Mandy and I are scanning the brochures we’ve been sent from the estate agencies. I turn them over and over, not quite getting my head around the idea that someone like me could be living in places as glamorous-looking as these. I’m not much of a homebody. Living out of a suitcase is second nature and I’m quite happy to sleep in hotels and eat in restaurants, if they’re good ones. But circumstances are different now and settling down seems to be the thing to do.
Mandy has, by now, moved up to Scotland. At first, we lived in the flat before buying a detached house in South Queensferry. The place is nice, but we’re looking for something with more land. Mandy is a keen showjumper – always has been, even before she met me – and she wants to stable her horses closer to home. At present they’re in a livery yard. Horses aren’t my thing at all. I will help muck out if necessary, but it’s almost always a case of ‘Oh God, do I have to?’ However, I can see the equestrian life is something Mandy has always loved and having her horses on land we own will make life a lot easier for her, especially when I’m away.
‘How about this one?’ she says, passing me a brochure. ‘I can really see us in there. It looks amazing.’
She’s not wrong. Westfield House, in West Lothian, seems huge. Four bedrooms, the same number of reception rooms, beautiful gardens, twelve acres of land and outbuildings that can be converted into stables. And it’s between Edinburgh and Glasgow too. The place is up for auction with a guide price well into six figures. The brochure stresses that the property requires some ‘modernisation’, which is usually shorthand for a lot of money needing to be spent. Can I afford it? The answer is ‘yes’, even if I abide by Ian’s rule for the purchase of property, which is to buy it outright. He doesn’t see the need for a mortgage if you can afford not to have one. The thing is – what will Ian say about our plans?
‘What will Ian say?’ is my default reaction to almost everything involving money, and it irritates the hell out of Mandy. ‘I don’t know what you’re worrying about,’ she says, when I bring up my concerns over Ian’s reaction. ‘You’ve earned it, haven’t you? Who’s winning all these trophies – you or him?’
She’s right, of course, but I can’t envisage having much success without Ian’s influence. Sure, his motivational methods leave a lot to be desired. The summer after winning the second world title, Mandy and I decided to take a luxury holiday for a few weeks. Just after we arrived home I attended an engagement with one of the sponsors of Cue Masters. One of the sponsors’ representatives asked me had I had a good summer. Before I could reply, Ian chipped in, ‘Yes, he has, he’s been acting like Elton John for six weeks.’ He wasn’t quite knocking me off my World Championship pedestal, but he was certainly rattling it.
When I ask him about Westfield House there is the usual umming and ahhing and sucking of teeth until he gives me permission to bid for it. So we go for it – and we win. There is a lot to do, including the complete renovation of a flooded cellar, and these repairs plus other improvements will cost around £75,000. Nevertheless, Mandy and I are delighted to be owning such an amazing place.
‘So what did you pay for it, then?’ Ian asks when we next meet. I knew he would ask and I’ve been dreading telling him.
‘Around £300,000. It’s expensive, I know, but—’
‘You paid too much for it,’ he snaps. ‘You’ll need to be practising hard this year to pay that off.’
Duly admonished, we move in once the renovations are complete. Like the pair of excited kids that we are, we wander around the place, barely believing it belongs to us. It’s an old house and although we’ve modernised it, it still comes with age-old problems. Specifically, it has mice. We spot the tell-tale signs of shredded paper in the cupboard and one evening, when Mandy’s sister is visiting, we’re watching TV by the fire when one of our dogs (we have two, a Rottweiler and an Old English Mastiff) leaps up from by the fireside and starts chasing something he’s just spotted creeping under the door. There is a kind of Tom and Jerry moment as we all run after the unfortunate creature and eventually I trap it beneath the dog’s water bowl before letting it go in the garden. No doubt it will be back in ten minutes …
At this point in time, however, a mouse isn’t the worst invader of my privacy. A series of letters, photographs, phone calls and even the text of a play (in which I’m the leading character) has been received by Ian’s office. The communication is from a woman in Manchester, and her letters are becoming more obscene, more threatening and weirder with every new one that arrives. It appears I have a stalker.
At first, we try to laugh it off but as time goes on we’ve little choice but to take this seriously. In one letter, she points out that security at snooker tournaments is very lax. Anyone could carry a gun into one of them, and shoot a snooker player, she says. The play she sends is called ‘The Death of the Snooker Player’ and in it I’m subjected to all sorts of unspeakable acts (some carried out by other snooker players) culminating in my murder.
At this point we’ve had enough. The police are called, she is quickly identified as the sender and is arrested. At Stirling Sheriff Court she admits sending the letters and making obscene phone calls and is placed on probation with the condition that she seeks psychiatric help. Whether she does or not I will never discover, but she will later appear on a daytime TV show, in a programme about stalking, and say that all she wanted to do was ‘wish Stephen good luck’. All I can say is that she has an unusual way of doing this; when she’s re-arrested the following year, after turning up at Stirling Police Station posing as a lawyer in a bid to get more details about her own case, I can’t say I’m surprised. A restraining order is served on her and luckily we never hear from her directly again.
Ian, John Carroll and I talk about security in the light of what’s been happening but none of us feel the need to go overboard. John has always looked after me very well and I see no reason to surround myself with bodyguards or anything like that. I don’t truly believe someone will run on to the floor of the Crucible and shoot me. Still, it’s a weird and somewhat unsettling time, especially when a few months after this woman’s court appearance, the tennis player Monica Seles is stabbed by a stalker while playing in a match in Germany. It will be two years before she plays again, such is the trauma she suffers, and it proves that no matter how safe you might feel, where there’s a will there’s a way.
Meanwhile, I have a snooker career to get on with. Just before the start of the 1992/93 season I visit the Chinese mainland again, playing in the Kent Classic tournament in Beijing. John Parrott gets the better of me in the final, winning 6–5. It’s not the snooker but the city I’m most struck by. I didn’t like it much when I first visited in 1987 and it still feels vast and teeming, dark and smoggy. There is little choice in terms of international food and the hotels are poor. Yet it has an old-world charm, typified by the sheer number of people who travel everywhere by bicycle. Even so, you get the sense that the place will change, and is doing so already. In a few short years China will be almost unrecognisable from the one we’re visiting during this tournament. And it will also play a very important part in my life and career.
For the moment, though, John Parrott seems to be on something of a roll, particularly when he’s playing me. He squeaks to a final-frame win in the 1992 Dubai Classic and beats me again (6–3 this time) at the Humo Masters event in Antwerp, Belgium. In many ways it’s a scrappy season for me; I win the Masters for the fifth time in a row, beating James Wattana 9–5 in his first major UK final, and to mark my achievement the organisers of the tournament give me the trophy to keep forever. I’m delighted – this event, the UK Championship and the World Championship are the main targets of my season and I love playing at the Wembley Conference Centre. The Masters is always very well run by tournament director Jim Elkins, and the atmosphere is never less than electric. I’ve come to believe that I’ll never be beaten here, despite it being filled with a partisan crowd who will support anyone with a familiar accent – step forward, Jimmy White.
For the next few tournaments I kind of limp along, getting through the quarters and semis but not doing much else until I beat Steve Davis 10–6 in the 1993 International Open in Plymouth. The win has broken something of a drought and has set me up nicely for the 1993 World Championship. If I take it this time, it’ll be twice in a row of course, and I will be halfway to equalling Steve Davis’s record. Excellent motivation, should I need an extra dose.
Overall, it’s a great tournament for me. I have very little trouble from anyone I play as I head towards the final and although I play some good players, Darren Morgan and Nigel Bond among them, I’m always confident I can beat them. This is the Crucible – it’s where I’m at my best, and where I fear nobody. Every match feels like a breeze. I’m here to win, simple as that. There is one moment, however, where uncharacteristically I throw my toys out of the pram, and it’s before the semi-final against fellow Scot Alan McManus. Somebody thinks it’s a great idea that we’re both led out by a bagpiper, to the amusement of the crowd. But I’m not laughing – this isn’t an exhibition match and if there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s the sound of those bloody pipes. I’m furious, but there’s little I can do other than grit my teeth and get on with focusing on the game.
Running parallel to me as I move closer to the final day is our old friend Jimmy White. He’s also had a great tournament and as he and I enter the practice room on the morning of the final he smiles and gives me a wink.
‘Me an’ you again, my son,’ he says. ‘I’m surprised anyone else bothers turning up for this thing …’
As ever, Jimmy’s entourage are all over the place, backslapping him and shouting their encouragement. Jimmy’s dad Tommy is a gem of a guy; he always brings a dinner suit to the tournament, which he says he’ll only wear when his boy is finally presented with the trophy.
The final starts at 2pm. I haven’t eaten. Frank Callan thinks I’m mad (‘you need to feed your brain’ is still his mantra) but the only appetite I have is for getting out there and winning. After a final warm-up practice I sit in my dressing room alone and read the paper before curtain call. At this stage I’m beyond speaking to anyone or listening to advice or encouragement. Ian and John Carroll know this and keep away. Their ‘good lucks’ have already been communicated. Now I’m alone, and I prefer it that way.
Today is Jimmy’s birthday and he steps out to rapturous applause and whistles. As I arrive and head to my chair to pour out a glass of water, the cries of ‘G’wan, Jimmy!’ are still ringing around the auditorium. Jimmy is the ‘People’s Champion’ and while I’d like to be as popular as he is, I also know that I’m there to win for myself, and not for everyone else. Having the support Jimmy has must be great, but it also comes with its pressures. Referee Len Ganley quietens them down with a warning about shouting, and we’re off.
Jimmy’s break-off is a bit loose, allowing me to get my hand on the table for the chance to pot a long red to get on to the black. It goes in without trouble and almost immediately I relax into my stride. Calmly I clean up, putting the first frame on the board without Jimmy getting another shot. It’s a total clearance of 136 and if anything will do psychological damage to my opponent at this stage, that will. However, Jimmy displays the form that has got him to the final and takes the next frame, to his visible relief. But not for long. I circle the table, looking for an opening and an opportunity to win the frame in one visit.
At the interval I’ve won three frames out of four. We retire to our separate dressing rooms for twenty minutes. I pick up the paper and continue the article I was reading before the start of the match. Then the silence is interrupted by the arrival of Alan Stockton, Jimmy’s manager, in his client’s dressing room.
‘You’re a bloody disgrace!’ he shouts at Jimmy. ‘What do you think you’re playing at? Three frames down already … that’s ’cos you were out last night. Till bloody five in the morning!’
The walls are paper-thin. I can hear everything, and I sit quietly as Alan continues the bollocking.
‘I wasn’t out last night,’ Jimmy protests feebly, ‘I was just in the hotel, playing cards. I wasn’t hammered. I only had a couple of joints.’
I’m open-mouthed. We all know Jimmy. His public love him for it, though. I just smile to myself. Jimmy and I are chalk and cheese. I wouldn’t even have half a lager the night before a final, never mind anything else. And yet, he’s seemingly living life to the full, having fun with his mates while I’m here, on my own with only the newspaper for company and totally committed to doing what I do best. Four times he’s been here, four times he’s been disappointed. People say that if Jimmy was more dedicated he would win the World Championship – to which I reply, if he didn’t live his life the way he lived it, maybe he’d never even get to the final. People are just the way they are.
Alan Stockton tells him how I’m already dominating the match, how I’m going to keep my focus, how I never lose it under pressure. It must be hard for his player to hear.
‘Don’t worry about Stephen,’ Jimmy says, ‘’cos I ain’t.’
Jimmy’s dressing-room confession, advantageous though it should be, doesn’t make much difference to my game. I only need to keep cool and rack up the pressure on him. If he isn’t worried now, he should be, and although we share the next four frames to take the score to 5–3, after this point he never gets back in the game. I strut around the table like a peacock, confident in my cue action and positional play, ready to take chances wherever possible. It’s as if I’m saying, ‘Look what I’m doing to you.’ 6–3, 7–3, 8–3, 8–4, 9–4, 10–4, 11–4, 12–4, 13–4, 14–4, 15–4. Jimmy’s posture as he sits in his chair is all too familiar; tense, stressed, disappointed. It’s the afternoon of the second day and by now, the Crucible crowd are pretty sure they’re not going to see any more from us this evening. I’ve made three century breaks in this match, taking my total to eight across the championship and equalling the record set by Steve Davis.
And with a final break of seventy-three to make the score 18–5, it’s finished. ‘I don’t even feel I’ve played,’ Jimmy admits later. ‘I’ve just been dragged along the sessions.’ I started as I meant to go on, and I’ve done it again. Ian takes my cue and grabs my fingers in a sort-of shake. Then I’m presented with a cheque for £175,000 and the trophy. If Jimmy were in my position he’d be racing round the auditorium with the thing on his head. I crack a smile, but only just. I don’t take winning for granted, yet I knew I was going to win this, and maybe I don’t feel it’s that big a deal. In fact, so confident was I that before the tournament I suggest to Mandy that she brings down a black-and-white check Versace jacket that I like wearing, because it will look great at the party afterwards!
Because the match has finished a session early, something must happen for the crowd who expected some snooker in the evening. So Jimmy and I return to the table and, with the help of John Virgo, we put on an improvised version of BBC TV’s Big Break, the snooker-themed game show. Neither of us are particularly keen to do this; I’d rather just celebrate my win. But we do our best and by now the alcohol has been broken out. Although I’m still no drinker I get on the beer early. Big mistake …
The after-final party at the Grosvenor in Sheffield is the usual boozy affair and I don’t hold back. I’m pictured in the papers spraying photographers with champagne and slow-dancing with Mandy. Me, dancing? I must be drunk.
The following morning, I wake up with a pounding head and a reminder from John Carroll that I’m due to make an appearance at Sheffield’s Meadowhall shopping centre. One of my big sponsors, Sweater Shop, wants me to visit their store with the trophy and sign autographs. The sponsorship deal with them is very lucrative and at this point in time the brand is everywhere. They’re very generous; after the first round at the Crucible there is always a six-day break between matches and very often the company will fly me back to Scotland in their own helicopter, landing me on my front lawn. They’d pick me up from the same location and deliver me to Sheffield when it was time for my next match. I’m often photographed wearing their garish jumpers and generally being an all-round clean-cut walking advert for them, so I’m in no position to excuse myself with a terrible hangover. Besides, what would Ian say?
Feeling horrendous, Mandy and I get ourselves together and John drives us to Meadowhall. I make a half-hearted attempt to hide the fact that I’m dog-rough but at least three times I need to stop signing autographs and posing for pictures so that I can nip to the loo and throw up. It’s an undignified end to what, for me, has been my best performance in a final, and a championship in which I’ve dominated everyone I’ve played. Queasy stomach aside, I’m still on an absolute high and I’m playing as well as I ever will. Even Tommy White, whose dinner suit must go away for another year, has a good word for me. ‘To beat my son 18–5 is something amazing,’ he tells the Edinburgh Evening News, ‘it is beautiful. It might make Stephen Hendry a better player and it might make my son a better player too.’ And Jimmy is nothing if not persistent, as we will see in the next season.
PLAYERS NEVER TO WIN THE
WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP
- Ding Junhui
- Jimmy White
- Judd Trump
- Matthew Stevens
- Paul Hunter