A year ago, while Covid restrictions still raged, I booked tickets to watch a session of the World Snooker Championship in 2022.
I almost never book ahead. Mrs RM and I were married within 2 months of being engaged, and so what if it was for tax reasons?
By the by, if we last till the 27th June (which I doubt after that Easter Sunday session) it’ll be 30 years and you can join us in forgetting to commemorate the day. Again.
The Crucible sent me a text last Monday morning to remind me I’d booked a random session at 10am, just enough time for a double espresso and foccacia toastie at Cafe Tucci, the best in Sheffield.
The Crucible IS snooker, despite attempts to move the World Cup to a social club in Ally Pally (or was it Andover ?).
OK, there’s only a few hundred fans in for each of the 3 sessions, but they’re like hard-core CAMRA beer festival fans in their “Terrific Trump” and “Super Selby’ t-shirts.
There’s a bar selling themed Abbeydale and Bradfield beers, probably called “Potters Pale” and “Extendible Rest DIPA” but I’m terrified of needing the loo during a long frame so I resist.
My random fixture is Anthony McGill v Sean Highfield, a bit worthy, but I do get to see a bespectacled Steve Davis up in the commentary box. Which is nice.
My view is superb, better than the telly, and I enjoy nearly 3 hours of attritional play in an arena where silence is impeccably observed.
At the end, the crowd rushes for the exit, where Spoons. Sam Smiths and a Head of Steam await. But not for me.