Image courtesy of PokerStars (Danny Maxwell)
To pick up from last week, a short time after exiting that flight to Dublin, I entered another flight, one of the many satellite tournaments into the Irish Poker Open Main Event.
For this occasion, the main hall of the Royal Dublin Society, an old and ancient structure, had been converted into a vast and beautiful poker room, very similar to the WSOP, except that everyone was freely calling each other the c-word, instead of just thinking it.
I love that this word is kind of an ironic term of endearment for one of your mates over here. In the States, it is the most toxic word in the language unless you’re the current president and are deeply offended by the words affordability and Epstein.
But I digress. Now back to the satellite into (hopefully) the Main Event….
Late-regging like a baller in the €140 Milestone, my 10k starting stack was only good for 25 big blinds, and only for what remained of the current 20-minute level. I had my work cut out for me.
Fortunately, I am horrible at poker, so I’m used to playing a short stack. Amateur tip: a player who brags about being good on a short stack has a hole in their game called their game.
I bobbed and weaved, trying to work my stack up to 100K, the milestone referenced above that one must reach to win a seat. 191 players registered, so it would pay out 19 seats, ten percent of the field. I did a lot of folding, had a key double up when I was down to just a few blinds, and fought exhaustion.
As I wrote last week, I had been strapped into a plane seat less comfortably than Steve Buscemi was in Con Air, nonstop from LA, and hadn’t slept in 48 hours.
Turns out, no sleep, no problem. With a couple of doses of caffeine and a mainline shot of adrenaline courtesy of a re-raise all in when I was holding pocket kings, this gonzo poker journalist, one Punter S. Thompson, catapulted to within a few thousand of the milestone.
And when the field was winnowed down to under 20 players, with 5 or so seats already having been paid out, I passed the milestone and got my seat.
This was great news. I could spend some time with my wife on our first trip to Ireland, knowing that I had locked up a seat. It was late Sunday, and I decided I would play Day 1C on Thursday.
On Monday, we went on an e-bike tour of Dublin. It’s a great way to see the sights. The tour guide was very informative, had lots of good pub recommendations, and made sure we didn’t get hit by a bus.
We rolled up on historic sites like St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Christ’s Church Cathedral, Kilmainham Gaol prison, Dublin Castle, and of course, the Guinness Storeroom.
Speaking of beer, back in America, when I was starting out as a comedian in Boston, we always drank Black and Tans, half Guinness, half Harp, so I was excited to order thirty or forty of them in Dublin.
In fact, after winning that satellite, I went right to one of the bars conveniently set up on the tournament floor at the RDS and asked for one.
The friendly old barman said, “Oh, lad, I haven’t poured one of those in decades. I haven’t seen Harp since then. I could try it with another lager.”
No, I said, I’ll just take a pint of Guinness.
“Smart decision.”
A lively discussion ensued at the bar about how Harp is still brewed somewhere and remains popular among some, but only an f-ing c-nt would have it in a Black and Tan, or words to that effect. I was really starting to feel like one of the blokes.
Undeterred by this, two nights later, my wife and I went to hear music at a very old pub called Doheny and Nesbitt, and I asked the upstairs barman if he could make me a Black and Tan.
He looked at me askance, so I explained, “It’s half Guinness and half Harp.”
“I know,” he says. “We call that a half and half.”
“Oh, half and half. That refers to something entirely different in America.”
“Cream for coffee,” my wife told him.
“Yes, and…” I improv-ed
“Yes, and what?” asked my one true love.
I half-whispered, “Well, half and half is slang for-how shall I say this?-the full complement of services from a sex worker. You’ve never heard that?”
“Why would I have heard that? And why do you know it?”
“Uh…”
“Have you paid for sex?”
“Certainly not,” I said, feigning deep offense. “But I’ve window-shopped, and there’s some great bargains out there.”
Evening ruined. The price of wit.
“So what would you like to drink?” asked the barman.
“Two Guinness, please. And whatever she’s having.”
As he handed us our pints, the barman said, “Just so you know, most people here think that Black and Tan refers to the Black and Tans, a violent battalion that terrorized Catholics on behalf of the English about a hundred years ago, so you might be rubbing some people the wrong way.”
Mortified and mollified, I silently mouthed, “Oh,” as my wife thanked him for shutting me up.
I wanted to say, “Sorry, could you switch out this Guinness for an Irish Car Bomb,” but no need to be a c-nt about it.
Have a great week.
