Few new truths have ever won their way against the resistance of established ideas save by being overstated.
The house generally wins. Elizabeth Street, Hobart. September 2010.
I am not a gambling man. I am more a gambolling man. Punting is a game for mugs, and there does not seem a shortage of mug punters out there. There used to be a lively (if not quite happening) music scene in Hobart. Now we have poker machines.
Now I understand that not everyone wants to hear another version of Keh Sanh played at the wrong tempo and sung by a guy with less gravel in his voice than Nana Mouskouri, but it is surely better than the sound of some poor down and out pissing away his kid’s new pair of shoes in the hope of three pairs of cherries.
I confess that I have no experiential knowledge of electronic gaming. As I said at the top, it is a mug’s game and I may be many things – charming, handsome, sophisticated, romantic, modest – but I am not a mug. So I turn to you, the global village, and ask what is so fun about poker machines?
Comments
Or, more correctly, I don't enjoy it myself. It's loud, bright, and it makes my brain hurt. It's also obnoxiously hypnotic.
I guess they just give "them" enough winnings to keep them interested, and fleece them back over time.
Horrible bloody things.
Realistically, I have never been one to play these mechanical thieves.
Roddy, the ye olde ones look more interesting.