Simon started playing aged 10, together with his family (Brothers Jack and Zebedee make their living exclusively from teaching bridge), and was soon playing at club, county then national level. Simon represented England as part of the Under 25 squad, partnered with both brothers in turn. On completing a degree in Classics from Trinity College, Oxford, Simon began teaching bridge at the London School of Bridge, and then at The Acol Bridge Club with Andrew Robson. In 1995, Simon started the Andrew Robson Bridge Club in partnership with Andrew, establishing it (with help from brother Zebedee) as the world’s most successful bridge club. Simon left in summer 2000, pending the arrival of his son Max, and now teaches in London, the Cotswolds, and the Caribbean. In 2004 Simon played bridge on top of Kilimanjaro at a height of 19,335 feet.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
The Art of Bridge
The Art of Bridge is an idea I arrived at for the ultimate bridge book, or rather my first bridge book. The title was inspired by the 70s classic (slightly dull in fact) "Zen and the Art of Motor-Cycle Maintenance", but with fewer Hondas, thank God. It seems appropriate to my recent adventures in Umbria, where two groups of bridge playing painters enjoyed five days in the hills above Perugia. "Bridge, Brushstrokes and Birdsong" was the brainchild of David and Annabel Barnett and proved to be a winning formula. I met Annabel while teaching 16 ladies on a sunny Cotswold hill - and the idea was born. The initial plan had been hatched under the assumption that Ryanair - our favourite airline.... would be running their scheduled flight as promised at the suitably civilized time of 11.15 a.m. Naturally this proved not to be the case and our new time of 7 in the morning had one advantage - we would all get to see the sunrise...... good training for our early morning birdsong with Egidio, the birdman of Brindisi. For me it worked well (apart from advantage number two - the new flight being cheaper) as I had spent the weekend in Cambridge, attending a course, "Alchemy, the Road to Science" - which began mysteriously as our lecturer introduced himself, "Hi my name is Simon and I am the Alchemist", but not a cauldron in sight... So Sunday morning I had to forego learning about Sir Isaac Newton and his adventures in alchemy and instead head down the road to my birthplace, Stansted, where 16 sleepy bridge-players were brushing up their 'nothing to declarer play'.
Touching down in a field at the world's smallest airport at breakneck speed is best done with as little sleep as possible - advantage number three - by the time you have worked out you should be terrified, the Captain has skidded to a halt by the fire-engines. After the absurdities of the carousel - it would not have been out of place at a midget's fairground - we were being welcomed to a cloudless 30 degree heat by David, his military precision and his vans - what is the Italian for white-van-man? - and heading for the hills. Racchiusole is a large estate sitting a few thousand feet up, comprising four villas, all with swimming pools, a tennis court and some sumptuous views. Two of the villas, Scopetaccio and Calachiesa are rentable as holiday homes - www.racchiusole.com - while Casa Barnetti was to be home to a few including the Barnetts and the site of many a fine bridge contract. The fourth villa was the preserve of our hosts, Tony Russell and Ann Dawson, who had created their slice of paradise with a keen and luxurious eye for detail.
After a most welcome lunch, a swim and a siesta, 12 of us sat down to a few gentle hands of bridge with the remainder sitting down to an easel, a blank canvas and Frankie Cummins' expert instruction. For my part the bridge went well, thanks in large part to my brother Zeb's compass cards. Over the course of the week, as well as consolidating the basics, we tackled some complex topics ranging from Doubling, Weak Twos and the wonders of Roman Key-Card Blackwood. We also found time for two duplicate sessions, pairs and teams, while meandering through the mundanities of Stayman (the most abused convention since Geneva) and onto the exotica of The Unassuming Cue-Bird. Nothing was assumed, and although standards were mixed, enjoyment was not.
My favourite bridge moment was my busman's holiday - a couple of hours of bridge in a square in Perugia - despite hardly picking up a card. I did play one contract however, partnering Nicholas Jones, we bid to the dizzy heights of two NoTrumps - also known as no-man's land - we could have been in 1NT or 3NT, both of which strangely I would have made. After Cherry Jones to my left led her fourth highest spade, which ran smoothly to my Ten (I also held the Jack and Nine) after Tom Wilson to dummy's right, contributed a smooth seven. To cut a long story short I set up dummy's five-card club suit with Tom ducking his ace correctly to deny me access, whereupon Tom switched to dummy's weakness. I regained the lead to play a spade, the suit Cherry had initially led, towards dummy's King, my entry to the winning clubs and claim an overtrick or two..... disaster! I had not counted on the calculated cunning of Mr. Wilson who had expertly withheld his Spade Ace at trick one and with a triumphant glint Tom placed it ever so gently on the moustachioed sword-wielder and I was notching another score in the wrong column. Curiously this gave me great pleasure - I am a fan of quality in whatever guise (the only thing that resonated in "Zen and his Hondas") - better to have been outplayed and lost than never to have played at all.
The food was excellent, starting well and getting better and more varied throughout the course of the two weeks - all to the accompaniment of fine wine. We managed an excursion to the finest pizzeria in Umbria in our first week and the Hotel Rosetta in Perugia during the second week, thank you to those who made that happen - it was a lovely gesture. On the final night we had a private view to see all the creations that had come together under Frankie's supervision - a startlingly accomplished collection. My first and only foray into painting came on Saturday, once the first group of guests had left: I had a tricky decision that proved easy - FA cup final or a chance to paint the artichokes? A match as dull as ditch-water or sitting in wonderful sunshine learning to paint? Although I will not be rushing to give up the day job or the night shift, I had fun and surprised myself - I will be taking some children to visit Frankie shortly. You can find out more about Frankie by visiting her site - www.paintingweekends.com
Our first group of guests left early Friday, leaving me with my minibus and my wonderlust. So after a visit to the charms of Lake Trasimena, laden with Frankie's smokes and some unnecessary plastic objects, I hit the autostrada towards Assisi, cruising comfortably at three figures when up popped the sign to Rome, a mere 150kms - a few complex calculations later - and I realised Rome was mine for the taking in exactly one hour. I turned right to Rome to discover, sure enough, where all roads do lead..... Heading in as the rush-hour headed out, I soon arrived outside the Vatican and following the other adage - did as the Romans do.... so parked my big white van wherever the hell I liked, twiddled the meter inside the van (odd - no?) and prayed to the Roman God of Parking, Meterfidus. I had been to Rome once aged 8, but went on to study Classics for the next 15 years, so my return was as overdue as it was unexpected. I walked my socks off, from St. Peters to the Coliseum, only to find myself amid fleets of classic sportscars - the Mille Miglia Storica was in town, and roaring to the growl of old engines. Returning to the van with cameras full of Ferraris and more bags of unnecessary shopping, I discovered that the van was still there unmolested by Italian traffic wardens - beautiful, charming and clad in Versace by the way although I understood not a word (Italian for van?)- and that it was parked next to what turned out to be a delightful restaurant. I emerged around midnight, having established at the eleventh hour that the barmaid with whom I was flirting in some hybrid language, was in fact married with children (where was the ring?) but I did experience the finest Tiramisu ever created, that is until six days later when Tony and Ann trumped it with one of their own. Leaving Rome proved harder, although I did manage to leave the city five times, before a friendly Italian spoke the immortal words, "Follow me" (in English luckily) and I was free, heading North, 90 minutes later than planned and with considerable experience of the Italian suburbs - very nice indeed by the way. The upside to all of this other than waking the returning dogs at four in the morning. - sorry David! - was my subsequent decision to buy the technology and many thanks must go to Mrs Garmin for her contribution here for guiding me through the perils of Bristol and Soho. I have invested in European maps too, all very modestly from Mr Halford, and will soon be uploading the Vegas street-grid. My 6-year old Max insists on calling it Chav Nav.
Week Two proved to be a different kettle of fish - more people, more bridge players, more stamina. The tennis court saw regular action, the golf-course too and even the late-night poker tables of Scoppetaccio saw the rich getting richer and the poor getting wiser. Assisi had some visitors - I managed to avoid the right-turn to Rome this time around and treated myself to a whistle-stop tour. Tony and Ann shipped in wonderboy Todd from Leeds, who proved a considerable asset and will now be gently depleting his fellow students' grants in the poker dens of West Yorkshire. The wine, ever-flowing, took more of a battering and cards were a regular sight after dinner: pissed-up Pen taking on Jeroboam Jane amid a flurry of too many Notrumps and slams that needed to be bid under an assumed name. The overall standard of bridge was excellent with Pen Dobson and Laura Robarts both managing to land a particularly tricky 6H contract, while the best bid hand was a grand slam bid also by Pen Dobson leaving her partner Angel Collins in need of divine inspiration. Instead she had Perkins - who could make an Australian batsman blush at twenty yards, and her nerve was wavering. I could have stepped in and offered congratulations on a fine auction, which might have steadied her nerve - the implication then being that the slam was makeable. Grand Slams are rather like love-affairs: If you never bid one you will lead a safe but dull life and enjoy moderate riches, but if you do bid one you risk everything for the ultimate treasure. So well done for bidding it and just remember when you next play a grand slam, don't listen to the barracking from the other side, take a few deep breaths and then make a plan. The plan in any trump contract should involve counting your losers, but in a grand slam it is also worth counting your way to 13 winners. Once I am able to incorporate a bridge-hand template I will take you through the hand.
My personal triumph was not giving up smoking - I managed five days and am soon to quit again before the rigours of Las Vegas take hold. Instead it was my decision to take up running, an activity I generally detest and despise as I watch joggers hauling exhaust fumes to their pulmonary depths as they race to knacker their knees. I didn't in fact decide to take up running, but rather was compelled as I found myself wandering the Umbrian hills on paths that led away from the comforts of Calachiesa. Unwilling to leave the track - a wise decision I discovered to my cost three days later - I was already late for dinner with darkness looming. So I ran and ran and am now converted to the joys of jogging, although not on roads. This peaked for me when on the final morning I decided to take on Monte Acuto, pointed out by David on arrival. The round-trip took four and a half hours and was perhaps the most gruelling thing I have ever done and I still have the bramble scars to prove it. I am now back in training - I quit smoking again tomorrow (don't laugh) and have a month before I will be sitting down at the poker tables of Las Vegas with $10,000 of my own money - the tables have been good to me since my return.
You will be able to follow my progress on my poker site www.simonstocken.com/poker
Many thanks to you all for making the trip such fun, particularly our hosts, Tony, Ann, David and Annabel, and of course Frankie. This was in fact my first bridge holiday barring my adventure in The Caribbean but hopefully it will not be my last. I have a plan to take some bridge players to Andalucia early next year to a wonderful place, Trasierra, and would jump at the chance to return to Italy and in particular Racchiusole.
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