Dave Ulliott - Devilfish: The Life and Times of a Poker Legend

Devilfish

The Life and Times of a Poker Legend

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY

DAVE DEVILFISH ULLIOTT with MARCUS GEORGIOU

VIKING

an imprint of

PENGUIN BOOKS

VIKING

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First published 2010

Copyright Dave Ulliott, 2010

The moral right of the author has been asserted

All rights reserved

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-0-141-95710-4

To my sister Janet, my brother Paul, my mother Joyce, my father Stanley. And to my best mate Pete Robinson, and, of course, to Rob Gardner, who made all this possible.

Contents

Introduction: Unlucky Lucky F**ker

Ive never been lucky at cards. It doesnt say poker player on my passport, it says unlucky fucker. That might seem like an odd thing to say for someone like me who travels the world playing poker, lives in a big house, has a Ferrari and a Hummer in the garage and a two-hundred-grand watch on my wrist, all of it paid for by poker. But its true. Everyone in poker knows Im not lucky at catching cards or outdrawing other players when Im behind.

But I dont mind.

OK, maybe a few of the players Ive beaten wouldnt say Im unlucky. But thats because poker players tend to be a bunch of bitter twisted fuck-ups.

Im only kidding theyre all a lovely bunch.

Of bastards.

Its funny how things have changed. At the beginning, whenever someone asked you what you did for a living, youd never even think of saying you were a professional poker player. It didnt even exist as something to be. Then it got to the stage where if someone asked you that question you could actually say poker player, but theyd just look at you as if you were daft as if youd said skydiving burglar or underwater car thief. Its only recently that its become acceptable to tell someone youre a professional poker player without them calling a mental-health charity or Crimewatch .

In the past, if someone was asking me how I got hold of my money, my usual reply was, No comment. And wheres my solicitor? (But thats the police for you nosey bastards.) Nowadays its accepted that people play poker for a living: its on TV and the Internet and in pubs.

Im only an unlucky fucker professionally, not personally. Although I might have been unlucky with cards, Ive always been very lucky in life. And Id much rather have it that way round. You can always walk away from bad luck at the card table but you cant always walk away from the hand life deals you.

I cheated death in the very first minute I was born; I twice escaped being beaten to death, survived prison, am an undamaged ex-boxer, walked away from a plane struck by lightning, and Im still sane after two marriages. No amount of card-luck on earth would get you through all that.

Even though when I get a bad beat at poker I can moan and bitch for England, the reason I say I dont mind being unlucky at cards is because I sometimes think that if I started getting lucky at cards, it might mean I started getting unlucky in life as if Id have to switch one luck for the other. Now that would be a bad exchange.

I might walk away from a card table after getting another bad beat but I do at least get to walk away, and I walk away healthy. Whats the point of being lucky at cards if, when you get up from the table, you walk outside and get flattened by a bus? No royal flush on the planet is gonna make up for that, son.

So if Im the unlucky fucker in a penthouse suite in Las Vegas, sitting in a jacuzzi with a young, cute blonde whos turned on by bubbles so be it. In that case, thank fuck I never got lucky.

I started from nothing, and when I die Ill go back to nothing. We all know where were going in the end, and its not to have a picnic with Jesus, two clouds down from God. Its to a big black hole in the ground or a little metal urn under the stairs thats where Ill be ending up. So if Im going to leave this world empty handed, I might as well have a bloody good time while Im here. Ive certainly tried to.

Like they say you cant have everything . For a start, where would you keep it? No ones got a garage that big.

OK, lets play

1. Starting at the Bottom and Working My Way Down

On 1 April 1954 I knew Id been born when a midwife smacked me on my arse. We hadnt even been introduced. I always thought that I was a born gambler because when that midwife slapped me I didnt cry. I yelled: Deal me in, love.

That same year the first hydrogen bomb was tested at Bikini Atoll the place the bikini was named after. So I cant even say that my birth was the most important thing that happened that year, although I like to think my mother would disagree.

I was born at home, as most babies were then. That was fine if the birth went OK but not so good if it didnt. Mine was one of the not-so-good births, a breech, and so the midwife called for help. I dont know what was going on inside that was so good it made me want to stay in maybe Id started up a card game and was ahead. Whatever the reason, I wasnt coming out easily. Probably word had got back to me that I was about to be born in Hull, not Hawaii. But then again, it was April Fools day, so maybe it was my idea of a joke.

The doctor finally arrived, which must have been a relief to my mother, Joyce, because the only other person available was the local vet. When I finally popped out I was black all over. And dead. Or so they thought. I looked still-born, and I was about to be thrown on the fire thats what they did with stillborns then, just disposed of them. But the midwife took out this tube that she had in her pocket, put it between my lips and breathed life into me. Thats when she smacked me on the arse and I started yelling. Well, wouldnt you, after that?

Because of all the people since then that Ive annoyed, punched, pissed off, out-played or broke at cards, in the interests of that midwifes safety Im not going to name her. She deserves to live quietly without being tracked down by a mob carrying burning torches.

I found out recently that I was also born nine years to the month after Hitler had shot himself and his dog (not in that order). My dad, Stanley, did his bit during the war he was in the Paratroopers. He was a tough guy, my dad, hands like shovels. You wouldnt want to feel the back of them, but because I was a naughty little fucker I often did.

My sister Janet was a bit jealous when I came along she threw my baby clothes on the fire. Fortunately I wasnt in them. (That was the second burning Id escaped in a matter of days.) Janet was only two years old, and later wed become really close because we were the only kids in the house. It would be another five years before my brother Paul was born. Janet took me under her wing and looked out for me. Our house was only two-bedroom so we grew up sharing a room.