Running: The Autobiography (21 page)

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.’

17

MY GREATEST WINS

‘Ran hard, pace felt fast, slowed down at halfway for a bit then worked hard up the hills.’

My first World Championship in 2001 was so important because it had taken me longer than everybody had thought it would. The pressure was mounting, the longer I went without winning it. I was 25 years old, and beginning to think I’d never do it. So in a way this was the most important and toughest one to win.

Even at 16, when I went on that mad winning run, I still didn’t think I was destined to win the World, despite what everyone was saying – I didn’t know how good the top players were, but I assumed they were a lot better than me.

I just thought I’d play, enjoy the game, see where it took me. It was only much later in life when I’d played all the best players and seen my form dip that I realised how well I was playing in Blackpool as a 16-year-old. I realise now that at 15 or 16 I was playing as good a game as anybody had ever played. But I didn’t know it at the time because I’d not mixed it with the top boys, and I assumed they just didn’t miss.

Before the first World Championship victory, I wasn’t in a good place. Far from it. I was in about as bad a place as it’s
possible to be. I was free of addiction so I couldn’t blame it on that. I was winning virtually every tournament I was playing, so I couldn’t blame it on my snooker. But I just felt dark.

I had nothing to say to anybody, low in myself, no confidence. Classic depression. I was just putting on a front all the time. And it got to a point where I just got fed up doing that. I was being interviewed on the radio, and I think they were expecting a nice, bouncy pre-World Championship interview, and I just said: ‘I’m not feeling too good, I’m really struggling, I don’t want to be here.’ They didn’t know how to respond.

The previous night I’d called up the Samaritans, and told them I was desperate. I didn’t give them my name, but I had told them I was a snooker player, was having panic attacks and didn’t want to play any more. There was a lovely girl on the other end of the phone.

‘Do you have to play snooker?’ she asked.

‘Well, it’s my life. It’s what I do for my job. I want to be able to play.’

‘Isn’t it more important for you to be healthy?’ she said. ‘Haven’t you ever thought of giving up snooker?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I’ve thought of giving it up for the last eight years!’ I’d only been professional eight years.

It didn’t sort anything out, but I felt better after calling the Samaritans. I decided there was no point in hiding how I felt, and then it all came out on the radio. After that, I got straight on to the doctor and said I better try the anti-depressants he’d offered me earlier because I had nowhere else to go. I thought I had nothing to lose, so I got the prescription and started taking them at the beginning of the tournament.

It’s a risky thing to do – often people feel shit when they start on anti-depressants for the first couple of weeks, but I couldn’t see any alternative. I stayed on them for a couple of years, and
they really worked for me. But I suppose I didn’t want a life’s dependency on anti-depressants – you read stories in the papers about people becoming addicted and it fucking their lives up, so I thought, it’s better getting off them if I can. I always felt I could go back on them if I needed to – a bit like AA and NA. I’d much rather have the natural remedy: that’s why I go and do my runs and get my serotonin boost. I love that feeling of sweating, working hard. Your body’s a machine, and you’ve got to respect it – even if I do occasionally go and blast it. I reckon I blast it for about 10 days a year. That’s about 3 per cent of the year. Not bad. I reckon 20 per cent is just being a lazy bastard sitting on the settee, recuperating, and the rest of the time is keeping fit.

I felt relief more than anything else when I beat John Higgins 18-14 in the final. He’d already won one world title so the pressure was on me to win it. John is a different player from me, but in some ways he’s got the more complete all-round game – he’s more tactical, great break-builder, great potter. He’s a 9 out of 10 in all departments, just a class act.

I think I’ve always been more of an instinctive player, and somehow I stop people playing their natural game. I don’t think I’m a better player than him, but perhaps my style ruffled other players more than his did. John Higgins was always machine-like, and I don’t think opponents felt intimidated by the way he played, which they did – and I hope still do – by me. He was snooker’s equivalent of the Germans at football – they destroy you with efficiency. It might not always look great, but they take you apart, and they’re always tough to play against. With me, it’s much more bang bang bang bang, and it might be over before it started. Maybe I’m more Brazil than Germany.

In 2001, the pills started working really quickly. I became
less self-conscious and just got on with the game. I tend not to speak to many people during tournaments, but I was on the phone to Dad loads during the two weeks.

He could hear the difference in my voice. ‘You sound so much better, Ron. They’re obviously working for you. I can hear it in your voice.’ He could also tell that my game was more natural.

‘You’re going for all them long shots,’ he said. ‘Crunching ’em in. I can’t believe some of the shots you’re going for.’ Speaking to him made me feel better too. He didn’t really understand depression, but he could certainly tell I was in better nick.

The final against John was a toughie. I started well, went 6-2 up even though I wasn’t playing great. Then the gremlins crept in. I went 7-2 up, but it was embarrassing, the worst frame of snooker you’ve ever seen from both of us. Then John won the next three frames. 7-5. Jesus. I went in at the interval and said to Del Hill, who was then my manager: ‘What is going on here? I’m having a nightmare. I can’t pot a fucking ball.’

‘Look, just stick in there,’ he said. ‘You’re not playing badly. You’ve missed a few, he’s missed a few and he’ll miss a few more.’ I came out and had a good final session, and on Sunday night I went to bed 10-6 up. Good day’s work. Monday afternoon, I turned it on with breaks of 138, 90 and a couple of half-centuries. 14-7. But then he came back at me. 14-10. The World Championship is like the marathon – it just goes on for ever. Seventeen days of snooker and by the end you’re half dead. You can see it on the players’ faces – those who get through to the last four are normally white by that stage – all that time in the dark, all that pressure, standing up, playing, sitting down, watching, watching, watching. Murder. There’s no sport in which players are so exposed – the cameras zooming in on your face as you’re sitting in your chair, picking your nose, scratching your ears, pawing your face. There’s no escape.

As it happened, the doctor who had prescribed my anti-depressants was watching on the telly, and he phoned up Del.

‘He was watching the match on the telly,’ Del told me. ‘He saw your concentration level was falling. You were fading away.’

‘What d’you mean, fading away,’ I said.

‘Just talk to him, please,’ said Del.

‘I ain’t phoning no one,’ I said.

Del begged me, and finally I agreed.

I wasn’t in the best of moods, mind. ‘Look, what’s the matter?’ I said.

He was lovely, patient, caring. ‘Just take an extra pill. It will help you stay alert. Take one now, and in an hour or two you’ll come alive again.’

He was right. I went 15-10 up, had a mini-wobble in which John got back to 17-14. Just one more frame to go. By then I could already see the headlines about how I’d chucked it all away and couldn’t get over the finishing line. But I did – in the end.

It was a brilliant feeling. John was a gent, and he said the best thing he could have said. ‘Tell your dad, well done. Well done, I’m so pleased for you and your family.’ He knew just how much it meant to me and Dad, and all of us. Mum was in tears.

‘I’m so proud of you,’ she said. ‘I’m so happy. You’ve done brilliant.’ We went back to the tiny changing room. There was me, Mum, Danielle, Jimmy White, Ronnie Wood, his then wife Jo, and everyone was going mad, shouting and wearing the trophy on their head. I was the only calm one in the room.

Three years later, in 2004, I won it for the second time. I was feeling good then, doing my running. That was the year of the long hair and the Alice band. I started off playing well, then got worse as the tournament went on. I cut myself off from people at Sheffield, but there’s always someone who has access to all
areas, who can get the teas and coffees in, get the balls out, be there for me if I need to chat.

Although Damien Hirst is the man in the corner these days, along with his PA Sylvia, if they’re not around it will be one of my running mates. It’s just nice to have a friendly face there, someone to play for. At that stage I don’t want anyone there who’s trying to make me a better player or planning for me to conquer the world. I need someone to lighten the mood. Of course, I want to achieve more, but I’d rather do it by having a bit of fun instead of having someone try to find the missing piece in the jigsaw. In the end I’ve got to be the master of my own destiny.

There are so many talkers out there and not many people who walk the walk. When I come across those people who tell me it’s easy and are full of advice I’ll just tell them: ‘Here’s my cue, here’s my hotel room, there’s my suit, catch you later for dinner, good luck, you’ve got John Higgins today, not a bad player.’ They don’t know what to say when you say that to them.

People often ask me which are my most important victories. It’s a tough one because there have been so many and they all mean a lot to me one way or another. But if I was on a desert island and could only take three trophies it would be this lot: the 2012 World Championship – my fourth victory after my horrible run of form for two years – the Champions Cup, when I came out of the Priory in 2000, and the European Open in 2003.

The Champions Cup was the first trophy I won when I was clean in 2000. It’s not a huge tournament, but it was just great playing, feeling well, with a fresh frame of mind and perspective. My third one, the European Open, wasn’t even televised. It was 2003 – again, not a massive tournament, but I played really well and had a great final against Stephen Hendry. I won
9-6, and both of us were on our game – high-scoring, good potting, attacking. It was a flick of a coin in the end.

People often don’t believe me when I say it’s how I play that’s so much more important than whether or not I win and what I win. But it is 100 per cent true. Sure, you want to win the World Junior when you’re a kid, then the World Amateur, then the UK and the World Championship. But for me I’ve got clearer memories of playing Jimmy White at Ronnie Wood’s house than some of the World Championship finals I’ve played in. I’ve had some of my worst times at Sheffield even when I won the World Championship.

In 2004, I beat Graham Dott in the final. I didn’t feel I’d played well, but it was great for the CV. Two-time world champion: that meant a lot to me because just the once can seem like a fluke. I celebrated that one by sticking my Dracula teeth in my mouth. My friend Scouse John said in 2001: ‘If you win it again, will you put these in?’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, no worries,’ I said at the time, then I forgot about it.

At the beginning of the tournament, he reminded me. Perhaps he had a feeling.

‘No, no, no, I can’t do it,’ I said.

‘Go on, it will be really funny. It’ll be in the papers,’ he said. ‘And you promised.’

Anyway, I thought it was never going to happen, and I had made the promise three years earlier, so I told him okay.

Everybody thought it was a tribute to Ray Reardon, but it wasn’t. It was just Scouse John’s crazy teeth. I didn’t even realise I looked like Ray, I was just doing it for John.

It was another four years before I won the Worlds again. I remember that for one reason. I thought the authorities were going to come down heavy on me after the noshing incident in
China. I thought: ‘Shit, they’re going to ban me, I’d better do something here.’

I made a maxi, and if you watch it on YouTube you can see I had a really clenched fist; that was my way of saying: ‘Right, now try to ban me.’ I thought, I’ve given you a problem now. I’ve done a 147, I’ve set the tournament alight and now you’re going to have to ban me. That was my incentive. It was the tournament just after China, and I was desperate to do well. Winning it was the icing on the cake. After the final, I said: ‘I think I’m probably going to take some time out now.’ I just wanted World Snooker to know that I could take time out if I wanted. But I didn’t in the end.

It’s not as if I’m trying to provoke the snooker authorities. Often I just do silly things because I can’t help myself. And that’s when World Snooker tries to clamp down on me, and I sense a ban coming my way. But it tends to bring the best out of me. In 2004, I got a bit of stick for my attitude and they said I’d been banging the tables and I thought: ‘You know what, you’re trying to pot me off here, you’re trying to dig me out.’ So that was a bit of an incentive to win the Worlds, which I did. So when I won the Worlds in 2008 after China, and when I won the Masters after walking out against Hendry in the UK Championships, it was my way of saying: ‘Fuck you.’ Some of my greatest wins have come after I’ve got myself into trouble.