I was raised on snooker. Where most families had tribalism and football teams, we had snooker. When most children were idolising David Beckham and begging for replica Manchester United jerseys, I was lusting after Ronnie O’Sullivan and becoming deeply odd in the process. We followed the World Championships in Sheffield and learned about 147s. After school we watched Big Break, which sadly was hosted by Jim Davidson, for some reason. All this is to say that when Orlando Whitfield challenged me to a match my first thoughts were: this will be an absolute piece of piss.
We agree on two rules, and I quickly break both of them. This, I can admit, is unsportsmanlike of me. The first rule is that we will each prepare for our debut frame by enrolling in ‘Ronnie O’Sullivan’s Ultimate Snooker Course’, in which the sport’s most famous star will teach us, over 100 hours of video content, how to embrace and perfect the ‘Rocket Method’. In theory, this is exciting. In practice it’s a sort of bizarrely constructed reality programme, like if someone on Keeping Up With the Kardashians was trying to teach you how to pot a corner black in between promoting their latest tequila venture.
Still, I am entranced – at least for the first of those 100 hours – as Ronnie imparts wisdom on mental and physical resilience while talking intermittently about how bang into China he is (the course is also offered in Chinese). ‘Anyone can play pool’, Ronnie tells us. Pool is just a parlour game. Snooker is a ‘mind sport. He calls it, with reverence, ‘chess with balls’. When Orlando and I arrive to square off against each other, in King’s Cross’ Hurricane Rooms, our meeting of minds does not feel like chess with balls. Instead I feel as rattled as the bar staff appear when I ask them for a gin and slimline tonic.
The second rule is that we should become temporary nemeses. Over 30 years ago, Martin Amis did the same when he played a grudge match with Julian Barnes. In 1991, the pair wrote up their exploits in two separate columns for Esquire magazine. This is supposed to be our inspiration for The Fence, a magazine which has never copied an idea from another publication in its life.
Orlando has the edge on me, as I expect Barnes had on Amis. ‘Hurricane Amis’, he called himself – Martin, not Whitfield. I keep using the rest extender to reach the cue ball, and because I think it looks funny. Orlando, despite showing up in jeans, expertly sprawls across the table to make his shots. Amis prepared for his match with an early night, a breakfast rich in carbs and a low-ABV lager. He practised alone to get the spasms out of his cueing arm. I come straight from the office, stopping at Five Guys for a strawberry Fanta.
Although we’re in the midst of a sticky heatwave, the Hurricane Rooms are chilly and dark. O’Sullivan said his first cue was over 100 years old. Amis and Barnes got theirs as presents from their respective wives. When I was growing up my dad kept his in his own case, and polished it before every game. Orlando and I liberate some sticks from the wall and tie our first game at 44 points each. Given the 100-plus breaks I’m used to being fed straight from the maw of Sheffield’s Crucible, this feels like a miserable outcome, made more miserable still by the fact we got there mainly by forfeiting points. Four points to the other player for an accidentally potted white. Four or more points awarded to them, too, for hitting a colour instead of a red, or not touching a ball whatsoever. We pot one ball each, and the other points are forfeits.
We are not graceful. I would like to blame this on the gins (Orlando’s on Guinness), but that would be disingenuous. This sacred place is named, after all, for Alex ‘Hurricane’ Higgins, one of the snooker world’s legends, known for drinking, smoking and partying. He’s from down the road from me. I met him once in The Crown bar in Belfast, actually, before he died. He was very nice and he gave me his autograph. I can’t help but feel that I’ve let him down.
‘Snooker frames with Julian last about twice as long as they do with everyone else’, Amis wrote for Esquire. When Orlando and I play we talk about writing. I tell him I tend to write fast and fix the mistakes later. That I don’t like to look at it for too long. That I forget about it as soon as I’m done. Orlando is the opposite. He values care and attention. He’s just spent a full week on a closing paragraph. I submitted a column on Wednesday in which I misspelled the word ‘Wednesday’.
