Sam Miguel
10-06-2004, 15:02
It was with a certain sadness that I learned of the fire that destroyed Potter’s Snooker Hall in Heeley last week. To me it was a little bit more than just a piece of local history that had disappeared forever
I was a member there for several years and the first piece of ‘serious writing’ I ever produced was about it. It wasn’t for a publication: just part of my first ever assignment for my writing correspondence course back in 1989. I was going to make it my 'Speaking of Which ', for this week, but thought it more apt on here. After all, it is now history.
Here it is that very article…
It was an old converted cinema; nothing out of the ordinary. From the outside a flight of wide, shallow steps formed a part circle to enable access from all angles. Through the four large, glass doors, a second set of wooden, double doors were visible.
This was a snooker club, but still had the appearance of a cinema from the exterior. No drastic alterations; a quick lick of dirty white paint, a large red plastic sign proclaiming Potter’s Snooker Club, and hey presto, job done.
In my experience all of these establishments have the same thing in common; that is that they were not purpose built. They used to be either cinemas, like this example; roller skating rinks, churches – in fact anything large enough to house a dozen snooker tables has potential.
As I push through the glass doors I can suddenly sense where the pay booth used to be. It brings back memories of those old counters with gleaming brass plates, where your ticket popped through the slot.
On opening the second set of doors, the smell of stale beer hits my nostrils hard as I wander into the windowless hall. The size of the place? I suppose snooker-hall sized would be an apt description. They all seem to be the same. This in fact could become a standard measurement, rather like the acre.
All the usual fittings grace the dingy walls. Dusty trophy cabinet, notice boards, scoreboards and half-empty cue-racks dotted here and there. A smallish kitchen-like clock behind the bar reminds me it is 8:45pm.
Central to this instantly forgettable décor, wisps of smoke play against the lights suspended from the low, false ceiling. The solid intermittent click-clack of the balls is audible above the buzz of conversation around me. The smell of food drifts from the kitchen.
People stand in front of me in small groups in the space between bar and playing area. Men and women, young and old, chat away effortlessly about nothing in particular.
I sit on one of the few available bar stools and scan around. There are twelve tables in all and around half are occupied.
I see the painful expression of an old man as he shuffles around, using the table side as a means of support. The young girl to my right miscues; her boyfriend smiles sympathetically. The four young men in the corner take shots in between jokes, not really caring about the outcome of the game. The look of determination on the middle-aged man, squinting hard as he rockets the black ball into the far corner pocket with gusto.
A strange kind of excitement fills the place. Despite the murkiness of the hall, a certain, unique atmosphere shines through the gloom.
Potter’s. Gone but not forgotten.
I was a member there for several years and the first piece of ‘serious writing’ I ever produced was about it. It wasn’t for a publication: just part of my first ever assignment for my writing correspondence course back in 1989. I was going to make it my 'Speaking of Which ', for this week, but thought it more apt on here. After all, it is now history.
Here it is that very article…
It was an old converted cinema; nothing out of the ordinary. From the outside a flight of wide, shallow steps formed a part circle to enable access from all angles. Through the four large, glass doors, a second set of wooden, double doors were visible.
This was a snooker club, but still had the appearance of a cinema from the exterior. No drastic alterations; a quick lick of dirty white paint, a large red plastic sign proclaiming Potter’s Snooker Club, and hey presto, job done.
In my experience all of these establishments have the same thing in common; that is that they were not purpose built. They used to be either cinemas, like this example; roller skating rinks, churches – in fact anything large enough to house a dozen snooker tables has potential.
As I push through the glass doors I can suddenly sense where the pay booth used to be. It brings back memories of those old counters with gleaming brass plates, where your ticket popped through the slot.
On opening the second set of doors, the smell of stale beer hits my nostrils hard as I wander into the windowless hall. The size of the place? I suppose snooker-hall sized would be an apt description. They all seem to be the same. This in fact could become a standard measurement, rather like the acre.
All the usual fittings grace the dingy walls. Dusty trophy cabinet, notice boards, scoreboards and half-empty cue-racks dotted here and there. A smallish kitchen-like clock behind the bar reminds me it is 8:45pm.
Central to this instantly forgettable décor, wisps of smoke play against the lights suspended from the low, false ceiling. The solid intermittent click-clack of the balls is audible above the buzz of conversation around me. The smell of food drifts from the kitchen.
People stand in front of me in small groups in the space between bar and playing area. Men and women, young and old, chat away effortlessly about nothing in particular.
I sit on one of the few available bar stools and scan around. There are twelve tables in all and around half are occupied.
I see the painful expression of an old man as he shuffles around, using the table side as a means of support. The young girl to my right miscues; her boyfriend smiles sympathetically. The four young men in the corner take shots in between jokes, not really caring about the outcome of the game. The look of determination on the middle-aged man, squinting hard as he rockets the black ball into the far corner pocket with gusto.
A strange kind of excitement fills the place. Despite the murkiness of the hall, a certain, unique atmosphere shines through the gloom.
Potter’s. Gone but not forgotten.