I’m in love with snooker legend Ronnie O’Sullivan – purely in the sporting sense, of course. I want him to win more than he does himself. He’s in yet another World Championship semi-final, this time at the ludicrous age of 49, but claims not to care whether he triumphs or not. I’ll be sobbing into my beer if he doesn’t.
Why my obsession? After all, he’s everything I’m not. And I don’t mean just his talent, of which he’s got bucketloads. When he comments on politics, I always disagree.
He hints he voted Remain (I didn’t) and campaigns for socialists (I don’t). He jogs for miles every day; I last ran about three decades ago. He’s teetotal these days; I need a glass or two just to watch him play. He’s written three crime novels; I‘ve written a technical guide to media training.
