Victoria Coren's everyday tale of poker folk

Observer

The age of settling gamblers' arguments with a pistol is all but gone. Since the old Western days, when cowboys were shot and cheats tipped overboard into the Mississippi, poker players have developed rules to cover most of the controversies that get thrown up. Casinos have 'tournament directors' whose word is law: every player has a story about a bad ruling made against him, but the director's word is final.

We bicker a lot in my home game, but rarely about the cards. I shout at Jimmy for belching, being late and stealing my cigarettes. Harvey shouts at Rob for watching the football highlights mid-evening and playing his hands from the sofa. Jimmy and Jean-Yves have just come to the end of a gargantuan and very modern row involving Jimmy's company website address which has a 'co.uk' at the end. Jimmy had forgotten to buy the '.com' alternative, so cunning Jean-Yves snapped it up and hoped to do business. The quibble raged for weeks, but they're now back to arguing nicely about who gets the last Jaffa cake.

But we don't tend to row about the game itself. If somebody claims a misdeal, bets out of turn, or thinks a particular card shouldn't go, we have a sensible grown-up discussion and then invariably defer to Stuart Who Knows Best. Nobody shouts at Stuart. You can't shout at somebody whose comeback is an impression of the two camp tailors from The Fast Show.

But a recent HoldEm tournament at the Groucho Club was a salutary lesson for me in the way some players sort out their differences, and how, in some quarters, the old techniques are still alive. We've played down to a final table and I'm on the big blind (ie, it's my turn to place a compulsory pre-deal bet). Then the cards are dealt and the big blind is called round the table. I look down and find 10-J of clubs so, given my relatively low chip count, I raise all-in.

There are some callers, and the flop comes 9-J-3. But the dealer, a big French chef, deals a fourth card by mistake: another 9. 'That's the burn card,' I say, meaning it should be turned face down and then, after a round of betting, the next card turned face-up straight off the top. This is such a straightforward ruling that I barely even say it out loud.

But 'No!' says Keith Allen. 'It's a misdeal.'

'It can't be a misdeal,' I say. 'There's been action.'

Allen suggests alternatives: we turn the whole flop face down and deal three fresh cards, or we leave the money in the middle and re-deal the hands. Both ridiculous.

'I'd agree with you,' says the Vindaloo star, 'if the card wasn't another 9. A 9 affects everyone's betting strategy.'

'Any card affects everyone's betting strategy!' I say. 'You can't have one rule for a 9 and a different rule for any other card.'

Other players at the table mutter agreement. Allen, who has enjoyed a couple of refreshments, is suddenly on his feet shouting, 'It's my fucking tournament!'

'You can't make a decision based on who shouts loudest!' I shout, loudly.

'Do you want to talk about it outside?' shouts Keith Allen.

'If you mean do I want a fist fight,' I shout, 'then you're absolutely bloody insane.' But I don't rule it out.

In the end, the matter is resolved by me standing up, chucking my chips across the table and refusing to play any more. After this, Keith Allen is restored to charm itself and I come away rather liking him; looking forward to a rematch. Given the small stakes, his nutty rulings make quite a refreshing change from the textbook obsessives I usually play with. It was an old-fashioned Western poker game: everyone deferring to the scariest man, despite his flagrant disregard for the rules.

The following Tuesday, Jimmy was late again. I was so cross I made him wait on the doorstep for 20 minutes. When he finally shivered in, I shouted nasty personal remarks at him for a while. Just as a formality.