Paul Merson at 18; he’s talented and funny and has an eye for the sure thing. The month is May 1986 and he’s skipping around the changing room at Highbury soliciting money for a wager. He has borrowed £100 each from seven of the senior players and is about to set off for the nearest William Hill. “I’ll pay you back on Tuesday,” he assures them. “This is the biggest dead-cert in the history of dead-certs.” Steve Davis has reached the final of the world snooker championship and is 2-7 to win a fourth world title. His opponent is an outsider from Bradford called Joe Johnson. Merson has never heard of him. “He’s a pub singer! A farkin pub singer!” he chirps, incredulous. “Davis can’t lose!”
Paul Merson at 18; he’s talented and funny and has an eye for the sure thing. The month is May 1986 and he’s skipping around the changing room at Highbury soliciting money for a wager. He has borrowed £100 each from seven of the senior players a