Gambling on the books

Being well aware that one day I will wake up dead, I try hard not to build up too much of a backlog of things I want to do but haven’t done yet. It’s not that I’ve got anything against the dead, you understand; simply that even our broad equality laws seem to stop short of governing the actions of the deceased. Thus one might not, for instance, expect to receive such a warm welcome at a race track if accompanied by pall bearers and dressed in a coffin. It might frighten the horses for a start.

So perilous finances and the law notwithstanding, I attempt within the threadbare means at my disposal to take the opportunity to do stuff that takes my fancy when the chance arises. I also try hard not to continue to do the stuff that makes me unhappy, restless or fed up. Admittedly, this latter trait may lead to accusations of being faddy or having the attention span of a gnat. But I digress.

High on my short personal list of things to do whilst I can still remember my name is to go and play poker in a casino. Where that casino might be or who I’d be playing with doesn’t really matter. But the game must be poker and played, according to the picture in my mind, in a proper smoke-filled casino like in the films. So a location where both gambling and indoor smoking are allowed would seem a good place to start. Whether or not I’m wearing a glamorous red evening dress and am accompanied by a handsome chap in a black suit and bow tie is a moot point; not absolutely essential but I wouldn’t complain either.

I can, I should explain, play poker adequately if not brilliantly. I taught myself how a few years ago spurred on by several boozy hours playing around the dining table one Christmas, and played on-line for a while in one of my faddish phases. Through reading about the game in particular (I’d highly recommend Anthony Holden’s Big Deal) and the history of gambling in general (try Gambling by Mike Atherton), though, I’ve also learned quite a lot about the nature of gamblers. Whilst gamblers come from many backgrounds and from all social classes, the one thing that most of the successful ones have in common is that they each have an identifiable leak.

In gambling parlance, a leak means a weakness, a small chink in the armour, the irresistible pull to fritter away winnings earned through games of skill (like poker) on games of chance (like roulette). But I think this concept of a leak applies to a much wider cross section of the world than just professional poker players. It applies, perhaps, to the hardworking family man who simply must have the latest mobile phone, i-Pod, huge plasma TV set or other piece of high-tech kit. It applies to the otherwise conservative career woman who stockpiles pairs of new shoes and secretes clandestine bags of designer clothes in the back of her wardrobe.

My leak is buying books. That I’ve only recently realised this just goes to demonstrate the truth of how our own leaks are invisible to us whilst forehead-slappingly obvious to everyone else. Admittedly, buying books is not as glamorous a leak as playing roulette. But like roulette, there is a chance that every book you read could be a winner; I shrug off the disappointing volumes and turn immediately to the next in the same way that the losing punter slips his chips from black to red for the next spin of the wheel.

So in grateful thanks that I did not wake up dead this morning, I again turned my attention to reading my way through the shelf full of new books that I’ve bought over the last couple of weeks. I even sat outside in the sunshine whilst I did so. And if my trip to that smoke filled casino is still some way off, at least I hope I’m lowering my own odds about getting there one day.