The Kilburn Samurai - Pool Journeys Chapter 2

The Kilburn High Road in Northwest London is a mishmash of vibrant sound and colour; stretching down from Cricklewood in the North, to Maida Vale in the South. As you travel down its length, sights and smells from a dozen different cultures, assault your senses.

The huge Mecca Bingo building on the Cricklewood Road, marks the start of Kilburn, from there its a short roll up and over the hill to the High Road.

The area attracted many Irish and West Indians in the 50s and 60s, in England's post-war, immigration drive. Signs like ‘No blacks or Irish’ were prevalent in London. The situation created a kinship and camaraderie between the two racial groups that still exists today.

As you descend from Cricklewood you see a vibrant collection of market stalls, shops and pubs, old Irish men in scruffy suits talking to old West Indian men wearing ‘pork pie’ hats. A tourist walking along the Kilburn High Road could be forgiven for thinking that all of the pubs are much the same; old mock Georgian fronts, with names like O'Connors and Flannigan's.

A lot of the Kilburn pubs in the 70s and 80s, regularly held open collections for the IRA. If you were - like I was one summer’s evening in the late 80s - unfortunate enough to be in one of these pubs when a collection was taking place. You were made to appreciate that there was no passing on of the collection plate, you put your money in and prayed that no one would take offence to the sum you’d decided to donate.

Even today long after IRA collections are fading from memory; walking into the wrong pub in Kilburn you can experience a situation that you’d only ever see in a movie. Whereby people noticeably stop talking and stare at you as you walk in.

As a former local of Kilburn, I tend to sense which pubs to avoid, however even I can make the odd mistake; because Kilburn is fertile ground for the Jekyll & Hyde Pub. The kind of pub, where from one hour to the next might be a Fight Pub or a Lonely Old Man Pub, depending on when you catch it.

This is particularly troublesome if you’re looking for a game of pool, because what appears to be an Old Man Pub when you walk in at five in the afternoon, can quickly deteriorate into a Fight Pub as the evening draws in.

All that said it has what is probably one of the highest concentrations of pool tables of any single road in London; you just have to pick the right one is all. The Fox, having only experienced Kilburn through anecdotal evidence was not too enthused with the idea of playing pool there. This time though I managed to persuade him, as a friend of ours; who for reasons best left alone we’ll call the Spanish Donkey, lives in West Hampstead just a short walk from the High Road.

After a conversation in which I reminded him that he owed me a favour, for mentally scarring me for life, by introducing me to the Filth Bucket. Anyway, I finally managed to convince him that he was being overly dramatic by suggesting that we would get beaten up or knifed, or both.

We met the Spanish Donkey around the middle point of the high road and started searching for pubs, after scouting out a few places we settled on one that though was dark and gloomy, in stark contrast with the bright day outside, didn’t look too bad and was empty so we entered. The Fox left the Spanish Donkey and I to get the drinks while he went over to the pool table to set up the game.

As he put his money into the table a man that none of us had noticed sitting in the corner, emerged from the shadows and abruptly announced that he was the winner of the previous game and that there was a, winner stays on rule.

There were two tables and no one else was in the pub, so we could have said that we just wanted a friendly game and played on the other table. Maybe it was the way he said it. Or maybe it was the multitude of angry scars crisscrossing the man’s face. Or perhaps even the glassy-eyed, thousand yard, unblinking stare he wore, that made The Fox realise negotiating with him could be a potentially lethal exercise. So, somewhat wisely, he agreed, put his money in the table, set up the balls and let the man break.

The man proceeded to storm around the table wheedling his cue as if it were a Japanese samurai sword, occasionally he would stop and make a slashing motion with his cue as if trying to chop off the head of an imaginary foe or push it through the heart of an on-rushing make believe attacker.

With each swipe and thrust, he would mutter incoherent, insults and threats to his invisible enemies, at the same time, raising our collective anxiety levels.

To make matters worse the guy was absolutely rubbish at pool; a drunk chimp, who had been blinded in one eye, could have beaten him with ease. With each bad shot he made, his cue twirling and slashing got worse and the constant stream of nonsensical jargon coming out of his mouth was doing little to calm any of our nerves.

After one particular bad miss he whirled away from the table and made a double-handed downward slashing motion whilst letting out a martial arts type scream.

I wondered if he was imagining cleaving one of us in two. The Spanish Donkey and I could have started a game on the empty table, but through an unspoken kinship with The Fox we decided we couldn’t allow the possibility of him having to play the Kilburn Samurai again. Should we still be playing when they finished their game; or worse still one of us having to play him.

The Fox had already decided that it would be an extremely bad idea to the Kilburn Samurai, in any game let alone the one they were playing and thus was doing his level best to lose. However this was greatly hampered by the man’s inability to use a pool cue for anything but an imaginary sword. Not to mention his increasingly obvious narcotic intoxication.

I had realised what The Fox was trying to do and silently applauded him for it, it got to a point where all three of us, unbeknownst to each other, were thinking the same thing; run and fast.

Finally the game was at a point whereby The Fox had three balls and the black to clear, his three balls were perilously close to pockets, the Kilburn Samurai had six of his original seven balls still on the table.

the Fox had been trying to lose for about fifteen minutes and the strain was clearly etched on his face. He downed the rest of his pint in one gulp and potted the remaining four balls in almost one move. The three of us moved quickly and mumbled our thanks for the game and shot out onto the safety of the street.

The effect of spilling out of the inky, oppressive, gloom of the pub, onto the sun dazzled, pavement, made us feel as if we'd just been in a time warp. I turned to glimpse back, wary of making unwanted eye contact; I almost expected for the pub to have disappeared, like in some weird Stephen King film. Instead, I saw the Kilburn Samurai, still staring, holding his cue in a more regular fashion now.

He stood by the table, unmoving for a second or so; then slowly taking a couple of backwards steps, and retreated back to his dark recess; ready for the next hapless victims, who just wanted a quiet game of pool.

The three of us walked swiftly along in silence for half a minute or so before The Fox spoke up;

"What was I thinking! I knew we’d get done in Kilburn, I swear, don’t ever bring me back to this fucking place again."

Yeah, I thought to myself; there's absolutely no chance of that...

CG