The moving finger writes, and having writ.

Moves on to write another bit.

Or words vaguely to that effect.

 

For you students of the musings of the tent maker and erstwhile poet there is a clear association, for it was one Omar Khyam, ancient Persian who is credited with the first reference known of a game played on a flat surface propelling balls carved from bone by striking them with a stick.

 

And so, down throughout the ages from before the birth of Christ came this game of skill gradually evolving, becoming more-complex and addicting more and more people to it’s friendly competition. Until in 1977 in a hither to little known seaside resort in the deep south of the great southern continent of Australia a not insignificant event occurred. Two elders of the community promulgated the

citizenry and at an appointed time they forgathered. After deep and careful

deliberation lasting some 46 to 48 seconds they elected to form the Ocean Grove

Snooker Club.

 

In a stout 75c exercise book all pertinent details of the decision were faithfully recorded, more of which you will read about later together with the aims and objectives of the club, more of which you will read about now. Indeed 20 years attests to the correctness of the decision, that this club primarily based on the fellowship, at the same time enjoying friendly competition was, in the vernacular,

“Way to go”.

 

The home made scones, little sav’s and chow mein interspersed with cool libations was an added and greatly appreciated bonus.

 

However the underlying ulterior motive was the legitimate Wednesday night escape.

 

The navigability of a bat yet able to reach destination at precisely 7.29pm. The dexterity to balance a plate of sandwiches in one hand carry 6 stubbies and a snooker cue in the other and still open a jammed rain wet side gate with the other hand in the pitch dark, no less, led to the evolution of a Wednesday night creature known world wide as a “SNOOKERMAN’. Well perhaps not quite world wide but a least as world wide as Drysdale.

 

A bit chauvinistic you say? Well not entirely, a deal of thought was given to those who are left behind, the unsung heroines who at last have the opportunity to wash and dry the dishes in just the way they like to.

 

The chance to be able to iron at their leisure while listening to the sound of T.V. instigated warring children. The exquisite joy of being able to lug the rubbish bin out to the front in your own sweet time, such independence must be heaven indeed. Not the least, the opportunity to hone up ones diplomatic skills must not be played down.

 

Picture this, drifting into blissful pre-sleep and very nearly over the headache from hell per courtesy of the little darlings, now safely tucked up, thank god. The intruding into your consciousness, the slurred description of the dying moments of a game resulting in match drawn, comes wafting toward you on a wave of alcohol, Oh no! the spectre of an amorous encounter appears imminent!!!!

REJECTION WITHOUT OFFENCE it would mystify even the British Foreign

Office.

“Diplomacy par excellence”.

 

And so after 20  years with no attributable divorces, world wars or enduring vendetta’s the power of this wonderful (at times cruel) game to weave it’s spell over this club, the 100’s of players, past and present, the participation and support of family says something rather profound:-

 

I wonder what it is?