Please make sure you read Part One - A Trip to Casablanca: Spontaneity v Structure (Part 1) other wise this won’t make much sense!

He couldn’t speak a word of English. I thought back to my French lessons and all I could remember was Matthew Jones being caught as he masturbated under the table for a dare. Our French teacher was called Popeye because his eyes were funny. He would be talking to you and staring in a different direction. It was always terribly confusing, especially if you are masturbating under the desk during his class and he is telling you to stop. Why am I remembering this scene? Surely I remember some scenes where I actually learned to speak French?

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The first thing that I look for is the quality of car. If it a brand name, smart and shiny then I feel safe. If it is a broken down old rust bucket then I panic. If the car doesn’t have a taxi sign, and yet sits in the rank looking like an imposter, I feel even worse. I showed the universe my greatest piece of pessimism and it repaid the favour by giving me exactly what I visualised.

So Liza and I hop into the old rust bucket that is conveniently missing a taxi sign. The driver tells us that the journey will take 40-minutes and that it will cost 300 Dirham (or around £21). We are in Casablanca, where we have decided to stay for the evening before traveling to the Mazagan Beach and Golf Resort where I will be working as a reporter at the World Poker Tour (WPT) event. I have no idea where we are going, because I asked Liza to arrange the hotel. I hate arranging hotels.

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