As an Irish Open virgin, it can take a couple of days to accept that this is all real.
You’ve seen the pictures, you’ve heard the stories — but you do wonder if there isn’t a touch of mythologising going on. After all, there’s some serious money on the line here. They can’t be partying that hard the whole time, surely?
But just as Glastonbury isn’t really about the bands, the Irish Open isn’t really about the poker. The mantra round here is that they come for the cards but they stay for the Craic.
The Craic Den officially opened its doors in 2024 but it has always been here in spirit.
When the poker bug first bit me around 25 years ago, the Irish Open was already legendary. That fateful night I stumbled in from the pub, switched on Channel 4 and was instantly besotted: that darkened studio with its strange kidney-shaped table; the grasshopper chirrup of chips click-clacking away; and of course, the cigarette smoke twirling in the studio lights.
Among the players in that studio was a gentleman — or rather The Gentleman — who was so instrumental in bringing this festival to a wider world. Even then, the Irish Open had a certain cachet that was unrivalled anywhere this side of Glitter Gulch.
But what really set the Irish Open apart — what has for me, always set Irish poker apart — was the fun they seemed to be having. The craic has always been a key part of this festival, so it’s slightly surprising to learn that the Craic Den itself has only been here for two years, so integral has it already become to the vibe of this festival.
The den is a changeable beast: In its quieter moments it can lull you into thinking it’s a chill-out zone. You might yourself challenged to a friendly game of darts or shuffleboard, or even chess. But quiet is a fleeting commodity here, and once the sun is over the proverbial yard arm, the place really comes alive...
It’s around 9pm on Sunday and it’s just starting to warm up. There’s a buzz of general bonhomie in the air. I might be a grizzled old hack but I can still get giddy when a pro who doesn’t know me from Adam offers me a pint — or another who I know only in the vaguest terms, hugs me like a long-lost relative. But this place seems to do that to people.
The night’s festivities were meant to be kicking off right about now — but Rory McIlroy has just gone three shots clear in The Masters and that’s been put on hold for the time being. The first item on the agenda will be Play Your Cards Right (there’s one for the kids) and standing in for Bruce Forsythe tonight, is Phil Baker. He has the unenviable task of getting all the golf fans off to the side so that the 80s gameshow can be given its due reverence.
Phil has been a fixture at the Irish Open for longer than most people can remember, and his importance to the whole feel of the festival cannot be overstated. He really deserves a separate article to do him any kind of justice — and that’s why we gave him one.
The business of setting up the outsized card deck whilst placating golf geeks takes about 40 minutes. Which is just enough time for me to give in to the idea of a second pint. I’m about halfway through that when any last sense of being a fly-on-the-wall completely dissolves. Like a low-rent Hunter S. Thompson I decide to abandon any last vestiges of impartial observation and sign up to take part in the great game of Higher or Lower.
The second beer becomes a third and then I stop counting. Soon, it’s my turn to go up. It’s a knockout competition and we answer a question to see who will turn the cards first. The question is: “In what year did the Irish Open first take place?” A rudimentary piece of knowledge which I get spectacularly wrong. Phil kindly points out my media role to everyone watching and I am predictably ridiculed. As I write this, the chants of “Sacked in the morning” are still ringing in my ears.
I scuttle away from the braying pack, to check in on the golf. In the time I’ve been away, McIlroy has dropped three shots. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. The night has taken a dark turn.
But my faith doesn’t falter. If the magic of the Craic Den is real, surely now is the time to prove itself. I never thought I’d use my ‘One Time’ on a golf tournament but that’s exactly what happens. When Rory eventually sinks the winning putt, the place goes mental. When he picks up his daughter moments later, McIlroy isn’t the only one with tears in his eyes.
In a normal world that would be the end of the story but this is the Craic Den and the night is only just beginning. My memory of the rest of the evening is very hazy but I do remember The Tower and I singing along to Fulsom Prison Blues. I remember a shuffleboard session where I was sweeping a broom in front of the weights, like they do in curling. My broom was imaginary of course but I’m pretty convinced it helped. After that the only thing I remember is my knees and my lungs pleading with me to stop dancing.
Fortunately for me, it is now nearly 2am. The Craic Den is closing and we are sent reeling cheerfully into the night: a haze of beer fumes and goodwill to all. We move next door. Apparently, there’s a poker festival going on in there. Who knew?
