by LDS » 24 Apr 2021 Read
The shocking but true story of why Mark Allen and Stuart Bingham happened.
T'was witchcraft!
Don't believe me? Ok:
It was a dark and stormy night sometime in May 2011. Mark Allen was sitting at home lamenting his most recent exit from the World Snooker Championships, another Quarter Final defeat, his second in a row. Pummelled he was, 13-5 by Mark Williams.
He couldn't understand it, it just didn't make sense.
As he found his way to the bottom of his second bottle of Vodka something caught his eye, glinting at him from underneath the empty bottle.
A flyer had come through his door earlier that day. He hadn't read it, just chucked it on the coffee table on his way back from receiving that night's pizza from the delivery boy.
"Having a hard time of it? Luck not going your way? Sounds like you need the help of Mystic Mel" read the notice, alongside a very attractive picture of what must be Mel herself and a freephone telephone number.
Just as he was about to phone the number, the alcohol kicked in it's second phase and he drifted off to sleep. When he awoke it was 2pm and the cleaner had already been.
What was that phone number again?!!! He couldn't remember for the life of him.
Another year passed. Round 1 this time. "Some feckin' Chinese kid! In his first frickin' tournament." More bottles passed his lips that May. Once again a flyer dropped to his doormat, once again it tickled him, once again it got lost in the sands of time.
2013. "Mark Feckin' King. Round One to Mark effin' King!" And to add insult to injury "Stuart bloody Bingham got to the quarters?" Mark just couldn't believe it. He was stupefied.
On his way out the door that year he bumped into someone. Some crazy fan. A woman, dressed all in black. Beautiful. Strange. She smiled at him.
When he got home all he could think about was the name Mel. But he couldn't think why.
2014. Round two. Thumped 13-7 by Robertson. He was used to it by now. He managed to forgo the alcohol & just sat in his armchair staring at the fireplace, the light crackles somehow offering a sense to the world he had as yet been unable to grasp.
He collected his pizza. He picked up the flyer. This time he rang. He knew it was nonsense. And yet he still rang. He felt compelled.
A lady answered the phone. "Mystic Mel, how can I be of service?"
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Allen sat in the lady's boudoir. For that was the only way it could be described. It was neither office nor sitting room. Strange smells drifted around even stranger ornaments as he sat upon the seemingly fragile yet strangely supportive chair. The chair's loose strings of bound wood shavings crackled beneath him.
"You'll need another" She said. "One who is the same but opposite".
Allen pondered the instruction.
The same but different? What on earth could it mean? It made no sense. And yet... perhaps... yes... perhaps it made perfect sense.
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"What you 'avin', a pint?" Allen thumped Bingham on the back as he marched him to the bar following Bingham's victory over him at the Player's Championship.
"Mighty kind of you, why yes, thank you very much" Bingham grinned, buoyant in victory.
Allen proceeded to add a sachet to the pint. Upon the black sachet was a logo. The face of a stern looking black cat. Allen did hesitate. For he knew not what he was doing. He was merely compelled to do it.
The evening wore on. More pints were consumed. The two finally went their separate ways, in this case that being one to room 132 and the other to room 221.
As Allen packed his bags the following morning he couldn't help but wonder what kind of hotel puts cute little dolls all over the room. It was both too cheesy and at the same time kinda creepy.
He remarked as such while paying his bill. But the receptionist just looked at him like he was half cut and so Allen quickly forgot about it and made a hasty exit.
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April 2015 seemed to roll round very quickly.
Is it Sheffield time again. Already? Allen packed his bags and prepared to leave the house. A small black cat sat on his car and hissed at him as he approached. He shooed it away.
On his way into the hotel he bumped into Bingham. They both grinned and made amusing comments at each other, wishing each other the best of luck.
Just as they were about to separate a small cloud of what seemed like glitter seemed to drop over them both. As if from above them a balloon had been popped and it had been full of flour and glitter. But there was no bang. There was no balloon.
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As Allen floated in the winning ball and his eyes drew up from the table, there, right in front of him was a Woman. All dressed in black. She smiled. Allen looked around, but when he turned back, she was gone.
Allen lifted the 2015 World Championship trophy.
"So how does it feel Bingham?" Walker blurted as he stuck the microphone nearly into Allen's mouth.
Allen glanced left and right. "I wonder if I have to get out of here by midnight?" Allen wondered, only half able to concentrate on the ceremony.
He got out of there as quick as he could.
He bumped into Allen (Bingham) waiting for the lift. "Nice one Allen" Bingham said to Bingham (Allen). "Yeah, effin' A" Bingham (Allen) replied heartily, clutching the trophy.
"How long does it last though?" Bingham asked Bingham (Allen), "No idea" Bingham (Allen) replied. "I forgot to ask".
Last edited by
LDS on 24 Apr 2021, edited 3 times in total.
