BACK TO THE SNOOKER

This weekend, I went to watch the snooker in a barbershop.

Well. That would be what you would have deduced if you were to have viewed it objectively: I watched two frames of the world-championship semi-final, and then the good people at Pangbourne Barbers (who had just finished shaving the heads of the three lads in front of me in the queue) were kind enough to throw in a haircut at the end.

I used to be into snooker. Here was a sport that needed calculation, precision, skill, practice - not getting covered in mud or whipped with towels in the locker room. It seemed there was barely any physical exertion required at all, and that, given my woefulness at field sports, was my kind of thing.

So I used to sit there, watching Stephen Hendry pot everything on the table while Jimmy White got lost in his own haze of smoke and whisky. I watched Steve Davis circle the table and scratch his chin, and Willie Thorne bristle behind his moustache. Long pots that rattled in, safety shots that tucked the white ball so neatly behind the yellow, perfect angles and unfortunate misses that made the crowd gasp. It was mesmerising. 

I don't exactly remember why I stopped liking snooker. Perhaps more exciting things came along. I think the same thing happened to a lot of people though, as I understand its popularity declined through the 2000s. That in itself is a mystery, as a lot of people think that that was the exact period when the game saw its greatest ever player, Ronnie (The Rocket) O'Sullivan. Perhaps he was just too good. Or perhaps he was the only one.

There was even a snooker-reboot a couple of years ago, with a sort of high-speed jazzed up version I can't remember the name of - a bit like T20 for cricket. I wonder what happened to that?

Anyway, there I was in the Pangbourne Barbers, watching perfectly weighted safety shots from Mark Selby and Stuart Bingham. Apparently, one of those players is nicknamed the 'Jester from Leicester' - though he didn't do much jestering, it should be mentioned. His opponent was also stony-faced as he sat watching him power unhilariously around the table.

Gone is the cigarette-smoke and the tumbler by the way. Equally vanished, is the sponsorship from the old tobacco companies, who wanted to be involved in darkened rooms in the 80s. The fusty old pub atmosphere of the snooker tournament has gone the way of Dennis Taylor's glasses.

Instead, the colours are brighter, the baize is cleaner, and the sponsors are less obviously trying to kill you. Well. They're betting companies actually, so maybe they're just as pernicious, but the effect is less immediate.

By the way, who wouldn't approve of a sport that you play in a theatre while dressed up as a waiter? Along with the data collection and the intricacy of the angles, plus the thought that maybe one day I'd be able to do that, I wonder whether the theatrical element of snooker was appealing to me while I sat there writing down the scores?

I wouldn't be able to 'do that', by the way. It's very difficult, and I think your brain has to be wired a certain way to be any good at snooker. Mine isn't - and to be honest, I'd have never had the patience nor the reach. Plus, who has room for a snooker table?

The barber joked with me about how his marriage had pushed his hairline back, about how long I ought to leave it before my next cut, and then finally, about how to have what he called 'happy wife; happy life' while the balls clacked on the TV in the background and the commentators quietly waffled. Then I left feeling a head-of-hair and £13 lighter.