SHITHOUSE RONNIE, OH NO ANNETTE AND THE BLACK BASTARD


Smallbone had to say something, 'That's bollocks,' he said.

The boys were in the bar, variously disposed and not a little
dissipated. Shithouse Ronnie had the floor and he meant to make
the most of it. Pausing only to swallow his pint, he'd spotted
Annette coming in, he said, 'Bollocks? Bollocks? When did he
win anything, eh? Come on, when? What's he won worth a
shit, eh? What? Bollocks.'

'What has that to do with it, winning anything?' Smallbone sighed.
He saw little point in going on, poor deluded fools seemed unable to
recognize pure genius. Art, science, class, style, magic, luck, wit,
all embodied in Jimmy on a snooker table. He could have won the
World, sure he could. He was simply the best.

'He was simply the best,' Smallbone said, resting his case.

Annette got them in and spilled hers straightaway, 'Oh no,' she
said, 'Anyone see the Trump match?'

They all said bollocks and watched the luncheon crowd playing
snooker. The Slasher was in, hard at it, very Freudian, cutting
and thrusting, missing. Mr. Bumbole, sipping Guinness, upheld
his chewsoggy castella, 'Woya blod clart, shou'dn be allowed,
man, dis, me reach up to seea snookah, notta loada bankers.'

'Never mind, Bumbole, you can watch me give Annette a spanking.'

'Ah gard,' Mr. Bumbole said, 'Gard help me.'

Annette tossed a coin as Smallbone got down to break, 'Head,'
he said.

'Oi, it's a tail,' Annette said, 'Sod off, I'll break.'

She didn't quite reach the baulk cushion, 'Oh no,' she said, but there
was no harm done, and Smallbone was bound to go for something
spectacular. He played too fine, too pacy off the pack, dislodged a
couple of reds, clipped one on the way back sending it into the middle
pocket as the white spun off two cushions to a stop in the D. He rolled
up to the yellow, bumped it. Annette had a walk round, 'You might at
least apologise,' she said. She played cushion first off a stray, up and
down, safe. Mr. Bumbole watched, sucked on his cigar.

Three or four tables came off at once. A number of bank clerks
fiddled at the counter, looking everywhere but at Annette who'd
seen a tight red along the side cushion and mounted the table,
wriggling comfortable. She lined up the shot. There was a pink
into the middle inside the pack and she wanted it, but just as
she breathed in she touched a loose red with her right tit and
Smallbone called a foul.

'Oh no,' Annette moaned. The clerks held their breath as she
slowly poured herself back onto the floor, 'Aaaah,' they all
nearly said and left, sighing, like wet dreams.

Mr. Bumbole remonstrated, 'Wha' ya say? Wha' ya say?'

'Calm down, Bumbole, look, her tit touched the ball and that's
four to me ... '

'Touch? I see no touch. What touch? I see no body part ... '

'Look, Bumbole, tits are part of the body and body parts must
not touch balls, so when a tit does touch a ball, it's a foul, a tit
foul, and penalty points to me.'

'Oi,' Annette said, 'They're my tits and it's your shot so get on
with it.' Mr. Bumbole went to get the drinks in but he wasn't
happy. Smallbone got on with it and made a winning forty, then
he took the next frame on the blue. Annette handed over a
tenner and glowered.

Most of the tables emptied now and serious snooker began. Mr.
Bumbole watched Annette. She'd taken on Shithouse Ronnie and
she was a frame up in a best of three, stalking balls with a glint
in her eye. Ronnie needed a snooker to stay in it and he didn't
get it, leaving Annette the last red sitting over a pocket.

'Just going to the shithouse,' Ronnie said.

'Oh no,' Annette said.