IN THE week Rory McIlroy lifted the Irish Open in a manner befitting a gladiator, the emperors of Irish golf pulled off a trick Seve would envy: they turned goodwill into kindling and struck a match. Because, in their infinite wisdom, they decided that the 2026 iteration of the tournament will tee off not at Lahinch, not at Ballybunion, not even at some windswept gem hidden behind a creamery in North Mayo, but at Trump Doonbeg. Yes, that Trump. Yes, that Doonbeg.
It’s a bit like celebrating a christening by announcing the child has been baptised in crude oil.
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