Let's face it, there are a lot of rubbish poker books out there. I've wasted hard-won cash on some real stinkers, and have come to view certain types of titles with a degree of caution. Poker players prone to hyperbole? Perish the thought.
The promise of 'secrets' or a 'system' is a red flag (although 'super-system' is okay provided it's written by Doyle Brunson). So too is the suggestion that you can 'earn a living' or somehow 'beat the odds' (each being, as far as I'm concerned, the functional equivalent of an invitation to bang your head repeatedly against a brick wall).
But a 'love affair with poker'? Written by a British woman? Fifty shades, wot?
Come to think of it, though, I was vaguely aware of Victoria Coren, daughter of the late (and brilliant) Alan Coren. It seems that she's actually won a lot of money playing poker. She turns up on television now and then. She's quite pleasant, really – with accent, manners and a sense of humor that seem an agreeable distillation of those of all the lovely middle-class mums at my children's primary school. (And what could be more agreeable than that?)
She's written an excellent poker book too, on several counts:
For one thing, there's the writing itself. The art. VC's got the nuts here. Her wit, originality and turn of phrase sparkle. She's erudite – learned, even - but not pretentious. Her deft touch and subtlety animate even the prosaic: “Ah Luton,” she writes. “Spiritual home of the hat trade.” She makes it look easy. Hands-down, five stars for art.
Then there's the poker stuff. Four stars for this, and possibly even a lingering glance in the direction of five. Ordinarily, poker players' written accounts of hands they've played are so dry and stilted that only the most ardent fan can be bothered to try to make head or tail of them. VC's, however, are compelling and fun. You almost feel as if you're sitting there with her, trying to read Emad Tahtouh or agonizing over how to play the awkward pair of jacks (the Botox hand, I like that).
I also like her sentimental attachment to the 7,4 unsuited. This is a hand that I would automatically fold (or 'pass' as she would say). Maybe I should be giving it a second look - low-key recreational player that I am, I'll happily fool around with this kind of thing.
As a memoir, I put the book at three stars. Her sketches of people she meets and the characters at her poker club are solid and fun to read, as are the parts about her father. I'm less certain, though, about some of her internal musings. At times they verge on the high-strung and over-wrought, while at other times she papers things over with breezy platitudes. Genuine candor, or a poker pro's stage-managed 'secrets'? I don't know. Other readers will make up their own minds.
There is some repetition in the book, which suggests that bits of the material may have been recycled and re-purposed. If that's true it didn't particularly matter to me, since I'd seen none of it before.
One niggling, very minor irritant is VC's frequent mention of people borrowing money for gambling. For instance, she recounts an episode in Las Vegas, where she's burned through her entire stash and is on the phone with her bank in London trying to arrange an extension to her overdraft. She presents it as if that's the sort of thing that inevitably happens to the professional gambler and concludes, with only slight irony, that she will simply play her way out of the debt.
Had I written that scene I would have dropped in a pretty heavy disclaimer: There are no circumstances whatsoever under which anyone, even a supposed professional, should gamble with borrowed money. It is not cute. It is not clever or cool. It's the moral equivalent of getting involved with methamphetamine. To use the lawyer's term of art, it is fucking moronic. You gamble only with money you can afford to lose. Got it? Good. Now run along kids, and remember that roulette and blackjack are for mugs. Poker is the game.
Overall, a well-written and thoroughly entertaining book. Highly recommended.