The Zen Of Pool: Part VI...

The break is the most important shot in a game of pool...

If you pot a ball from your break it determines whether you get the first go at clearing the table and it also gives you the first shout at bossing the table in any tactical frame by choosing the balls that are in the best positions.

So the general aim of any break is to pot a few balls and not to foul the white by sending it in-off or flying it off the table. It is a shot that requires power and control and, for such an important shot, it's often criminally under-practised by many players, including myself...

Until last year when I decided to put some time into working on it and I adopted some hapkido thinking that I borrowed from breaking wood at gradings.

It goes like this... when you break boards at any martial art there are generally two ways of doing it. One is to punch right through the board and rely on pure muscle power, but this can only be done when the board is held firmly and doesn't move when you hit it.

The much harder way to break a board is when it is suspended by two fingers at the top so it has no support. Consequently it's really hard to power through it so you need to snap punch or snap kick it. This technique relies on speed rather than muscle and is entirely about timing because it relies on a transfer of force which is why you withdraw the striking part as soon as contact is made.

Similarly if you power through the white at pool it's about muscle but if you speed through it and forget about power and just concentrate on the white hitting the pack asap it becomes about speed.

Obviously both techniques rely on a combination of muscle and speed to some extent but the focus on the speed means you forget about trying to lump loads of muscle into it and consequently your muscles work more effectively.

So I tried this theory out and it work fabulously. I'm regularly potting more balls and I'm not losing the white as much.

I may have found something that works really well for me...

Not An Idiot...

It is 1973 and the Missus is a small girl fascinated by the Ancient Egyptians and she desperately wants to see the Tutankhamum exhibition that has just opened in London. But she doesn't get to go...

Fast-forward 35 years and myself and the Missus are walking into the O2 Arena with the tickets I secretly bought her for Xmas ready to see the recently returned exhibition. Even better it's a well-organised, well laid-out and really well thought-out exhibition. The audio guide is also an invaluable tool is learning more about what's what...

As usual with me and exhibitions I speed through and only take real time on what interests me, meaning I spend five or ten minutes at the exit of each room waiting for the Missus to catch up. But this is a regular routine between the two of us and, as usual, I spend this time reading a book or browsing through the latest copy of whatever magazine I happen to be carrying.

But today I also spend this time watching my wife as she takes in the various artifacts on display. I enjoy watching the delight on her face as she finds something else that fascinates her. Her eyes light up. Her joy is a tangible thing.

Today the little girl in my sometimes stroppy and sometimes sarcastic wife comes bubbling to the surface as she takes in each new find.

Today she's really happy. Today I won't be an idiot. For a while.

Stories From Pool Land…

It was said that the hangman Albert Pierrepoint could work could out how long the rope and how heavy any additional weights needed to be to ensure those he executed would die immediately just by looking at them. Some saw it as a grisly skill but Pierrepoint was a craftsman at his job and his only concern was that those he executed were dispatched as quickly and as painlessly as possible.

Last night another Yorkshireman with a similarly clinical eye was serving up an execution of a different kind as Darren ‘Dynamite’ Appleton was playing one of the local money players at Riley’s Pool Club in Victoria. Both players had put up a £1000 stake and both looked calm and confident before the game began, but as soon as the match got under way that was where any idea of parity ended.

They were playing tenball, which is basically nineball with an extra ball added, and it quickly became apparent that this was going to be a one-sided affair.

Rileys in Victoria is where most of the capital’s top US pool players congregate and if you’re a new face having a knock you’ll invariably have some local come over and ask if you want to play for a few quid. Even though there are several exceptionally good players (Imran Majid, Raj Hundall, Tony Drago) and a handful of other professional there, a fair section of the locals aren’t all that and most good snooker or English pool players would probably hold their own.

But you have to admire the chutzpah of several, though, who you sometimes feel simply want to gamble on a few games because they’re hoping they may nick a few quid or, more importantly, they may impress the really serious money players present.

For Appleton it’s an easy night’s work and in a little under two hours he’s demolished his opponent 14-2 in a composed but utterly relentless display of matchplay pool. In tenball where a piece of luck can sometimes bring you a frame or two and ensure even a mis-match can occaisionally to and fro this is a thoroughly comprehensive scoreline.

If it was a boxing match it would have been a void contest after the opening few rounds. If Pierrepoint had been doing the measuring he’d have declared the opponent would need no rope as he’d probably break his own neck.

After the game Appleton stays while his opponent’s friends, also locals at Victoria, come over and enquire about the score. The heaviness of the defeat surprises them and when discussing among themselves who beat their mate you overhear comments such as ‘It was some northerner…’ like they cannot comprehend how native geography have overcome one of Victoria’s money players.

Anyone with any knowledge of English eightball pool, of course, would realise that Appleton is a machine. In English eightball he won every event going except the world title and his reputation as a high stakes money player was second to none – to the point where he could no longer get games unless he was giving ridiculous odds or many frames start.

Since quitting UK eightball two years ago to play US pool on the bigger tables he’s earnt a solid reputation as an event player and as a money player, where he’s plied and learnt his trade in Europe, the US and in the Phillipines. Particularly in the latter place if you don’t know what you’re about you may as well just hand your wallet over and leave…

But last night again clearly demonstrated that ‘some northerner’ is mastering his new trade and you get the feeling he’ll be back in Victoria pretty soon. I’m counting the months until the money games dry up over here at US pool…

The Harder They Come...

The Missus is a big reggae fan so when she asked me to come to the Barbican and see the stage version of the 1972 Jimmy Cliff film The Harder They Come I was not totally enamoured with the prospect. But I went along and it was one of the most joyful theatrical experiences I’ve attended in 30 years…

The story is pretty much as in the film: a Jamaican country boy heads to the bright lights of the big city to fulfil his dream of making it as singer. He falls for the daughter of a preacher but also falls into the drugs trade to secure enough money to cut his first record.

The record is a hit but he finds himself going up against the record company boss who also owns the local record stores and radio stations in order to get his record played. He also rebels against the drug cartel by demanding better wages for himself and his friends.

With such powerful enemies he soon becomes an outlaw and, even though his music unites the downtrodden populace, he values his own notoriety over his life and subsequently reaches a sticky end…

In itself the story is nothing spectacular but the ensemble singing and dancing of the cast is utterly infectious. The spartan staging also means very little gets in the way of the music, the dancing or the narrative action and it’s one of those rare times when three hours seems to pass in two.

It’s true that the pace slackens a little in the final 30 minutes and it could probably do with an edit but that’s minor stuff. Theatre Royal Stratford East, who also produced the fabulous The Big Life (which also transferred to the West End) about the first people arriving on the Windrush, have hit gold yet again.

And even though it may seem a dated piece what it has to say about poverty breeding violence and the aspiration for celebrity and notoriety over decency and dignity is massively relevant now, especially with what’s happening with youth gangs terrorising housing estates in London.

Theatre that entertains, theatre that matters and theatre that makes you think. Superb stuff.

Steaming...

Should any married men who read this ever agree to strip wallpaper with their wife, then come down a stepladder half-way through the proceedings and stand on the wallpaper steam stripper and irreparably break it (thus meaning you both have to do it by hand the hard way with a scraper and a cloth and bucket) do not then carry on working for an hour and as you get near the end say:

'This was much easier when we had the steamer to do it...'

It is a remark that ends in violence. And the violence will be directed at you...

Leon Greenman...

I’m a regular reader of The Week, which is a weekly magazine that digests all the big national and international news stories into bitesize chunks. It’s a wonderful magazine and whatever I’m doing or however busy I am I always put an hour aside to read it from cover to cover.

A recent edition featured the obituary of Leon Greenman, who was the only Englishman to be sent to Auschwitz. His wife and son died in the gas chambers and for two and a half years he was a slave labourer who was subjected to beating and experimentation.

He survived Auschwitz and, widowed, returned to the UK to live in London’s East End where he worked as a market porter. Few wanted to know about the things he’d seen and he never talked about the horrors he’d witnessed… until he saw a National Front rally in 1962 and feared the race hate of facism could happen again but this time in the UK.

So for the next 46 years he went into schools and talked about his experiences in Auschwitz in the hope of convincing people that race hatred and intolerance are never a solution.

For his anti-facist stance he received death threats from the far right and he had to install wire mesh on the windows of his Ilford home to prevent the bricks that were occasionally launched through them from doing any damage.

For his tireless campaigning against facism he received an OBE. He died on March 7 2008 aged 97.

Reading his story made me realise that in our current age of half-witted celebrities and over-paid multi-millionaire footballers there still are real heroes doing important work out there and Leon was certainly one of those.

Rest in peace...

Other Woman News...

The Missus is away so my normal training routine is disrupted – but on the plus side it meant I got to head out to hapkido and attend a class that the Other Woman usually attends and I don't.

And lo and behold she and her cute new red-headed haircut were in attendance so after class we sneaked off to the pub for a quick drink. The Other Woman works for a national newspaper and is a fellow word butcher and we often swap stories on the vagueries and idiocies of our trade and tonight she sought the following opinion:

'I had a piece today and one of our critics likened a TV show to something that had the intelligence of a slug with learning difficulties. Would you have let that go through?'
'The slug bit or the learning difficulties bit?'
'The latter.'
'No.'
'Good. I changed it. I thought it was funny but I still changed it.'
'I think it's funny too but what we laugh at in the privacy of a pub and what we should foist on the general public are totally different things.'
'I thought you'd find it funny but would have changed it too.'
'That's because we're very alike. In an alternative reality we are married and happy but spending loads of time ripping chunks out of each other...'
'Which is strange because you'd think in an alternative reality you'd go for a change and try to find a wife who wouldn't continually call you an idiot and patronise you to death...'

I ponder her point. Maybe even in alternative realities I am still something of a masochist. I nod, sagely.

My Other Woman has me nailed bang to rights. It's probably why I love her so much...

Merz...

Merz – or Conrad Lambert as he's otherwise known – has produced some of the most memorable music of the past 10 years so I'm very excited by his new new album, Moi Et Mon Camion, which is released on Monday.

Merz are a bit trip-hop, a bit lamenting ballad, a bit infused with Arabian beats and a bit electro. The music is ever-evolving and quite hard to describe or categorise but his first two albums, Merz and Loveheart, are brim-full of beautifully crafted songs and still make regular appearances on the From Beer To Paternity Towers CD player while lesser artists have gone by the wayside.

So check out his website on www.myspace.com/merzuk if you are intrigued in any way, shape or form. You will not be disappointed. It's wonderful stuff.

And Presume Too Much from the new CD is fantastic...

Sunday Best...

Finding excuses not to write is a very easy thing to do. And as I sometimes border on the autistic with my anal retentiveness and other obsessive compulsive disorders it’s a wonder I ever get anything completed…

Take Sunday, for example. The Missus and the Boy had gone out shopping and I had the house and the afternoon all to myself. I’d finished doing the tidying up, had a bath and eaten some dinner and it was around 12noon and the whole afternoon stretched out in front of me.

So I got my laptop downstairs, found my rewrite notes for my play about Victorian prostitution and set up camp in the kitchen. But I couldn’t focus so I decided to go outside and skip for a bit to strengthen my calf muscles for boxing.

But this effort to physically exhaust myself didn’t work as an aide to concentration so I turned on the radio and started listening to the football on Radio 5 Live. As a Leeds fan I have no great interest in the Premiership but there’s something quite reassuring about listening to it on the radio rather than watching it on the telly (mainly because the pictures are better).

But it still didn’t work so I started playing Scrabble against my computer and it kept winning so I became determined to beat the bloody thing.

Scrabble is something I have recently rediscovered and I am rapidly becoming something of an addict, especially because one of my regular opponents on the social networking site Facebook is very good at it and beating him is always a sweet victory. But this time I started playing against my computer and it is a similar rivalry here…

And before I knew it the Missus and the Boy were back and it was time for tea then bed. It may have been a wasted day on the writing front but it was a lovely one in every other respect. A perfect Sunday in my opinion.

I’d almost forgotten they could be that good. Lazy days. Bless 'em...

Write On...

I've finally started work proper on a new play and here's part of the opening scene...


SCENE 1: INTERIOR. CEMETERY.
Grams: Symphony No.3 by Gorecki.
A winter afternoon. A cross stands on stage. Size, a 40-year-old black man of dual heritage, stands near it. He is rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. Michael, a man in his late twenties, stands next to him. He is listening on a mobile phone and he occasionally mutters ‘Yes’ while Size talks to Michael and to himself. Both are dressed in suits with black ties.

SIZE
Shouldn’t be allowed… Taking liberties like that – and at your dad’s fucking funeral… (Silence) Everyone could hear their racket all the way across the cemetery… Sobbing and weeping like big fucking babies… (Silence) And they weren’t even sobbing and weeping in fucking English…

Michael raises a finger to request silence. Silence for a beat or two then Size continues.

SIZE
Look, Mikey. I know you’re pissed with me but I had to go over. All I did was ask him and his friends to quieten it down a bit… That’s all. I didn’t swear or lamp anyone or nothing. Well… not immediately. And it was him who kicked it off. ‘We also are trying to have funeral here too!’ he says. Then he turns his back on me. Like I’m nothing. Little cunt. Snide little cunt. In fact the sort of snide little cunt who should just have ‘I am a snide little cunt’ branded across his forehead. But even then, even under that sort of extreme… (He searches for the word) provocation, I kept my temper. I simply tapped him on the shoulder and pointed out that we were having a funeral as well – but the difference was we were trying to be dignified about the fucking thing and maybe they could try the same as they’re now living in our fucking country! Well he didn’t like that. Said something angry in foreign! So I hit him, punched him plum in the face and he fell into the grave with his nose splatted all over his boat. Like a big dollop of jam in a see of rice pudding it was.
Splosh… (Pause) You know what? Next time I’m not going bother being polite. And I don’t care if the cunt was a priest!

Michael comes off the phone. He closes it and puts it in his pocket. He brings his hands to his face and lets out a sigh.

Box Of Tricks...

So I attend my introductory boxing lesson and it's tough work but pretty enjoyable and not totally exhausting.

I also like the place, the facilities are good and I really like and rate the guy who does the training there. He's quietly spoken and assured and you instantly realise he really knows his stuff inside-out.

It is a bit pricey but I remind myself I'm buying their expertise and facilities so that at the end of six months I'll have boxing skills and speed that will move my hapkido sparring up a notch.

Then this worry is removed when the Missus offers to buy it for my last birthday (as there was nothing I wanted so I have a present 'owing') and my forthcoming one. So it's all systems go if I want it...

It was quite odd entering a whole new world for the first time, though, as I have some of the skills and fitness but I quickly realised I am sorely lacking in certain areas. For example I assumed my cycling and hapkido leg strength would be a major asset but my calves ached for a day after spending so much time on the balls of my feet and my toes in the boxing ring.

I also have the basic punches but my punching combination work needs serious work as I can't rely on delivering a roundhouse kick, a low ankle breaker or a cheeky elbow to somebody's face to get myself out of trouble if I'm in close.

But it's all part of the learning process and I think it will pay dividends. So come April one may officially be a student of pugilism.

Excellent...

Hair Today...

I hate shaving and any form of facial hair maintainance is a real bind, but every once in a while I'll be tempted to sport facial hair of some description. Today is such a while...

Even worse I've recently seen a picture of Bertolt Brecht sporting a short moustache and have decided to have a go at wearing one of these. This plan has so far met with major resistance from the Missus and outright ridicule from the Boy but I am confident my new tactic can win them round.

So I head into the bathroom and shave but leave a moustache in place. It's not quite a 'Dirty Sanchez' but neither is it Hitler or a Mugabe. I tidy it up and head into the kitchen where the Missus is watching TV. I go into my speech:

'Now before you look at this and think it's ridiculous I want you think of it less as Facist dictator facial hair and more as left-wing poet-cum-playwright facial hair. Now, bearing that in mind, what do you think? I think it looks quite good...'

There is a look of disdain.
'On what planet do you think that looks good?'
'I think it gives me a certain air of intellectual dignity.'
'It makes you look like a kiddy-fiddler. Go shave it off. Now.'

I head to the bathroom dejected but a voice follows me out of the room.
'And in future never leave the house without first consulting me about your appearance.'

I'll win her round eventually I think as I get my razor out. Some day...

Hull On Earth...

I am originally from the Venice of the M62 otherwise known as Goole.

As a Goolie I have natural antipathy towards folk from Hull so it gave me great delight to uncover the following information when researching venereal disease for the rewrites to my play Meat.

'There are other suspected syphilis findings for pre-contact Europe, including at a 13–14th century Augustinian friary in the north-eastern English port of Kingston upon Hull. This city's maritime history is thought to have been a key factor in the transmission of syphilis. Carbon dated skeletons of monks who lived in the friary showed bone lesions typical of venereal syphilis.'

It is a disputed theory but the idea of Codheads being responsible for the outbreak of syphilis across Europe is an absolute belter, especially as one of my pool-playing chums is from the City of Fish and a major Tigers supporters.

The comedy Gods are smiling...

The Zen Of Pool: Part V...

Another match and another defeat, this time against a player I should not lose to but did.

And even worse it was the same story as last week when I went into a 2-0 lead then hit the self-destruct button. To be fair he played well and carried a bit of luck but I couldn’t get into the game at all and ended up losing 4-7.

Sadly it was my own fault as I wasn’t at all focused and couldn’t get into the right frame of mind to be competitive and determined and grind the result out. I was so annoyed I even forgot to use my little mental switch trick.

Then to add insult to injury I had an hour playing afterwards in a friendly and for the second week running I absolutely flew once the match was over. No wonder I hit a wall and nearly broke a knuckle in frustration. Bloody stupid game…

The good news, however, is it proves my game is still there but the bad news is I’m not bringing it to matches. Strangely this isn't a problem I have in team games.

For example I have a county match on Sunday but I’m confident I’ll play well there because I’m playing in a team and the pressure of playing for a team usually brings out the best in me. And maybe that’s something to consider: in the singles league I’m only playing for money but in a team game I’m playing for my mates.

But for now it’s back to basics. I have one match left in this singles league and I’m looking at mid-table mediocrity. It could be better and it could be worse but the new league restarts in four weeks and I have to ensure I’m up and running for that otherwise I may as well not bother playing in it.

I think like hapkido I need to establish a proper training routine and stick to it because turning up once a week and expecting to perform at my best is no good.

Other Woman Who Loves Other Women News...

The Other Woman Who Loves Other Woman is grading for her red belt with black stripe this weekend. That's quite a biggie as it means black is her next test.

So we're in class going through her choking techniques and we arrive at one of the back choking techniques. This involves an attacker grabbing the victim from behind with one hand wrapped around their throat and the other grabbing the loose hand down by their side.

The victim then essentially brings one hand around the back of the attacker's neck as though it's one hand clapping before it joins with the other and unbalances the opponent and spins them onto the floor.

It's No.5 of ten back choking techniques but we generally refer to it as the one hand clapping technique as an aide memoir.

So I am attacking the OWWLOW and she performs the technique with such speed and aplomb that I am whipped onto the floor and before I know it she has me in an arm lock and it hurts. Quite a lot. In fact a very lot so I yelp 'Ow! and submit'

I get to my feet and the OWWLOW answers an age-old philosophical question:
'The sound of one hand clapping is "Ow!"'

We smile. It's a martial arts and Taoist gag and she's cracked it at 8am on a Tuesday morning. If her brain works this well at ridiculous hour then she's going to ace her grading.

Short Shrift...

Tea is on the go and I am sat at the kitchen table reading a magazine. The boy enters.

'God it's hot in here. What time's tea?'
'Tea's about 20 minutes and it's hot in here because I was cold when I got in from cycling home so I turned the heating up.'
'But it's not really that cold out...'
'It is if you're only wearing shorts down below.'
'But it's still practically winter. What sort of idiot would only wear shorts down below in winter?'

I stand up to attend to the cooker and display my short-clad legs. The Boy smiles.
'Ahh... That sort of idiot!'