To our considerable surprise, K and I got completely hooked on the snooker over the Bank Holiday weekend. Perhaps we’ve been spending a little too much time in heterosexual company. It rubs off, you know.
We went off Higgins after the camera caught him picking his ear, and then immediately placing his finger under his nose. Bogeysniffer, we called him.
In one of the breaks, why did the BBC camera crew silently stalk one of the contestants down endless backstage corridors, all the way to the door of the Gents toilets? Is that usual? I’d get horrible Pre-Urinary Retention, knowing they were still lurking outside, timing my stay to see if I was doing Number Ones or Number Twos. (“Hurry up in there! More than two shakes and it’s a w@nk!“)
We loved the fnarr-fnarr commentary. “And he’s sunk the long red all the way in! Right between the balls!” We are so very easily pleased.
We also love the idea of a “World Championship” where none of the players are from abroad, and which is held in Sheffield. Every. Single. Year. “My brother’s in the audience. He’s brought his friends along, all the way from Leicester.” How international!
We also enjoyed the expression on the face of one audience member late last night, as the Higgins/Selby final threatened to drag on into the small hours. (The players had just spent fifteen minutes attempting to pot one ball. Ee, it were like chess.) The expression clearly said: “The missus is going to kill me.” You could see the fear in his eyes. Look, I was born a Yorkshireman; I know these things.
I have no general point to make. It’s a short stupid post.