Poker throws up some strange disciples, and I class myself as one of them. I’m a professional poker player who never flaunts his wealth. There are no Armani or Gucci shirts in my wardrobe. There may be an old Wolves shirt or a fleece from Primark. It’s funny how we will spend $10,000 to enter a tournament but we won’t tax our cars. I once had a diesel van, and in the 12 months I owned it, not one drop of white diesel went in the tank (just free red diesel from factories). We cut a lot of corners, but always make the major tournaments. I would pawn almost anything to get into a game. If I had an artificial leg and could get £20 for it, I would become the hopping champion of Great Britain.
You don’t just wake up and decide to be a gambler. At the age of 10, I would stay at my Nan’s. My mum would say, “Get round your Nan’s, son,” because she could never remember my name. If Wolverhampton races were on then, I would play truant from school and my Nan and I would go. I knew how to get into the track for free, but it meant climbing over a canal lock and holding up a picket fence for my 80-year-old Nan to crawl under! This became a bit more difficult years later with her wheelchair, but I still made her crawl underneath. I can remember one particular day in the spring. My hard-of-hearing Nan gave me the paper, asking me to read the runners in the first race. As I read Hard Ransom, she said, “That’s the one, My Grandson. We’ll back that.” Our 2-6d each way at 33-1 won, giving us £5-15 shilling, which was a fortune in …