I feathered them in without thinking so – you know how it is sometimes when you’re in the zone – and before I knew it I had just one red left and the black ball also for a close, but well-deserved I think, victory. The red was an easy one into the middle sack, which I needed to just stun in softly to hold for the black that was over the left hand pocket at the opposite to baulk end of the table. If I could just make sure that I didn’t snooker myself on that after the pot into the middle, then I'd be home and hosed and over the finishing line more or less, if I kept it all together and didn’t capitulate.
Ok right, so I don’t know why this is actually, but why is it that whenever you have an extremely important ball to pot, you almost always get the most unmerciful of kicks? That is that woeful contact you sometimes get between the object ball and cue ball, something in the air perhaps, I don't know, kinetic energy maybe? Whatever it is anyway, it almost always conspires to fuck you up whenever it occurs. The way it works (well according to the experts anyway) is that at the exact moment the balls collide, a kind of static electricity or energy is created, resulting in either one or both of them jumping a few millimetres off the table into the air, and potentially veering off also in a completely different direction to the one you’d intended for them to be going in the first place. Nobody knows why this is really but anyway, as I’m sure you’ve gathered already by now, it had struck now at this most inopportune of times. And talk about an unmerciful kick as well! The cue ball jumped nearly an inch into the air after it made contact with the red, with the eventual upshot being that the red skewed away to the left at least a half an inch off its intended course. So it was never going in after that, not in a million years. And to make matters worse also, it finished up glued to the side cushion on the right hand side, with the cue ball remaining in the centre of the table and pretty much all of his yellows on and in relatively easy pottable positions. The black was hanging over the left-hand end pocket also, as I mentioned before, so was just waiting to be brushed in by whoever got to finish their colours first.
I was a good bit ahead at this stage as you know, but potentially fucked too. Four hundred small clouds were forming forebodingly above my general person, and the world all of a sudden seemed a significantly grislier place. You just know it when you see it don’t you? If you've ever played the game to any kind of a decent level before that is. When they’re on basically, they’re fucking on! You can see the shots without even thinking about them. So when I reviewed the way they were set up for Paudge right now, it was obvious to me that a relative novice would have little difficulty dispatching them away easily enough, if they applied themselves with even the smallest degree of concentration to the task at hand.
But lo and behold a miracle! He fucked it up! I couldn't believe it to be honest; maybe the pressure was getting to him. He sauntered over to the table like he owned it, amid of course a considerable ruckus emanating from both sides of the divide. He dispatched the first three balls away with ease, and was confidently readying himself to dispatch the four more that were positioned in relatively benign looking locations also. And with the black ball waiting over the end pocket also, as I said before. It all looked pretty ominous. I was just sat there glumly so, preparing for the worst.
But then a miscue! And nothing to do with not chalking his cue either. He just lifted his head as he was taking the shot and missed the ball completely. An air shot. Bloody hell. What you adam and eve it? A total fucking shocker.
It’s happened to us all before of course. We’ve all been there. You’re so convinced that you’ll pot the ball you’re currently on, that you’ve already moved on to the next one in your subconscious. Your brain has raced on so fast into the future that it’s forgotten to tell your body that there’s still work to be done in the present. With the net result being that you'll almost certainly be left holding your dick in the wind like an absolute spanner (i.e., Paudge right now) and your opponent (i.e., me right now) will be in like Flynn to rub your proverbial nose in it. And so it was.
What a result! I couldn’t believe it. I settled down over my shot so just thankful for the opportunity. I would not fuck this up. I noted disappointedly then however, that it would take a pretty impressive hit for me to pot my last red. It had settled obstinately on to the side cushion as I’ve said, so to take it on down that dodgy right hand rail was a decidedly risky proposition whatever way you looked at it. I decided however that this was it. The moment of truth. The moment for men to step up and be men. It was clear to me then that the present situation required just one thing and one thing alone. A Harold’s Cross. A double. And a cross double at that. There was no other option for it as far as I could see. So hitting across the ball basically, to send it back across the table towards the opposite centre pocket, meaning that the cue ball would be travelling away from the shot and back up and down the table also with serious welly. There was no telling where it might end up when it eventually came to a halt so a lot would obviously have to depend upon luck. With the black ball hanging over the end pocket though, I decided that it was worth the risk. And besides did General McArthur cave in at the Western Front? http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Douglas_MacArthur He most certainly did not. So I went for it with verve and the ball shot into the opposite middle sack with no issues at all. Done deal. The only thing now was the next five seconds or so, that is, where the cue ball might end up when it finally came to the end of its journey. And if I’d at last be in a position to finish this bollocks off for good, and send both him and his band of idiots off on their merry way into the humid summer night.
It wasn’t good though. Things had not gone in my favour. Not at all. The cue ball had hit one of his yellows on its second journey back down the table, leaving it stuck behind not one but two of his balls near to the end cushion. That is at the same end of the table as the black but with no path through to it along that same cushion. From what I could see then, there was absolutely no way of hitting it at all, except perhaps to play away from it down the table towards baulk, which looked to me to be a practically impossible two or even three cushion escape. The cue ball was not too tight behind the yellows thankfully enough, but even so, there still seemed to be no better path through and back to the black beyond what I’ve just described to you there now. To make matters worse also, the escape was rendered even more difficult by the fact that I’d have to miss another one of his yellows situated about halfway up the table. This was a ball that was sitting bang smack in the middle of the path the cue ball would have to take if I wanted it to follow its’ natural course with no side spin applied back down towards the black ball over the end pocket. Which as I've said before was just waiting to be nudged in by whomever was fortunate enough to get to it first. The slightest touch would do it too, an absolute Glenn Hoddle of a pot if ever there was one.
Unless. Unless. A Eureka moment. A ‘light bulb flash over the head’ kind of moment.
A plan began to formulate in my tiny little mind. An audacious and daring plan which if successful, would be a total revelation to anyone fortunate enough to have witnessed it. A geometrical feat of wonder even, that pool historians might marvel over for centuries. But a conceivable disaster also if I fucked it up.
The plan was this. The cue ball was lying two inches or so from the bottom cushion so I could get to it easily enough without having to worry about hampered cueing. There was a path of perhaps a three inch wide gap through Paudge’s yellows which led directly through to the baulk cushion. No more than that though, so it was a tight enough squeeze. It did mean however that the cue ball would have to be struck with nothing less than absolute perfection for it to make it through successfully.
The main problem however and what made the shot so difficult was the following. The only path through to the baulk area was at a diagonal which meant that for the shot to come off I’d be required to actually hit away from the black at an angle of perhaps five or six degrees. Which doesn’t sound like a lot I know, but you're still hitting away from the black ball so where's the sense in that?
Unless.
I settled behind the shot and closed my eyes to visualise it. After three of four seconds or so I imagined how it would be, and steadied myself over it with poise. Serenity and tranquillity of mind were critical. I brought the cue back and hit the right-hand side of the cue ball, not too hard but just enough to ensure that it would complete its journey. What’s that word I’m looking for? Certitude. Yes. I hit the ball with certitude. I could feel it. It came from within. The cue ball mercifully made it through that tight gap I was talking about before, and continued on down towards the baulk cushion as intended. Once it hit this cushion it did exactly as it was supposed to do, that is checked so violently that instead of going off to the left as it theoretically should have done in a geometrically perfect universe, it came back on itself instead and took a similar path to the one it had just taken up the table except three or four more degrees or so perhaps to the right, so as to avoid the other balls on its way back down the table. And as a shot executed with a serious degree of right hand side, I don’t believe I’ve ever hit one better. I moved around then to the right hand side of the table immediately afterwards, to stand behind the black over the corner pocket and check the course of the cue ball as it made its way back down the baize towards it. As soon as I got behind the line I could tell that it wasn't going to miss. It was losing a small degree of momentum on the way but that was OK. It would definitely make contact which was all that was needed, and I didn’t want it to follow the black in either also don’t forget. That would be a foul shot and would mean my losing the game. So it eventually reached its destination and nudged the black ball in as I knew it would.
Job done. Dog's bollocks. I threw my cue on the table and raised my arms in victory. The congregation erupted around me, which believe it or not included one or two of Paudge’s stooges also. Paudge himself was shaking his head in disbelief and although definitely in a kind of shock from what I could gather from his confused looking demeanour, he at least had the relative decency to shake my hand in congratulation.
“Fuck me,” he said, shaking his head a little more and cutting a considerably paler and more ashen faced reflection of the Paudge I’d come to know and love over the preceding two or three hours.
“Fuck me,” he continued.
“So Paudge,” I ventured confidently. “This horse? What time tomorrow? 12pm? Finglas you said, right?”
Regardless of my awesome and totally splendiforous moment of glory, he did still owe me a horse.
Paudge looked mystified, kind of lost really, and some tanked up skinny Northern Irish gimp behind us wasn’t helping matters much either. I was trying to conclude my business here as well, so this drunken bozo was being a right pain in the arse at just the wrong time. He started by taking the complete and utter piss out of Paudge for losing, so it was obvious enough to all and sundry there that things would probably kick off very badly soon enough.
It turned out to be Alex Higgins anyway as it goes, and I think it’s fair to say that I’m not exaggerating when I mention the fact that he was absolutely fucking plastered http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uVzr6qWa3Vc. He was playing pool with some young bloke from Ranelagh called Ken http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Evz167TOZ34 who Stretch knew from before, having lived in the same area as him until just a few years back. Their grandfathers had apparently been bosom buddies on the canal in the 30’s and 40’s, so they knew each other well enough through their families.
So this young Ken bloke was absolutely wiping the floor with the mercurial Northerner today, and not necessarily because Higgins was having an off day either. He was just very good and missing nothing basically; which as the day went on did nothing but drive his drunken opponent even crazier than he already was. We found out later that Higgins had been fucked out of Grogan’s for singing earlier in the day, and then having purchased a naggin of Huzzar from some offy in Drury Street, had made his way back up South William Street and into the Hideout for a bit of a hustle. He was totally penniless apparently, so needed to get his hands on more pie and mash as quickly as possible, so that he could make it back into The Flowing Tide for round two later that evening. Young Ken had been playing out of his skin though, so what had started out as a best of three for a fiver soon became the best of five, then ten and then doubles or quits on everything owed up until then. Alex was into Ken for eighty notes already by the time my game with Paudge had reached its culmination, so he was definitely having an off day notwithstanding young Ken’s brilliance. Ken wasn’t that bothered about it either way it seemed, and was just looking for a bit of practice against somebody half decent. Higgins was prepared to go to any level of debt though by all accounts, until the point where he might finally turn everything on its head in one frame and wipe the slate clean in one foul swoop. Not fair I know, but that was his form. Rather than just leave it at that also (if he did ultimately manage to turn on the style and win one), he’d usually start it all off again if his opponent agreed, and walk away with the cash more often than not if he persevered. You wouldn’t be putting your house on it tonight though in fairness; this young Ken lad could certainly play.
Unbeknownst to me anyway, for obvious enough reasons, they’d stopped their own game for a few minutes to witness the exciting finale of my own contest with Paudge. And as soon as I’d finally emerged victorious and amidst the cheers and hollers of congratulations for my epic finish, Higgins proceeded to verbally lay into Paudge in no uncertain terms in his hour of ignominious defeat.
“Ye stewpet, beg, theck, celchie basterd ye!” he opened, in his unmistakeably thick northern brogue. “Are ye fickin blaynd eer whet?
By which I believe he was alluding to the fact that Paudge might perhaps hail from a geographically rural location. And that in addition to that supposition, and the fact that his parents had foregone the old nuptials before he made his exit from the womb, that he might also be suffering from a less than mild form of crippling myopia.
"Yeer fickin shayte meet!"
By which additionally I think he meant ‘You're fucking shite mate!’
Paudge remained in a kind of a daze though and seemed content enough to be just muttering the words ‘Fuck me’ continually over and over again. He seemed largely unaware of Higgins’ presence also, that is until the drunken lunatic came up behind him and hit him over the head with the butt of his cue. Not smart. Not smart at all. Paudge emerged from his reverie with a start, and instantaneously reverted to his more naturally uncompromising persona. He’d barely flinched when the cue had made contact, so turned now to see who’d had the audacity to imagine that they might possibly get away with something like this in a month of Sundays.
“Oh” he said, raising his eyes to heaven. ”It’s feckin’ you so Higgins, is it?” he continued, laughing it off now nonchalantly, as a fly might get brushed off his lapel.
He clearly knew Higgins or of him, but then again who didn’t know Alex Higgins back then? His reputation preceded itself.
“Ye scrawny little drunken northern bastard ye!” Paudge elaborated further. “Now feck off with yerself will ye haw, before I knock yer feckin block off and shove it up yer bony little blue nose arse!”
Higgins made a run at him then and all hell broke loose. As the melee ensued, with five or maybe six individuals throwing digs and kicks in here, there and everywhere, I was mindful of the fact that mine and Paudge’s business vis a vis pertinent matters of an equine nature had not to date been satisfactorily concluded. So as he shielded blows here and launched haymakers there, he was no doubt aware of an annoying, tinny little voice in the background (i.e., mine) urging him to dispense with matters of a combative nature and revert back to those of a more commercial essence. That is, of course, the matter of the horse.
“Ehh Paudge, the horse?” I shouted over the din. “Can I ask of you if we are in agreement that said beast is as they say, in arrears? And that the subsequent debt is redeemable at the preordained time on the morrow? That is, 12pm?”
“Fuck me!” he answered, shaking his head once more with no small degree of consternation as he continued to pulverise Higgins’ head locked face with his oversized knuckles. On this occasion however, I fancy that his words were less as a result of my impressive finish to the contest and more so related to the fact that he couldn’t understand a single word of what I was trying to get across. Young Ken dragged me back away then by the elbow and whispered something into my ear.
“You’re wasting your time pal” he said earnestly. “This ain’t ending anytime soon.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, unsure of where he was going with this particular line of communication.
“Well its simple enough really buddy” he continued. “Namely being that Higgins is a fucking animal! So your mate might have the upper hand now but he’d better kill him stone dead if he gets the opportunity, because if he doesn’t Higgins will come back at him again and again until he eventually gets the upper hand. It’s the same in snooker. Trust me the fucker just doesn’t give in! I’ve beaten him 10 - 1 today already at least, and he’s still hanging around. And he’ll probably walk away with the dough as well. Trust me pal, he is fucking relentless.”
This Ken bloke seemed like a decent enough skin.
So I reviewed the situation then, and took into account what he’d been saying. And after a short deliberation decided to throw in the towel and cut my losses. I couldn’t really ignore the fact that less than ten minutes ago there was a reasonably good chance that I could have been four hundred notes down; so fair’s fair, it hadn’t been that bad a result all in all. The likelihood of Paudge meeting me at the designated time in Finglas tomorrow also was marginal at best; but as I said, things could definitely have been a whole lot worse.
So after shaking young Ken’s hand and thanking him for his advice, I turned on my heels and scarpered. As I made my way down the stairwell Donny was on his way back up; so there was a pretty good chance that the fracas wouldn’t be lasting for too much longer no matter what young Ken had said about Higgins’ longevity. If there was one thing Donny knew how to do it was how to put an end to a fight.
I exited the front door so and made my way gingerly down the street. Looking forward to my bed if I’m totally honest. After no more than twenty or so yards though, I heard Marcus shouting my name from behind. He’d had enough of the fight also, and like myself had managed to give the creamers the slip.
“Hold up Sir Freakalot, hold up!” he shouted, eventually catching up with me and putting his arm around my shoulder breathlessly as we lurched along.
“The night” he said with a knowing smirk “is but a pup my friend. But a pup!”
An ominous statement, I'm sure you agree. It seemed now that rather than be allowed to slope off home for some well-deserved shut-eye, I would instead be coerced into continuing this drunken revelry at some other establishment of Marcus’s choosing. Just one thought came into my mind so at that particular moment in time. And that thought was this.
Would this God forsaken night ever fucking end?
Chapter 16 - A Somme of Hearts
So ‘The Smiths’ right? You're familiar with the band yeah? ‘The Queen is Dead’, ‘Meat is Murder’, all that old palaver? A lot of it excellent of course, that's absolutely undeniable. But patchy in parts you must surely agree. ‘Girlfriend in a Coma’ anybody? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3GhoWZ5qTwI And I defy anyone to argue the point also that ‘Panic’ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wMykYSQaG_c pretty much IS ‘Metal Guru’! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jowN9VRCUXk
When I contemplate ‘The Smiths’ myself however, I think not of the band but of a place. A place where the boys and I spent a considerable portion of our formative years. A teenage nightclub just north of Raheny called The Grove. And of a song. And the following lines within that song that more or less describe the place to perfection. Crystal clear reminiscences gush forth in an instant as soon as those first few unrecognisable bars make their exalted entrance; reminiscences that sear through my otherwise hazy recollections of the time like a slap in the face in the midst of a daydream. And as a collection of words strung together, they arguably describe the place better than any of my uninspired rhetoric could ever do.
The Grove. A Somme of teenage hearts. And even though they weren’t, the following words might very easily have been penned for the sole purpose of portraying this dreary yet in some strange way almost masochistically addictive den of iniquity.
There's a club if you'd like to go
You could meet somebody who really loves you
So you go and you stand on your own
And you leave on your own
And you go home and you cry
And you want to die
From of course, the incomparable ‘How Soon Is Now?’ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hnpILIIo9ek
It’s true. We did all want to die. And we stood on our own. With friends of course but always on our own.
There she'd be in a corner at the back of the hall. Meticulously ignoring him but salaciously shoving her luscious tongue as far down his throat as she could also. Rubbing her sweaty palm up and down the exterior of his Lee Cooper erection as her cruel, searching eyes scanned the hall for you over his shoulder. Not looking at him. Never at him. Scanning the hall for you. To rub your nose in it. Any girl. Every girl. Her name immaterial. A harpooning harpy