I win a frame of snooker.

The pink wobbles and falls into the pocket’s hungry clutch.

My opponent, who is very good and who plays off scratch, looks agape. Then his shoulders slump, as if he has just been passed a note revealing that his wife is having an affair with eccentric weather forecaster Rob McElwee.

“Look – you’re going to have to write about this now,” says John Twonil. “You can’t put it off any longer.”

I brush him aside temporarily, to modestly run round the table doing high fives with Mick, Big A and the Chipper Barman, and to accept the kind offer of a pint from my defeated opponent, which he wanders off to order before assembling his noose.

But John Twonil is right. I have been avoiding talking about my snooker success as I do not wish to jinx it and make it go away. We are proudly the worst snooker club in Norfolk – probably the whole country – and I am the worst player in it. I have the bare minimum of technique, I regularly miss the object ball completely, and I have to sort of squint to see where I am hitting things because my eyes don’t seem to work properly.

At the end of last season, the rankings for the league were distributed. The very bottom of the table went something like this:

  • Twonil, J
  • Tony, S
  • A, B
  • Barman, C
  • Continuedonaseparatesheetof, P

It took me ages to work out that I was featured on an attached sheet, as an also-played. It was humiliating for one with my sense of dignity.

Yet here I am, having now won three singles games in a row. Undefeated in the league since December. The man the top players fear.

John Twonil and Mick win their frames also. We have won the match. The opposition tonight are an excellent team, and are known as a good bunch of people. I hope they do not give up snooker because of this. But it will certainly take them a while to recover from the humiliation.

We speed off from the Conservative Club in Mick’s car. “David Camm-eronn!” I shout. “Margaret Thatcher! Francis Pym!!! John Selwyn GUMMER!!! JOHHHN SELL-WYNNN GUMMMMERRRR!!!!!! Your boys took one hell of a beating!!!!”

“Right – I’m off home to fuck the wife,” I add.

“Do you want me to text her, to let her know you’re on your way?” asks Big A.

“Better not,” I reply.

19 Comments

  1. Well done, Jonny. Congratulations on “sinking the wobbly pink” twice in the same evening!

  2. Beautiful, Spazmo, big respect!

  3. Mind you, we are making a big assumption about the second occasion

  4. I had had five pints of Old Speckled Hen.

  5. Since when did the LTLP become the wife!

  6. There is something not quite right about Rob McElwee, isn’t there? We call him ‘Weirdy McElwee’ on my sofa, and speculate about what lies below the view available on the TV – latex plus-fours, perhaps? Or just a thong? We may never know.

  7. Jonny,

    Does your comment about the volume of speckled hen consumed mean that you were unable to get your cueing action going when you got home?

  8. Paul – I believe there was a bit more wobble to the pink at the very least.

  9. Just as long as he didn’t attempt to pot the brown by mistake.

  10. Paul, I think nailing the brown is only worth half the points but OH MY GOD BUT WE’RE A FILTHY LOT AREN’T WE?

  11. If this is what you lot came up with just think what Ivan’s going to make of it when he arrives…

  12. “Right – I’m off home to fuck the wife,” I add.

    “Do you want me to text her, to let her know you’re on your way?” asks Big A.

    “Better not,” I reply.

    oh good grief! i hope you were referring to the LTLP, because otherwise that’s just plain cruel, sir! it’s one thing to beat the man at snooker, but to also fuck the man’s wife, really now.

  13. The last time I managed 5 pints of Speckled Hen the result was either one of two things: I spent an hour talking to the duvet or it was actually the last time bits of my body saw action. Frankly, I favour the former.

    Well done on your run of luck. I’m guessing that as you’re publishing this it’s now over.

  14. I sat next to Rob McElwee at a ‘supper party’ in Fulham, c. 1995. Very nice, not that mad, very funny. Surprisingly, his cousin is Swiss, writes things described as “Intelligent Tarot” and pronounces French words with a heavy French accent even when speaking English, e.g., “Yes, we are going to PAREEEE for the weekend”. Haven’t seen her for 15 years, but I can’t imagine she’s improved much. Still, like I say, Rob McElwee was nice.

  15. No worries, Jayne – I see that I’ve already got everyone well-trained when it comes to sexual-inadequacy and put-a-damned-ring-on-her-finger comments. My work here is done…

  16. You are so romantic.

  17. I’m worried. It’s a while since we’ve heard from Short Tony. Is he OK? Did he ever get back from his trip to the USA? Have there been reports of searches for the driver of an abandoned Hummer?

    Did any of JonnyB’s LTLPs or wives notice any unusual stains on his laundry?

  18. I am absolutely chuffed that there is a reader here who is BEST MATES with eccentric weatherman Rob McElwee.

    Short Tony is fine. He has been a bit busy so has had to drop out of the last couple of snooker games (plus he is probably a bit intimidated about playing in my presence now)

  19. I know I’m just a weak and feeble woman but what on earth have tory hasbeens and a wannabe got to do with the price of coal?

Comments are closed