Chalk

There is a lot of snooker on the television at the moment. It always seems to be the same around this time of year, the May Bank Holiday. It can't just be a coincidence. The final itself takes two days: best of 35 frames, or however many it is. That's a lot of snooker. In my youth I used to watch more of it, whereas now it is difficult to find the time. Especially when the sun is shining and the garden could do with some emergency weeding and I fancy going for a stroll somewhere picturesque to make the most of the balmy spring evening and dinner needs to be cooked and eaten at some point. When there is so much to do, it seems a shame to spend two solid days indoors watching the final. They should work out how to get it over and done with just a little bit quicker. My first introduction to snooker was as a child watching Pot Black (probably in black and white), where they managed to condense each match into a single frame. A little too brisk, perhaps: maybe I would allow them the best out of three to allow some margin for error.

The other problem I have nowadays is not recognising any of the players. When I was younger, the tournaments were dominated by a host of colourful characters: today I hardly know anyone. And the players used to be – not to put too fine a point on it – rather more mature than they are now. In a world where most sports are dominated by precocious teenagers, there was something reassuring in watching middle-aged men compete at the top of their profession. As a child, it gave me hope that, in forty years' time or so, I could be making my fortune on the green baize. As it turned out, I never got round to playing much snooker at all, presumably believing there was no particular harm in postponing it for a decade or so. If I were to have a big enough house, I would be tempted to get a snooker table; though I suppose I should acknowledge that the opportunity for international fame has slipped me by.