Special Guest Blogger: Ray Reardon

Welcome dear reader. I’m Ray Reardon, six-time World Snooker Champion, notorious for my sideburns, my stare, and my uncanny resemblance to a vampire who’s just been told he’s out of blood pudding.
I was born in Llanelli, Wales, in 1932 before television, before colour, before anyone even knew snooker was a thing people could get paid for. I originally played pool in the local pub, which, funnily enough, was just down the road from my local mortuary. People said that was symbolic. I said it was just poor urban planning.
I became a policeman and for a while, I was out there barking at kids for smoking behind the chip shop and then someone showed me a snooker table, and I thought, Blimey, this is a much softer job than chasing drunks, so I hung up the truncheon and picked up a cue. The rest, as they say, is history.
Six World Championships. Six!
They called me Dracula because of the hair, the sharp cheekbones, the eerie focus. I never denied it. I even bought an off-the-shoulder cape once. Wore it to a post-final press conference.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Snooker wasn’t always glamorous in those days. We played in smoky halls with sticky carpets but despite the surroundings i perfected the art of silent intimidation. While others were laughing, showing off, or doing backflips after a 50 break, I’d just stand there staring. Unblinking. Like a particularly intense owl.
I didn’t need crowd chants or flashy waistcoats, i'd line up my shot and with the crowd hushed, bosh, perfect contact. Ball in pocket. No reaction. Just a slow, deliberate re-chalking of the cue and looking like I’d just escaped from a Hammer Horror film.
Let’s be honest. These days, snooker’s full of lads doing TikTok dances after potting the pink. They’ve got neon cues, earpieces, and haircuts that make mine look like a haystack but where’s the drama? Where’s the brooding silence? Where’s the menace?
I hear that Ronnie O’Sullivan’s breaking my records. Good for him. Honestly. Though I’d like to point out that when I was winning titles, we didn’t have slow-motion replays, sports psychologists, or energy drinks, we had tea, fags, and sheer bloody-mindedness.
But yes, I’m considered a pioneer. A man who helped turn snooker from a pub pastime into a televised sensation. I was famous, all right.
I passed away in 2024, aged 91. Which, for someone who looked like he hadn’t seen sunlight since 1953, is actually quite impressive. I died of old age which, in vampire terms, is like dying of boredom.
There was no grand final. No last dramatic frame. Just me, putting on my slippers and shuffling off.