He was a famous snooker player, who squandered his fortune
and talent. They all loved him to bits, they said, at his funeral.
His daughter read a poem. Drugs and alcohol had reduced him
to beg, in pubs, challenge amateur players for a game, getting
enough money for more booze and cigarettes.
A free soul, or a man ruled by his vices? A happy go lucky chap
who did as he pleased? Not a man beset by his failures, alone
on the darkest night? Five hundred mourners, florists made
a killing. He had lain death for a week in his flat, and no one
had bothered to ask: “Where is Alex?
