Casinos have long had an air of glamour, the setting for countless films where the little man can win big – but what are they really like? CIAN TRAYNORspends a night at the Fitzwilliam Casino in Dublin
EVERYBODY WATCHES everybody. The pit boss prowls the floor, reading signals from inspectors swivelling their heads studiously between tables. The gaming manager looks for any subtleties they might miss – a sly hand, a stray card, a suspicious shuffle – while the poker manager concentrates on table after table of hawk-eyed regulars. The games are streamed live online and, just to be thorough, 64 cameras are rolling.
7.45pm
This is Dublin’s Fitzwilliam Casino, a former church whose well-worn carpet is crowded with young lads in tracksuits and poker-faced pensioners. “There are probably more prayers said now than then,” jokes managing director Dave Hickson as he stands on the balcony, likening the room to a theatrical performance.
Yet its pull is such that, every month, six members fill out a self-exclusion form that stops them from being readmitted (reversing that decision requires a 28-day cooling-off period). Until casino regulation is introduced, Hickson says, “responsible gaming” policies such as self-exclusion remain voluntary for operators.
Under the 1956 Gaming and Lotteries Act, casinos are illegal in Ireland except as private clubs; more than 70,000 people have registered, for free, as members of the Fitzwilliam.
As the casino is open 24 hours a day, most of its 112 staff are trained to spot problematic behaviour: if someone is there too often or alludes to betting with rent money, they’re pulled aside. “It’s a difficult conversation to have,” says Hickson. “I don’t know, say, even my brother’s financial situation enough to judge whether he’s gambling too much or not. €50 can be nothing to one person and a lot to someone else.”
From the moment someone places a bet, the money is tracked. Partly this ties into anti-laundering legislation, Hickson explains, but if a player wins big, it also gives the club an idea whether they’ll see that money again.
In March, one lucky player decided to up the stakes considerably. “He wasn’t just there to win. For him, bringing down the house became a game.”
Ultimately, he lost, spending the money on bets over the next four weeks.
But there was also an Israeli who won €75,000 during a three-day visit. When he left Ireland, the money went with him.
“We’re not necessarily anxious to have big players,” Hickson says. “It’s one of those clenching moments where, really, you’re better off without them in some ways. I suppose there is an element of comfort in the fact that casinos are guaranteed to win 18 per cent [of all bets]. It’s a mathematical certainty. The problem is that in a four- to 12-week period, that can go seriously haywire.”
9pm
Of the 300 customers here every day, half are Irish, a quarter gamble full-time and the majority are men.
Poker is the main draw: as well as cash games, there is a nightly tournament. Between dealers changing every half hour and the ante going up every 20 minutes, poker manager Denise Fusciardi has to spot problems before they happen.
“There are times where you think, ‘here we go again’,” she says, “but it’s the characters and crews that make every night different.” A former hairdresser and chip shop-owner, Fusciardi revels in the banter.
It’s the reason she insists on dealing for an hour every night, controlling the tempo, breaking in newcomers, adding fuel to the slagging.
But then there are the drunks.
Unlike other casinos, the Fitzwilliam does not serve alcohol. When the inebriated participate, Fusciardi warns them about other players taking advantage. If they look like they might not remember being there the next day, she advises them to cash out. More often than not, they’ll thank her next time.
But not everyone is so receptive.
Chips are thrown; cards too. “You can’t take it to heart,” she says. “They’re only abusing you because they’re losing. Your normal poker player knows how it goes: you win one night, you lose the next.”
10pm
It’s not going well for Paddy Hicks, an 80-year-old regular competing in tonight’s tournament. “Always learning,” he says, shaking his head, massaging what’s left of his chips.
As a widower, Hicks has been coming here three or four nights a week since the club opened in 2003. In the past, he has left hospital just to participate, finding it therapeutic to soak up the atmosphere with the poker fraternity. “I’d be lost only for the game,” he says. “It’s keeping me alive.”
At a roulette table across the room, an elderly Indian man, who goes by the nickname Singh, spreads chips into 15 stacks across the board. Number 30 comes up; there’s nothing on it. The chips are swept away. He pulls a handful of €5 counters from his pocket, changes them into roulette chips and wagers. It’s no use: it happens again, then again, before he retires for a toasted ham sandwich.
Singh is a 76-year-old who comes here a few times a month, typically to bet €100 “out of habit”. He pauses. “Okay, you can call it an addiction. It’s a bloody awful drug but at the same time, I love it.”
Singh is superstitious and uses the same core numbers. Though he recognises there is no skill involved, he’ll only play roulette. He’s won several thousand at it, but lost significantly more.
As he explains this, he ponders whether to go home or withdraw more money (the casino only permits one in-house card withdrawal per customer, and only if they appear sober).
“Drink doesn’t suit me. I’ve realised that,” he says. “With drugs and alcohol, there’s a maximum amount you can take before it kills you. With gambling, there is no maximum. You can only go broke.”
11pm
Lorraine Brien, the house manager, is carefully examining two decks of cards, which she does every hour after updating a rota that also records each table’s takings as well as players’ total wins and losses.
So far tonight, the biggest single loss is €2,000 while the most a player has cashed out with is €1,700. One roulette table is down €100 while the other, where Singh is playing, is up €7,000.
“We paid €1.6 million in Vat last year,” Hickson says. The casino made around €7.62 million in that time, with an average of approximately €116,000 in bets a night. But the hard-luck tales, he adds, are countless.
12.30am
“Everybody’s got a ‘bad-beat’ story and they’re all the same, except for the cards,” says Fusciardi, over her dinner. How many hugs does she give out a night? “Ah, stop. You don’t want to know. In tonight’s tournament alone you’ll have 63 people who didn’t win.”
It’s currently rolling towards the 10th round, with 14 players left and the ante up to €100 (Paddy Hicks was eliminated in the fifth round). While the post-round analysis is entertainment in itself, the serious players don’t linger. “They grind it out, night after night, trying to make a certain amount. When they do, they go. It’s that disciplined. Then there’s people coming in with €100 to spare and they don’t care what happens.”
Singh is back at the roulette table. “Losing,” he grunts. As the wheel spins on, he piles up chips.
The dealer says “all bets” five times before Singh stops. He wins, though appears indifferent – possibly because the reward amounts to exactly what he started with. And so it goes: over and over with hypnotic regularity until the returns diminish and luck peters out. With a heavy sigh, Singh decides to call it a night and cashes out with €50.
2.30am
The tournament is winding down; Fusciardi and Hickson are long gone. It’s the 14th round and six players are left, the chit-chat has been spent, the analysis muted. If everyone agrees how to divide the pot, this could end soon. A piece of paper with updated calculations is delivered hurriedly to the table.
“Fifth gets €280,” says one player. “Give it here,” demands another. “You get half of what he gets.” Downstairs, a weary focus hangs over the room as the miniature dramas accumulate. Two men in their late-30s have drawn an audience at one of the roulette tables. Using shared funds gives them the air of an animated married couple squabbling one moment, conspiring the next. For more than an hour they’ve been engrossed in every spin, chiding and cheering their instincts as if it can control the wheel. Then, with a stroke, it’s all gone. The table is swept clear to the sound of gasping. A serious look is exchanged and the pair beat a swift exit.
Finally, the last of the poker players wanders downstairs. “It’s over,” says Tadhg Muldowney, the eventual winner (he and Alan Tang have agreed to split the pot €900/€700), as he heads to the roulette table, where the two friends from earlier have reappeared. They only left for the ATM, it transpires.
How much are they down? “I don’t even want to know,” says one, covering his face in frustration, trying not to look at the table.
This could go on all night.
