Plot Back
The Accountant, June 26th, 1980. P.625
by Leslie Worth
Snooker is dead easy, I realised this after watching 10 minutes of ‘Pot Black’. It seems so leisurely, there’s no need to break the pain barrier like Jonah Barrington. Indeed, when you’re not actually potting blacks, reds and pinks, you can take time off to sit and sip your favourite tipple or puff nonchalantly on a cheroot. And all the time you must look as if you have nothing to do with the chap curing away at the table.
You can tell it’s money for old rope by the way Ray Reardon, Fred Davis and the rest simply give a wry smile whenever they miss an easy pot: ‘Join the club,’ they say to each other. Remember what they do at tennis of soccer when things go wrong, wrapping a racquet round ‘the umpire’s head or sounding off with a volley of verbals, for example — such is the spirit of ‘real games’.
I’ve always fancied myself as a natural all-round sport, a veritable Victor Ludorum, in fact. So I envisaged no problem in tackling snooker late in life; with an A-level in geometry I should be master of all the angles.
The only problem is where to play. In my youth there was always a billiard hall above the High Street Burton’s shop — alas, no more. Then I remember Nick, who has always nagged me to come and play him in his remote suburb. There’s just one snag — he plays at the Conservative Club and I’ve always voted Liberal. What if I’m seen going in by my political enemies — photographed, blackmailed!
This isn’t the attitude, the game’s the thing. I’ll wear that jacket I bought years ago in a Burberry’s sale and the flashy striped tie I got from Selfridge’s, and nobody will guess I’m not a Tory. Besides, my son gave me a cue for Christmas —it unscrews into two pieces and I carry it around proudly in a shiny leather case.
I sign in at the club; there’s a queue for tables, so we chalk our names on the list, then order and sip our pints and wait to be called. At last the great moment arrives and Nick sets up the balls while I assemble my cue. He seems to know on which spot every ball has to go, so he’s obviously an expert.
I break off in the usual nonchalant Reardon way, aiming to clip the outside red so as to bring the white ball back to test against the balk cushion. Alas, in my eagerness not to hit the red too fully I miss it altogether — four away.
No sportsman
I soon realise that Nick is a hard man — not a sport at all. When I play beginners at squash, I feed them with easy balls and save my reverse angle kills and fancy drop shots for better opponents. Not so Nick; there’s no leaving the ball bn the edge of the pocket now and then so that I can get a few morale-boosting pots to launch me on my snooker career. He’s even shabby enough to lay a number of diabolical snookers. I’ve never hated someone so much in my life and I’m beginning to take this game a lot more seriously!
After 15 minutes I’ve gone in-off three times, missed the ball four times and have been snookered three times; I’m losing 52-0. Never mind, even Ray Reardon must have off-days.
And here’s a funny thing: fit superman that I am, I find there are not many shots I can manage without using the rest or half-butt. How do Reardon and Co make all those shots with one whole leg along the table and only a tip of a toe on the ground? They must be fit — perhaps as fit as Jonah after all!
The bar’s shut and everybody’s gone home by the time our frame is over, so the other 28 frames will have to wait until another day. Hatred of Nick has been sublimated to a higher plane of steely resolve — I’ll do him next time.
My Burberry jacket has gone, a tatty jacket from a working-class tailor hangs in its plaice — it’s obviously been taken by a genuine Tory. I wonder if Eddie Charlton has a spare fancy waistcoat?