Probably The Finest Poker In The World

Back in the days when the Merrion Club was the home of Irish poker, a Danish based American player who had honed his skills as a teenager in Vegas, and later as a pro in Atlantic City, turned up to do his dough at the Irish Winter Festival. In a few short hours, he’d been excited by the sheer aggression of Furlong, Bennet and Betson, intrigued by the non-stop banter at the table which passed for conversation and seduced by the craic in O’Reilly’s pub during a frantic dinner break. He fell in love with Irish poker. His name was (and still is) Jesse May and he was to become The Voice of the Paddy Power Poker Irish Open and one of that event’s greatest ambassadors abroad. He was also to become a close friend of mine. Shit happens.

A couple of years ago I did a one month tour of Ireland with Scott Gray, visiting poker clubs and pubs all over the country for the craic. You would probably think no-one would be dumb enough to fly to Ireland for one night to play a 30 euro tournament with us in West Cork but you’d be wrong. Jesse showed in Bernie’s Bar in Clonakilty buzzing like a kid in line outside Santa’s grotto. This was despite the fact Id told him Michael Collins had been ambushed and murdered by his own when he was lured to that part of the country. He fucking loved it and the punters adored him. We nearly had to call the CIA in to spirit him out of there.

Inspired by a night he can barely remember (me neither) Jesse came up with the idea of taking busloads of foreigners to Ireland to play pub poker with the local nutjobs and maybe visit local beauty spots like the Guinness brewery or Jameson’s distillery. He thought the fresh air and exercise would enhance everyone’s enjoyment of the experience. Such attention to detail is indeed laudable. He asked if I’d join in. Of course I said yes, knowing there was a better chance of Wayne Rooney winning next year’s Eurovision song contest than Jesse actually getting this one off the ground. Get on Rooney now as a couple of weeks ago, Jesse showed up in Dublin airport with a bunch of thirsty Danish poker players. We headed for the Prince of Wales in Athlone, where just about every poker player in the Midlands turned out to defend local honour against the Danish invaders. They won the poker hands down though the drinking was too close to call but the craic was so good nobody cared. After a couple of hours sleep, we poured them onto a Viking Tours boat that took off down the river Shannon as a tour guide enthusiastically told us how their ancestors had sailed down the river, stopping every now and again to rape our women and steal our livestock. Or was it the other way around? Either way, their research on women from the Midlands was a bit slipshod to say the least. This history lesson was a little wasted on our lads as the ones that weren’t asleep were in the bar, possibly thinking it might be a museum.

Next up was the Castle Inn in Castlebar where the craic was mighty and the beer flowing. Carlsberg may indeed be probably the finest lager in the world, but the Vikings rather pragmatically took the view that Fosters at 3 euro a pint was probably the finest value and backed their judgement to the hilt. The good people of Castlebar are a law-abiding lot and diligently locked the doors of the pub at 1 am. They finally relented and let us out at 6ish.

On the journey back to Dublin I couldn’t help myself. I told the Danes we were stopping half way for another historical boat trip. Serves them right for invading my country in the first place!