Lonely are the brave

As the year comes to an end it takes with it one of the most enigmatic individuals the world of sport has ever seen. Alex Higgins no longer has to do battle with his demons; he may now rest in peace.

The likes of Alex Higgins do not come among us very often. When one thinks of people like him, and the footballer George Best, it is hard not to wonder if these unfathomable characters aren't put on this earth as some form of a gift. And while they are struggling constantly with their restless personalities, we - the beneficiaries of the offering - are shown just what extremes the human condition can extend to. Amidst their suffering they provide us with such high forms of skill and courage that it is difficult not to conclude that there has to be an unworldly reason for it all.

But we are not meant to understand genius. And rather than judge the man for his mistakes away from the table, let us remember the remarkable qualities 'Hurricane' Higgins brought to the arena of the green baize. For that is what he really lived for, despite his own declaration of a liking for 'wine, women and song'. Higgins was an artist, and a fighter. It was those seemingly incongruous elements that made him a champion. And champions need to perform, to compete . . . and to be acknowledged.

At the World Championships in Sheffield in 1982, Higgins showed the world just what he was made of. In the semi-final against the up and coming whirlwind that was Jimmy White, the Hurricane was one frame away from defeat. He came to the table after White's visit had broken down needing a clearance of 69 to save his soul. How he did it is still debated by the great and the good of snooker. Thankfully, we have the evidence on BBC tape, but one can watch that clearance of 69 over and over again - as indeed the luckless Jimmy White himself has done recently - and not really be any the wiser. Except for the fact, of course, that a massive amount of nerve and self belief played a big part in the shakedown. No other player in the game at that time (or probably any other time) could have made that clearance, taking into account the position of the balls and the stakes involved. This was sheer talent and raw courage, and it will remain as arguably the greatest break ever made in the history of snooker.

Higgins went on to take the last frame and secure a showdown in the final against his old adversary Ray Reardon. Here were two wonderful players who had done so much between them to make the game a national treasure. They may have had different types of personality, but the fact remained that they had more in common than many people realised. For Reardon (a six-times world champion) possessed the same willpower and determination as that of Higgins, albeit presented to the world in a more genteel fashion, and they had both won their spurs the hard way with many knocks along the way. This was the Old Guard facing each other before the new kids on the block finally took over . . . and both men wanted the title very badly. They may have always affected an air of indifference towards each other on the outside, but within there was a mutual respect that was unquestioned. And they were, at the end of the day, both supreme showmen. They craved the limelight, the thrill of the challenge, and the adoration of the crowd.

Alex Higgins won the final (and thereby his second world title) by 18 frames to 15 and received a tumultuous reception. Reardon, as dignified in defeat as he would have been in victory, had given his all. Higgins, in what was his greatest moment of glory, walked towards Reardon and held out his arms to give a tentative but genuine embrace. Reardon, not a man for touchy-feely histrionics, was gracious enough to accept the greeting and offer his genial congratulations. He was hurting, but he was still a champion.

And so the world turns. A mighty hurricane may have passed over, but its effects will always remain.

Whose line was that anyway?

'Gone With The Wind' and 'Days of Wine and Roses' . . . both titles of famous films, but where did they come from? Not from the films' screenwriters, if you didn't know. They were actually lines taken from poems by Ernest Dowson, a late-Victorian wordsmith belonging to a group of poets we now call the 'Decadents'. They are timeless lines written by a brilliant but tragic individual. Margaret Mitchell, author of the novel 'Gone With The Wind', and JP Miller, creator of the play 'Days of Wine and Roses', had both made inspirational choices for the titles of their masterpieces. Dowson, like so many gifted but ill-fated artists, had delivered from beyond the grave.

Ernest Christopher Dowson was a contemporary of Oscar Wilde, W B Yeats and Aubrey Beardsley. He suffered badly from depression and alcohol abuse, but through the maze of desperate confusion and unhappiness emerged some of the greatest poems of that remarkable era. He succumbed to tuberculosis in 1900, having spent thirty-two difficult years on this earth. He died in poverty; we are richer for his being born a genius.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream.

Are you ready to order, Mr Burns?

Following on from my last post, I cannot resist the temptation to recount an anecdote about Groucho Marx and George Burns. I always called it 'The Sea Bass Joke', which annoyed everyone I told it to because it wasn't a joke but a true story. As I was the only one who thought it was funny I used to tell it all the time. Years on, many old pals are still waiting for the punchline.

Every Friday at the Hillcrest Club, Grouch Marx, George Burns and other friends used to meet up for lunch. Without fail, when the waiter turned to him, Burns would order the sea bass. And without fail, Marx would immediately start singing 'You've got to Sea Bass every night, or you can't Sea Bass at all'. . . which was a corruption of the old Sophie Tucker classic, 'You've Got To See Mamma Every Night'. Nobody but Marx found this funny, but as he knew it needled Burns to the point of despair he delivered it deadpan, right on cue, every Friday lunchtime.

Burns had had enough. One day, he decided to whisper it into the ear of the waiter so Marx wouldn't get the same effect from his interloping. But Burns had been outsmarted. On whispering 'I'll have the sea bass' to the waiter, the waiter drew himself up to full height, pulled back his shoulders and began singing 'You've got to Sea Bass every night, or you can't Sea Bass at all.' Marx had privately warned him that Burns would probably try this tactic one day, and had paid him a nice fat tip to do the singing instead when the time came.

Burns was disconsolate. He started eating fillet steak on Fridays.