Tales from the Crucible #4: Marco Fu's Blue Shoes

 

 

I had too much to drink last night.

I had too much to dream.

Rolling home in't early hours o't morn.

Willie Thorne's dome in the Sheffield steel dawn.

What a binge we had!

What a phenolic resin ball,

for forty years of snooker

at the sainted Crucible!

In an attitude of gratitude,
former sponsors laid on lavish refreshments -
pints of Hofmeister, Heineken and McEwan's
shone out like liquid gold.
There was a robustly enforced
ban on non-smoking.
The ghost of Alex Higgins
schmooved among us, amusing himself
by goosing all the wives and girlfriends.
There were operatic arias
sung by 'O sole Tony Meo,
accompanied (on Yamaha organs)
by Silvino Francisco.

Midnight.
What happened thereafter
is the subject of conjecture.

Ted Lowe is whispering.
Speak up, Ted!
But he can't speak up.
Ted Lowe is dead.

A referee
misidentity parade -
Johns (Street & Williams)
and Old Stoneface (Jan Verhaas).
Gloved fingers point
accusingly.
Len Ganley
dangles confusingly
from a fire escape to victory.

In a slow cocaine frame.
Back to baulk
seafood chowder.
Cliff Thorburn
mind-grinding
all our fears
into powder.

The spectre of Doug Mountjoy
rises up from a pile
of smouldering tyres.

A warped rest,
a cobweb-covered spider,
Long-neglected
devices and desires.

Up on the table, dancing
each night from half-past two.
Made for love and romancing,
in Marco Fu's blue shoes.

B.R. 26/04/2017