“TWO things brought snooker to where it is today — the first one is colour TV and the second one is Alex Higgins,” said the former world champion’s PA, Will Robinson.
He couldn’t have put it more succinctly. One would swear that snooker had been designed with colour television in mind, so perfectly does the green baize contrast with the 22 balls. It wasn’t of course — having evolved in the 19th century in the British Army mess halls in India.
But the game certainly could have been designed for television purely on the characters involved.
At one time, the cast of players seemed to have stepped straight out of a Tom Waits song or an Edward Hopper painting: riverboat gamblers locked horns with flashy-looking spivs from south London; shady, handsome Canadians took on flimflam merchants from Scotland or street-wise flâneurs from Dublin.
It was terrific viewing. But none of the characters were more outré, none could hold the audience the way the Hurricane did.
When he was on a roll, he was mesmeric, playing with passion and skill that has never been equalled; conversely when his opponent was at the table Alex managed to look so bereft that Munch could have used him as a model for The Scream.
Like his fellow North of Ireland sporting superstar George Best, Alex had his demons — the ones which eventually helped send him to an early grave.
He finished up where he began, in Sandy Row, a loyalist area of Belfast just beyond the city centre. Alex Higgins, the man who made snooker what it is today, was playing in the snooker halls and pubs of Belfast until shortly before his death. A one-off, he will be missed.
Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam — as they tend not to say down Sandy Row, but in this case they’ll probably make an exception and not take umbrage.
Because, again just like George Best, Alex Higgins was held in affection and esteem by both communities.
The Angelus at 60
THE CLANGS of Catholicism its detractors call it, while its advocates describe it as a mellifluous sound that affords a few minutes of reflection every day.
The Angelus, which continues to ring out at noon and 6pm every day on RTÉ, is 60 years old on Sunday — and is once again under attack.
Critics say that this relic of Christian Ireland has no place in a modern secular society; the recent scandals within the Catholic Church have only added to this gathering chorus of disapproval.
But take a random look at the RTÉ schedule. Last Saturday after the 6pm news, for instance, the national broadcaster screened the Lotto results, The Big Money Game and Saturday Night With Miriam O’Callaghan.
Even after all that, if you’d still decided to stay in you could have feasted your eyes on City Homicide, The Festival Roadshow and Rebus (“The discovery of a missing prostitute leads Rebus back to a case...”).
It’s hard to see how two minutes of sonorous bell ringing constitutes a greater assault on the senses than much of today’s television output.
The Irish Post is glad the Angelus has survived 60 years, and looks forward to the next 60.