16

MAD MOMENTS

‘Felt sluggish, don’t enjoy easy run, weekend mileage 25 miles.’

I have my moments. My mad moments. Unplanned and, until now, unexplained. I’m probably as famous for doing daft things as I am for my snooker. But my mad moments haven’t come unprompted. Yes, there was a reason why I walked out in the middle of the Stephen Hendry match in the UK Championship; there was a reason why I put a cloth over my face when I played Mark King. There was even a reason why I gave myself the world’s worst skinhead in the middle of a match. It’s time to fess up.

Walking out on Stephen Hendry

It could have happened in any of the previous half-dozen matches. It was 2006 and I was playing in the Premier League, against Steve Davis in the semis and Jimmy White in the final. Jo and I were going through a terrible time, and my head was completely up my arse. I didn’t want to be at the tournaments. My brain wasn’t right. I wasn’t happy.

I played Davis, was 3-1 up, and missed a ball and went to shake his hand because I just wanted to walk out. And as I did, I said to myself: ‘What are you doing? You can’t do that!’ I was 3-1 up! It was the Premier League, the tournament before the UK Championship, which was in York. So I just about stopped short of shaking his hand and sat back down again. My mind, though, was, shake his hand, get out of here, you’ve had enough. But I held back and went back to my chair.

I pulled myself together, won the match and got through to the final against Jimmy White. I was 4-0 up, had barely missed a ball, I was potting really well and then, boom! I missed a ball, he cleared up, and it went 4-1. In the next frame I missed another ball and I did the same thing – I went up to shake his hand.

I thought, Jesus, that’s twice on the trot. I didn’t do it, but the thought that I’d wanted to do it was worrying enough. I was in such a mess because of the state of my home life that I couldn’t face being there. I felt like the loneliest man in the world. I didn’t really know what I wanted. I didn’t want to be at the tournaments, but nor did I want to be at home because I was so miserable there. I suppose the bottom line was that I wanted a happy home life.

Lily was just a few months old at the time. She was absolutely gorgeous, adorable, but even her presence couldn’t help improve things between me and Jo. Before Lily was born we argued like most couples do, but we always got through it. Then, as soon as Lily was born, things took a dive. If we hadn’t had Lily I would have just left at that point. But I felt this overwhelming guilt and sadness. I was determined not to mess up as a dad as I had done with Taylor, my first daughter.

So as I went to shake Jimmy’s hand, again I thought: ‘What the fuck are you doing? You can’t do that. You’re 4-1 up, then 4-2 up, you’re going to win the tournament, what are you doing, you nutter?’ So I got through the match, won the tournament, but I had a feeling that wouldn’t be the last of it. And it wasn’t.

A pattern was developing. I’d almost walked out twice, and then I was at York for the UK Championship and I’d won two rounds before playing Stephen Hendry. But in both matches I’d felt the same – I wanted to walk out. I managed to hold back, though. Then I was up against Hendry. I was playing terribly, couldn’t pot a ball, played a bad shot, went into the reds, 4-1 down in the quarter-finals, he was playing well, and I thought, fuck this, I’m out of here – I’m going straight out and I’m going to have a night of it.

It was about 4 p.m., and I was thinking, I’ve got a couple of my jockey mates up here, they like a good booze-up. I’m going to get smashed tonight, absolutely wasted. Even though I was still running well, I didn’t feel good in myself. It’s funny: to the outside world I looked in great nick – healthy, trim, fit. Everybody was saying, you’re looking well, but I was in pieces. I wasn’t eating my way out of depression, but I was running my way out of my depression. But even the running didn’t always do the trick. And now I just wanted out.

It was the first to nine, so Hendry still needed another five frames to win. We weren’t even at the halfway mark, but I simply didn’t want to be there. I turned round, shook the ref’s hand, shook Hendry’s hand, said: ‘Good luck, Steve’, and walked out. Since then I’ve seen Stephen Hendry’s reaction on YouTube, and he just didn’t know what to do with himself – did he stay there or walk out? – and he was saying: ‘Well, what do we do now, Jan?’ to the referee, Jan Verhaas. And Jan was: ‘Well, I suppose it’s game over because he’s conceded.’

A few people in the crowd shouted: ‘Come on, Ronnie! You can’t do that!’ and I thought, well, I can do what I like really. Why can’t I do that? Not surprisingly, everybody started talking about my mental issues and unstable mind.

Nobody could believe what I’d done. Least of all Stephen. He was quite gracious about it at the time. He must have realised there was something really screwy with my head for me to do that. ‘I didn’t have an inkling anything was wrong,’ he said after I’d walked. ‘He seemed in good form beforehand and we were chatting backstage. Ronnie’s obviously got his reasons and I’m not going to criticise him. He just said he had had enough and wished me good luck for the rest of the tournament. Only he knows what he feels inside. I can’t criticise someone else for that, but I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s just bizarre.’

I issued a statement apologising for my behaviour. ‘I wish I could have played a better game today, but I had a bad day at the office,’ I said. ‘Anyone who knows me, knows that I am a perfectionist when it comes to my game, and today I got so annoyed with myself that I lost my patience and walked away from a game that, with hindsight, I should have continued. I’m sorry I didn’t stick around to sharpen him up for his semi-final. I’m also really sorry to let down the fans who came to see me play – it wasn’t my intention to disappoint them, and for that I am truly apologetic. At this present moment in time I am feeling disappointed with myself and am hurt and numb, but I am a fighter and I will be back on my feet fighting stronger and harder than ever very soon.’

But that wasn’t enough for most people. Most of the pundits thought I was a disgrace to the game and had brought shame on snooker.

I think it was inevitable that I would walk out of a tournament. There was something in me that wouldn’t be satisfied until I’d done it. It was just a matter of time before I got into flight mode. It did cross my mind to get to the final and just not turn up. I thought that would be the ultimate thing to piss the authorities off. Part of me just wanted to have a go at World Snooker. I’m not saying this is the action of a man who was thinking at his most logical. But I also had people revving me up in the background. Friends were telling me they couldn’t get in the players’ lounge and they couldn’t get into matches, and they were encouraging me to have a pop at World Snooker. My mates the Scouse twins Bobby and Les were revving me up – nice guys, love ’em to pieces, but they are wind-up merchants. And they kept saying that the authorities were this and they were that, and they had a point; some of the people in the World Snooker hierarchy might be jobsworths who just want to make your life difficult but that’s my working environment and I have to get on with these people.

It’s important for me to keep it sweet with the authorities, but the Scouse boys didn’t want to keep it sweet – nor did they want me to keep it sweet. I was a bit of an idiot for listening to them, really; for letting them wind me up. For a while it became like a war between me and the authorities because I felt my mates had been wronged. And that was just daft.

When I walked out there was a fair old hooha. The fallout was worse than I imagined it would be. I couldn’t understand why they made such a big fuss. I wasn’t feeling well, I was depressed, Stephen Hendry’s had a bye: happy days. Then they fined me £25,000 and I thought, what the fuck! What’s happened here? They came down hard on me and I thought, I can’t do this again. When they fined me I was fuming. It made me feel even more alone.

That night I just got absolutely smashed. I phoned my mate, one of the jockeys, and said: ‘Dino, we’re out, mate!’ He came over to the house and just assumed that the match was over. The Scouse twins, Bob and Les, were with me as well.

When I got home I told Jo what had happened. Because I was so down, she became supportive again. That’s how it always worked. She said: ‘Don’t worry, it’s the best thing you’ve ever done. That’s your truth.’ I went: ‘My truth? That’s not good. I’ve just been fined twenty-five grand. That ain’t good.’

I thought the fine was too heavy, but they were right to fine me. After all, I was a liability if they thought I could walk out in the middle of any match. And if the fans thought I might do that, maybe they’d do the same thing – or just not turn up in the first place.

I sat down with Rodney Walker, who was then chairman of World Snooker, and told him I was depressed and had family issues but said I didn’t want to go into them. ‘I’m having a hard time, not finding it easy, and I cracked,’ I said. ‘As you know, I’m quite highly strung and when I get it in my head that I’m going to do something I do it, but it was really because of personal stuff going on at home.’ It was the truth – but not the entire truth. I didn’t tell him the bit about being so pissed off with World Snooker.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘No problem, glad you told me.’ But they still shoved it up me with the fine.

Perhaps they also worried that I’d set a trend and other players would start walking out of matches, but I don’t reckon they had much to fear on that front. Other players aren’t mad enough to do it.

The fans turned against me a bit. I got a couple of boos when I played a match in Preston, then when I played in the Masters at Wembley, which was the very next tournament. John Parrott was slating me, saying, if he isn’t stable then he should get his problems sorted out and come back to play snooker when he’s ready. I thought that was wrong – kicking a man when he’s down rather than showing a bit of empathy. Hendry was good about it. He said that for me to have done that I must have had a lot on my mind. But the others just said I had no excuse – if you’re a pro you just go out there and play.

At the Masters the pressure was really on me. I’d just walked out, and everybody was asking what I’d be like; whether I’d play well, whether I’d even stay long enough to know if I was playing well. That was the tournament in which I beat Ding in the final and he started crying. The reason I won that tournament was because I was sitting at home on the Sunday when Ding was playing and he was really flying, and John Virgo said: ‘This is the new guard, this is the guy who’s going to take over the mantle from Ronnie O’Sullivan.’

I went, cheeky bastard! I love John, but I thought, Christ, you’re writing my obit a bit premature, Virgo. It gave me a reason to go and win the tournament. Perfect motivation. I never said anything to John about it, but I remembered it and every time I was on that practice table I thought about what he had said, and how I had to shut my critics up.

Ironically, then, it was Ding who I met in the final and he was playing really well. He went 2-0 up, and I thought, I’ve got a right battle on here. But I knew my form was okay – coming and going – but when it came it did so in spades. So I thought, wait till I’ve got a bit of form and just see how he responds with what I hit him with. I didn’t panic when he went 2-0 up, then it went 2-2, then 5-3 at the interval – I’d outplayed him, outfought him, by then, and he knew he was in for a hard match because I was playing some nice shots.

Then it got to 9-3 and he wanted to walk out. Funny because Ding is the last person you’d expect to do something like that. Maybe he was taking a leaf out of my book. Ding started crying, and then it was the interval with me only needing one more frame, and he went to shake my hand. I thought about my own problems, and said to him: ‘No, mate. You can’t do that. They are going to ruin me, and they’ll ruin you if you do it. You cannot do it.’

Well, when I say that’s what I said to him, it’s what I got Django to translate for me, and I put my arm round him and said: ‘Come and have a cup of tea.’ Maybe he was so gone that he didn’t know the score or he thought he’d already lost. So we went and had a cuppa and I said: ‘Your mum’s watching, your dad’s watching, this is bollocks, one more frame and it’s over.’ He was sobbing. I took him into my dressing room and Django was with us. I said to Django: ‘Tell him he’s got to go back and play, everything’s sweet’, and I asked him if he liked racing cars, Ferraris, and said we could go down to Brand’s Hatch for a day.

He started to chill out. His manager, Gary Baldry, was there, and I said: ‘He’s got to go out and play.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ Gary said.

‘Come on, let’s go out and do one more frame, get it over and done with, and that’s it, otherwise World Snooker and the press will slaughter him just like they slaughtered me and that’s no good for him.’

So we went out, played the last frame and one person in the crowd slagged me off. He shouted out: ‘You’re just as bad, walking out.’

‘Shut up,’ I said. ‘If you’ve got nothing nice to say, go home.’ That was while I was clearing up in the last frame. I thought, I’m not having this idiot saying that.

So even though the walking-out experience was bad for me, in a way it made me aware of things, and enabled me to help Ding in the end, when he was in the same situation.

I’ve never spoken to Ding about what happened. There’s no need to. He learnt from it, just as I learnt from my proper walkout.

The wet towel over the head

I was playing Mark King. Some players you can watch and enjoy and think: ‘You know what, I’m getting a pasting here, but I’ve got the best seat in the house’ – Stephen Hendry, John Higgins, and you’re going you know that this geeza’s class, but then I’m playing Mark King and there’s nothing good about watching him play.

He probably knows he’s a hacker. He’s not one of those who thinks he’s brilliant. He’s honest and open. He knows he’s done unbelievably well for the talent he’s got. He’s a bit of a banger. He’s got no touch. But he’s got more fight and spirit in him than anyone in the game. Having said that, sitting there and watching him play isn’t a dream day out.

Everything he does is wrong; the way he stands, the way he holds his bridge hand, the way he flicks it in, there’s nothing smooth about the way he plays. So, no disrespect to Mark – okay, a bit of disrespect to Mark – I had to put the wet towel over my head so that I didn’t see it. And I was afraid I’d be able to see him through the towel. So as I put it over my head I thought, Christ, can I still see him? But I couldn’t, thankfully.

I could just hear balls going in, and by the time the referee had called out the ball and he’d got round to potting his next ball I thought he must have walked round the table twice. A good player around this area when he’s in the balls just goes bish bish bish bish, done. Mark probably does four times more walking round the table than I do.

I just found it very difficult to watch – it was a long match, best of 17 frames, the UK Championships, and I thought, I can’t watch him. But he isn’t the only one. There are loads I can’t bear watching. In some ways that’s why I wish I was shit because then I wouldn’t notice all the faults. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so aware of what makes certain players good and certain players bad. When you play a bad player you can pick up on their bad habits, just as when you play someone good you think: ‘Oh, I’ll try that’, and you can learn from them. With Mark King there was nothing I could feed off. I don’t think he ever knew why I had the towel over my head. He will do now, mind.

He beat me 9-8. That was the match Ray Reardon walked out of because I was smacking the balls all over the show. They brought in a rule after that saying you weren’t allowed to put a towel over your head because it was ungentlemanly conduct.

It was similar to when I played Selby and I started counting the dots on the spoon. I knew I wasn’t allowed to put the towel over my head, but he’s the same type of player. He’s got so many things wrong with his cue action that when you watch him you think, how is he potting balls, he’s going to break down eventually, he’s mistimed this one, miscued that, and I’d find myself watching and criticising in my mind. And it’s not something I wanted to do. I couldn’t help it. It’s like a compulsion. So my idea of counting the dots was so that I didn’t have to look at him or watch him play because he’s not good on the eye.

I think I could be a good coach, but I’d be a bit like Ray Reardon – baffled and frustrated when players didn’t play the way I wanted them to play. People call me instinctive but I don’t think that’s right. I think it’s more the other way round. You have to be technically good before you can be truly instinctive. If you’re technically good you can play the shots with ease and precision, which then allows you to not worry about potting the ball and where the white goes; you’re just worried about getting from one shot to the next. You’re thinking, where do I want to be, rather than, I don’t like this shot; I’m jabby with this one, or I’m here but I don’t fancy getting there.

Being technically good frees you up and enables you to concentrate on the game itself rather than struggling with shots. That’s why I’ve often said I thought Selby would struggle with the tournaments that were over longer frames because, like me, he’s had his technical problems. Interestingly, he’s never won the World Championship, and only won the UK this year when they shortened the matches to first to 11 frames instead of first to 19. In the longer matches, technique tends to come to the fore because you’re more likely to struggle at some point if the match is over a few sessions, and if you lose a session 6-2 or 7-1 you’ve really got to battle to get back in. I used to think I would never win the World Championship because I felt I was struggling with my game technically. Thankfully, I was wrong.

The famous nosh in China

I’m not sure if this counts as a moment of madness. I thought I was just having a laugh, though not everyone saw it that way. The problem was I didn’t realise the cameras were rolling and the mics were all set up. If I had, there is no way I would have said what I did.

I was sitting next to Ivan Hirschowitz, head of media for World Snooker. Ivan’s one of my mates and he’s got a good sense of humour. They asked me the first question then translated it into English, and I thought, blimey that sounded a long question in Chinese then really short in English.

‘Fuck me,’ I said to Ivan. ‘That was the world’s longest question.’ And he started laughing.

The journalist said: ‘D’you think you gave 100 per cent today?’

‘I thought I performed well, but Marco just performed better,’ I said. I had the microphone in my hand and then put it down. I whispered to Ivan: ‘Look at that, it’s the size of my prick and the same shape.’

‘Well, that’s a funny shape,’ Ivan said.

‘Well, what shape’s yours then, Ivan,’ I said.

I didn’t realise I was all mic’d up, and we were just having a giggle. Then I looked round and said: ‘Anybody want to give me a nosh? Anyone want to suck my dick?’ And I was looking at the lady in the front row, saying: ‘You want to come and have a suck on this?’ She was looking at me, smiling, and Ivan was pissing himself laughing, tears rolling down his face. I only said it because she didn’t understand. It was stupid, but I’m not rude and offensive normally. We were just having a laugh.

I only realised that the mic was on when I got home and Dad phoned me up and said: ‘You’ve been done for lewd comments; it’s all over the radio.’

‘What?’ I said.

I didn’t know what he was on about. I was staying at my mate’s house in Ongar, and had no internet connection so I just had to take Dad’s word for it. The first I saw of it was when I bought the Sun the next day. I’d got home on the Monday and the transcript of it appeared in the Sun on the Wednesday. When I read it I just started laughing. That’s fantastic, I thought, really funny. But at the same time I was worried because I knew World Snooker was looking for an excuse to come down on me and I think they assumed the Chinese would find it offensive and say that I was a rotten lot. I was convinced World Snooker were looking for the first opportunity to ban me, and thought this would be the perfect chance – Ronnie goes out to the new superpower, asks them to suck on his cock and upsets the Chinese. I thought they’d say, we need to come down on him; he’s not bigger than the sport, and I started to shit myself.

I had a few friends in China and asked them if they could do some digging to find out what the vibe was over there; to see whether they were really appalled by what I’d done. They got back to me and said: ‘No, no, no, they don’t get it, they think you’re great, and they’re just gutted that you’ve gone home.’ My friend said: ‘They love you here, and they don’t understand what all the fuss is about.’

So I thought, thank God for that. We put an apology out on their sports channel, I apologised, said, I love the Chinese snooker fans, I’m really looking forward to coming back. This was done without World Snooker, off my own back. By then the Chinese Snooker Association and Chinese press were on my side, so I had nothing to worry about from them. I just needed World Snooker to know that I had made up with the Chinese and apologised, and I knew that no damage had been done.

Sometimes it feels as if I’m in an abusive relationship with World Snooker. They love me, and know that I’m good for the game. But at the same time they resent me – they think I think I’m above the sport. To an extent they have been dependent on me over the past few years, and they hate that. And I know I’ve never been one of their sheep; never just done what I’m told and fallen into line. If I did that I’d quickly lose my own sense of who I am.

I thought, what’s the worst thing World Snooker can do to me? Ban me. And if they did, and I convinced myself I wasn’t enjoying playing, was depressed, they would have been doing me a favour. So every time I felt World Snooker had me by the short and curlies, I’d try to turn it into a positive – I told myself that being banned would be good for me, and put myself out of my misery. No more snooker depression: great. I decided not to compromise. They could ban me if they wanted, but they’d look as if they were cutting off their nose to spite their face – ‘Good luck to you when you go and talk to sponsors because you would have been the ones who made the decision to ban me in the first place. I don’t have to worry about that now. Happy days!’ That’s what I told myself – and more or less what I told them.

It is weird that they are so dependent on me after all these years; that no one has come along with the personality and talent to kick me into touch. I think it’s the personality thing that’s the biggest factor. Snooker players are all boring bastards basically. Even those who are hugely gifted technically don’t have that thing that makes the public really care about them like they did about me or Jimmy White or Alex Higgins. I suppose our instability has always added to our appeal. We’re all pretty vulnerable types one way or another, and you never knew what was going to happen next when we were around.

The public adored Jimmy and Alex. Jimmy was such an amazing entertainer – and also the fact that he lost all six of his world finals turned him into even more of a people’s champion. We were all desperate for him to take the crown. Perhaps it’s the Hurricane that I’m most similar to, both in touch and in our demons. But I think the public see an important difference – ‘Yes, he’s like Higgins, but there’s the other side where he’s relentless in how he wants to be a champion, and he’s got these demons, he’s fucked up, we don’t know what he’s going to do next, but he’s healthy, he’s fit, he’s an athlete.’

World Snooker know the public feel like that about me, and it’s a problem for them. Sometimes I think there’s nothing more they’d like to do than get rid of me once and for all. With Higgins they could do it – he wasn’t potting any more, wasn’t winning, so it was easy to give him lengthy bans when he misbehaved. Of course, when he was winning, they tolerated much of the bad behaviour.

With me, they are suffering it while I am doing okay, but I know the minute I’m not doing well, or the minute they think snooker fans have given up on me, they’ll get rid of me. It’s just a matter of time. But I’ve always thought I’m going to walk before they push me. I’ve always planned to leave on my terms rather than be pushed. I don’t want to do an Alex Higgins and be forced out. That’s why last year, world champion, best player on the planet, I went, you know what? Ta-ta. It was on my terms. And in the end they moved every goalpost to have me back. And that was me winning the battle.

In a way they must be looking forward to me retiring. Sure, they’d miss the stories and the will-he, won’t-hes, but at least they’d feel they had more control over their sport and be able to keep everyone in line easier. They would be like, Ronnie’s history, let’s move on.

People have talked up Judd Trump as the new me. But, again, I think there’s a difference. There’s a lot going on with me, for good and bad. Underneath it all, though, there is a burning desire to win and an intelligence in my game. I don’t just go out and hit balls and hope for the best, smash them round the table. I’ve walked out of a match, come back next tournament and won it. I’ve always managed to come back, and I think that makes people respect me – that I’ve come back when I’m down. People like that. It’s like Rocky or Muhammad Ali – get knocked down, get back up, win again. Ali was banned from boxing for being a conscientious objector and refusing to go into the army. In 1966, he famously said: ‘I ain’t got no quarrel with them Viet Cong.’ He came back three years later and won the world title.

With all my demons, and my mum away, and dad away, and the drink and drugs, the kids, the maintenance, the keeping fit, the obsessions, the depressions, in between all that I’ve managed to win four world titles, four UKs and four Masters. I don’t know how. I’ve won 24 ranking events, 10 Premier Leagues, more than 50 tournaments altogether. It’s not bad going for such a fuck-up!

The Hurricane won two world titles, which is a fantastic achievement. He had the bottle to produce his best when it mattered. But he wasn’t relentless like I’ve been. He’d be out on the piss, I’d be out running eight miles (and sometimes doing both). Sometimes I would win in spite of myself. I think people have always expected me to crumble; blow up. Look at me, and you can understand why. But I’ve been going as a professional, winning events, for more than 20 years, and still feel I’ve got a few more victories left in me. But those who did think that, or who say that I’m weak mentally, don’t really know me. I’ll eat commentators like John Parrott for breakfast. All right, I have blowouts, my moments when I crack up, but over 20 years I reckon I’ve been far stronger mentally than most of my critics.

I’m not saying I’m mentally strong in the way, say, Peter Ebdon is, where he can grind through frame after frame at tortuous pace. I wear my heart on my sleeve, love my game, and ultimately as a player I do hold it together.

I might be inconsistent, contrary even, but so many real people are. Who can’t relate to that?

One day you love the game, next day you hate it. I bet loads of people feel that about their work (if they’re lucky). One day you love being around the kids, next day they’re driving you mad. That’s just life. For me, it’s how I manage my emotions that’s important in how I go forward. In the past, my emotions dominated me. I’d have to go so low that there was nowhere else to go but up. Hopefully, I won’t spiral out of control now. I can nip it in the bud when I see things going downhill – breathe, think, ask myself what I want, try to enjoy the game.

I think most players, most people, have extreme highs and lows, but they just don’t talk about it. I’m very vocal. If I’m guilty of anything it’s being vocal about what goes on in the mind.

Shaving my head at Sheffield

It was 2005 and I was in the World Championships, playing pretty shit. I’d had a great season, winning four of the eight available titles. But at Sheffield I wasn’t dealing with the pressure very well. I felt ugly, low, sluggish. Nothing felt right. There was a clip on the telly of me, with the scoreline, and I looked at it and thought, ugh, look at the state of you. My hair was long at the time. I said to my friend Mickey the Mullet, get the razor out and give me a number one. The Mullet said: ‘No don’t be daft.’ But he did it anyway.

I went to the venue next day and thought, they’re going to think I’m mental. I looked like I’d just been given a lobotomy. Ken Doherty walked in, took a second glance and thought, who’s that lunatic playing over there? It was like they’d let some serial killer into Sheffield.

It was bad.

That was the year I played Ebdon in the quarters and he tortured me into submission. He drove me to the torture chamber. For large parts of the match I sat in my chair slumped against the wall with my hands over my head. At other times I just chewed my fingers and grinned and grimaced at Ray Reardon. I was in bits. Ebdon made me scratch my forehead until I drew blood. He ruined me. I was relieved when he beat me. He had a 12 break in 5 minutes and 12 seconds. I was sitting there and asked this geeza in the audience the time. He said about 11 a.m. and I thought, Jesus, there’s still two or three more hours of this to go. I now know what it’s like to be waterboarded. It was like sleep deprivation. There’s not a sympathetic bone in Ebdon’s body. To him that was the art of winning, the art of sport. We call him Psycho because he looks like Anthony Per-kins. I like Ebo; he’s a nice guy, but he is a torturer of the worst kind. Everybody thought I was distraught when I lost, but I was relieved. It was over! It was holiday time.

I’d had the haircut halfway through a previous match. Lucky I didn’t kill myself rather than just shave my head. That’s how bad I was feeling. I got off lightly. I was playing so badly – 8-2 up at one point, but proper pony, all over the gaffe. But Ebdon did me like a kipper. I didn’t blame him – he had a wife and four kids to feed, and if that was the only way he could win, so be it. But I had to go and get smashed after that.

From Alcoholics Anonymous to Sex Anonymous

I keep moving things from here to there to there. On my kitchen table I’ve got my pad and my phones and my bowl, and if it looks messy I try to tidy it up. When Damien’s cooking it’s like a bomb’s hit the place. So I tidy up. It doesn’t annoy me. It makes me feel better because it gives me something to tidy up after. I always have to do things. My mate said, you’re a human doer, not a human being. I suppose that’s an obsessive thing.

I never realised I had an addictive personality till I went to the Priory. Until then I just thought I had a bit of a problem with drugs, and that I needed to stop using them, or at least learn how to control it. I certainly didn’t consider myself an addict. Then it probably took another 10 years after first going into the Priory to accept that I was an addict.

I supposed I rationalised things to myself. I’d say, well, if I’ve worked hard, or had a good run I deserve a little night out. So I’d tell myself I wasn’t as bad as the others; I was different. I’d say, if I can have a month or six weeks clean then have a little blowout that’s better than doing it every day. I was trying to manage my binges, and I told myself if I could do that I didn’t have a problem.

A typical day on the binge would start with a bit of drink. Always vodka and orange. I don’t actually know much about drink, don’t know my beers and spirits; all I know is vodka and orange will do me. Ronnie Wood is a pro. I realised I wasn’t a drinker when I started drinking with Ronnie. He had a drink for every different type of situation, so he’d start off on the Guinness, then he’d go on to the vodka, then he brought out this lovely drink early afternoon. I can’t remember what it was, but it was his early afternoon drink. He drank by the clock, and I thought, this geeza is an expert. Me, I’m just an amateur, I’ll drink anything without knowing much about it. But Ronnie was educating me.

I don’t actually like alcohol, I just like the effect. It obliterates everything nicely for me. So a good day I’d be on the vodka and orange, about 10 of them, then get home at 3 a.m. and the wine would come out. Any old drink: it didn’t really matter by then. Throw in a few spliffs. Then at 7 a.m. the sun would come up and I’d think, oh, Jesus, I’ve done it again. The birds would start tweeting and I’d think I’m bang in trouble. Then it gets to 11 a.m.–12 noon and I’m sunbathing on the floor, just thinking, what have I done? Then it takes three or four days before I feel normal again.

When I was on a bender, I’d talk shit all night, drive everyone mad, bore them to death.

When I went into the Priory I thought, how am I going to survive without anything to numb me? And it was hard for a while. I didn’t think it was possible to give up drink and drugs just like that. If I was clean, I’d lock myself in the house and not come out. I’d do the same at snooker tournaments – I wasn’t good at mixing with people and felt paranoid.

Spliff gave me the confidence to have a laugh and a joke. I got so used to puff I could function on it. I could play golf, snooker, anything: it just levelled me out. By the end of it I was so immune to it that it never got me stoned, it just levelled me out.

I was frequently tested, but if I was fucked or over the limit I’d just pull out of the tournament. But after I’d been done once I thought, they’re not going to forgive me a second time, so I knew I was better off missing a tournament rather than risk getting banned. I was always running the risk of a ban, but when you feel miserable and in bits and you know a little spliff is going to lift you out of that depression, you think you’ve got to have it. When I stopped taking drugs I got really depressed. I was struggling with life. It’s a bit chicken and egg. I was depressed because I’d stopped drinking and taking drugs, but I only drank and took drugs in the first place because I was depressed. Ultimately I’d rather be clean and depressed than on drugs and depressed. At least there’s a way out, and you’re reliant on your natural feelings – if you’re down you really are down; if you’re up, you are genuinely up.

After the Priory I spent a long time going to AA meetings. They provided a lot of relief at the time. They helped the depression. I’d go there, share, say I was depressed ’cos I missed the drink and drugs, and everybody would be sympathetic, tell me to keep coming back and pray to God! So it took me out of it for a bit. I would go back to AA if I had to. AA is Alcoholics Anonymous, but I did all the As. I did NA (Narcotics Anonymous), FA (Food Anonymous), all of them. I thought, if I’ve got addictions, food is one of them so let’s see what they have to say about food because I love my grub. They’d say, don’t eat this bread, don’t eat those potatoes, but I was reasonably fit at the time and thought I didn’t really belong there; I thought, I’ve got that one under manners.

At one point I tried SA – Sex Anonymous – for sex addicts. I’d been single for two years and thought I’d see some sick, dirty, rotten sex addict who wanted to give me a really good time, but they were all off their heads in there. I thought I’d see what’s around; there might be a few nice birds there. Some of them wouldn’t even hold hands because their addiction was so bad – or they thought it was. I thought, no, I can’t handle this.

Sex Anonymous sent me back to drugs. It was so mad in there I thought, fuck, I’ve got to get out of here. I don’t want to end up like that mob. It’s funny: you see the same things in there as you do in NA. It’s like they’ve had problems with drugs, they get well and outgrow NA, and they start looking for other addictions they can ‘cure’. So some of the people I saw in NA, who were really sound people, I found them in Sex Anonymous, and I began to think this recovery lark is just continuous; it goes on for ever. And I don’t want that. I want to be able to live my life and be in control of it. I’ll take my chances.

You don’t have to talk at Sex Anonymous, which was good because I thought, I’ve not really got anything to say to them anyway. I never actually felt I was a sex addict. The opposite. I’m not a sex addict at all. If I’m with a girl and I’m attracted to her, great. But I’m not craving it. I can go without. So I knew at heart I wasn’t a sex addict, but I just wanted to try them all out.

Running is the best addiction, though. It’s not that dissimilar to AA and NA and all the As. RA – Runners Anonymous! We meet once a week, a group of friends, talk to each other, help each other stay fit, push each other on, there’s always someone ahead of you and always someone behind, so there’s always someone to help and always someone to get inspired by. Runners are addicted, and some of them start to look unhealthy with it. But I’d much rather look like that than Steve Lee, just feeding off pork pies, eating my way out of it. I’ve been there, and I know what that’s like and it ain’t nice. I just wanted to run. Run, run, run; that was my cure for everything. Perhaps it’s better to confront things, but I’ve never been good at that.

When I’m running I’m just thinking of the strides; of keeping a nice rhythm and tempo, just staying within myself. When I do a proper workout, 12 x 200 metres or whatever, I’m thinking, why am I doing this, what’s the point? I just want to stop. You can’t make any sense of it at the time, but when it’s done you’re on holiday, and you’re glad you’ve done it. It’s never enjoyable, but the fitter you get the more pain your body can tolerate.

As well as running I found walking therapeutic. I learnt that when I lost my licence a couple of years ago when I got done for speeding. I really began to enjoy a good walk down the Manor Road to the Tube station.

The reluctant 147

In 2010, Barry Hearn decided there wasn’t going to be a prize for a 147. It used to be £25,000 at the World Open, and then they just decided to get rid of it – so the only prize was £4,000 for the biggest break in the tournament. To me, that’s crazy, an insult – after all, the 147 is the ultimate, the greatest thing you can do in the game; snooker perfection.

So, rather than complaining about it, I thought, what’s the best way to get this out in the open? And I thought, well, if I get in the position where I’m on for a maxi I could just stop short, ask the ref what the prize money was, he’d tell me that there wasn’t any, then I could sabotage it at some point in protest. So, sure enough, I was on the 147 and I had a word with the referee, Jan Verhaas.

‘What’s the prize money for a maxi,’ I said.

‘Four thousand,’ he said.

‘I’m not making the 147 for that.’

I was only on about 40 or 50 at the time; it was early days. He didn’t say anything, but I reckon he thought I was joking. Every time I potted another black I told him, I’m not making it. You can just about hear it on the telly. So I got to the yellow.

‘I’m still not making it,’ I said.

I was quite excited by now. I thought it was a good protest and would be better remembered than a 147; that it would be more exciting for the punters to be able to say: ‘I was at the match when Ronnie refused to make a 147’ than at the match where he did make one – after all, I’ve made plenty in my time. That might have been as remembered as the fastest 147 – though, obviously, for very different reasons. No snooker player had ever made 140, then decided not to pot the black. It would make history.

Dennis Taylor said: ‘He’s smiling and joking with Jan Verhaas, the referee.’ But they didn’t know what I was saying then.

‘What can you say?’ said John Virgo. ‘Last frame it looked as if he wasn’t bothered, and this has just been sensational. Sensational.’ I was on 134. ‘Come on, Ronnie,’ he said.

One hundred and forty, and a huge roar from the crowd.

I then just shook Mark King’s hand. I’d won 3-0. The black was simple. You could have potted it with your knob. Mark looked as if he was in shock. The whole arena seemed too stunned to take it all in. Jan wasn’t having any of it, though.

‘Come on, Ron, do it for your fans,’ he said.

I thought, you bastard, guilt-tripping me in my moment of glory. So, sure enough, I ended up smashing the black in.

‘Have you ever seen anything like that in your life?’ said Virgo at the end. Well, if I’d not potted the black they certainly wouldn’t have.

Barry Hearn came up to me straight afterwards. ‘Thank God you potted that black because you would have been in big trouble. We’ve got the superintendent here who’s clamping down on the betting scandals and we’re trying to clean the game up. For you to do that in front of him would not have looked good.’

There were only a few seconds between shaking Mark’s hand and actually potting it.

The reaction was mixed. To me, it was obvious I was having a laugh and making a point – ruffling a few feathers. But the authorities thought it was shocking. Mark Williams was critical too. ‘Ronnie’s break should stand at 140 because he’d shaken hands before he potted the last black. He should have potted the black without messing around or played safe [if he wanted to make a point]. But that’s why people come to watch him, to see what he’s going to do,’ he said.

Some players were supportive, though – after all, they were pissed off about the prize money, too. Neil Robertson said he thought it was great. ‘To pot one red and black and then ask the referee if there’s a 147 prize is pure genius. No other player would have done that. He knew there wasn’t a prize, he was just setting it up. No one is bigger than the sport but he does make it more attractive when he does something like that.’