Brazen Bottom

FOREWORD

by "Whispering" Maungy Badger

 

 

In the early to mid 1980s, snooker was hot. Red hot. White hot.

 

So hot that over 25 squillion people stayed up well after midnight to watch Dennis "Upside Down Specs" Taylor defeat Steve "Nugget" Davis on the final black in the final frame of the 1985 World Championship.

 

So hot that it wasn't just the referee that wore gloves - the players needed to wear 'em as well. Asbestos ones, to protect their dainty hands from the hot hot heat of the snooker table.

 

The big money tournaments in those days were few and far between - the Worlds, the UK Championship and the Masters - so the top players would take pecuniary advantage of the unfathomable popularity of their sport by travelling up and down the country playing exhibition matches for baying, top dollar paying punters. Canadian stars Cliff Thorburn, Kirk Stevens and Bill Werbeniuk were three of the more exotic snooker conquistadors and proved to be popular on the exhibition circuit. They were (mostly) firm friends and would often travel around together, showing off their silky skills at remote outposts from Aviemore to Zennor.

 

I shan't go into details of how I come to be in possession of Bill Werbeniuk's diaries. Such things are not important. But, for reasons that I cannot divulge, I can confidently assert that they are the genuine article. I guarantee it 147%. They are a fascinating read, for snooker aficionados or for psychology students with an interest in the inner turmoil experienced by well seasoned sportsmen. There are several entries from February 1985 which seem to come from a strange, uncharted place, far beyond the familiar realm of the sportsman's journal and it is these entries I include excerpts from below. Whilst reading, one should be aware that during his career, Mr Werbeniuk drank between thirty and fifty pints of lager per day (six pints before a match and then one pint for each frame) to counteract "a familial benign essential tremor".





 

 

Bill Werbeniuk

 

 

 

 

Saturday, 9th February, 1985.

Tonight's show was a doozy. But I think the promoters missed a trick with the poster. I think "Watch Werbeniuk at the Wessex Club in Warminster, Wiltshire" would have been pretty cool but they went with some crap about Cliff and Kirk and their 147s. I mean, come on, we've all made them...

The crowd  really lapped it up. In the last frame I refused to use the rest and was at full stretch with my leg over the table when my pants ripped. Third pair this month. It brought the house down. They're crazy for snooker here in the UK. But some of the folks are just plain crazy. There was one guy who was stripped to the waist. I don't remember seeing him at the start so I guess he must have had a shirt on but he decided to take it off. Not that it was warm or anything. This guy, in his bare-chested nakedidity, was quite an arresting spectacle. Almost as arresting as the pungent stench he carried around with him. Like deodorant was something out of a wild and wacky vision of the future. Every time somebody potted the pink this eye-wateringly smelly bastard buried his face in his armpit, took a snort, then bellowed like a foghorn before pirouetting off down the aisles between the rows of plastic seats, as if intoxicated by his odour. Nobody seemed to mind, not even our referee Len Ganley, but then it always happened after we'd taken our shots so I guess it didn't matter. I tried to talk to Cliff about it afterwards - Cliff is always in "The Zone" when he's at the table; you could put a bomb under his ass and he'd keep on chalking his cue - but he didn't know what in hell I was talking about. Maybe he thought I was tanked up on the local Stonehenge beer which I admit I'd been partaking of pretty freely but, hand on heart, I was sober all night. I was in much better shape than Captain Kirk. He started the evening off all spruce in his white suit, winking at the numerous ladies present (I counted at least three) but the first half must have taken it out of him. He spent the interval in the washroom and when he came out to play a challenger from the audience with his hands tied behind his back (as if it wasn't hard enough - the poor guy was up against a pro snooker player, for chrissakes) he looked all shivery and sweaty and whiter than his duds. Must have been something he ate.

I sent the kid on ahead with Cliff to get a taxi while I collected the cash for our night's work. I went into the green room and, lo and behold, there was the bare-chested guy, sat in Len Ganley's lap. Len was shelling pistachio nuts and putting the little green fuckers in his friend's capacious navel. The naked beauty was smoking a cigar and blowing the smoke in Len's right ear, for it to billow out of his left ear seconds later. Neither of them seemed to notice me. I left as quietly and as quickly as I could.

We found a taxi no problem but the driver looked at us askance when we told him where we were headed. Ray Reardon had arranged for us to stay at his friend's place, a remote farmhouse in the middle of Nowheresville, for a couple of days. We hadn't gone very far when the driver stopped the car and told us to get our "American patooties" out of his "fucking cab". I was about to argue that we were Canadian but Cliff said it was neither the time nor the place.  

   "Why, where are we?" Thorbs asked.

   "This is the edge of Salisbury Plain. It's as far as I go," replied the driver.

   "But how do we get to Brazen Bottom Farm?"

   "Why don't you try getting on that bus over there?"

The fellow gestured at a stationary red double decker bus that didn't appear to have anybody on it, including a driver. For want of anything better to do and thinking that maybe this was a local custom we were as yet unaccustomed to, we collected our cues and other bits and pieces and did as he suggested. Thus laden down with Cliff's Swiss cheeses, Kirk's talcum powder (I never saw a boy use so much talc as Kirk) and my lager (Cliff and I carried it between us) we boarded the bus, taking our seats up on the top deck.

In the time it takes Terry Griffiths to backcomb his bouffant the bus roared into life. We tore through the non-descript countryside like a bus possessed. I say it was non-descript but it was impossible to tell, the speed with which it flashed past the windows. The driver couldn't have been in more of a hurry if he'd been Alex Higgins hearing the bell for last orders. We were thrown from side to side then from back to front then from side to side again but then, as quickly as we'd started, we came to a stop, with a suddenness which made us topple down the stairs, yours truly leading the way and providing a handy cushion for the other two to land on. After several minutes spent feeling ourselves to check that nothing had broken - thankfully the lager was unscathed - we disembarked. Cliff went to remonstrate with the driver but there wasn't one.

While we got our first glimpse of our lodgings, the bus sped off, back to where we had come from or on to somewhere else, I neither knew nor care. Brazen Bottom Farm had an unprepossessing exterior to mine eye. Perhaps Cliff summed it up best.

   "What a shithole," he said.

   "Well, nothing for it but to go on in," I said. I reckoned that the most wacked out, zany things were becoming the norm on this trip so we might as well see what was coming next and get it over.

   "Okay. After you, Big Bill," said the Starship Trooper, who had recovered some of his élan. 

I pulled the cord to sound the doorbell. It rang loud and clear but answer came there none. I pressed a more modern wireless doorbell, almost concealed by ivy. It played 'Black and White Rag' by George Botsford. Thorburn cursed and spat in the gravel. Still no answer. I pushed the door. It creaked open like in an old haunted house movie. We dropped our things off there in the hall and gravitated towards a roaring log fire up ahead that seemed to beckon to us. It wasn't particularly cold outside but there's something reviving about a real fire. We then turned round to find a dining table set for three. But still no sign of our host or anybody else. Not even a farm cat.

   "Well, dinner sounds like a damn good idea," I said and we set to work on the course after course of steaming vittles' brought forth by a wrinkly old goat togged out as butler who went by the name of Fennel.

   "My master instructed that your dinner should be ready for you on your arrival," intoned this fellow, after I'd complimented him on the succulence of my seared carpet tile with Swarfega foam.

   "Where is your master?" asked Cliff, "Mr... What was it? Spatchcock? Spanx?"

   "Mr Sparcula is unfortunately indisposed this evening, sir. It is my most fervent wish that you will be able to make his acquaintance on the morrow. In the meantime, his house is at your disposal and I have been instructed to provide you with anything you desire in order to make your stay as pleasant as possible."

We thanked the Fennel fellow heartily and after another ten or twelve stubby bottles of beer and chafing at the idea of utilising the snooker room, we decided to turn in. Fennel showed us to our rooms. Kirk is in the attic and Cliff and I have opposite bedrooms on the first floor. All in all, an unusual day, but it has ended well. What will tomorrow bring?

Cliff Thorburn

 

 

 

 

Sunday, 10th February, 1985.

I couldn't have been asleep for more than an hour, tops, when I was awoken from a terrible nightmare. It is only because I know that nobody will ever read this diary that I dare record some of the details here...

I was out on the town with the Hofmeister Bear. The beer was going down well (but it wasn't the product he endorses, strangely enough) and we were well lubricated. One thing led to another... those roving paws... Goddamn it, that asshole wouldn't take 'no' for an answer!

Coming to, I was confused to find myself in a strange bed, but then the mists cleared and I was mighty relieved at having been delivered from the clutches of "George". I felt very grateful to the menagerie that seemed to be practically outside my bedroom window, the sounds of which had brought me back to the land of the living - owls to-wit to-wooing, geese honking, bats flapping, badgers bonking. I needed a cigarette to calm my nerves but I was out of smokes. I poured myself into my ornamental dressing gown and strode the two steps across the landing to Cliff's room to see if I could bum one. We're old pals so I didn't bother to knock. As I opened the door I was staggered to see, in the dim light cast from the landing, a young female girl of the womanly persuasion bent over the supine Cliff, as if intent on planting one right on his chops.

   "What the Funk & Wagnalls?" I blurted out.

Cliff sat bolt upright in bed and the girl seemed to dissolve into thin air, to melt away like a jack- (or jill-) o'-lantern. I rushed out to the landing but there was no sign of her. Now, Cliff has a bit of a reputation with the ladies. He ain't called "The Grinder" just because of his slow and determined style of play you know. In Jamaica, where we've played exhibition matches with great success, they call him "The Grindsman". We're used to seeing a procession of ladies of every flavour trooping through the Thorburn boudoir, believe you me. But in this instance he professed total innocence.

   "I was asleep. I swear, I didn't even know she was there. What was she doing in my room?"

I raised a quizzical eyebrow but something in the great man's honest countenance caused me to soften my cynicism.

   "Who is she? And where has she gone?" I asked.

   "Do you think she was trying to bite me?" Thorbs asked, jokily but also nervously.

   "Kirk!" I ejaculated and we raced up the stairs to the attic room and threw back the door. He wasn't there. His bed hadn't been slept in. There wasn't any sign of his cue, his famous white suit or his other paraphernalia. There wasn't anything to indicate that he'd been in the bedroom at all.

We taxed Fennel with this at breakfast (cornflakes, kippers, a Brandy Alexander for Cliff and an Oranjeboom for me).

   "Yes sir, the young gentleman received a telephone call not long after you retired last night. A family crisis has compelled him to return to Canada as a matter of urgency. He entrusted me with the transport arrangements and I was only too happy to assist him. His taxi left here at around 3 A.M. I fancy. He desired that I should not wake you from your slumbers but wished me to inform you that he hopes to be back in good time for the World Championships in April."

Our hearts were so heavy for our lost comrade that we clean forgot to ask about Cliff's mystery girl. Cliff was all for going but I felt that good manners dictated that we should hold on and meet our host who, Fennel informed us, should be back this evening.

We spent the morning walking around the local environs. Cliff said he saw a Great Bustard at one point. Leastways, I think that's what he said. We had been talking about Steve Davis at the time. In the afternoon we went and watched the British Army on manoeuvres. I got shot through the earlobe but by that point I was feeling so bummed out, thinking about my buddy, that it hardly hurt.  

This evening we met our host at last. You can tell he's one of Ray Reardon's cronies - he even looks like him, widow's peak, toothy grin and everything. We thanked him for his hospitality and apologised that one of our group had had to leave early.

   "Ah yes, I would have liked to have met him. Fennel tells me that I owe Mr Stevens a debt of gratitude. Now, would you like to see the world's biggest beer stein?"

   "Why, Mr Sparcula, that sounds uncommonly interesting."

   "Please, call me Sonearso..."

The rest of the evening is a bit of a blur. I don't know how I come to be writing this now, to be frank...

 

El Capitano Kirk Stevens

 

 

 



 

Monday, 11th February, 1985.

This morning it was Cliff's turn to pay me a visit in my bedroom and he spoiled me by letting me have a lie-in - the GE clock radio said it was 4:17 when my eyes opened to the sight of Cliff's moustache, bristling in excitement. Oh, you lucky, lucky ladies.

   "Right, we're going to get out of this place right fucking now. We need to get the cops," he said with more emotion than I'd ever seen from the guy, even when he made the 147.

   "Why?"

   "After you passed out, Fennel suggested I join him in his pantry for a spot of port before bedtime so I did and..."

   "Yeah? What was it? What happened?"

   "Kirk's cue was in there!"

He didn't need to say any more. Kirk's cue was unmistakable. And he wouldn't have gone anyplace without it. Which meant that either he was locked up somewhere in this hellhole or that he had been "disposed" of. Either way, we needed backup.

Within minutes we were in the entrance hall, ready to take our leave, but then Sparcula slithered in like a gothic lizard, barring our way with Fennel on one side and - I could hardly credit it - George the Hofmeister Bear on the other.

   "Not so fast gentlemen," spat Sparcula. "In order to win your freedom you must first beat me at your beloved snooker, Pot Black-stylee, one frame from each of thee prithee. How does that grab you muthafuckas?"

Our stunned silence neither pleased nor displeased him. 

   "Ok. The skinny one first!" he concluded. Honestly, I'm going to have words with Reardon about the company he keeps.

Sparcula and Fennel led Cliff down into the snooker room which also doubled up a sex dungeon as far as I knew, I'd never seen it. George was left standing guard over me, wearing his stupid pork pie hat. This guy/bear/whatever was truly a revolting specimen. Sat across from me at the dining table, he sang dirty versions of Chas 'n' Dave songs. He encouraged me to sing along but I had to tell him sadly that unfortunately I didn't know any of the words, which was certainly true of the mind-boggling variations which he was singing. This seemed to disappoint him but maybe it was my general lack of reaction to his monstrous loutishness.

   "I wonder what's going on down there then?" said the beast, looking down at his bovver boots as if he could see through the floor.

    "I should think that Mr Thorburn is giving your friend a lesson in how to play snooker!"

He guffawed at this, then stood up and scratched furiously at his crotch, as if tormented by the devil of all fleas, before winking at me and slumping back into his chair.

   "Let's hope so, for your sake. In the meantime, let's continue with our old sing-song shall we? Everybody loves a sing-song don't they? Around, or suspended above, the old Joanna? It keeps the spirits up and drowns out worrisome thoughts, noises, all sorts of things..." 

This was the last thing I wanted to hear him say. Seeming to grow tired of the back catalogue of everyone's favourite Cockney geezers, he proceeded to sing rude renditions of Buddy Holly and forced me to do the same. When I protested that I had a terrible voice, thin and reedy and not even worthy of singing backing vocals, he reached down into his pocket and pulled out what looked like two large brown Scotch eggs, which he threatened to stuff down my throat if I didn't.  

   "All of my life I've been a-waitin', Tonight there'll be no masturbatin', Oh boy..." he sang.

   "Oh boy," I sang, and meant it.

And all the while, George the Hofmeister Bear kept refilling my stein (the world's largest) with lager. And again, it wasn't Hofmeister...

The next half-dozen pages, presumably containing the entries for the next fortnight, are missing from the diary. In none of the subsequent entries which are still intact is there any reference to the events that took place between 9th and 11th February. Cliff Thorburn, Kirk Stevens and Bill Werbeniuk all returned to the snooker circuit. On 3rd March Kirk Stevens lost the final of the British Open against Silvino "The Silver Fish" Francisco at the Assembly Rooms in Derby. Francisco accused Stevens of being "as high as a kite" during the match. Stevens admitted to an addiction to cocaine and his career was never the same afterwards. Bill Werbeniuk was also dogged by problems which eventually ended his career. Following medical advice, he took propranolol, a beta blocker, to counteract the effects of his alcohol consumption on his heart. This was classified as a performance-enhancing drug by the sport's governing body at that time and he was suspended. After playing his last match as a professional snooker player in 1990, a World Championship qualifier against Nigel "The Name is Bond, Nigel Bond" Bond, Bill famously declared "I've had 24 pints of extra strong lager and eight double vodkas and I'm still not drunk."

 

Bill died in 2003, aged 56.

 

R.I.P. Bill.

 

 

 

 

W.M.B. 28/02/2014