Last night in Belfast the mood was tense. Eight men with pool cues stood around a table ready to do battle. Yes, it was a game of killer. Each pool player had three lives and you lost a life if you didn’t pot a ball when it was your turn.
Drink was taken by the non-drivers. Six beer-fuelled males in their prime, who by day worked with a higher education database system. By night they gambled. The pot lay on the table. £7, somebody hadn’t put in their pound…
The oldest male bided his time. Then with a dazzling display of potting, he wiped the floor with the young Turks.
The drivers left first. The beer guzzlers moved nearer the bar, and talked quality bollocks until they too drifted off into the night.
odespinner 