One of the few consistent interests in my life since the age of about 12 (insert rude joke here) is eightball pool and I remarkably remain a half-decent player at this baize-based pseudo-sport despite the demands of work and my ambitions in other areas.
It’s such an important part of my life that my good lady wife even sacrificed our huge bedroom and decamped us into the guest room so I could have a table at home. It’s gestures like that (and her letting me watch Comics Hour on QVC without running out the house screaming ‘I’ve married a geek!’) that make me realise she’s rather fabulous.
Tonight my team in a London pool league plays a cup final against a team of women. This match has been rearranged three times now and it’s rapidly turning into a pressure game because (a) it’s a cup final, (b) it’s an all-female team and losing could dent my male pride and (c) several of my martial arts chums are coming along to have a few games so I want to play well to impress them.
Normally playing and potentially losing to any female wouldn’t be a major worry in terms of embarrassment as quite a lot of my female chums are also pool players and quite capable of giving any player a serious booting. But it still provides food for thought and adds that little bit of extra spice so maybe I’m not the reconstituted non-sexist guy I actually think I am.
Maybe in fact I am the type of new man Steve Coogan creation Paul Calf mentions: ‘I’m a new man me. You’ve got to be if you want to get your leg over with a bird these days...’
So if I refer to any of the opposition as ‘Treacle’ or ‘Darling’ later this evening I’ll let you know.
And I'll obviously keep it very quiet if we lose...
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