A short, black gent about my age and wearing a tour t-shirt of an obscure psychedelic band from the early 70’s paced slowly and somewhat aimlessly a few pool cue lengths from the snooker table at the Farcroft. Mental patient, I thought, as I got a beer then tried not to bump into him on my way to a table. The pair shooting when I came in eventually potted the last ball and he sped over to rack things for his go.
I looked up a couple minutes later and the billiards table was half empty. Our hero sank the ball he was shooting at, shifted slightly as the cue ball rolled to a halt near him and, almost without looking, he banked off three cushions to lightly tap his remaining red ball into a pocket from behind the yellow ones blockading it from a direct shot. Hustler, I reckon, because after easily potting the black ball and starting the next rack I caught his eye just before he sloppily missed two easy shots — the only time this happened in front of me.
Endless British Pub Crawl (Part 3) 