stead of asking my staff directly.
‘Embarrassment is a villain to be crushed,’
Was my motto. Well, one of them anyway. This one had cost me £7. I
had learned it from that book I borrowed.
But then a most peculiar thing happened.
I bumped into the yoga teacher. She had just arrived for her yoga
classes. Having seen me week before, she asked me if I wanted to re-
join the group. I made some pathetic excuses, claiming I was too busy
(it’s a great excuse for getting out of things, isn’t it?). Then she said,
“Well, I expect you are busy with all those books you are reading.”
“What books?” I asked, startled.
“Those books I saw you pick up from the table.”
CHAPTER 3
Dazed and Confused
What was going on?
I was really annoyed. As the old saying says:
“If you make people think they’re thinking,
they’ll love you;
But if you really make them think,
they’ll hate you.”
I was making myself really think and hating it. In fact, I hated that
saying, and hated it when our RMPE teacher made us copy it. He was
always trying to get us to think. Why couldn’t he be just like everyone
else?
But I had an answer for the RMPE teacher. I had heard this:
“To avoid thinking for yourself,
get someone else to think for you.”
I decided I would talk to my staff. They could sort it all out. But at
the last minute, sense kicked in. Magic, Spells, Vanishing Books, Bits
of Chalk who in their right mind talks about these? Exactly—I would
have been straight back to the hospital for some padded-cell therapy.
If I was lucky, I might have gotten off light with some sessions with the
school’s psychologist, but I couldn’t count on it.
I wasn’t fnished yet, as I had also been told:
“To be free from the burden of thought,
consult an expert.”
Who was a better expert on magic than the village witch? But another
hitch. How many of us can just approach a stranger and casually chat
away about magic and snooker cues? Talk about awkward. Likely as
8
Dazed and Confused 9
not, the school staff, who were keeping a close eye on me at the mo-
ment, would have invented a reason to come with me. It would end it
tears—my tears in a padded cell.
Another dead end.
But I had a more pressing problem; one which was ‘growing arms
and legs’ to quote the very popular cliché. Word travels fast and the
chattering classes were beginning to chatter about my little stay in the
hospital.
People love nothing more than a good scandal. I was fast becoming
this month’s hot gossip.
How could I stop them? Well, I couldn’t.
But then I had a fash of genius!
I would organise a competition. It was brilliant; absolutely brilliant,
I decided.
I couldn’t stop them talking, but I could change it—get them to praise
me for my cleverness. The RMPE teacher told us his old friend Andy
Kovacs lived by this motto:
Razzle dazzle ‘em And they;ll never catch wise!
Look the part; smile; show an interest; say what they want to hear;
put on a show; pretend you like them—they’ll forgive your faults a
thousand times and trip over themselves to please you, Andy suppos-
edly said.
This would also keep me so busy and focused I wouldn’t have time to
think. After all, staff and teachers kept telling me:
“I’m far too busy to think about that just now, son.”
If it worked for them, then it would work for me. A pool competition
was just the ticket.
10 Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue
Soon, it was done. We would play at 5:45pm on Wednesday the 13th
of June in the School Games Room.
The early games in the competition played out pretty much as always.
The bragging, boasting and gloating was just as expected. The usual
suspects won and lost.
Then it was my turn.
I took the cue out of its case where it had lain silently for since that
fateful night, and screwed it together.
All eyes looked my way. Why were they staring at me? Had the gossip
become so bad?
My fears eased somewhat as I traced their line of sight. It wasn’t fxed
on me at all. They were all staring at my cue. Then the unease re-
turned—did they know what I had done? I waited for the sniggers
and cheap comments. They never came. They all seemed hushed, as
in a bit of a daze and just looked.
I was pitched against the best boy in the school. I expected to get
thrashed, as I had many times before.
One day, I would tell myself, one day.
As it turned out, that day would be today. He messed up shot after
shot, He just could not concentrate on his game, but kept looking at
my cue. “Here take it if you want!” I almost said to him, almost, but
I was too busy potting balls, before sending the black into the bottom
right corner pocket.
I should have played one more game, but the phones started ringing.
Excuses were made, and a number of the assembled group headed
home. (This always happened.)
By default, then, I found myself in the fnal against a member of staff.
Now I don’t like to name names; nor to gossip (well not when it’s about
me, other people are Ok), but this member of staff is, how shall I put
it, a tad competitive. At table tennis, he’s got to win; at golf, when he
Dazed and Confused 11
loses he sulks for a week; on any computer game we play, he will prac-
tice and practice until he beats us. No one at school has ever beaten
him at pool, and it was over two years before he lost his last game of
snooker at his local club in Kirkcaldy. And that’s just for starters!
We squared up to the table and he gave a little chuckle as he pulled
out his phone and casually said to his wife, “Get my supper ready! I
will be leaving school in about three minutes.”
He won the toss and got ready to break. I took my cue in hand where
it had lain against the wall since my victory.
“Break!” I was told as he moved back from the table with his eyes on
the cue.
It was a bit unusual to not take the break, having lost the toss; I was
obliged to break; so, I did.
Then the miracle happened.
Not only did I break; I potted all the balls in just under two minutes.
The room fell silent, but none were more quiet than my opponent. I
unscrewed the cue, and placed it back in its case.
“Rematch!” he ordered. The blank stare transforming into a look of
horror.
“Don’t you need to be home?” one of the many also-rans chipped in—a
gentleman just as competitive, not quite as talented, but oh-so-very
happy to witness his downfall.
“Rematch!” he repeated.
“No,” replied almost the whole assembled crowd in unison.
Then, for the frst time in my life I was genuinely applauded and
cheered.
Normally, I end up handing over the kitty money, but
tonight it was
all mine. I was handed my frst ever winnings: £15.
CHAPTER 4
Showdown at Rileys
Rileys in Dunfermline is a spotless-looking snooker club offering pool
or snooker, and two hours tuition for £4. The table are squashed in as
tightly as rabbits in a warren. Like a rabbit’s home, the club is under-
ground, smells damp and light drops in from overhead.
During the opening hours at the weekends, you will fnd at one of the
tables an almost famous snooker player, but now economics teacher,
David Noble. David wears a waistcoat, famous for its ruby sparkles.
When standing upright, David stands 6ft tall, and he was the man to
beat. Not that anyone had in a long, long time.
To here it was I decided to return. I had a large number of lessons at
Rileys, but I struggled with working out the number combinations of
moving to red, to pink, to black…. Oh my! This is another reason why
I never took darts seriously … the maths!
Rileys seemed like the best place to repeat the pool competition. It
was really a test of my sanity, after all.
Something very strange was happening. My opponents had become
dull witted and played terribly. In contrast, I was sharp and played
superbly. This was great, but what of the unexplained events?
Where had the video clips gone? Why could the teacher remember
nothing? What ability did the Yoga Teacher possess whereby she
could see me take the books, when they hadn’t moved? She talked
about Chakras and Kundalini, in her lessons, and as far as I could see,
that was magic; so, mabye that was the key—people with magic, or
psychic powers could see things others could not.
Damn it! I was thinking again. I tried to stop, but I couldn’t. “Why
can’t I just be like everyone else?” I thought.
It had been almost four months since I had last been at Rileys. I just
12
Showdown at Rileys 13
couldn’t cut it and gave up. The school staff told me never to ask
again. They had gone the extra mile in organising the lessons, and
were not happy with me.
But my recent dumping of school snooker ‘champ’ into ‘chump’ gained
me favour, and Scott Milne (school staff), agreed to take me along for
the Sunday Morning/Afternoon session.
By the time we got there, David Noble (also known as ‘The Boy Noble’
in Rileys), had already chalked up a series of fve impressive wins,
handsomely supplementing his over-infated income for the week.
If I could beat Noble, I knew something special was happening and
that I was perfectly sane, or at least not completely mental.
The trick was getting his attention.
I put my £15 winnings on the table, and almost immediately a boy
about my age, set eyes on it. He swaggered over to my table, “I’ll play
ye pal n’ at, like.” he offered in a nasally, whiney tone that was obvi-
ously a fake Glaswegian accent. Perhaps it was designed to intimidate
opponents, but I just felt sorry for the boy. I always take pity on Fife
lads pretending to be from Glasgow and acting ‘Wide’, as we call it.
Now, Reader, you might not understand what ‘Wide’ means. So, let
me put it like this, in the nicest way I possibly can: take a boy who is
stupid, unfunny and lacking charisma, and watch him try to be the
opposite. Now imagine such a boy looking twice as stupid as he did
before—that is acting ‘Wide’.
He broke frst and to be fair he was pretty good. He notched up 12
points. He swooned, delighted by his own genius and glared at me. He
was a clear cut bully, all right, and his tactics worked.
My hands were shaking as I took the cue out of its case and assembled
it. Mr. Glasgow set his eyes on the cue and his face went blank. Now
he really did look like a Glaswegian.
I relaxed and took my shot. I angled the white off the side cushion and
it just glanced off a red, nudging it into the middle pocket.
14 Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue
Flushed with confdence, I potted the pink, before slotting all the balls
away—a break of 84.
The place was in silence. But more importantly, I had gotten David
Noble’s attention.
The ‘Glaswegian’ slinked back to his corner, with a red face and empty
pockets, only to be greeted by sneering glances from his friends, or
so-called friends.
I put my now £30 on the table. David Noble barely glanced at it. A
paltry sum such as that would never interest him, but he looked at me
and the cue, hungry to take me on.
“That’s all I’ve got,” I said apologetically, sheepishly even.
Noble held out stoically, poker face in place waiting for a higher wager.
“I’ll help you out, son,” Scott announced as he placed £50 on the table.
Well I hadn’t expected that. There’d been a bit of gossip in the School
(I try not to listen, but staff have such loud voices, don’t they?) about
the state of Scott’s fnances. Well I think it was that. It was always the
same old things, “Scott … bankrupt … no paying tax … broke … no
see Rangers playing any more … that Ali McCoist”. I worked out that
things must be bad if a ‘Rangers’ fan like Scott couldn’t afford to see
his team playing again. But what really worried me was why would
Scott, Fife born and bred, support a Glasgow team anyway? What’s
wrong with Raith Rovers in Kirkcaldy? They must have been a lot
cheaper to watch.
The £80 on the table was still far lower than ‘The Boy Noble’ would
normally play for—his minimum was £250 per game. He would only
stoop that low on a shaky streak, or if he had a bit of a hangover from
the night before. Today he was as sober as a Benedictine Monk on
the Sabbath. I know nothing about Benedictine Monks and Sabbaths,
but it’s a common saying in certain parts of Fife and East Lothian.
The three of us stood there in Mexican stand off. I suppose it must
have looked quite comic in its own way. Later, Scott said it reminded
Showdown at Rileys 15
him of that Spaghetti Western in which Tuco, Angel Eyes and Blondie
waited in a circle for each other to ‘Draw’. Like the movie, Noble
‘Drew’ frst. He picked up his cue and walked towards his favourite
table and put down £500.
“The boy can’t match that,” Scott protested glaring at the ‘Boy Noble’.
“If he beats me, he can take the lot. I’ll settle for what he’s got,” he
said in a restrained tone, with a voice raspy and broken by too many
late nights, bottles of blended whisky and cheap cigars—just like a
cowboy in the old movies.
“The boy can break!” he gently ordered, full of disdain.
“No!” I protested. “Let’s toss a coin for it, the proper way, like!”
“It’s Ok Steiner. It’s ok!,” Scott butted in, with a hint of excitement in
his voice, sensing history was about to be made. “Just take the break!”
The pair of them stared at me, and a crowd gathered round to watch.
So, what could I do? I went to the table to take the break.
CHAPTER 5
Local Hero
It sat there on the chest of drawers in my room. I just sat and stared.
£530—quite a tidy sum! But it wasn’t the amount; it was the fact I had
earned it. Things and money had just been given to me before, and I
appreciated it very little. But this was mine; it was won by me, and I
appreciated it a lot.
Possibly, This was the happiest day of my life.
Money’s great! It stops you having to think in the bad way that we all
hate, and lets you think in the good way we all love.
My thoughts drifted to my next shopping trip. I couldn’t wait. But a
week is a long time when money is burning a hole in your pocket.
But before next week, there would be tomorrow, and tonight.
Yes!
I would be the talking point. Everyone would praise me now. They
could gossip all they wanted now; so, when the call for the evening
meal came, I raced to the kitchen.
For the next half hour my legend grew as staff and boys quizzed me
over and over about my victory over local legend David Noble. I told
them this and told them that; Scott flled in the details I had totally
forgotten. My head was spinning. Their jaws went wide upon hearing
that the mighty ‘Boy Noble’ did not even make a shot! Scott put it
beautifully, how he had stormed out of Rileys in silence, even mim-
icking the actions.
In all the years he had gone there, Noble’s opponents always left frst
with empty wallets.
I hardly ate a thing. My excitement was too great. That night I barely
slept, but I was up, bright and early frst thing in the morning, champ-
16
Local Hero 17
ing at the bit to get to school.
I was surrounded by a bunch of boys, and lauded by all and sundry.
Boys that I had never talked to before gave me a pat on the back, or
shook my hand. Teachers that barely took notice of me showed me
Youtube Clips of Stephen Hendry getting his 147, Steve Davis playing
‘Hurricane’ Higgins, and Ray Reardon in his prime.
One of the PE teachers even put me forward for the Hillside Sports-
Person of the Year award. That was quite special, as it was rare that
anyone but the football stars in the school got any recognition of
sporting achievement. (I’m not bitter … honestly … )
I was the centre of attention, and I loved it.
By Wednesday most of the boys had switched interests: the school
football match that afternoon; the staff: Andrew Murray’s chances
at Wimbledon, Wiggins for the Tour de France. No one really talked
about the Olympics. We had done it as a cross-curricular subject, and
everyone was sick-to-death of it.
It didn’t matter, I had won the war.
As Denise used to say:
“Gossip is when you hear something you like
about someone you don’t..”
Everyone liked me. Who would listen to anything bad about me now?
Also, my School Unit had arranged an ultra big shopping trip for me