control, I can now go about the important business of finding out everything about you so that I know how to rob you of your chips.

Now if some stranger rocked up to you in a restaurant and asked you your sexual preference, what you do for a living, if your parents are dead, and exactly how much money you have with you right now, you'd be forgiven for sticking your knife and fork into their eyes and twisting them like the controls of an Etch-a-sketch. However, at the poker table a man armed with an accent can pretty much go anywhere he wants. Borat demonstrated the extremes of this practice, but you can get pretty damn close to his results without over-use of the phrase "dog's anos" if you're clever about it.

Armed only with my best English diction, I find out that the ginger-bearded chump next to me is being picked up by his wife at 1pm to go eat. He wasn't initially ready to tell me his entire plan for the day, but after I made up a few words and asked him if he considered himself a 'biposteculate man' he slowly fell apart in front of my very eyes (I'm pretty sure his PIN number and social security details weren't too far behind). Utilising said knowledge, I set my watch alarm for noon, safe in the knowledge that ginger-beard would be interested to know that he only had an hour of fun before his owner came to collect her fat monkey and head to the buffet to shove mashed-up meat into his face hole.

Unsurprisingly he played as many hands as he could in that final 60 minutes between noon and din dins, and over-played pretty much every single one of them.

So remember: a man about to be dragged off by his missus is a man prepared to play any two cards. He is also a man who'd rather lose everything playing against a charming Englishman than leave the table with a few chips left but no stories to tell. I oblige; stacking him about four times (approx.) and he walks away smiling but penniless. See you tomorrow, Billy-Bob... see you tomorrow.

Betfair would like to make it clear that they really like Americans. TheWaster says that he does too, and was just pretending to be racist for 'comedy effect'. Whatever...