Archive for : October, 2018

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Happy Meals Are On Me!

My first foray into the world of online poker tournaments resulted in a minor cash meaning I can afford to buy the kids a Happy Meal with the money of somebody else.

I wrote a promotional article for UK & Ireland PokerNews highlighting three freerolls at Grosvenor Poker last week that highlighted two £1,000 and one £3,000 freerolls. As I created my Grosvenor Poker account via UK & Ireland PokerNews and had the password for the Oct. 21 £1,000 freeroll, I thought fuck it, I’ll play that.

The preparation for the freeroll wasn’t the best. My youngest was picked up by his mum and I had to drop my eldest off with his mum, but our journey time was extended by a couple of routes home being blocked due to an accident involving a motorcycle and a car. I’ve not heard anything on the news about what happened, but I do hope the biker is OK.

Firing up a freeroll

This freeroll kicked off at 1900 and I didn’t get to the eldest’s house until 18:50 and it’s a 20-25-minute journey home. A completely clear run on the way home meant I didn’t miss too many hands, thankfully.

A few hands after logging onto my laptop saw me call off a decent chunk of my stack. At 10/20, a player in late position on our seven-handed table opened to 60 and for some reason I flatted in the small blind with AcKd. I check-called a 120 bet on the 5h7sAh flop and did the same for 240 chips on the Qh turn. Like a donk, I check-called a 900 bet on the 4d river and was shown 6h4h for my troubles.

After losing a couple more pots, I managed to win a decent pot with Jc9c when I backed into a straight.

I was treading water despite this decent pot because the blinds increased every five minutes and in significant jumps. My 12 big blind shove from the small blind with AhTc cracked a pair or queens, but then everything reverted to finding spots to get my stack in and steal some blinds.

Short stacked ninja

Some breathing room was mine when the cutoff jammed five bigs with what turned out to be KsQc and I took the coinflip with a 5h5d and held.

A few more timely shoves and three-bet shoves helped me keep afloat until I picked up AsAc and got my massive 10 big blinds into the middle against QdTh to double up on the bubble. The bubble burst as my AhJs shove was called by KsQs and they spiked a queen.

It was game over a few hands later when I was forced to push a micro stack into the middle with 9d4h and lost to Ac9s.

Balling out of control with my £15 bankroll!

Balling out of control with my £15 bankroll!

Recapping the action

This meant I had finished 14/75 and picked up a free £15. Don’t get me wrong, this is not a brag or anything like it, after all, it’s only a £15 score from a free tournament, but it did show me a lot of areas that I need to improve.

I’m very rusty, having not really played anything for three years and a couple of things stood out that I am going to need to work on if I am to get back into the game.

  • Stop being a calling station even against donkeys
  • Stop overvaluing suited one and two gappers, particularly against fishes

Overall, I was quite pleased with my short stack game – I’ve had plenty of practice over the years, obviously – and how I read some of the situations. Yes it was only a freeroll but free cash is free cash and now the Happy Meals are on me!

Not sure if I’ll get to play any of the Monster Series events at partypoker from Sunday as I can’t really afford to stick any money online at the moment as it’s been a very expensive month. There is another £1,000 freeroll at Grosvenor Poker on Sunday evening though, so perhaps I’ll crush that instead.

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Tempted to Get Back Into Online Poker

There was a time that I harboured dreams of becoming a professional poker player, either sitting behind my computer screen playing online poker or travelling around the UK and maybe the world playing in poker tournaments.

I soon realised – I say soon but it took three or four years – that this was never going to be the case. Why? One reason was that I was not dedicated enough to putting in the hours away from the table to study the game. Another was my inability to log a significant number of tournaments or cash game hands to make some semi-serious money.

Missing the boat

My chance to realise the dream probably came around 10-years ago when I split with my then girlfriend and moved into the pub my mate was running. We struck a deal where I would work a few shifts behind the bar when I finished my day job in exchange for renting the room. This meant my outgoings were very low (I wasn’t earning much but the ratio of income to outgoings was decent) and I saw my little lad on Saturdays so I had plenty of spare time.

Instead of knuckling down and putting in the hours, I kind of went off the rails a little bit and spent most of my spare time chasing birds, getting pissed up and taking various substances, as you do when you’re a bit of a dickhead.

Another opportunity reared its head around 2012 when I had got my act together and had fallen back in love with the game. I was working in the poker industry by now, although not to the extent of the present, and enjoyed some decent results.

Staking opportunity

I was writing some articles for Betfair, including an ongoing series called Pud’s Poker Progress where I’d document my progress, or lack of it, in the online poker world. Betfair agreed to stake me in their GSOP series if I wrote a daily recap of what had gone on during the previous day.

A handful of min-cashes by yours truly were followed up by some decent scores, even better that I hadn’t had to buy into any of the tournaments. I finished 50/600 in a $108 buy-in rebuy for a then career-best $520.82; the best was yet to come.

One of the latter events of the series was a $22 buy-in Deepstack with $30,000 guaranteed. Cutting a long story short, I took down the tournament for $4,844.32 in cash and a $525 seat to the mini-Grand Slam, or Main Event as most people would call it these days. That is still my largest-ever online score.

online poker biggest win

My biggest online poker win

Great start to the year

A couple of months later, I finished 3/2994 players in the PokerStars $3.30 rebuy for $2,483.37. I used to love that tournament and the 2R1A events. On Jan. 1, 2014, I finished 4th in a $5.50 2R1A for $980.92 then towards the end of the month I finished sixth in the $3r for $821.38 and five days later finished fourth in it for $1,459.38.

Despite this impressive start, I hardly played again that year, opting to try grind the 180-man games.

I recently fired up my old PocketFives account and added my screen names into my profile so any poker I played would be tracked. Sadly, my Betfair Poker scores from the Ongame days (remember those) are missing.

Three years since my last tournament

One thing that struck me was my last tournament cash was in Oct. 2015, three fucking years ago! Well, that’s not entirely true because I cashed in a couple of small POWERFEST events at partypoker this Sept. because I won some free tickets in a promotion. But still, three years I’ve not played poker tournament for.

Something else that stood out was my profile is showing a mere 264 cashes, going to show how little I used to play even when I was in love with online poker.

Working away in the PokerNews Live Reporting team didn’t help as I was away for days at a time, weeks when it came to the World Series of Poker in Las Vegas. Neither did getting the roles I have now where I spend half my life writing about poker and people winning ludicrous sums of money, meaning I don’t have the motivation to play online poker when I throw in the towel for the day. Yet I am being drawn back to the game.

It was probably the handful of tournaments I played with my free tickets from partypoker. I only managed to scrape a couple of min-cashes and one or two bounties while playing on my phone, in the pub where the Mrs works, while I was waiting for her to finish.

But I really enjoyed playing. The buzz of being all-in. The excitement of reading your opponent and being able to bluff them off a pot. It all came flooding back and I liked what I felt.

Where to play online poker?
Online poker or live poker

When I turned $200 into almost $1,000 in Las Vegas cash games

I’m still not going to be able to log a lot of volume if I am honest because of work and family commitments, although I am determined to get involved in some online poker tournaments in the next week or so, money permitting as I haven’t had a bankroll for three years!

PokerStars isn’t an option for me as I am banned from playing there. I’ve not done anything dodgy, but The Stars Group owns a majority shareholding in iBus Media, which is the parent company of PokerNews, which in turn loosely makes me an employee of Stars and therefore not allowed to play at their online poker site.

This means I will likely play at partypoker because I like the direction they are going in with the continual improvements to their software, promotions and games offered, plus the iPoker Network and 888 put me on life tilt.

The Monster Series is coming up at partypoker from Oct. 28, a series of 144 tournaments with buy-ins of between $2.20 and $33 yet with combined guaranteed prize pools of $3.4 million. Perhaps this could be the perfect time to jump back on the horse, brush off the rust and see if I can still remember what hand beats what or if I am an even bigger fish as I was back in 2015.

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Jeremy Simpson: Worst Referee Ever?

Everyone is biased when it comes to their football team, myself included. It can’t be helped. It’s a natural thing to side with your team. That said, Jeremy Simpson, the referee at the Leeds United versus Brentford game, was that fucking awful that he’d either been paid off to be a total dick, or had never seen a game of football before in his life.

“Shit refs, we only get shit refs,” is a common chant from the Elland Road faithful because, basically, we always seem to get referees who are so ridiculously bad that you wonder how the fuck they ever got a job in the first place.

A good referee, in my opinion, is one who lets the game progress and only pulls up the action when a major infringement has occurred. Not this card happy cunt, though. Simpson’s performance was that bad that Pontus Jansson now faces disciplinary action after claiming Simpson’s refereeing was tantamount to robbery.

You’re not fit to referee

Simpson is called Jeremy for a start so he is bound to be a bit of a bellend, it’s a given. But when you look at his stats for this season, they make incredible reading.

He was officiating the Sheffield United versus Swansea game on the opening day of the season and nobody went into the book. His next match saw five players receive a yellow card and he’s booked between two and six players in every games he’s been in charge of since.

From the 13 games he’s been the bastard in the black, he’s dished out 50, fucking 50, yellow cards and three reds. Either he’s a complete numpty or he’s been the referee at some MMA fights instead of football matches.

Yesterday was a joke. Actually, no it wasn’t because jokes tend to be funny. Yesterday was a total shit show.

From the first minute he was blowing his whistle, dishing out cards like they were going out of fashion, and giving dubious decisions.

Luke Ayling sent off by the worst referee ever

Luke Ayling sent off by the worst referee ever

Two complete fuck ups stand out from a long series. The first was the decision to award a penalty then only book our goalkeeper Bailey Peacock-Farrell. The Brentford player was almost on the floor before our ‘keeper got anywhere near him, the referee waited a full 10 seconds before pulling play back, awarding a penalty and giving a yellow card to Peacock-Farrell.

Surely, if Peacock-Farrell had stopped a goal scoring opportunity and was the last man, if you’re going to book him, you have to send him off?

The second monumental mistake was when Ezgjan “Gianni” Alioski literally fell over with nobody with a couple of yards of him and the referee gave us a free kick!

“You’re not fit to referee” and “You don’t know what you’re doing” echoed around all four stands.

Simpson then sent Luke Ayling off for a second yellow card when 1.) it wasn’t a bookable offence because he didn’t touch the Brentford player, and 2.) he let a Brentford player off, who had already been booked, with a very similar offense.

“The Football League’s corrupt!”

A draw was probably a fair result after a bit of reflection, although we did more than enough to claim all three points in the last 20 minutes of the game when we were dominant. Neither side were clinical enough.

While Jansson is bound to get a fine for swearing live on Sky TV — all he said was shit — their player Sergi Canos was allegedly seen aiming a headbutt at Alioski when he somehow ended up in the Brentford dugout. I bet fuck all gets said or done about that, but it definitely would have done had it been the other way around.

We’ve now got a break in play until Oct. 20 when he travel to Blackburn Rovers for another dinner time kickoff. It’s a break that comes at a good time as it allows the likes of Gaetano Beradi, Pablo Hernandez, Kemar Roofe and Barry Douglas to return to fitness; we’ve missed Hernandez’s creativity in the previous few games that is for sure.

Still, we’re third in the league, have the second-best goal difference and look to have a belief that we will still be competing after Christmas. Exciting times could be ahead, is it time to start dreaming?

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Things That Boil My Piss – Part 1: Other Drivers

Driving is like sex in that you can do it legally in your late teens and everyone thinks they’re good at it but in reality they’re a bit shit.

I estimate that I have driven approximately 250,000 miles since passing my driving test on Aug. 2, 2001, some 17-years ago. While this distance is nothing compared to some people who drive for a living, or have to commute daily, it is far enough to lay claim to being an experienced driver who has probably seen it all on our roads.

Some people drive only because they have to. I’m in the camp of actually enjoying driving, well, most of the time. Being stuck in traffic and queuing winds me up no end, but I like getting behind the wheel for the most part.

The roads, however, are full of mouth-breathers who fuck only knows how they managed to get a licence; some of them must have performed some amazing pork sword swallowing skills to get that pass slip. I passed at the fourth time of asking, in case you were wondering. No sucky sucky ten dollar from me.

There’s not a day goes by that I get in my car that at least one of the following things happens to heat my piss into a bubbling mixture of anger and brimstone in my bladder. How many of these royally fuck you off?

Not acknowledging you’ve let them pass

Sweet baby Jesus, this is probably the one thing that turns me into Raoul Moat. Flash your lights at me, raise a finger or two, give a little pip of your horn, wave like you’re demented, call me a fat cunt, do ANYTHING to acknowledge I have gone out of my way to make your journey that little bit easier.

A few weeks back, a weird situation cropped up. I stopped to let a young lad get passed as cars were doubled parked the full length of the street we were going down. He gave a little wave to say thanks, but then called me a wanker because I didn’t say thanks for him saying thanks! Maybe he needs Gazza turning up with a fishing rod and a KFC more than I do.

Drivers who don’t use their indicators

I know BMW drivers receive a lot of stick for not using their indicators, but that’s probably because the yellow flashing bastards are an expensive added extra on their car so they don’t bother with them.

Why don’t people indicate? It’s not like that have to wave a flag or anything, the indicators come on when you move a little plastic stick at the side of the steering wheel. I’ll tell you why people don’t indicate, because they are inconsiderate little pricks, that’s why.

Those twats who drive through speed cameras 10 mph slower than needed

Please drive past these at the normal speed

Please drive past these at the normal speed

This makes me want to drown a puppy. Let’s play a little game. If you’re driving on a road with a 40 mph speed limit and look up to see a speed camera ahead, how fast do you think you’re allowed to go past it without it going off? Think about it. 40 mph, right? So why are people insistent of slamming on the brakes and sauntering past at 25 or 30 mph? Wankers, the lot of them.

Cockwombles who are constantly braking

Pay attention to the road ahead and you’ll limit the number of times you have to brake whatever roads you are driving on. Try taking your foot off the accelerator instead of using your brakes to drop your speed by a few miles per hour.

My biggest gripe with those dickheads with a twitchy brake foot is when they brake all the way down a hill. USE YOUR FUCKING ENGINE TO HELP KEEP YOU UNDER THE SPEED LIMIT YOU PLEBS. Not only does your constant braking make the person behind you not know if you need to stop, you run the risk of your brakes not working when you need them. Google “brake fade” if you don’t believe me.

Panicking when the emergency services are trying to get through

Why is it that the majority of the driving population go into a frenzy whenever they see flashing blue lights with the accompanying emergency siren? Watch the next time a fire engine, police car or ambulance is tearing you behind you, especially if you’re in standing traffic. Sing the Benny Hill tune in your head as you watch people wonder what the fuck they need to do in order to let the emergency services through.

Here’s a tip for those of you who are mongs and don’t know what to do: If you’re in the inside lane, pull over to the left. If you’re in the outside lane, pull over to the right, thus creating a parting of the traffic so the emergency services can get through; Moses would be proud.

Those knobheads who drive in the dark with no lights on

How on this planet does anyone get into their car on a night and set off driving without turning their headlights on? Anyone who does this should be publicly flogged with one of their own arms or legs.

On the flipside, those wank stains who drive with their rear fog lights on need kicking in the bollocks or ovaries. If your “cool” front fog lights can’t come on without the retina-searing rear lights coming on, don’t fucking use them unless it’s, say, really fucking foggy.

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It Could Be Time For Leeds United Fans To Start Dreaming Of The Promised Land

A 4-1 defeat at Bolton Wanderers on May 2, 2004 condemned Leeds United to relegation from the Premier League. Things took a more sinister turn at the end of the 2006-07 season with the not-so-mighty Whites dropping into League 1.

Leeds fans have been treated to some utter dross since being relegated from the Premier League, but now could be the time for Leeds United fans to start dreaming of a return to the promised land.

I don’t want to get carried away after only 10 games played, especially after what happened last season when we were top of the league in September only to spend the rest of the season looking over our shoulders and generally being shit. Yet I can’t help being optimistic, maybe a little over-optimistic about our chances of challenging for promotion this season.

Preseason gave reasons to worry

That optimism was nowhere to be seen before a ball had been kicked in anger. giving Marcelo Bielsa the head coach role looked to either be a genius appointment or doomed to failure. We only signed a handful of youth players, sold Ronaldo Vieira, one of our most promising young players, and seemed to be shipping out all the shite second-rate players that the previous regime had brought in.

Then came the signings of left back Barry Douglas from Wolves for £3 million, striker Patrick Bamford from Middlesbrough for £7 million and the loan signing of promising winger Jack Harrison from Manchester City, to add to the other loans of ‘keeper Jamal Blackman and the still-injured Izzy Brown.

Worrying, in my eyes, was the core of the starting XI under Bielsa was going to be the same group that looked devoid of confidence for long, drawn out spells of last season. Preseason was a joke with Bielsa never playing what we thought would be a likely first team and I feared the worst, even checking Betfair for the odds on us being relegated.

Bielsa works his magic; polishes several turds

Kemar Roofe looks like a brand new player at Leeds.

Kemar Roofe looks like a brand new player at Leeds.

My opinion has done a complete 360 after the first 10 games; Bielsa seems to be something of a genius. His ball breaking fitness regime in preseason has the entire squad looking leaner and stronger than I have ever seen and the fitness levels from the ‘keeper through to the striker are nothing short of ridiculous. There’s no doubt we’re the fittest team in the Championship and that should stand us in good stead.

Bielsa has manged to find a system that everyone has bought into. The Argentinian maestro has given new leases of life to the likes of Kalvin Phillips, Mateusz Klich and Kemar Roofe, all of whom looked lost during the previous campaign.

Phillips, for me, has been a revelation during the early part of this season. Everything from his positioning, tackling and passing has come on in leaps and bounds. I once said Phillips would struggle in League 1, now he’s a commanding midfielder for a legitimate promotion-chasing team.

Klich was sent out on loan last season when the first of our two managers that year, Thomas Christiansen fell out with him. The Pole is amazing, easily one of the best midfielders in the division. From a guy who looked like his career at Elland Road was over, Klich has returned to the fold and has shown his class wherever in the midfield he’s been asked to play. His composure on the ball, range of passing and goal scoring abilities have shown he will be vital to us this season.

As for Roofe, he grabbed his chance to lead the line before he succumb to injury. Four goals in six starts makes him our top scorer and one who kept £7 million signing Bamford out of the side. Roofe had his doubters, but he’s looked like a different player under Bielsa’s guidance.

Great results, better football

It’s not only the initial results that have impressed, it’s the football we’ve been playing that have captured the imagination. Some said Stoke City were poor – they were – when we beat them 3-1 but we demolished Derby County 4-1 on the road, were unplayable at times when he hammered Norwich City 3-0 at Carrow Road and Preston North End couldn’t get near us when we smashed them 3-0 at home.

The recent 2-1 defeat at home to Birmingham City looked to be a minor blip as all 11 players on the field looked to be having a bad game. And while we drew 0-0 at home to a very defensive Middlesbrough and 1-1 away to Millwall, those are games we would almost certainly have lost under a different manager and set up.

Some of the football we played against Sheffield Wednesday last Friday was sublime and if we’d have had Roofe up front, we’d have put the contest to bed long before the fluke, sorry wondergoal, scored by Adam Reach.

We’re currently second in the league having won five, drawn four and lost one, scoring 20 goals and conceded eight. Leeds may have only won once in our previous five games, but that is without Roofe, our most creative player in Pablo Hernandez and a quality forward in Bamford.

All three should be back in action by October 20 when we face Blackburn Rovers at Ewood Park but will be missing for tonight’s game against Hull City and Saturday’s match against high-flying Brentford.

This team, and they look like a team again, seem to believe they can go all the way this season and you can’t help but start dreaming about returning to the Premier League under Bielsa’s guidance, even if them man does sit on an upturned bucket during games. There’s a long way to go this season, but like Liverpool fans say every August, perhaps this is our year.

Disclaimer: If Leeds lose to Hull today, discount all of the above, we’re shit, we’re going down and Bielsa out 😉

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Best News Ever? Fuck You Cancer!

I’ve got prostate cancer.”

Those were the words, or at least they were along those lines, from my dad’s voice that flew through my mobile phone and hit me with the force of a heavyweight boxer.

The rest of the conversation was something of a blur.

My dad had been hinting at meeting up for a few weeks prior to that phone call, saying he had something he needed to tell me and that it would be better to do so face-to-face. One Facebook Messenger message stated, “don’t worry to death, nowt that can’t be sorted,” followed up by “nowt that will finish me off” and “not something critical.”

I was convinced it was something to do with the old man’s ticker. He’d been diagnosed with a heart rhythm problem a few years ago and was controlling it with beta blockers and the like. Maybe one of his valves was dodgy and needed replacing? Perhaps he needed a bypass?

“I’ve got prostate cancer.”

What the fuck, Dad? Nothing too critical or anything that’ll finish you off. I remember, vaguely, rattling off some shit about how it was important to remain positive in such situations before regaling a story about the Mrs’ mum who died of cancer almost four years ago, before I had the chance to meet her.

Probably not the best anecdote to share, but I was rocked and clutching at straws rather than sit there in an awkward silence.

Their Body, Their Choice

To say I was stunned by the announcement is an understatement. I told the Mrs, then didn’t have a clue what to do or say.

Google can be your worst enemy when it comes to looking at diseases, yet I still frantically searched for the survival rates of different courses of treatment. Dad had said he’d decided to undergo radiotherapy and hormone therapy instead of having the tumour removed.

Why the fuck would he be doing this? There’s something in your body that is killing you and will take you away from us all, but you’re leaving it there. As the Mrs said to me, you must respect the fact that it is the cancer sufferer’s body and therefore their choice.

That’s the first part of the guilt surrounding cancer sufferers, the guilt their family and friends feel for wanting to try and take control of their lives when they’re not the ones having to endure any treatment.

Dad’s no fool. In fact, he’s one of the most intelligent people I know, so I knew he’d done more than his fair share of research into all the possibilities and potential outcomes. His body, his choice.

What do you say?

I’ll openly admit that I’ve been wank when it has come to being the supportive son. I’m rubbish at all that shit; I never know what to say.

“Oh hi, Dad. How you feeling?”

When I know full well he feels like his insides have been set on fire due to the radiation being blasted at him from all directions.

“How’s work?”

When I know he’s had to change his hours because he can’t see properly for the first hour or so of waking, can’t control his body temperature due to his body having less testosterone in it than that cunt Louie Spence so is constantly hotter than the sun.

That’s the problem when someone you know is seriously ill, you don’t know what to say to them. You don’t want to act or treat them differently, but in the back of your mind you know they have cancer. It’s fucked up.

I’ve been dealing with it how I deal with similar things of this nature, by trying to joke my way through. OK, the jokes are shit, but by making light of the situation I could avoid the elephant in the room.

A death sentence

The only first-hand experience I had of cancer before this was from the grandparents on, ironically, my dad’s side. Granddad died after undergoing surgery for lung cancer. Grandma survived breast cancer only for another form of the horrible little bastard to take her later in life.

My Mrs told me about the suffering her mum went through in the final stages of her life as she battled with the “Big C” so everyone I knew on a personal level had died after being diagnosed with cancer.

And there lies another guilt-causing problem: you start to, or at least I was, making plans for when the battle is finally lost.

I remember welling up in the car after listening to the German entry for this year’s Eurovision Song Contest as it was a guy singing about his dad. Fighting back tears and with a lump in my throat the size of a decent King Edwards spud choking me, I recall wondering how I’d react if I got a call to say the cancer had spread and there was nothing more they could do.

There were even fleeting thoughts about what I’d say at the funeral, or if I could even manage to get any words out in that situation.

How would my mum be? What state would my sister be in? How the fuck do you tell the kids that they won’t see Granddad anymore? All this when the poor old bastard was sat boiling his tits off at home and trying to go about his business as normal as possible.

What a cunt, Matthew. Thinking like this. But I couldn’t help it, despite the guilt it made me feel. It’s not like I was wishing the old man was dead, far from it, but you kind of make mental plans in your head for when cancer claims yet another life because it is often seen as a death sentence.

A new-found respect

I’ve always had a lot of respect for my dad. Coming from humble beginnings, he strived to be the best he could be academically, earned himself a degree in Chemistry – I think he was the first person in his entire family to do so – and has always done everything to be a provider for his family, including us lot.

While I have no doubts in my mind that he’ll have had a cry to himself on the nights he was along and trying to get to grips with the fact he had cancer, he’s gone about his daily routine with a smile on his face and a positivity that has been almost unnatural; you’d never know he had cancer and was undergoing treatment unless he told you.

There’s me moaning about being tired after a crap night’s sleep, and there’s Dad walking around full of the joys of spring despite almost glowing in the dark from radiation and going to 27 pisses during the night.

They say you learn a lot about someone who is facing adversity. I’ve learned that my old man is even more awesome that I originally thought him to be.

Fuck you cancer!

So, what’s the best news ever? Well, it came last week when my dad was told the months of treatment, the hours of worrying and the burning pisses had been worth it because his cancer is in remission.

It means that he no longer needs have injections to stop his body producing testosterone, which this form of cancer feeds off. We just have to wait to see what, if anything, happens when his body begins making testosterone again, but for now we can say fuck you to cancer! Here’s to one day everyone everywhere being able to say that to their tumours.

Dad and I

A photo of my dad and I pissed up at my sister’s wedding a few years back (look at the size of my head!)