So that's it for another year. We're back in Blighty now with no time for R&R as we're thrown straight into preparations for WSOPE. Momentum at the Series was maintained when my good friend Jon 'Skalie' Kalmar played a faultless game, deservedly final tabling, ensuring his place in poker history.

I first met Skalie and his poker playing wife Kila, on the Ladbrokes poker cruise a couple of years ago. A bunch of us formed our own regular sit+go tourneys and even though Skalie was going deep in the main event, he'd be there with us every night ponying up his 50 bucks, invariably going out first hand with 7-4 off or taking the game down in record time. Skalie doesn't do anything by halves.

His tale of the WSOP 07 is already the stuff of folklore - broke and about to go home, Skalie decided to play one final satellite, won a seat, came fifth, and left Vegas $1.25 million later. Without this win, he was about to go back to work and Kila's beloved Mini was going back to the garage. A lot can change in a week in the poker world, which Jamie Gold knows only too well.

When we first met, he seemed nervous and edgy, but as we'd chatted before when I'd interviewed him for the magazine,  I managed to peel back one layer of mistrust based on the fact I hadn't done a hatchet job on him.

Over the next few weeks, each time we saw one another the defences would come down a little more. Watching his play at last year's event, like many people, I found his behaviour questionable and irritating, but in person, even though he's (understandably) extremely guarded, I have to admit, I really like the guy.

He knows he's made mistakes and has apologised for them. Witnessing his play this main event, my heart actually bled a little. He was a shadow of his former self, getting involved in way too many pots he never should have been anywhere near, frittering away chips he had little hope of seeing again. The self-destruct button was engaged from the start. The one thing Jamie Gold did succeed in doing this WSOP, was bringing out my hitherto undiscovered maternal instincts. Every time I see him I want to stroke his forehead, tell him it'll all be ok, and buy him a big bowl of soup.

Poker has no respect for jet lag, and so when all I really wanted to do was sit in a big old slouchy chair, staring aimlessly into space with a little bit of dribble oozing out of the corner of my mouth, my pseudo-poker manager duties were called upon. The Poker Million is once again descending upon us and the celebrity heat takes place in a few days time. One of my 'boys', Hotel Babylon's Dexter Fletcher is taking part, and freaking out that his game's rusty, we arranged to go to The Vic so he could practice at the £50 freezout tournament.

We drew the same table so the trip was worthwhile as I ferociously took notes on his game, which he then implemented fruitfully at the cash tables when he'd bust out of the tournament. I didn't pick up a single hand, and because the structure's not great, chose to throw it all in with two barely marginal hands. I found it really hard to go from playing a $1,500 at WSOP to a £50 crapshoot and never got into gear. I left Dex to it, as he was finding playing cash really useful for his game. Hopefully, he'll put all his newfound knowledge to good effect this week. Norman Pace has just signed up to play, so he's the only threat for Dex to worry about in terms of being outplayed, but as we all know, anything can and invariably does happen in poker.

One of the things we were hoping to do whilst we're in Vegas is play in a tournament in every card room in town. Inevitably though, much of our time has been taken up stalking the big names to bring you the best WSOP coverage. Time is of no relevance here and plans are rarely stuck to. It's just how it is.

Our organised editor had pre-arranged an evening out to see comedian Lewis Black at the MGM Grand, so there was no turning up 'whenever', if at all, which would be the norm.

Black was disappointing, sloppy and not that funny. Maybe he presumed all the audience were sick stupid gamblers who were only there because they'd lost so much coinage in the slots. Wrong, Lewis. We were a party of sick stupid gamblers who'd actually coughed up our own hard-earned dosh to listen to your hackneyed Vegas-lite set. We did drink ridiculous sickly cocktails out of giant golden goblets though, so it wasn't an entirely wasted trip.

Wanting to salvage something from the night, we headed over to The Luxor for their midnight $60 tourney. Rather than waste your time reading this and giving you false hope that it might be worth making a trip there, I'll cut straight to the chase. Don't go there. Ever. Tutankhamun would probably turn over in his tomb if he ever had the misfortune to play in their card room, although I hear he does love a soft game.

In fact, calling it a tournament is probably entering the realms of hyperbole. The huge demand of players lining up to participate ran to a whopping one table, with three alternates. Why not have two tables then? Apparently it's much better to let people join when they've got about two blinds left and really put the pedal on the lack of skill play.

The lack of randomness in the seat draw placed all our party of four next to each other, and when Sideshow Bob took over the dealing duties, he repeatedly dealt mine and Dave's cards on top of each other. In keeping with the decor, the cards themselves looked like they could be genuine freshly excavated relics. They were faded and different shades of blue, and if we'd cared enough we'd have tried to memorise which was which. Being the cantankerous types we are, we far preferred tutting at one another in disapproval at how shonky a place it was.

For an extra $3, we got another couple of hundred chips, but even that didn't help when the blinds went up from 100/200 to 200/500. 200/500? Why's that? "So they can go up to 500/1000 next". Eh?

Dave was the short-stack but managed an impressive Lazarus-like comeback to chop first place with an Irish Laddies player. We won't be going back there and I suggest you follow suit.

The Rio is a huge cavernous site, spreading out to the convention centre, home of the WSOP. There are corridors within corridors and rooms within rooms. It takes around twenty minutes to walk from bedroom to tournament area, so there's no nipping back to your room throughout the day. Read more

WSOP#1 Good old Richard Branson continues to do his bit for employment figures by hiring staff specifically employed to withhold water from passengers, lest an outbreak of hydra-rage occurs. Subsequently, after a hellish arid flight, the sight of Caesar's Palace is akin to spotting an oasis in the desert, which I suppose is what it is.

Not wasting any time, it's over to the Rio to join the WSOP circus. It's less than a year ago since we were here, but it's still a thrill walking through the corridors bumping into Hellmuth, Brunson and Negreanu.

A few of us decide to ride the jetlag out by playing Planet Hollywood's $60 rebuy tournament. I shudder as I enter the property, for until recently, this was the Aladdin, site of one of the most hideous places I've ever played and a favourite of Hilly the Fish's. It's much improved though and the room is no longer populated by scary inbred travelling folk.

First hand I look down at Aces. I raise, am re-raised, so pump it up some more. The guy doesn't even think twice. Flop comes 3-3-10. He bets, I raise all-in and his instacall announces he's hit the boat. Faced with a hefty pre-flop re-raise, I would have thrown his hand away, so I'm not going to beat myself up too much and just head straight over to the desk for a rebuy.

I then don't hit a hand for an hour, and just about keep my head above water with a few positional steals. It's all going fine until a well-stacked Woods arrives at the table. He sits tight for a couple of hands, then on my big blind, well out of position, he raises. I reckon my pocket 10s are ahead, so push all-in for my remaining 1400. Claiming he's priced in, Woods calls, flipping over 6-8 suited. Now, I wasn't expecting to see that. I hit a set of 10s on the flop, but the river brings the ill-deserving Woods the flush, knocking me out in the process. I've got a bad feeling this is how my Vegas trip's going to run.

Bankroll: - $120

WSOP#2

It's been quite a week here in Las Vegas. I was hoping to have time to ease into life in Vegas but there was no time to acclimatise to the full-on madness at the WSOP. The schedule this year means all the events vaguely affordable to mere mortals like ourselves are pre-Main Event. Following on from our extensive unrivalled HORSE final table coverage which you lucky people will get to read about in next month's PokerPlayer, there was only really one event remaining to consider playing in - #49.

In my usual procrastinatory way, I couldn't quite decide whether I wanted to put as much as $1, 500 of my trip bankroll into the event. As the tournament approached, there was talk of it already running into alternates. My friend Gavin who'd final tabled at the Dublin EPT, flew into town the morning of the event, and after giving me the, "Bitch, I've flown in especially for this event" glare, we joined the queue snaking around many corners for what was shaping up to be the crapshoot event of the year.

By the time we made it to the front of the queue, the tournament had been running for nearly an hour. As alternates, we were told we could expect to join between the second and third levels. The reality of what a ridiculous notion it was to join what was already the biggest poker tournament of all time outside of the previous two Main Events, at a severe disadvantage, didn't hit home until I checked out the structure, but once you hand your money over and the event's started, it's a no refund policy.

Sometime deep into the third level, my table, the last of the alternates, is called to sit down. We've got 3, 000 chips, the blinds are 100/200 and the running antes are due to kick in at the next level. I've paid $1, 500 for 15 big blinds. Brilliant. I'm beginning to wonder whether there's any point in even looking at my cards or whether I should just push if the pot's un-raised by the time it gets to me. I manage to lose half my stack in two hands. It goes from bad to laughably dire as they break up the table, less than two rounds in, and I'm placed at a table dwarfed over by monster stacks.

I've got two options, play the 'any two cards' theory, which I don't subscribe to, or fight the battle of my poker life. I vote battle. I'm moved about five or six times and have no concept of time or motion beyond the nine players surrounding me. I am in the oft talked of zone. I've no idea how it happened, but there's an announcement that from the 3,151 players, we're down to 700. The money kicks in at 324 so there's still a long way to go, but I'm astounded I've lasted this long.

After the horror of my bubble play from last year when I blame no-one but myself for my suicide play, I'm determined to keep playing the solid game I've been playing all day. The cards aren't going my way, so it's all about position and timing. My stack never gets beyond 20, 000, yet there goes the "Congratulations, you're all in the money" announcement. I am the bubble queen no more, and re-crown myself the short stack specialist.

Utterly drained, I can barely keep my eyes open until the 2am end. I've made it through to the second day, but I'm too tired to register the shock I'm feeling. After Hilly selflessly calls me to find out how much money he's won so far (I benevolently gave the Fish a charitable 3% for no apparent reason other than seeing the joy in the little fella's eyes at the prospect of vicariously cashing in a WSOP event), I collapse into bed.

Even though I return the next day with a trifling 9, 700 (average stack 43, 000), I've still got fight in me and I'm not giving up. The antes are crippling and the blinds are 3, 000/6, 000. Anytime I think of pushing, someone raises ahead of me and I can't call. My nine lives escalate to a dozen or so, as I survive a few all-ins.

The guy two to my right who's been pushing with junk, miraculously hitting runner-runner-runner-straight with his 7-2, then raises my small blind. I look down at A-Q and re-raise all-in. He calls and although I'm delighted to see his Q-6, I know what's coming. For the first time ever this tournament, I fail to stand up when I'm all-in, and I'm now convinced that takes the blame for his hitting the 6 on the flop. I'm gutted as this double up would have seen me in decent shape in my quest to accrue more chips for the latter stages, but I know it's quite an achievement placing 155th out of 3000+ runners, especially coming in as a short stack. Another year, another WSOP cash. Bring on 2008.

Bankroll - + $2, 681