HAVING been commissioned by the Editor of the "Billiard Player" to "inspect and report upon" the playing conditions offered to billiard enthusiasts I am very glad to begin by commending halls—I have seen them—where billiards worth the name can be played. These have nothing but my praise, and are obviously above and beyond the "dens" I am writing about. I should also like to make it quite clear that by "dens" I do not refer to places, like the old-time "gambling dens," where sharping or other undesirable practices are prevalent.
As a matter of fact, the contrary is so true that, unless you went in with an old friend and kept the business strictly between your two selves, I am sure you would find it impossible to win or lose half-a-crown in the billiard "dens" I have in mind.
Very much in mind. They are unforgettable to me. Here is my description of the first: It was a big ground-floor room, with more than a dozen tables in it. In a structural sense it was perfect for billiards, being lofty and with plenty of air space. There is no more to be said in its favour, as in every other respect it was a "den" of a place.
The floor was dirty, with ancient and accumulated dirt, due to "showing it the broom" instead of giving it a thorough cleaning. Most of the tables had cushion covers black with clotted sweat, particularly near the pockets.
Cloths, for the want of thorough brushing and ironing, were in such a state that you could almost hear the balls "grit" over them. The lights were a cheap and gaudy imitation of the genuine shadowless product.
It was evening—at about the best time for billiards—but only two of the twelve or more tables were occupied. On one of these, the cloth of which was cut and clumsily mended in two places, a couple of hard-hitters were trying to play billiards. The balls were those cheap and nasty imitations of crystalate, which are still allowed to be imported from foreign factories. A little wear had robbed them of the sheen they show in the box when purchased. They were dirty, unwashed, and uneven.
Not that it mattered much; every time a ball rolled anywhere near a spot it rocked and settled down; so these "boosilier balls" were in keeping with the whole outfit, as were the cushions, which thudded like boards.
The other table in use was in a general state similar to the above.
Two callow youths, who looked like runners for some ready-money bookie, were playing snooker with a set of turned-down ivory balls of such different sizes that a trained eye could see the small ones a dozen feet away. After watching a few strokes I saw very plainly that the balls must be different shapes as well as sizes. The four cues in use on the two tables were mushroom-tipped, and dirty with the same grime that hung over everything.
One very old man, long past playing, sat watching the snooker, his aged eyes blinking over a clay pipe, the ash from which had dropped on his worn waistcoat. He was the only patron the room had, except the four ball-shifters; it is libelling great games to call them "players" of either billiards or snooker. Seeing me sitting alone a man came from behind a sort of bench, which was supposed to be a refreshment counter, and walked towards where I sat. I cannot say whether he was the room manager, but as no one else was in sight, he must have been in charge when I was there. He was a melancholy looking man in the thirties, with a drooping moustache, drooping shoulders, and a general air of dejection. His apron may have been white at some date in the long distant past. When I saw it I beheld a perfect study of tea stains, grease stains, and other grubby blobs on the dingy background of an apron which had forgotten the way to a laundry. He had the short end of a cheap fag stuck in the corner of his mouth, and looked at me as if he wondered what a decently dressed man was doing on the premises.
At last he spoke. "Ain't trade bad, guv'nor," he said with a half sigh.
I nodded, he looked at me, returned my nod, then edged off somewhere in the gloom of the area filled with unlighted tables. Going out, within five-hundred yards of this dingy den I saw crowds packing the talkies, more crowds at the dog-racing; while the popular tea-shops were so full that it was difficult to find an empty seat. All was attractive brightness, life, movement, cleanliness, something as far removed as can be from the dingy billiard "den" I had just left. Next day I 'phoned the central management of the" den "and tried to find out why the place was in such a deplorable condition. All I could get was a repetition of the "Ain't-trade-bad,- guv'nor" whine of the poor fish at the place. Certainly, the language was different, but it meant the same in effect.
My next inspection was of an underground" den. "his was different from the other place in one respect only—it smelt, and smelt badly. Being underground and badly ventilated, if at all, it had an aroma of its own. I stayed long enough to satisfy myself that tables, cloths, balls, and cues were "as before" in a general way. One of the dozen or so tables happened to be in play, and the cushions made themselves heard half-way across the room as the balls thudded against their dead rubbers. Next, for a change, I visited an upstairs room, where the price charged entitled one to expect a marker and the best of everything. But what did I see?
Black sweat-marks on the cushions of one table. Every table covered with coarse, woollen cloths of doormat texture, which had not been properly ironed or brushed since the day they were put on. Cheap foreign balls, no sign of a marker anywhere; one person to do everything from serving drinks to collecting table money. Out of curiosity I picked up a cue, clammy with sticky dirt at the butt, which happened to be resting near a table on which a red ball and a white were left. Playing the white ball steadily up the table from baulk, not dead strength for the top cushion, but hard enough to rebound a foot or so, I saw it run off more than its own width at every stroke.
So I might continue, but these three halls, containing over thirty tables in the aggregate, will suffice for my purpose, which is to expose the billiard "dens."
Mind—and I am anxious to stress the point —I do not say that these "dens" are typical of billiard playing facilities. But I do say they are much more common than they ought to be, and that their existence is a terribly bad thing for billiards.
Why do these "dens" exist?
Because they belong to people who are hopelessly out of touch with life of to-day, people who have been spoiled by "easy money" in the past.