Bank Holiday Lesiure

Bank holiday weekend and for the most part the sun has been shining, though it's dutifully stopped now, it wouldn't do to give too much of an impression of summer would it?

Meanwhile the (four) streets of Aberystwyth have been clogged with unfortunate tourists, most of whom must have thought there would be more to the place than a pebble beach, whilst the pubs were chock full of rugby 7's lads, grunting, sweating and generally labouring under the misapprehension that to knuckled over and squeeze themselves into a seat next to a woman is to charm the pants off her. Ice cream and testosterone perfumed the air whilst the boom-boom-boom of bass from car speakers formed a counterpoint with the shrill spikes of children shrieking.

My weekend began with adventure, or to give it a less grand title: I went for a walk and got lost in the countryside. Harrassed as I was by the influx of visitors to tiny-town, my quest started with the absurd notion to follow a previously undiscovered path to see where it may lead. The answer: over hill and dale (both covered in sheep), through sharp pointy bushes, past a field of sheep, more briar and a river, all to end up in another field of sheep with no escape. What was that about fools rushing in? The proverb should be amended to include brambles, stones in shoes, and if in Wales, sheep.

Aside from those few hours, most of the weekend has been spent indoors (away from the sun, the bikers, rugby boys, brightly coloured students and tourists), watching World Championship snooker; thus maintaining my unhealthy pallor.

I'm actually a huge fan, and there's lots of reasons for loving the game; the relaxing chink of resin balls, the hypnotic commentary, Steve Davis's wry punditry (he's still playing away in the top 32). There's also the strange things that professionals can make a cue ball do that seem to defy all common sense, the waistcoats wrapped around flat stomachs... and of course the characters, which do exist despite the general assumption that increasing professionalism killed the game. It isn't all dour young(ish) men, hitting balls with sticks with consummate concentration for large amounts of money.

Oh no, they certainly don't just play for the money! Nor snooker WAGs or public ambivolence - after all the best part of being a snooker player has to be the nicknames. Where else, outside of test piloting, do you get such incredible epithets? Moreover how else could a young man who looks like Beaker from the Muppet Show ever earn the right to be known as Neil 'the Thunder from Down Under' Robertson, with all the glory (not to mention the potential bedding of Australian soap stars) that, surely, such a name must entail?

Beaker

Neil Robertson

Sadly my favourite players (Neil, Mark Selby and Ronnie O'Sullivan) have all gone, but I've beer, all kinds of nibbly things and one last evening session to enjoy before revision starts again. Happy days.