Demons of Destruction: The strange death of Fred Archer

Rarely had the going been so favourable for the hooded rider who was carrying a scythe instead of a whip. Never had his pale horse bore him more soundly; never had his purpose been more steadfast. He came from the mouth of darkness, and his name was Death.

The Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse was about to pay a call on another, more worldly, rider - but one equally as devastating in the execution of his craft. Frederick James Archer had been Champion Jockey for twelve years between 1874 and 1886. He was the greatest flat jockey of his day, and arguably the greatest of all time. But on November 8, 1886, at the tragically young age of twenty-nine, Fred Archer faced a showdown with the unbeatable foe.

Archer's rise to the summit of his profession had been astonishing. To have become the leading exponent of his art in the tough world of racing while still a teenager was a case of beating the odds of any bookmaker alive. Sensitive and thoughtful as a boy, the homesick young Fred had survived the early loneliness of apprenticeship at Heath House, the Newmarket training establishment of the firm-but-fair Matt Dawson, to be rewarded with the honour of First Jockey to the stable in 1875.

Dawson knew a good jockey when he saw one; whether or not he knew at that stage he had nurtured the talents of a genius is another matter. Within a year or two, however, even the hard-bitten Scottish trainer must have realised that Fred Archer had been touched by the gods. And as Archer reached back up to them in pursuit of excellence and perfection, few would say that he was often denied. In his seventeen-year career, he averaged one win in every three rides. He bagged twenty-one classics in his overall tally of 2,748 winners. Darling of the public, feared but admired by his colleagues, here was a true sporting hero.

Such towering success, however, seldom comes without the attachment of a price-tag. Fred Archer, at five feet and ten inches, was unusually tall for a jockey. To make the required weights, he had to engage very early in his career in an unavoidable battle with the scales. This endless covenant with dietary vigilance brought tragedy as its final reward.

Countless jockeys down the years have been obliged to suffer the burden of constant wasting. In Archer's day, without the medical care and knowledge that is available today, many were forced out of the game, old before their time and with their health permanently damaged. Fred was a strong, fit man, but as he reached his late twenties he was feeling and showing the strain. The tall, bony frame was bent forward; the intelligent face - once fresh and engaging - was hollowed and sad.

How long can a man last when his typical daily diet is a tablespoon of hot castor oil, half an orange and a single sardine, albeit washed down with a glass of champagne? It sounds a silly question. It sounds even sillier when a punishing session in the sauna is added. It gets positively ridiculous when the spectre of a strong laxative raises its head to get rid of whatever may remain in the system. Fred had his own special laxative made up for him by a Newmarket doctor. It became known as 'Archer's Mixture'; some who were brave enough to try it simply called it ''Dynamite'. Moreover, where others took their purgatives by the spoonful, Fred took his by the glassful.

A turning point came in late 1884. Fred's wife, Helen Rose Archer, died after giving birth to their daughter. They had already lost a young son a year or so before; this latest blow shattered Fred and threw him into despair. He began to talk of suicide, doubting that life would ever again be worthwhile. The die was cast.

Fred, although wealthy enough to retire from the saddle if he wished, carried on riding. A champion is never willing to surrender his crown, and this one knew he was still the best. But an already weakened body was now working in tandem with a depressed mind: and working too hard and fast to boot. For two more years the enigma that is genius paraded on its mystical tightrope, until the precarious balancing act could go on no longer.

On Thursday, November 4, 1886, Fred Archer felt unwell during a meeting at Lewes and decided to give up his remaining rides for the day. He sent a telegram to his home, Falmouth House in Newmarket, telling his sister Emily he was on his way. He took a little brandy with some arrowroot at Liverpool Street Station, then slept on the train en route to Cambridge.

On arrival, Fred didn't appear to his sister to be too bad. He went to bed at half-past eleven but during the night he worsened. Too weak to get out of bed the next morning, he agreed to see the doctor. Dr Wright found his patient to be in a state of restlessness, and prescribed some medication. When the doctor returned at 2.00pm, Fred was running a raging temperature and his condition was causing some concern; so much so that Wright insisted on a second opinion, and Dr Latham of Cambridge was sent for.

Archer must have gone on to spend a terrible night, for when Dr Wright returned in the morning, delirium had taken a grip. Although he had suffered constant attacks of diarrhoea during the night, poor Fred was under the delusion that a meal he had eaten three days before was still in his stomach. Protesting against the reasoning of those around him, he called for his dreaded 'Archer's Mixture'. Not without difficulty, the request was denied.

That evening, Fred was told by Dr Latham that he was suffering from typhoid fever. This may seem odd to us today, for typhoid is usually caught from drinking contaminated water. But the symptoms were consistent with the diagnosis, and the fact remained that the patient was in a terribly weakened state and suffering from high fever. With Fred still insisting there was food in his stomach, Emily was left in charge until the morning.

Sunday passed with delirium alternating with depression. Fred's final day, Monday, November 8, began with a visit from Dr Wright; he left at nine-thirty. Nurse Hornidge was brought in from the Institution in Cambridge to help Emily. A visit at noon from an old friend, Captain Bowling, seemed to lift Fred's spirits, and the Captain left feeling confident the jockey would pull through.

Just what was racing through the fevered mind of Fred Archer is impossible to gauge. Here was a man whose constitution had completely caved in, leaving him at the mercy of his demons. There was nothing left: fame, ambition, physical privation, personal tragedy and the incalculable burden of genius had taken it all.

At about a quarter past two in the afternoon, Nurse Hornidge was relieved at Fred's bedside by Emily. As she was gazing out of a window, Fred suddenly said, 'Are they coming?' As she turned to look at him she saw that her brother had got out of bed and was holding a revolver in his left hand. Emily immediately tried to knock it away from him but Fred threw his arm around her neck and restrained her. He found enough strength from somewhere to hold her at bay while he put the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Fred Archer was dead. The bullet had severed his spinal cord, killing him outright. It had exited from the back of his head and come to rest on the hearth next to the body. A fragment of bone was still attached.

'Are they coming?' What did those words mean? They meant something to Archer, even if born of delirium. Was he referring to his dead wife and son? Was he awaiting the return of the doctors? Had he heard the cries of rival jockeys behind him, yelling at their mounts to try and catch him as he forged towards the winning post?

Something we are more certain of today is that fixations with diet can lead to devastating eating disorders. We know that ritualistic food habits combined with vigorous exercise and prolonged abuse of laxatives are bound to result in dangerous changes to the system. Lack of enough food deprives the body of essential protein and prevents the correct metabolism of fat, producing any number of dreadful physical and psychological side effects. Depression can be one of those mental conditions . . . and so can paranoia.

Why did Archer keep a revolver by his bedside? He told members of his family and household staff that there had been a number of burglaries in the area of late and a gun was a good standby. But would a peace-loving sportsman who disliked trouble really resort to shooting a burglar? Yet it seems he was prepared to use it, for from what we know of events on the fatal afternoon he most probably kept it loaded.

The possibility cannot be dismissed that in a sport awash with big money, Archer at some stage may have made enemies. Racing has always had its share of rogues, desperadoes and organised criminals lurking behind its glamorous facade. Professional jealousy and personal grievances are a fact of life in this Sport of Kings. Threats to a successful and influential jockey were not, and indeed are still not, uncommon. Did Fred Archer have reason to fear or suspect that one day his door would open for him to be confronted by people he wished he had never met? If so, it is not too fanciful to imagine that paranoia, depression and delirium could have combined with a flash of lucidity on that tragic afternoon to ignite the final spark of self destruction.

Death had been forced to ride hard to catch Fred Archer, but once it was upside him it cut him down like a flower. But after death? There have been countless reported sightings down the years of a lanky figure riding a grey horse across Newmarket Heath. Many local people are convinced that Fred's ghost still graces their town and that the horse he rides way out in the open spaces is his favourite old hack, Scotch Pearl. It must be odds-on that it is not the horseman of the Apocalypse on his deadly white charger that is seen emerging from the mist, but the great Fred Archer: clear of the field, out on his own . . . untouchable.

(Illustration): Vanity Fair caricature by 'Spy'

Desert Orchid and the 1989 Gold Cup: A race of triumph and tragedy

The wind blew sleet into the starter's face as he called the thirteen runners into line for the 1989 Tote Cheltenham Gold Cup. The weather was atrocious: over three inches of snow had fallen overnight in the Cotswolds, melting as the morning progressed to leave the course soaked to the point of possible abandonment.

Indeed, when jockey Simon Sherwood looked out of his bedroom window at first light and saw the snow, his heart sank. He hoped the meeting would be called off, as these were the conditions which were anathema to his mount, Desert Orchid. 'Dessie' didn't like soft ground. The nation's star racehorse was at his brilliant best when he could feel his hooves rattle and bounce off the turf. It was going to be difficult enough racing round a left-handed track opposed to his favoured right, without the handicap of the dreaded mud.

But this was the biggest day in the steeplechasing calendar. It would take more than heavy going to force a cancellation. And as the morning passed, so did the worst of the weather; the unseasonable mid-March snow had stopped by the time the betting shops opened. But it had done enough to dent the confidence of many serious punters, and Dessie's odds slowly drifted out as the rain drifted in. Yet such was the loyalty and affection that this grey gelding had earned from his legion of fans that his position at the head of the betting market remained unchallenged. As the contenders circled at the starting gate one last time, Desert Orchid was the five-to-two favourite to win this most eagerly anticipated of races.

The tapes went up to an almighty cheer from the crowd. They had braved the elements and the threat of cancellation, but now all was well. The race was underway.

Surprisingly, Sherwood had lined up Desert Orchid well away from the inside running rail, with half a dozen of his rivals huddled together to his left. Dessie had a tendency to run away slightly to his right and lose ground on left-handed tracks, and it seemed strange to opt for a wider berth from the outset. But the jockey knew his job and he knew his horse; he was giving him a bit of room and a good 'sighter' of the first of the twenty-two fences. Dessie took the first two obstacles without effort, then eased majestically across to the rail and into the position he felt was his by right: leading the rest of the field.

Closely tailing Desert Orchid was a horse that many people feared would be the main danger to the grey: Ten Plus. Representing the stable of the legendary Fulke Walwyn, he was talented, on the improve and bang in form. The mount of loyal stable jockey Kevin Mooney, Ten Plus was the five-to-one second favourite. Mooney held on to a tight rein and kept within a stride of the leader from the off; as the runners passed the cheering crowd in the stands with a circuit to go, the principals in the betting were still calling the tune.

The field made its way out into the country for the final time, away from the bellowing public. Jostling eagerly and focusing their binoculars onto the far side of the course, Dessie's supporters were now watching for any signs of weariness. This was a race of three miles and two furlongs: a long way at the best of times but a big ask in these testing conditions. Could he possibly win such a contest? Surely he would need to lead all the way to do it, and not give away too much ground by drifting to his right when the pressure came on.

As they raced downhill with six fences left to jump, Kevin Mooney and Ten Plus decided to assert themselves and take the lead. Only by a fraction at first, with the Orchid resenting the imposition and pulling back on level terms. Several times they bested each other, till Mooney grasped the nettle and took a three lengths advantage with four fences to go. The crowd gasped as they saw this brilliant horse leave the rest of the runners and make his charge for victory. They gasped again, this time incredulously, as Desert Orchid once more responded and drew level on the outside of Ten Plus. They hurtled towards the next fence, the third from home.

And then disaster struck.

Ten Plus clipped the top of the fence and pitched steeply on landing. Mooney was jettisoned to the ground. A stunned gallery watched Ten Plus haul himself back up and instinctively try to continue, his jockey lying motionless at the foot of the fence. The horse struggled valiantly on, but it was clear he had sustained a devastating injury to one of his hind legs. He had only minutes left to live.

Desert Orchid, drifting to his right in the testing ground, was left clear. But not for long. A horse called Yahoo, a twenty-to-one outsider, was catching him fast and taking up the advantage of the vacant inside berth. Yahoo, under the masterly guidance of jockey Tom Morgan, had stalked the leaders for most of the race, never putting a foot wrong, never losing touch. And more to the point, he wasn't tiring in the muddy ground which suited him so well. There were only two fences left to negotiate; only two horses left in the race with any chance of winning . . . and Cheltenham's notorious hill would be waiting for them between the final fence and the winning post.

They met the penultimate fence simultaneously but quite a way apart. Desert Orchid had drifted yet further to his right, while Morgan held his position by the rail on the spirited Yahoo. As they gathered themselves on landing, it was Yahoo that got away the better. Dessie seemed to be struggling and, on the way to the final fence, with Yahoo forging on relentlessly, he looked a beaten horse. But, as he veered again toward the grandstand, he somehow stayed within striking distance of his rival. He made up enough ground to be on level terms at the final fence, and both horses took it cleanly. Now it was a fight to the finish.

Again, Yahoo was best away. Tom Morgan had given his mount a ride of the utmost craftsmanship, and glory was now within sight. Desert Orchid, palpably out on his feet, was a length down. Before the gap could widen further, Simon Sherwood rousted him with all the effort he could muster. The horse responded. He responded to Sherwood, and then he responded to the roaring crowd; for they had opened their throats and their hearts and they pleaded for this horse to find something that no horse had ever found before on this most unforgiving of run-ins. He certainly heard the crowd. In fact, he must have heard the nation because from being a beaten horse he began to dig deep and get after his opponent. As the hysteria grew louder, the gap grew smaller. Yahoo was holding on . . . but he wasn't getting away.

With a hundred yards to go, Desert Orchid drifted in towards Yahoo under the demanding drive of Sherwood. Yahoo was beginning to tire; Dessie edged ever closer to his flanks and Sherwood tugged his reins to avoid a collision. But here were two horses coming to the end of their reserves. Again they drifted toward each other like two exhausted foot-soldiers staggering from the trenches, leaning upon each other for support as if hoping to pool whatever courage they had left between them and to draw from it for one last impossible effort.

As the horses parted again with just yards to go, it was Desert Orchid who found the last drop of strength on offer. To a roof-raising ovation the grey battler surged ahead and crossed the line like a king. "Dessie's done it!" cried Peter O'Sullevan to the television viewers. He'd done it, all right. Heaven only knew how.

There were tears a plenty now. Tears of joy from Desert Orchid's fans, his backers and closest connections. But bitter tears of sorrow were being shed in private back in the jockeys' changing room, where a disconsolate Kevin Mooney was trying to come to terms with the death of Ten Plus. Triumph and disaster are unseemly bedfellows.

Back on the course, the gallant Tom Morgan sportingly shook the hand of Simon Sherwood and patted Dessie on the neck. Morgan's handling of Yahoo and his generosity in defeat must never be overlooked or forgotten. Neither must Yahoo himself, who had run the race of his life; against any other horse, the spoils would surely have been his.

Desert Orchid passed away in 2006 at the age of twenty-seven. There will never be another like him, and probably there will never be another Cheltenham Gold Cup such as the one he so deservedly won. It was a victory gained in what must now be seen as a golden age for racing; an age in which brave men and brave horses gave everything and more.

'Saki'

A question in a pub quiz has just done me a rather big favour. The question: "What was the single-syllable pen name of writer H H Munro?" Well, something somewhere had stuck, because I gave my team captain the answer straight off. 'Saki' he put down, and the point was in the bag. I'm glad the question came up, because I realised that if I knew the answer, I ought to know a bit more about the man.

Munro's forte and stock-in-trade was the humorous short story . . . and I mean short. His parodies of Edwardian society were a couple of pages long, and fitted nicely into a few columns of a daily newspaper. He was a cartoonist in words; a satirist, a master of observation and a ruthless weeder out of the appalling poseur.

Munro had been a war correspondent in the Balkans for a British newsaper in the early 20th century in a career running parallel to his fictional prose. His comedic genius, itself born of the Wildean tradition, went on to influence the likes of P G Wodehouse following in the slipstream.

What a waste, then, when Hector Hugh Munro, at the age of forty-five, was slaughtered in a shell crater on the killing fields of France in 1916 while serving as a soldier for his country. He had refused an officer's commission, and he didn't even have to be there.

One thing should be remembered about the stupidity of the Great War and its consequences. This nation (and no doubt others) lost a disastrous amount of great minds and salt-of-the earth fellows, the likes of which were impossible to replace.

Recommended reading: Saki, A lIfe of Hector Hugo Munro ( by A J Langguth)
Saki, The Complete Short Stories (Penguin)

The Entertainer

What goes around, comes around, so they say. If this relatively recent epigram should ever need a boost to its credence, it should reach out no further than to grasp John Osborne's The Entertainer and hold it up for the world to see.

Osborne wrote the play in 1957 at the request of Laurence Olivier, who had watched the playwright's Look Back In Anger in the company of Arthur Miller and had been persuaded by the American that Osborne's was a talent to be reckoned with. Osborne agreed to come up with something, and set about the task by using as the backdrop to his story something very dear to his own heart: the British Music Hall.

Osborne knew that the Music Hall was dying. He used this as an allegory to warn us that the country was going the same way. Enter the star turn: Archie Rice, failing and faded stand-up comedian with the aspirations of a Max Miller but the accomplishments of a pub clown. Olivier played the role to perfection, as would have been expected. We can never see the great man play the role on stage again, but the film, made in 1960, is available on DVD.

The thing about history repeating itself here is the fact that the play is set during the Suez Crisis of 1956. Archie Rice, on top of all his financial and emotional burdens, is struggling on under the crushing weight of knowing his son has been sent by his country to fight in a far-off place and his young life is in extreme danger. Parallels of recent conflicts involving British interests and involvements need not be explained.

This film is a masterpiece of writing and performance of the highest possible calibre. It is worth watching if only for the parts where Olivier takes to the stage with his hat, gloves and cane and rips into his do or die routine; a routine which is as much about defying the apathy of the seaside audience as any valiant attempts at comedic wizardry.

This was a play written to provoke deep thought about the nation and its way of life. But, through the skillful use of pathos pertaining to the character of Archie Rice, we are also given an insight into the nature of the human condition. Like all great works of art, it makes comment but entertains while it does so. Its themes are universal, and as such, timeless. What goes around, as they say . . .

The gambler's gambler

Isn't it interesting to see what people do when they feel they have nothing to lose? No better example can be found of a man who had concluded that if life didn't care about him, then he wasn't going to care too much for life. His name: John 'Doc' Holliday (1851-1887), legendary gunslinger and professional card player. Ruthless, intelligent and fearless, he was a man's man and the gambler's gambler.

Doc Holliday new a bad hand when he saw one: he had been dealt one at the age of twenty-two when he was diagnosed with tuberculosis. Fully qualified as a dental surgeon, he had only recently opened up his own practice. The shocking and unpredictable coughing fits that wracked his young frame made it impossible for him to treat his patients and, having been given only a short time to live, his path was cut out for him. To steal a few more years on earth, he headed West in search of a healthier climate.

Not expecting to survive, Holliday put his natural talent for gambling into play. His life soon became a constant ride in the roughhouse. The pattern was fixed: serious card games, violent confrontations and quick exits out of town. This was the cutting edge of desperation. Dreading a slow and painful death by natural causes, Holliday was more than prepared to gamble on a speedy end by courtesy of the fateful bullet. Ironically, he was something of a born survivor. He claimed that at least nine attempts of one type or another were made on his precarious life. But beneath all the reckless disregard for danger, something in his character remained true to the well-connected and community-respecting background from which he had sprung as a child. When the chips were down, Holiday tended to side with the lawman against the troublemaker. This was proven when he made firm friends with Wyatt Earp and his brothers in Tombstone, Arizona. It was standing shoulder to shoulder with these no-nonsense mercenaries where Doc Holliday played the biggest gamble of his life - and struck his name into American history.

The Gunfight at the O.K. Corral took place on October 26, 1881. Living on borrowed time, Doc was more than happy to walk down the street to this violent showdown as a combination of faithful friend, deadly killer and lawman for the day. He may have been dead as far as the future was concerned, but on this day he was as alive as anyone in the world.

Something like thirty shots in thirty seconds: that's all it took to settle the issue with the Clanton Gang. On the winning side only Wyatt Earp escaped injury. His two brothers along with Doc were wounded but not critically. Of the five defeated Clanton boys, three were shot dead and two got away unharmed. It was up close and personal - literally a couple of feet away from each other - and about as lawless as the law allowed.

Doc Holliday had survived the big gamble. He lived on, just as recklessly, for another six years. But the fateful bullet never found him. His body gave way before his courage ever did; after two months in his sickbed, much of the time delirious, he awoke on the morning of November 8, 1887, and calmly asked for a glass of whisky. He knocked it back in his usual style, said, "This is funny", and then passed away. It wasn't the end he had expected and looked for, but even the best of gamblers cannot always predict the final card.

Going for a song

With everyone talking about the latest Oscars, and in light of the recent passing of the composer John Barry, it might be worth while looking back a few decades to recall a particularly good year in the Best Song category. 1966 and all that: what a choice for the judges.

There were five nominees for Best Song at the Oscars that year, with the three favourites being the big hits 'Born Free', 'Georgy Girl' and 'Alfie' from the films of the same name. The films were as different from each other as it is likely to imagine, but the quality of the songs' compositions and the individual performances of the recording artists had one thing in common: sheer brilliance.

John Barry scored 'Born Free', with Don Black providing the lyrics. Matt Monro, the singer's singer, gave it the power and the subtlety that only a master craftsman could deliver. Black was Monro's manager, and Barry was the seasoned composer of international film music: it was a mighty powerful triumvirate with a mighty powerful lobby in its corner.

But Don Black for one knew that the prize was anything but in the bag. In a radio interview some years ago he acknowledged that the competition had been fierce, and that 'Georgy Girl' was a glistening gem. He knew a great song when he heard one . . . and great it was and will always be so.

The film 'Georgy Girl' was a madcap romp of trendy Britain in the Sixties; a lighthearted comedy with a touch of pathos propping up the walls. The star of the film was Lynn Redgrave, but the ace in the pack was the magnificent theme song performed by the Seekers. At the peak of their considerable powers, they gave their all in a rollicking, carefree, defiant and joyous interpretation of a song that typified its era. It had arguably the finest melody, the cleverest lyrics and most importantly the best marriage of melody and lyrics of all the contenders. It should have won . . . but it didn't.

'Georgy Girl' was written by Tom Springfield and Jim Dale. Springfield, brother to Dusty, was the mastermind behind most of the Seekers' greatest hits. Where he pulled this melody from, God only knows; perhaps God gave it to him. But many may be interested to learn that the man who put the words to the tune was none other than a future Carry On star. Yes, the Jim Dale on the song credits is the same Jim Dale as the wacky guy who was about to feature in many of the Carry On classics.

Dale's lyrics on 'Georgy Girl' are uncannily perceptive, acerbic and touchingly sympathetic. I can't be sure, but I'd like to bet that Don Black (one of the world's greatest lyricists) wished he'd penned them himself.

'Alfie' was a haunting song that perfectly reflected the sadness and pointlessness of the main character's life as played out in most of the film. Hal David wrote the words, Burt Bacharach the music. It was a difficult commission for them both: neither were keen on writing a song about a guy named Alfie, but top pros that they were, they of course delivered the goods. It was a song so strong that it was covered by countless top artists, including Cilla Black and Dionne Warwick. But it was Cher who sang the track on the film. It's all about opinions as to which of the above three did the best job . . . but 'Alfie' went the same way as 'Georgy Girl' and had to give way to 'Born Free' on the big night.

Any one of the three songs would have been worthy winners. The main thing is the world was treated to a feast of music of the highest possible calibre in that one incredible year, back in the mid nineteen-sixties.

(Picture: James Mason and Lynn Redgrave in Georgy Girl)

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.