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I loved working in the Bahamas. So different from England. The warm balmy weather, the beaches, the tropical vegetation, the bugs.

I was dealing Blackjack in the main pit, when a young couple approached the table, They had just come from one of the many patio restaurants. She sat down on third base, while he stood beside her.  I smiled at them both, and took in their appearance. I took a step to my left, putting a little distance between us.

“Er sir…” I muttered. “You can stay, but your friend’s gonna have to wait outside.” I pointed to his arm, just below the shoulder. There was probably the biggest cockroach I have ever seen in my life. It had to be at least four inches long.

Now this guy was about six-two, six three, and had quite a build on him. He looked at his sleeve and screamed like a girl, and frantically brushed the bug from his sleeve. It landed in the middle of the pit, where it began running around the floor. My floor person ran as far as she could screaming like a lunatic, to the far end of the pit. When it looked like it was coming in my direction, I too screamed, and began jumping up and down. One of the floormen tried to stomp on it, but missed. It changed direction. A pit clerk, and another floorlady began screaming and dancing, trying to get out of its way, as it ran around their feet. Soon the pit resembled a poor rendition of The Mexican Hat dance, as dealers, floor people, pit clerks, and players, jumped up and down screaming. Finally one of the floorpeople threw a clipboard at it.

That was when it got real interesting. It was not your common cockroach, it was a Palmetto bug. Those suckers can fly! It took off, looking like a German helmet on wings. Now people were screaming, dancing and ducking! It headed in the direction of the Baccarat pit, an enclosed area.

Within five seconds, half the occupants of the Baccarat pit were out on the casino floor. Screams could be heard from inside. The bug flew out of the room and toward the craps pit. As it flew over one of the tables, the players scattered. We could hears the cries of grown men;

“WTF is that?”

While others around him panicked, one of the Bahamian floormen, used to seeing insects of this proportion, simply whacked it midair with his clipboard, and then deftly brought his heel down on it, when it hit the floor. He picked it up with a tissue, threw it in a trash can, and carried on as though nothing had happened.

Even Paradise has its down side.

Wet and warm!

I had just started my 10am day shift, in the dice pit. Not much happening, just two players on my end of the craps table. The residue of the graveyard shift. One guy stood next to the stick man, the other on the hook. Both had just a line bet with odds, nothing really to think about. I had no bets to pay, so I just stood there, waiting for either the point to roll, or a seven.

Suddenly, I felt a warm damp feeling in my right shoe. I looked down. My right pant leg was wet, as was my right foot. I looked at the rail, (the shelf beneath the table, for drinks, purses, and anything else not allowed on the actual table.) Someone had spilt something, and it had run the length of the rail, and was dripping into my shoe.

“What the…?” I notified the boxman of my dilemma. The floorman scanned the rail for the offending liquid.

“You dirty son-of-abitch!” He yelled.”Give him his bet back!” He ordered, waving his arm for a security guard.”Get the f^^k off the game!”

It suddenly dawned on me, that the guy on the hook had peed into the rail, and the warming sensation between my toes was urine!

Sometimes ignorance is bliss.

 

Round and round…part deux

So there we are with a horrible sticky roulette table. Nobody knew what the hell to do.

So Charlie, acting shift manager, Made a managerial decision. He yanked Naseem out of the kitchen station, and brought her armed with rubber gloves and a bucket of hot, soapy, bleach water to the table. I watched as she gagged, while picking up all the offensive wheel chips and then, dropped them in the bucket.

They were made of Bakelite, back in the day, not sure what they use now. We watched open mouthed, as all the brightly colored wheel chips turned to white in the bleach. Apparently the coloring of the chips was added after the making, and did not go all the way through. I’m sure they were never intended to be thrown in a bucket of bleach. Not sure it was the right call, but then what the hell else could Charlie have done?

Thank God, the next day, there was a brand new layout, and a new bank of wheel chips on the game. Given the price of a Huxley wheel I’m sure it was just cleaned and put back out there. Pity the guy  who had to clean the frets out!

Round and round and round she goes…

As glamorous as people might think the casino industry might be, it’s not always glitz and glamour. Sometimes it is a long way from the sophisticated atmosphere the brochures suggest.

I was dealing roulette one night, or should I say the early hours of the morning. It was probably a weekend night, as there was still a good crowd around. It was a pretty heavy game, and so I had given the wheel an extra sturdy turn, to ensure it didn’t slow to a stop while I made my payouts. It was spinning rather rapidly.

I glanced over to see a very red in the face gentleman, his face directly over the wheel, watching it go round and round. He was obviously three sheets to the wind. I saw his eyes close and open a couple of times, and I saw his chest rise and fall.

“He’s going to be…” I called out. Too late. He hurled directly into the center of my roulette wheel.

Centrifugal force is a son of a bitch!

As the wheel spun, the deposited matter was thrown outward, spraying everything, and everyone. My players scattered. I, on the other hand, had nowhere to go. I ran to the end of the table, my back to the wheel. Soft warm bullets hitting my bare back. I was screaming uncontrollably.

“Stop your wheel!” The floor person hollered.

“You stop it!” I hollered back. There was no way in hell I was going to actually turn around and face it!

Someone finally did stop it. The layout was an absolute mess, the glass wheel surround looked like a windshield after driving through a swarm of insects without wipers, and I could only be described, as a sticky mess.

Very glamorous.

 

When I want your opinion…

She was a makeup and wardrobe artist, working on the new Huey Lewis and The News video, being filmed on the island. She was a tall slender thirty-something year old, with long thick blonde hair, which she tossed out of her face nonstop, Her makeup and clothes were impeccable, and she had an air of confidence about her. She was a very attractive woman, until she opened her mouth.

“God, I hate cigarettes!” she said, wafting imaginary smoke from in front of her face.

The lady on third base looked at me as if to say “WTF?” She had been playing there for at least an hour, and was smoking when Blondie sat down. She could easily have chosen another table.

“There are no-smoking tables over there.” She pointed way across the other side of the casino. I smiled. It was the late eighties. I don’t think there was a no-smoking area on the whole island.

“Whatever.” Blondie said, without even looking in that general direction. She turned her attention toward me. “You know, all this cigarette smoke is so bad for your skin. You don’t have to smoke you know, you absorb it through your pores.It’s going to age you way before your time.” She smiled sweetly at the lady on third base, who defiantly took another drag. “You don’t smoke do you Shirley?”

Part of me wanted to deny my habit, but at the same time I felt a certain camaraderie with the lady on third base.

“Yeah, I do.” I shrugged my shoulders.

“Oh my God.” she looked disgusted. “You have such fair skin too! I hope you don’t go out in the sun.” Was she nuts? It was the Bahamas! Of course I went out in the sun!

“I try not to.” I lied.

“Good, because you have the kind of skin that’s prone to wrinkling.” She was studying my face. “You’re not a natural redhead are you?”

“Er… yes I am.” I was always a little insulted when people asked me that, as though they were going to ask me to prove it!

“Its just your eyebrows are darker than your hair.” she stated.

“I use an eyebrow pencil.” I explained. The lady on third base rolled her eyes.

“Oh my God! That’s even worse. You’re a redhead with blue eyes. People with light eyes shouldn’t go in the sun. They tend to squint more. You’re going to have horrible crow’s feet!”

“Thanks.” I was starting to feel depressed about my impending doom. I was going to be a white, wrinkly, dried up, old prune.

“You need to exfoliate, and use a really rich cream at night.” She told me. “That will stop the dullness in your skin.”

Dullness? Are you shittin’ me? Where did this lady get off? She had managed, in ten minutes, to totally rip my face apart. I was used to players sometimes asking personal questions, but this lady was completely out of line. She was a very attractive woman, but she was no Aphrodite!  Cheeky bitch! She had a few lines herself! She was no spring chicken!

“How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?” I inquired with a smile.

“I’m thirty six!” she declared proudly. “I don’t look it though, huh?” She tossed her hair again. The lady on third base shook her head.

“Oh my God!” I mimicked her So-Cal accent, as well as I could. “You look amazing! I thought you were waaaay younger than me!”

“Why? How old are you?”

“I’m thirty-eight.” She stared at my face again. Despite my inevitable demise, I looked pretty damn good. There was not one line on my face, and I had a youthful glow, even with my dull patches. Maybe I could give her a few tips!

“Really?” she stared harder.

“Really.” I smiled back at her.

“No way!” she said in disbelief.

“Jeanette!” I called the floor person over. “Tell this lady I’m thirty-eight.” Jeanette looked at me, shrugged her shoulders, and said,

“She’s thirty-eight.”

Blondie, cooed a little about how young I looked for my age. She didn’t realize I was that old. She played another few hands and then left for the Baccarat room. The lady on third base sighed loudly.

“Thank God!” she leaned into the table. “Don’t listen to her, you look gorgeous. I can’t believe you’re thirty-eight!”

“That’s ’cause I’m twenty-five!” I confessed.

“Awesome! I love it!” She high-fived me.

 

 

 

Not a pool table!!

I won’t name names. Let’s just call him Beasley!

“What  is this asshole doing?”

I looked up from chipping. My Chipper Champ was down. A  man was at the end of my roulette table, carefully trying to feed a twenty dollar bill into the drop box slot. We used to pull the paddle, so we could sweep the chips in smoothly. (Totally lost on you non casino people!)

“Sir…” I began.

“Shut up.” Beasley told me. “I wanna watch this!”

We stood, arms folded, while this guy painstakingly fed the bill into the slot. Then watched as he took a few steps back from the table, and looked underneath it. He had a puzzled look on his face.

“Can I help you?” I asked smiling.

“Where do the chips come out?” he  asked.

Just hit it already!!!

I hated Spring Break. The island was full of loud, drunk, obnoxious, over sexed teenagers, with fake IDs and daddy’s credit card. I myself was only 24, and still, they made me feel mature in comparison. It was even worse when they hit the gaming tables.

“So what do I have?” she asked.

I looked at her hand in disbelief. I could tell she was no Einstein, but seriously? She had a four and a three of spades.

“Seven.” I told her. “You have seven.”

“I should hit that, right?”

“Right.” I nodded. I gave her a two.

“So what do I have?”

Really? Normally, I would hit their hands until they totaled twelve or more, but after dealing to her for half an hour, I was totally tired of her kindergarten math. I had decided to just let her figure it out. It was amusing to both me and the floor person.

“You have nine.” This was going to be a long shift

“Okay, so I should hit that, right?”

“Right!” Dear mother of God! Someone give this girl an abacus! I gave her another two.

“Eleven.” I stated.

“Or twenty-one, right?” She clapped her hands.

“Noooo.” I corrected her “Remember? I said an ace was one or eleven. You have four cards, it’s just eleven.”

“Awww!” She pouted. “So I should hit that, right?”

“Riiiiight!” My evil twin, ‘Bitch Shirley’ was fighting to come out. I didn’t know how much longer I could hold her back. A three. What the hell? Could this hand get any worse. The guy on the last seat shook his head. He was waiting for the hand to be over, so he could get the hell off this table.

“Twelve, thirteen, fourteen!” She cried jubilantly. She looked at my ten. “I should hit that right?” I nodded, I had nothing left, in the way of agreement.

“I’m not hitting it!” she announced. “You’re going to give me a ten!”

I had already moved on to the next hand, at ‘I’m not’. I gave the next player a five.

“Awww!” she whined. “”So what would I have had?”

“Not enough!” I informed her, turning over my twenty.

The sad thing was, she was just about to graduate from nursing school in New Jersey. I was very happy I didn’t live in New Jersey, and need medical attention. I could see it now.

“So two pills, three times a day, that’s nine, right?”

United we stand!

Back in the day, British casinos were rather elegant, very James Bondish. The decor at the Dragonara, was styled with smoked glass, ornate mirrors, and rich, deep red drapes. The male dealers wore a simple shirt and bowtie, with black pants, while the girls wore long backless dresses adorned with rhinestones, and silver sandals. In our casino, they were sticklers for our appearance being as chic as possible. Hair had to be done, makeup and nail polish were mandatory. They even checked our toes!

At night, players were asked to wear a shirt with a collar, and a jacket. A tie was necessary for the restaurant. Through the day, the dress code was a little more relaxed, so that was when most of the classless crowd would come in.

The Yorkshire coal miners had been on strike for over a month. A small group of them, instead of joining their brothers on the picket line, had chosen to hang out in the casino, on a daily basis. One particular miner, was especially uncouth. He frequently dropped the F bomb, and made crude comments to the girls, normally pertaining to their cleavage. He had been warned numerous times about his behavior, but seeing as he hadn’t actually said anything offensive to another guest, just to the staff, he had been allowed to stay.

“If that arsehole says anything to me today,” I told my supervisor Sylvia, “I’m going to say something back!”

“Well make sure you drop a chip first.” she cautioned me. If she was busy bending down, to pick up a chip, she couldn’t hear anything I might say to a customer. Sylvia always had my back, and she was running the pit today!

“Oh I will!” I assured her.

Sure enough, in they came, four of them. Two of them wandered over to the Punto Banco table, a third opted for roulette, while the arsehole chose blackjack, as usual. I think he really just liked to be offensive, and Blackjack afforded him the close proximity necessary for his snide, and vile remarks. He sat down at Michelle’s game. Sylvia instructed one of the male dealers to tap her out. He never said anything to the guys. After a few hands, he rose from the table and headed over to my game. I had no other players, I was ready for him. Sylvia dutifully took her place beside me.

“Drop a chip.” she reminded me.

He smiled at me as he sat down. He was quite a good looking guy, just totally lacking in social skills. He truly believed he could say anything he wanted to women, especially the ones in the casinos. At that time, most people believed that women who worked in casinos were loose floozies, who slept with all the players for money. Contrary to popular belief, socializing with the patrons, was totally prohibited. We would get fired for dating a customer.

“You look nice today Shirley.” he told me, about three hands in.

“Thank you.” I smiled sweetly. I was waiting for it. Sylvia stiffened at the side of me, she was waiting too.

“That dress makes your tits look great!”

“I beg your pardon?” I stared at him in disgust.

“I could really f**k you!” he told me leaning in to the game.

“And if I had a brick in my hand, I’d really f**k you too, you piece o’ shit!” I heard Sylvia cough at the side of me. Panicking, she threw her pen over her shoulder, then frantically swooped down to pick it up.

“What did you just say?” he knew that we were not supposed to answer back to players.

“You heard me!” I glared back at him.

“Did you hear what she said to me?” he yelled at Sylvia.

“No sir! I was picking up my pen.” She looked at me in disbelief. “But I did hear what you said to her. I think you need to leave the table.”

To cut a long story short, after some back and forth bantering between the arsehole and Sylvia, he did in fact, leave the table.

“What happened to dropping a chip?” Sylvia gasped. “You were supposed to drop a chip!”

“I’m sorry. It just came out!” I smiled sheepishly.

“Next time drop a bloody chip!” She knew there would definitely be a next time.

No bet, 2/5 Split!!!

I was dealing roulette, my sister Carole was the assigned chipper (mucker) on the game. For those of you not in the business, that’s the person picking the chips up that the dealer sweeps in.

“Look at this guy.” I said out of the corner of my mouth, taking in the appearance of an older gentleman, in the seat nearest to the wheel. “He doesn’t look too good.”

“He looks grey.” Carole noted.

There was something about his pallor that was quite concerning. It was like one of those black and white photos where they add color to just one area. Well he was in a color photo, yet he was sepia.

It was quite a busy game. Three or four Chinese players, and this one old sepia man. The Chinese players were betting quite heavily,erratically, while the old man was very slow, calmly placing just a few chips on only the area of the layout in front of him. After paying the winning bets from the last spin, I picked up the ball, and gave it a strong spin to give the old guy extra time.

Suddenly,he took a deep, rattly inhale, and with a lengthy, raspy exhale he fell forward onto the layout, his head landing solidly on the 2/5 split.

“Oh my God!” I yelled.

“Jesus Christ! He’s dead!” Carole yelled.

The Chinese players did not seem to notice the carcass now laying in the center of the layout. One woman actually leaned over him to place a bet on the Zero.

“No spin! No spin!” I screamed, plucking the ball out of the wheel.

“Lapsap!” The Chinese lady shouted. Apparently a corpse in the middle of the table was no reason to stop the game, but stop the game it did.

“It’s okay!” The floorperson called out. “It’s okay everybody, we have medical help on the way!”

“I think he’s dead.” I stared at his grey, lifeless eyes.

“He’s okay Shirley.” The floorperson corrected me.

“No, he’s dead.” Carole said, leaning over to get a better look. “He’s definitely dead.”

“Why don’t you go chip over there!” the floorperson ordered her, gesturing with her thumb toward one of the other tables. Carol obeyed, leaving me alone with him.

I was told to color everyone up. I took all the chips off the layout and handed them back to their respective owners. We gave them all an extra stack of chips, just to stop them trying to stick their hands under his head to grab their bets from beneath it.

I stood there watching, as the head of security, Ann, placed an oxygen mask on his face, and covered him with a blanket, while awaiting the ambulance. A little redundant, but good for business. No casino wants people dying at the tables.

“Why are you doing that?” I asked. “He’s dead!”

“Shut up!” she snapped.

“Look! His eyes are open!”

“Shut up!” she said through clenched teeth.

He was gone in less than fifteen minutes. Placed on a gurney, and wheeled out. I was tapped off the game, and told to take an extra five minutes break, you know, to help me cope with the trauma.

To this day, when an old person sits at my roulette game, I can’t help but wonder, if they’re going to bet the 2/5 split!

Attention Deficit

Bumped into an Asian dealer friend of mine on my way back from break, with a rather strong Vietnamese accent. I wished him a Happy New Year, and we high-fived. Suddenly his face took on a serious expression. He gripped my arm.

“Have you ever noticed I lack attention?” he asked me

Oh oh, what was wrong? I wasn’t sure what to say. Was he telling me that he was lonely? Had something happened on a game, where he had been told to pay more attention? Did he have ADHD? I felt a little uneasy with the situation.

“Well you’re a little flaky sometimes..” I joked. He cut me off.

“Coz my wife start new business. She do I lack attention.” He said flicking his eyelashes with his fore-finger.

“OH!!” It suddenly dawned on me “Eyelash extensions!!!!”

This is my favorite language barrier experience ever!

Little Miss know F All

So, it’s my second shift as a Dice dealer, at Bally’s, 1991. I’m heading back to the Craps pit, when I’m stopped by a middle aged couple from the East Coast.

“Excuse me. Where’s the buffet?” He asked

“I believe it’s at the other side of the sports book.” I told him.

“You believe?” He sounded a little disappointed at my response.

“Is it open now?” she asked. He checked his watch.

“It should be.” I said, checking mine.

“It should be?” He looked at his wife, and rolled his eyes.

“I’m sorry, this is only my second day here.” I shrugged apologetically. They had gone to great lengths to show us their state of the art smoke alarm system during orientation, (Bally’s was previously the MGM) but they had failed to educate us on the buffet opening times. I checked my watch again. I had to get back to my game.

“Are we keeping you?” he asked sarcastically. I ignored that.

“Do you know how much it is?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, I don’t.” I replied honestly.

“What the hell do you know?” He was quite aggressive.

“Apparently, not a lot.” I confessed. “But when you get there, why don’t you ask the bus boy what a thirty-five dollar Horn-Hi-Yo pays when the twelves hits!” I strode off, leaving them with puzzled looks on their faces.

I think my customer service skills have greatly improved  since then.

The Longest Hello

Leeds has been a very interracial city for many years. I had grown up going to school with many West Indian, Indian, and Pakistani kids. For some reason I had never really been exposed to the Chinese community, apart from trips to my local takeout, and the occasional restaurant. I had been dealing about a month or so, when an elderly Chinese lady, known to the employees as “mother”, came up to my table. It was the first time I had ever dealt to her.

“Yayo.” she said with a small bow, putting a ten pound note on the table.

“Hello.” I replied, smiling.

“Yayo.” she repeated, again with a small bow.

“Hello.” I replied, again.

“Yayo.” she said once more.

“Hello.” I said again.

“She wants the yellow chips you idiot!” My floorperson finally told me.

We’re all idiots!

How many of you have had something similar happen to you?

“This place sucks!” the customer informed me. “They’re all f**king idiots!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, what’s wrong?” I asked.

“I gave that dice crew five grand last night. Now they act like they don’t even know me.”

I looked over at the dice pit. That was strange, the dealers he was pointing at were normally very customer friendly, and especially to Georges. He pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket.

“I might as well play.” He said. I can’t get in the room.”

“Why not?”

“The f**king card they gave me doesn’t work!”

“If you go to registration, they’ll get you a new one.” I informed him.

“I did, they’re idiots!” He threw a wad of cash on the table.

“Two thousand cash!” I called out. “Do you have your card, so we can rate you?”

The floorperson had joined us at the table. She smiled sweetly, as he fumbled through numerous pockets, looking for his elusive player’s card.

“Just put my name in.” He ordered her.

“Do you have your ID?” she asked. “I’ll get the pit clerk to make you a new player’s card, but you’ll have to go to registration for a room key.” He pulled his drivers’ license from his wallet and handed it to her. She deftly entered data into the tableside computer. “Have you played here at all today Michael?” There was no information on him in the system.

“Are you f**king serious?” He snapped. “I’ve been playing here for two days! I’ve lost twenty grand!” He began rifling through his pockets again. “Here it is!” He threw his player’s card at me.

“Do you have a card with us sir?” I asked. “This one is for the Bellagio.”

“This isn’t the Bellagio?” He looked around, puzzled.

“No sir, this is the “casinothatshallnotbenamedbecauseIamcurrentlyemployedthere”.

“Shit!” he looked embarrassed. “Where can I get a cab back to the Bellagio?”

I pushed back his money, ID, and player’s card. “Right outside that door sir.” I pointed toward the exit. “Next time come and stay with us, and we’ll give you a room key that works!” I winked at him.

“Okay, thanks!” Suddenly everything was making sense to him.

You would be amazed how many times this happens.

Dealers all look the same

My blackjack game had just gone dead. It was a Saturday night, about two-thirty in the morning. It was just starting to quieten down. I was happy. I had pumped cards all night, and was pleased to have a break. Then she walked up.

“Hi!” she said, with a smile, and a distinct stagger.

“Hi!” I replied, with a smile, all the time thinking “get lost”.

“So where did everyone go?” she asked. 

“Probably to bed.” I shrugged. “It’s getting late.”

“Can I get a cocktail?” she ignored my subtle hint.

“Cocktails!” I bellowed.

“Okay Shirley”, she said reading my name tag, “let’s play some cards!” She clicked the fingers on both hands.

“Okay.” I said, secretly meaning, “get lost!” I waited for her to buy in with cash.

“So where are my chips?”

“You didn’t give me any money yet.”

“No, no, where are my chips?” she looked around the table.

“I’m sorry?” She was obviously drunk as a skunk.

“I left them right here!” She tapped the betting spot in front of her. “I had over two hundred dollars!”

“I think you’re at the wrong table.” I guessed. I’d never seen her before in my life.

“No! You were dealing to me!” She patted the table. ‘I was right here all night!”

I started thinking back to who was on my game before it went dead. It wasn’t one of those games where the same players sat there all night, and I was pretty sure she wasn’t one of the people who had been at my game.

“I think you’re at the wrong table.” I told her again.

“No!” She was adamant. “You were dealing to me. I was right here!”

“I don’t think so. Maybe you…”

“Listen bitch! You think I don’t know what you people do! You wait for us to go to the bathroom, and then steal our money!” She was leaning across the table snarling at me. “Where’s my f**king money?” she was salivating.

“Floor!” I called out.  I started clicking my fingers trying to get someone’s attention.

“Joyce?” A voice called from the table next to mine. “Why are you over there?”

She turned, and peered. A man, who I assumed she belonged with, was beckoning for her to come and sit in the seat next to him.

“Oh.” she said. “This is not my table.” she rose and staggered to the next one.

Will, was the dealer. He was black, stood about six foot five, two hundred and fifty pounds. I’m white, five foot five, a hundred and fifteen, with red hair. Guess we all look the same after a few Bahama breezes!

 

 

Follow that!

A “George”, to those of us in the gaming industry, is a nice guy. He doesn’t just tip occasionally, he wants the dealer to make money right along with him. Not as big as a “whale”, but a good guy to have on your table. We have lots of terms of endearment within the casino business, but one dealer, back in the eighties, managed to use practically all of them in one line.

He was from New Jersey, and should probably have gotten out of the business way before he did. When you’re trapped on a blackjack table with players you don’t like, it has a tendency to bring out the worst in people. I tapped him off the game at the end of his eight hour shift. Instead of the customary “Okay guys,you have a new dealer. Goodnight!” He began pointing at each individual seated at the table, and said;

“Stiff, stiff, asshole, dick, total prick, and George!” 

He then cleared his hands, and walked off the game, leaving me standing there, open mouthed. There was probably a thirty second period of silence, before the guy on the last seat, and the only one to deny his given title, said;

“Er, my name’s not George!”