The Irish Tales

Second Life (14)
"There is nowhere more distant than the recent past." Who said that, I’m sure it wasn’t me ?*
Whatever, it’s absolutely true. I only have the vaguest inklings about things that happened in the last five or so years, but I distinctly remember a hot sultry evening in August, circa 1986.
I remember the tension, the sweat pouring from my brow into my eyes, how I blinked rapidly to clear my vision, then drew back from the shot, wiped my face and re-chalked my cue.
That’s right, I’m talking about snooker. Remember it ? There was a time when it was never off our screens, or the back and often front pages of our newspapers.
Hurricane Higgins, Steve Davis, Jimmy White, Cliff Thorburn, Bill "15 pints" Werbeneck, that geeky Scots bloke and so many more.
It was cheap to screen and attracted audiences in the millions. Even better, it was cheap and easy to take part in oneself. Especially if one worked in an ad agency, where a snooker table in the creative department was considered de rigeur.
At AMV, everyone played, from the MD down to the post-boy. It was such a distraction that playing time was limited to lunch and after 6.15 in the evening.
And, being such a degenerate industry, large amounts of money were wagered. And won and lost. Not always in the most honest way, either.
"Chatting off" was commonplace and took many forms. From the straightforward, whispered, "NO!" as you were about to attempt a tricky double across the table to the pained look and doubtful shake of the head as you went for an easy red two inches from the pocket.
And then, there was the simple but deadly fart. Just as your arm was pulling back for the shot and your nose was within a foot of your opponents bottom.
(Even our esteemed Creative Director at the time, whose name escapes me, was not above stooping to this tactic. Very effective it was too.)
So fierce was the competition at AMV, I hit upon the bright idea of a Christmas Agency Snooker tournament, with myself as bookmaker and the profits from the book to go to the RSPCC.
I took all the entries, considered the form, set the odds and took the wagers. In the four or so years it existed, it never failed to produce a nice fat cheque for the charity. Mainly because, if I looked like losing a lot of money on a particular match, I bribed or blackmailed the specific player to throw the game. Blackmail and bribery in the ad business was an everyday affair, you know.
(I was very nearly caught out on one occasion. A no-hoper was some 40 points down and full of bravado, I shouted out that 100/1 was available to anyone who wanted it.
To my delight, the no-hoper took the odds to a tenner. Then proceeded to level the scores, with just the black to pot to win the game. I smiled, even as my heart went into a thrombosis. But he went in/off the black and so I survived.)
To get back to the night in question…………
I was playing "Kiss of Death" Foster, in a best of three challenge.
For more money than I could possibly afford to lose.
At this time, my personal life was in total disarray ; I lived nominally in a little village near Bristol, but spent all week in London. My financial straits were such that I was reduced to sleeping in my office at night, getting up as the cleaners entered and bathing at the nearby Sports Hall.
(You tell youngsters today this…and they won’t believe you.)
Now the curious thing about snooker games between myself and Kiss of Death was this : when we were both sober, it was close but no doubt that he was the better player.
However, when we played late at night, for money and usually the worse for wear, I won.
And so, the night in question we had dined well if not wisely and then repaired to the agency for a challenge match.
I forget now the sum involved, but suffice it to say it was much. much more money than I could afford.
I fluked the first frame and lost the second heavily. 1-1.
The third and deciding frame was scrappy and fiddly. I was a point behind, when he suddenly had a fit of inspiration and a break of 24.
Then he went in/off the black and left me with a prime table.
I played on auto-pilot. I was left just needing to pot the pink to win.
To his eternal credit, "Kiss of Death" turned and walked away from the table as I wiped away the sweat and re-set myself.
He was already getting his coat as the pill smacked sweetly into the net.
"Well played, old chap." he said and he meant it, I’m sure.
He went home, I went into my office and slept, fully-clothed, bathed in the sweat of relief.
These days, I’d need the rest simply to reach the table.
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*Of course it wasn’t. Step forward the inimitable Alan Bennet.