Snooker poem - first draft!

And here's a poem on snooker I've been sitting on for a while. Enjoy

Snooker (By Malcolm Head)

Foul and a miss, an easy red,

Ebdon fingers a scab on his head,

Snooker’s the game…

Some smooth cueing from Mark Williams opens up the table,

Reds sparse, colours on their spots, Williams as concentrated as an owl at nightfall,

Graeme Dott coughs onto the collar of his waistcoat, and sips at his water nervously,

Whilst in the commentary box John Virgo thinks about Jim Davidson

A makeable pink, a missable black,

John Parrot is on the attack!

Snooker’s the game…

“Shot to nothing” says Dennis Taylor, scratching the frame of his iconic glasses with a blistered thumb,

“You say that” says Willie Thorne, “but if it drops, it’ll be a shot to something all right!”

Taylor shakes his head and mumbles something off mic in Thorne’s direction,

Thorne gets his phone out and types a message that begins with “please - no quorn mince”

But then deletes it and returns his attention to the match

Tight to the cushion, touching ball,
The Referee must make an important call,
Snooker's the game...

Ronnie O'Sullivan misses a simple red through sheer complacency as he starts playing left-handed, which quite frankly is insulting to his opponent Ken Doherty and the game itself,
Marco Fu hiccups and then finds an unlikely plant,
Much to the frustration of John Higgins who crushes a handful of bombay mix in his pocket,
John Virgo bites into a cheese sandwich and nods in approval;
"In ten years, Asia will be the heart of snooker. Asia. That's the future"

Out of position, a safety shot,
Jimmy White chances a risky pot,
Snooker's the game


I'll post the other half soon brethren. I bid you adieu

M

Snowed under...

So... There I was 3 weeks ago. Feet up, PC on and a tall glass of Robinsons in front of me ready for blogging. Then I had a call. A call that no-one wants to get...

'Malcolm? Malcolm' says an unfamiliar voice. Auntie June. Auntie June? But heavens, why?
'I'm up in Scotland with Linda. But I've just had a call from Roy. It's the snow Malcolm... He's in trouble...'
'What kind of trouble?' I said angrily. 'For the love of seeded bread, what happened?'
A melodramatic pause...
'He fell asleep in the shed. Woke up. Then couldn't get back out. He's stuck in his shed. We're ever so worried...'

I hung up the phone without saying another word. Which in hindsight I regret. And I immediately cleared the driveway and filled the Skoda with supplies. Sustenance. The very things that could save my life. 'Don't leave your home unless absolutely necessary' the sky news presenter said apocalypitically. This was going to be one heck of a journey. I mean they only live just the other side of Tilbury. On a good run you could get there in 45 minutes. But in these arctic conditions it was like jogging to Alaska. But I had to get to Uncle Roy...

4 hours later I arrived. And the only radio station I could get was Radio 1. I listened to a Scottish woman called Edith Bowman for about 10 minutes and then decided upon silence for the remaining 3 hours and 50

I removed the snow and in the shed I found Roy eating a pink wafer, reading a copy of News of the World from the early 90s. He was shaken up but ok....

With this, I decided to take annual leave from Kent Police museum for a couple of weeks. I stayed with Roy for a few days until June returned, and took the oppourtunity to visit the National Motorboat Museum in Basildon. It seemed daft to go all that way and not visit the nation's foremost collection of motorboats

So unfortunately the poetry has taken a back seat. But I have started to draft something. Inspired by Roy. Something about men in general. What makes them tick? Roy's a proud man; what my father often referred to as 'a man's man'; by which I mean he's an alpha male (not a homosexual). Anyway it got the creative juices flowing. Here's the first line. More soon...

A Man (By Malcolm Head)

A man in a pub talks to his baby with a silly voice. He stops when he notices 3 men walking past talking about hammers


Enjoy your day, whatever you're doing. And avoid Edith Bowman if you can! I'm kidding, I'm sure she's very nice. Just not my cup of tea. And please, if you're from The Sittingbourne Herald, this is not an attack on the Scottish. The fact that she's Scottish is of no consequence, I was irked purely by her abilities as a Disc Jockey, which were below par at best

M