Roses For The Dead

This Saturday, our 10 year reunion takes place. The Class of 98 will get together and reminise about the old times, we'll have a few laughs, share some stories and get people we haven't seen for a while up to speed on our exploits since we said goodbye to our secondary schooling lives. Of course, everyone attending is anticipating a good night. There will be something missing however, something that will be in the back of our minds as we kick back and enjoy ourselves, something that will make the whole event seem incomplete.


Alfie wont be there.


Alfred Charles Frichot was one of a kind. He was the strange kid from the bush who, rumor has it, came out of the womb sporting a goatee. Alfred may have had his eccentricities, but beneath it all was a huge heart that was solid gold. If something was wrong, Alfie would make sure you were ok. If you were down, he'd make you smile. If you needed something, Alfie would try his best to see you got it. When he got his license, he'd only be too happy to give his mates a lift in his wagon, of which he was so proud. The thing about Alfie was, he was everybodys mate. It was rare you'd find someone who didn't have kind word about Alf, he was the sort of guy who could just get along with anyone. He was friendly (almost to a fault), outgoing, fun loving and full of a genuine love of life.
I first met Alfie in 1992, as most of us attending the event this Saturday did. We were all wide eyed, somewhat scared grade 6 students attending orientation day at ACC. We huddled together in our school groups when we arrived on that first morning, except for this strange, olive skinned kid with the 5 o'clock shadow. We were split into what would be our classes for year 7 and sure enough, there he was. First session of the morning was English. We were asked to tell everyone our name and give some of our interests. After the first dozen or so people had given their stock standard responses (football, basketball, music, computers etc.) the olive skinned boy was asked what his name was, and what were his interests. He replied with a confidence the other 20 or so other people together couldn't muster "My name is Alfed Frichot and I like reptiles." Perhaps it seems like an unremarkable thing to say, however the way Alfie moved when he said it, lithly wiggling his shoulders up and down in the same pattern as you would expect a snake that was being stalked through the grass to make, made this person seem genuine. Anyone could have said they went out and caught snakes and lizards and been lieing. Not Alfred, he was who he was, take it or leave it. He wasn't about to be judged by a bunch of town kids, if they didn't like who he was, bad luck for them.
Over the years Alfie would amuse us, shock us and most of all, touch our lives in ways that we never thought imaginable at the time. Whether it was shaving half his hair off, leaving one side bald whilst sporting a mighty 90's undercut on the other, or presenting the girl he was smitten with with a bunch of flowers in the hallway, or performing one of his acoustic guitar sets at lunchtime in the library, or taking a group of people to McDonalds at lunchtime or after school after he got his car. That was Alfred, he was always himself, and we wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
As you can see, my blogspace is called Shot Down Before My Prime. Blogs are a self absorbed thing really. Those of us who have blogs think that our opinions matter so much that we have to share them with the world. Alfred wouldn't have had a blog, or facebook or myspace or perhaps even a computer. He was a simple guy, who had simple pleasures. And he truly was shot down before his prime. Alfred had the world at his feet when he was tragically killed in the farm accident in 2004. He was working on a dairy farm, being the country boy he always was. He was engaged to be married. He had something most of us would kill for, the life he actually wanted to lead. And foe him to be struck down in such a freak accident at such a young age shook everyone who knew him to the core. We always just thought Alfie would be there. That we could ring him up and have a chat and of course a few laughs. He should be there with us on Saturday night, having a few beverages and swapping stories. And he will be, not in person of course, but in our hearts and minds, and in spirit. It will be bittersweet in a way, but Alfie will be watching from heaven, a halo over the tattered old black hat that had the beer bottles around the brim, angel wings sprouting from between his shoulder blades of his flannel shirt, running amok as only Alfred could.

We'll miss you this Saturday night Alfred.

You May Not Look Like Much, But You're Pro At Believing That You're The Best

As most people who know me know, I play poker. Am I good? Not really, i'm at best average, and that's probably a stretch anyways. There are however, some absolute PROS that play poker in our region. You probably have them wherever you play too. Yep, people who think and act so superior to everyone else not just at the table, but at the venue, that it's a shock they are playing in some small little free pub game. Maybe they are doing it to show us lesser players, us mere poker mortals, just how great they are. It's strange to me because if I was ever as good as these pillars of the game, I probably would be on the pro circuit. But no, these heroes come along to the free poker events in pubs and clubs, possibly because they want to shun the spotlight and prefer their menial jobs over that of jetting arounbd the world playing poker, or possibly because they want the rest of us to for once be able to rub shoulders with greatness (albeit every week). I have found that there are 2 types of these pros, the first is...


THE KNOWS IT ALL PRO.
These people are kind enough to shower us with their immense poker knowledge before the game, as well as during the game and after the game...or on the turbo/losers table. They are amazing at reading what cards EVERY SINGLE PLAYER HAS, and will turn to each other and say things such as 'I knew he had pocket 7s' or 'Oh you overplayed that hand, you could have got more out of me' or perhaps they will sit there and critique your play and boast about how they knew what you had, they would have done this, blah blah blah, especially after they've lost a hand to you. The know all the terminology (eg. 'I knew pre-flop that I was sitting on the nuts, he was on tilt and trying to bluff my bullets with his cowboys, he totally overplayed it') and recall everyhand they play and why they would have won if they didn't. It's great that we have such knowledgeable, and let's face it, brilliant people around to tell all us players beneath them what they know, which appears to be everything.

The second type is

THE 'I LOOK LIKE I AM A REAL PROS' PRO' PRO
These people normally sit with their head down, hat pulled down over their eyes (usually not hair, because they are receding) play with their chips constantly, REFUSE to smile or even speak and use extravagent hand gestures whether calling, folding, scrathing themselves or whatever. And these players can be just as smug as type one people. If they beat you in a hand, you usually get a contemptious 'how dare you even consider playing against me' look, and if by some fluke you beat these superstars, they let out a contemptious snort. Of course, they lost the hand, you didn't win it. They are so absorbed i themselves at the table they fail to realise that they look like complete tools, and there's a good reason why these people are single.

My question, if these players are so good, why didn't I see them on tv at the World Series Of Poker? I had two type 1 players and type 2 player on my table tonight. Why were they playing in a club dining room, not in Vegas? Or even Crown? How come their work clothes don't have Full Tilt or Poker Stars logos on them? Perhaps I shouldn't be complaining, I mean I should be privledged to be in the same room as them. But funnily, at the end of the day, myself and most people I know end up thinking the same thing about them...

fucking wankers.